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And then from her lips came a susurrus of sound. Syllables twined and tumbled and nipped at each other as they flooded from her lips in impossible configurations. She straightened, eyes wide with wonder. The sound skittered across my skin and scrabbled at my skull, calling to some deep part of me. And still Bryony spoke, until the sound wrapped around the shadows, and turned to silence.
She shook, but it was with amazement and relief now, her breath fogging the air and a wild grin on her face.
The shadows sighed, and shuddered, and two dropped back, vanishing into the night gloom.
“Flee,” the third one whispered.“We are wicked when we are wounded, and we are wounded tonight.”
It was Bryony’s turn to stumble, as if speaking the names had taken the strength out of her. I braced her with my shoulder, and together we made our limping way through the trees. I knew where I was going before I could put words to it—the witch’s house.
By the time we reached it, Bryony was the one supporting me again. My left knee was unstable—it kept sliding out of alignmentwhen I put my weight on it—and my breath had developed a crackle. She lowered me down on a chair and shoved the water-swollen door shut. The moon shone through a hole in the roof. Bryony lit a lantern and hung it from a rafter. Her hands were shaking.
“I’ve never had to do that before,” she said. “I wasn’t sure what I was doing until I did it.”
“It was beautiful. It was amazing,” I told her. My head felt heavy, but I smiled at her. I sounded drunk, slurring my words. She cast me a concerned look.
“Let’s see what he had,” Bryony said. She unzipped the bag and spilled its contents on the table. Out clattered a spade with a folding handle, a glass jar, and something wrapped in an old dishrag. Bryony set aside the shovel and examined the jar. “Henbane, angelica, wormwood. Onyx. Snake’s teeth. This is a nasty bit of magic. Trust a Vaughan to play dirty.”
“If I changed my name, would you be nice to me?” I asked her wearily.
“I’m already nice to you, Rabbit. I saved you, didn’t I?”
“I don’t feel very saved,” I confessed. I wanted to sleep. My eyes drifted shut, but Bryony’s cool finger against my jaw brought me back to the edge of alertness.
“Don’t slip away into the gloaming just yet, Helen,” she chided, tipping up my chin.
I blinked myself awake. “What does it do?” I asked, my voice a scrape of sound.
“Not much—on its own,” she said. She turned back to thetable and emptied the contents of the jar. She took a wooden spoon from a hook on the wall and scattered them, flicking the ingredients away from each other. “It’s to keep people from finding something. Makes them sick if they get too close.”
“Sick like this?” I asked, gesturing weakly to my entire body.
“Not even close,” she replied, casting a troubled look over her shoulder. She reached over to the bundled object and unwrapped it carefully. Then she set it on the table and stepped back once, deliberately. “Ah,” was all she said.
I craned to look. It was a jaw—a human mandible. Too small to belong to an adult. I tried to rise but fell. “Give it to me,” I said, reaching out. My hand bobbed in the air; I could barely hold it up. “Please. Bryony, give it to me. I need—I need it,” I said, sounding plaintive and desperate.
“Are you sure that’s safe?”
“Give it to me!” I demanded, clawing at the air, and she hastily picked it up and pressed it into my grasping palms. I folded my hands over it, pressed it to my chest. Bent forward with a moan. This. Yes. I had it, and that was good. The teeth bit into my palms, but I didn’t care. I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears leaked down my cheeks. “Thank you,” I whispered.
My body ordered itself. Joints slid back into place. Bones grew solid; blood flowed.Helen Vaughan. I am Helen Vaughan, I thought, and it felt true again.
Bryony crouched in front of me, hands on my knees. “Hey,” she whispered. “You okay?”
“I’m okay,” I promised her, and drew in a deep, shaky breath.
“God,” Bryony breathed. “Is that Jessamine’s?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, cradling it gently. But I did know something, a truth that sang through me. “Bryony, there’s more. We have to find them.”
—
I led Bryony into the woods, following the sense that sang in me. She carried the folding spade so she could do the digging; I was still too weak. I led the way, never faltering. Twice, I pointed; twice, Bryony dug. We found two more bundles of ragged cloth—in one, the delicate, tumbled bones of a hand; in the other, five vertebrae.
We brought them back to the cabin. I laid them out on the floor, spreading out the moldering cloth that had contained them. The bones were cold and smooth beneath my fingertips. They sang to me, but I couldn’t understand the song. It wasn’t the simple bone-song of the fox or the fawn, but something stranger, more alien still.
“What does this mean?” I asked. There was a lump in my throat, relief and sorrow grown together. “Why did Roman have these? How was he using them to hurt me?” I looked at Bryony for reassurance, but she sank down beside me with a troubled look. She smoothed my hair back, her fingers running lightly over the curve of my ear. Above us, a soft rain pattered against the mossy roof, and small quick things scurried swiftly in the dark corners.
“There are a hundred things I don’t know, and only a handful I do,” Bryony said. She knelt and touched each of the bones gently, gingerly. “These bones are a child’s. They belong to one of the Harrow girls. They must.”
