Advent (68 page)

 
His relief expired like the flame of a match.

 
Tracks. He’d left tracks. If she went towards that side of the garden she’d see them. In the virgin snow they were plain as print. She’d know someone was in the house.

 
He grabbed the handle of the door to Marina’s room, then made himself stop and listen for a second before he tried it, though fresh panic was knotting his guts. Not a sound beyond the percussion of his own blood in his ears. The handle shrieked horribly when he turned it.

 
The curtains had been drawn in the bedroom.

 
‘Marina?’

 
He stepped in, closing the door behind him very carefully. The room was cold and cobweb-grey in the veiled dusk. He thought he saw a lumpy outline on the four-poster bed.

 
‘Marina!’

 
Probably just a pile of pillows. He chewed his lip. Any moment now Gwen might see his footprints. Where else could Marina be? He’d have to search all the upstairs rooms.

 
That odd-shaped unmoving shadow on the bed couldn’t be her.

 
It couldn’t be. Never.

 
He remembered something else Holly had said, something he’d been trying hard not to remember at all.

 
Murder is done already.

 
His eyes were adjusting to the near-dark. The thing on the bed wasn’t a pile of pillows.

 
He felt his way across the floor, trying to avoid the stuff scattered around. The boards grunted and sighed but he’d stopped noticing the noises. A dreadful shock was preparing itself inside him; he could feel himself trying to wall himself off from it, empty himself out, feel nothing. The thing on the bed was now definitely a body, a child’s body, gangly limbs draped at odd angles, absolutely motionless.

 
He leaned over the bed. A little metallic drum was going
no no no no no no
in his head, faster and faster. He prodded the body gently. Nothing.

 
He shook harder, tipped it over onto its back. It was Marina, limp and lifeless as a rag doll.

 
The first time he’d seen her, he’d thought she was dead. It was his fault, all his fault. His stupid mistake had killed her in the end, a black prophecy.

 
A bruised hand dangled over the edge of the bed. He remembered holding it, how alive it had felt. He tried to think of something to whisper as he reached out to touch it again, but there was nothing there, not even
goodbye
.

 
The hand was warm.

 
He put the rowan staff down and felt her face with both hands to make sure. Unmistakably warm. Around her lips he felt the tiniest whisper of breath.

 
He blinked. He hadn’t noticed he’d been crying. For a brief and extraordinary moment he realised he didn’t care what happened now. The worst had shown its face to him and then turned away and passed by. He put his mouth right to her ear and hissed into it as loud as he dared, ‘Marina!’

 
Not a twitch, not a mumble. She was asleep, but as if in a coma. He shook her again, vigorously. Her head flopped around as if it might come off.

 
As he bent over the pillow, a crazy thought occurred to him. It made him blush. If he hadn’t been so delirious with relief, he’d never have let it in.

 
An enchanted sleep. A daughter, hidden away in a weird and forgotten and grand and ancient house, imprisoned by a warlock . . . He didn’t really think it would work, but then what did he know about magic?

 
With his fingers he found where her mouth was. He leaned forward and kissed.

 
The spell didn’t break. It didn’t even waver. But as soon as his lips touched hers he could taste it. The taste was acrid, smoky and sweet all together. It came so vividly to his mouth that he forgot what he’d just done (although he would remember it many, many times later, the furtive downy touch). He recognised it as magic first, by that same unnameable sixth sense that had heard the hum of the rowan staff and spoken to the
genius
of the air. But his other senses knew it too. His flesh felt it: tiny hard spots of it.

 
Poppy seeds.

 
He ran his fingers over her face until they touched her lips again. There were seeds stuck in the corners of her mouth. He poked a finger between her slightly opened lips and felt them on her tongue.

 
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Each dot was like a miniature whirlpool, a vortex opening into perfumed darkness. He began brushing them off her lips. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that the seeds were the heart of the spell. But they weren’t just on her lips and tongue. She’d swallowed some too.

 
A shout outside, in front of the house. Two syllables, scraping like the back and forth of a saw: ‘Corbo!’

 
Gawain snapped his head up. He’d forgotten what he was doing, who was out there. He shook the body frantically. ‘Marina! Wake up! Wake up!’ No use at all.

 
There was, he saw, only one thing for it. He’d already carried Horace. Marina was quite a bit taller, but thin as a rake. He’d manage.

 
He grabbed her round the torso, heaved her upright and tipped her over his shoulder. She was in her pyjamas. The pink ones, he guessed, though it was too dark to know. The limp body wasn’t heavy, but it was utterly uncooperative. It was impossible to lift her up without producing a cacophony of cracking in the floorboards and bumping against the furniture. He staggered to his feet.

 
The hoarse call came again: ‘Corbo!’ A passing shadow seemed to darken the room, or perhaps he only imagined it. He grabbed the staff again, hooked the other arm round Marina’s hips and started for the door. Her chin jabbed his ribs, her droopy arms swayed and threatened to catch on every object he tried to steer around, and he had to grip fiercely to prevent her hips sliding right off his shoulder. He thought he heard the voice outside, speaking low.

 
He’d got as far as managing the handle and letting himself back out into the passageway when he heard the front door open and shut again. The noise was right underneath him. She’d come back in the house. Thinking only of the distance between him and the open air, he tightened his grip on the absurdly limp body slung over his shoulder and took a step.

 
The old timbers of the floor gave a sharp pop as his weight shifted. He froze.

 
For a moment of deathly suspense he stood still, hoping that if he didn’t move, everything would just go away.

 
He heard a call from downstairs. ‘Old man?’

 
Then he knew he’d been heard. The game was finished. Now there was only one thing to do, and that was to run, and hope he could run fast enough. No more thinking or guessing or sneaking. Time to run for his life.

 
It was hard to believe anyone else could move clumsily enough to be heard over the racket he and his cargo made as they careered down the corridor, but nevertheless he heard the sounds of pursuit all too clearly. She was coming. Uneven steps thumped up the staircase.

 
For some reason he’d been imagining a romantically surreptitious escape from the house: he and Marina hand in hand and on tiptoes, fleeing into the dark, blending among shadows like the ghosts they both perhaps were. Now he had no idea what to do except run, and keep running, hauling the dead weight for as long as he could stand. The load seemed to double with each step. His day had drained him; only mortal desperation kept him going. If his legs gave out now he was dead. Behind him the ragged steps reached the top of the stairs and began coming down the passageway. He gritted his teeth and crashed through the arched door into the hall, kicking it shut behind him. The tapestries at the far end looked impossibly far away, but he forced himself along, one step after another, fighting for his balance. Either Marina was a lot heavier than she looked or he was a lot weaker than he thought he was. He had to crouch to run along the gallery, and it seemed like her weight was always about to pull him over the railings. His arm shook and burned with the effort of holding on.

 
The door banged open behind him.

 
‘Boy!’

 
He tasted bile. Her eyes on my back, he thought. Auntie Gwen, shouting at me, not knowing me.

 
‘Stop!’

 
He turned the corner. On his left shoulder Marina’s body shielded him from seeing his pursuer. He heard the stumbling steps, the clatter of boots on wood. Faster than him. She was going to catch him, it was hopeless. For the briefest instant he thought about dropping Marina and bolting, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even let go of the rowan staff in his other hand. It clumped along beside him like a crutch. All he could do was keep going until he was caught. He wondered if he’d be able to swing the stick in anger, if it came to it, but that would mean looking Aunt Gwen in the face, and somehow he knew death would be better. He shoved the stick between the heavy fabric to open the way to the hidden door.

 
From the keyhole, a black bar protruded.

 
He’d left the door ajar. He stuck his toes in the gap, prised it open, threw Marina and the staff down on the landing – she landed with a horrible dead thump – then reached back and yanked the iron key from the lock. The pursuing footsteps sounded as close as the hammering in his ears. He slammed the door shut behind him and jabbed frantically around the handle with the key. He couldn’t see: salt stung his eyes, and the old office was in deep twilight. Two agonisingly futile seconds stretched out like the end of time, and then by sheer luck the teeth of the key found the hole. He got it in, twisted, heard the bolt slide. An instant later the handle rattled.

 
Hands thumped the other side of the door. The handle twisted again, left, right.

 
There he was, bent double, his own breath like smoke in his lungs, the enchanted changeling girl and the rowan staff lying at his feet, and no more than the thickness of a plank of wood between him and something that made an appalling mockery of all names.

 
‘Are you there, boy?’

 
He thought he could feel her breath. Her mouth might have been touching the other side of the door. Auntie Gwen’s mouth.

 
‘Shall I tell you how I punish thieving?’

 
He crouched into a hunched ball, tears dribbling into the corners of his mouth.

 
‘The penalty is death, boy. Do you think me incapable of that?’

 
No
, he mouthed, an O of pain. It was her voice. He’d known it as long as he could remember. But it had cracked and split like earth in a drought.

 
‘Unlock the door, boy. Return the girl and you will have done no wrong. Spare yourself.’

 
No no no.

 
‘Boy?’

 
There below him was the unbarred door. The escape route. He focused on it, blinking away the tears. He had no answer but to keep on running, away from that voice. There was power in him somewhere, he knew that. He’d saved himself from burning. He’d forced the black dog away. He felt the magic around him, the enchantments and the compulsions. But he didn’t know what the power was, or where. He knew nothing about it. If this was his day, like Holly said it was, he’d spent the day cold, terrified, bewildered and now hunted. He had nothing to go on. He couldn’t face the person on the other side of the door, the ghastly ruin of someone he’d clung to since childhood as his only living friend.

 
She twisted the handle again.

 
‘Turn the lock, boy. Do as I command.’

 
‘No.’

 
He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. It came out as a croak. Loud enough, though.

 
The door clattered. She’d struck it again. When she spoke it was with tangible menace, a tone so alien to anything Auntie Gwen could ever have managed that it dried up his drizzle of tears. This wasn’t his aunt. Auntie Gwen was gone, like Miss Grey. Everyone he’d loved was gone.