Bones of Faerie (18 page)

In a small voice Allie asked, “How do we leave this place, Liza?”

There was no Arch here, no way out. There was only dust and heat and ashes.

Matthew looked down at Mom, then up at me, and I saw despair in his eyes. But he only said, “Through the lake again, right?”

I nearly asked what he meant, but then I remembered my vision of Caleb stepping into burning water. I thought about how the water hadn't burned or drowned him. He hadn't died, not unless it was the future I'd seen.

I ran a hand through my hair. It was stiff—wind and heat had dried the water in it. I remembered the water on
my jacket and on Tallow's fur. Of course we'd come through the lake. We had to step into this world from somewhere. Lost in the visions that had brought us here, I hadn't seen—but the way through had two sides. The Arch in my world. The lake in this one.

Fire flared through the lake's surface, bright against the blue sky. Tallow batted a pebble. Her paws were covered with soot. So were my hands and the legs of my pants. The fire receded, and the lake was still. Still as the drawn water in which my magic had first found me. Running water held little magic, but still water was like metal, like glass, like a mirror.

Yet if we stepped through the lake, emerging safely through the Arch on the other side—what then? It would be four or five days to Washville. Along the way we'd have to resist the River and hold back the shadows all over again, all while dragging or carrying Mom with us.

“How much time do we—does Mom—have?” I asked Allie.

Allie's face scrunched up, but her voice held steady. “No one can know that for sure, Liza. Caleb always says so.”

I forced myself not to flinch from the truth I heard there. “But you don't think it's very long.”

Allie turned and grabbed Tallow in her arms. The cat squirmed, but Allie didn't let go.

Matthew reached for my hand. Mom began coughing again. I thought of how she'd stepped through the Arch, trusting Caleb's quia leaf to see her through, not knowing that she might die on the other side.

Or maybe she had known.
You should have left me there.
Maybe she'd known all along.

“The War was stupid,” Allie said. “So
stupid.”

I thought of the Arch, reaching like a mirror toward the sky. I thought of Mom, and the young woman Mom had once been, both stepping through.

“A mirror.” My hand had passed through Caleb's mirror easily enough, but it had been too small to let anything but my hand through. “Will any mirror big enough do?”

Still not looking at me, Allie said, “It's your magic. You'd know better than us.”

I glanced at Matthew. His eyes went wide. “Gram's mirror,” he said.

I nodded. Kate's mirror was taller than any of us.

“Gram said the mirror was a family heirloom, that she couldn't bear to destroy it during the War,” Matthew said. “Do you think it would work, Liza? Gram doesn't
have any magic, but she does understand about healing. She might know what to do.”

Allie dropped Tallow and gazed into the water. “It looks deep.” She stepped back, shivering in spite of the heat.

“I know,” I said, thinking that Allie and I both knew too much about drowning. “If my magic fails—”

The girl whirled to face me, her expression fierce. “But if we stay here we'll die for sure.”

“That makes it easy, then.” I tried to laugh, but the sound came out strangled and strange.

Mom's coughing quieted. She didn't struggle as Matthew and I helped her to her feet, but she didn't look at us, either. Sun glinted off Caleb's quarter. I picked up the necklace and draped it around my own neck again. I left Mom leaning on Matthew and tied Rebecca's sling around my neck. Rebecca whimpered. Mom strained toward the sound. “Rebecca. Lizzy. My babies, my girls …”

I took Mom's hand. Matthew kept supporting her from the other side. Allie set Tallow on her shoulders, then reached for Matthew in turn. She clutched his hand as tightly as she'd clutched the guide ropes over the river. Matthew turned to me. His face and hair were
soot- darkened, his eyes puffy, as if he wanted to cry but didn't dare. Yet somehow he managed to smile—as if saying without words that he trusted me still, as much as I trusted him.

I drew a breath and looked into the burning lake, seeking visions to guide us home.

Chapter 15

T
he visions didn't come.

Hesitantly I stepped into the water, my eyes on the flames beneath its surface. The water didn't burn. It flowed over my boots, warm but not hot. Light reflected from the sun above the water and the flames below. I took another step, and in the lake's light I
saw
—but then flames erupted near my elbow, and the vision vanished. I jerked my arm back, ignoring the stench of charred wool. Rebecca cried softly. Mom stumbled, trying to pull free of my grasp. I tightened my grip and looked into the lake once more. Somehow I knew that this water—that any water—was different from metal or glass, harder to see in and harder to control.
I looked into the lake and pictured Kate's mirror: its gold frame, its silvered glass. I pictured my own perfect reflection staring back at me. The water grew brighter. I stared into the brightness and saw—

Mom—the young woman who became Mom— kneeling in a green forest beside a blue lake, playing a flute. Caleb walked up behind her, and Karin as well, and they added their voices to the music—

Mom's hand tightened in mine, and I knew that we saw together once more.

Saw Mom running amid a ragged stream of refugees, fleeing a city that burned and crumbled behind her—

Mom at the edge of our town, her eyes cast downward as Father and Jayce tried to turn her away. But Kate stood there, too, saying, “She's little more than a child. For pity's sake, let her stay—”

Father, holding Mom close, whispering, “I will keep you safe.” They were both older, but not a lot older—

Water rose past my waist. I clung to Mom's hand.
Kate's mirror,
I thought. I held my gaze steady, and I saw—

Mom and Kate staring at the ruins of a burned house while Kate whispered, “Cam's not the only one, Tara. I need your help—”

Mom and Kate watching as Matthew growled and shifted in his sleep, as Stefan and Emma's son called corn husks through the air to his outstretched hand, as Jayce's granddaughter set dry wood aflame at a glance. “Stay hidden,” Mom warned each of them in turn. “Stay safe—”

Mom frowning as Father led me out to hunt with bow and arrow, but turning away when Kyle, Brianna's youngest, tugged on her sleeve. “I can talk to ants,” the boy said. “Want to see?”

Mom's frown deepened. She put a finger to her lips. “Don't tell,” she said.

“Course not,” Kyle answered. “We don't tell anyone but you and Kate. Every kid knows that—”

Every kid but me. While Father had taught me to hunt, Mom had taught the other children how to hide their magic. And when she left, she'd spoken to Kate— but not me. Never me.

Mom's hand slipped from my grasp. I grabbed it again. “Not this time,” I said. “You're not leaving me this time.” I held on as water soaked through my sweater. The vision nearly slid away, but somehow I caught it once more and saw—

Kate standing at the foot of Mom's bed, her expression fierce. “Let it go,” Kate said. “Even if you could find
your way back to Faerie, even if anyone survived there— and you know how unlikely that is, given the weapons we used—they wouldn't welcome you.”

Mom sat up in bed. Her face was drawn and pale, her hair unbrushed. “They won't turn the children away, not once they know about their magic. Don't you see, Kate? Rebecca won't be the last, any more than Cam was. The children aren't safe here anymore. We have to find someplace else for them.”

“What about your other daughter?” Kate demanded. “Will you leave her here to wonder where you've gone?”

Mom shut her eyes. “You know I can't tell Liza. If she let anything slip to Ian—no. He'd kill them all. I just give thanks she doesn't have any magic of her own. We could never keep that from Ian. I'm protecting her, too.”

Kate's mouth twisted into an angry frown. “If you want to protect her, take her with you. Take her away from him.”

Mom shook her head and turned away. Instead I saw—

Father walking down the stairs, a bundle in his arms. I watched from my room, silent as a shadow, knowing there was nothing I could do—

Water rose around me. The weight of the sling dug into my neck. An icy hand touched my cheek. I had to do something—

I ran after Father, into the hall, down the stairs. But even as I ran I knew I was too late—

“You're late, Liza.” Father turned to me, belt in hand. I wanted to make him go away, like I'd made the trees go away, but words stuck in my throat. I was weak, just like he said. Too weak to fight him, too weak to run. The belt came down on my back. I fell to my knees, fighting not to cry out. If I cried out I would drown, and if I drowned I would never find—

Find what? Father's belt broke skin as I struggled to think. The sling grew heavier, filling with water. They were all depending on me, trusting me—

I stood, forcing my head above water.

Father froze with his belt in midair. I walked past him, away from him: across the room and out the door. My back ached, but I wasn't so weak that I couldn't do what needed to be done. I walked through the town, slow as if moving through water, but I walked. I opened Kate's door, crossed her living room, and drew her wall hangings aside. The mirror stood there. I kept walking, toward the silvered glass—

Dizziness overtook me. There was a sound like water crashing to shore, and a moment's darkness—

And then I stepped out of Kate's mirror, coughing up water, my hair and clothes dripping, Rebecca wailing in her sling. Kate looked up from her loom, her eyes wide with astonishment. My hand, still half in the mirror, clutched Mom's. I tried to pull her after me, but Mom pulled back, away. For an instant I saw dark waters, and I knew Mom sought their depths. “Not this time,” I said again. Then, louder,
“Mom. Tara. Come here.”
Mom stumbled through the glass, shivering violently. Matthew stepped after her, then Allie and Tallow.

Mom's smile was bitter. “You're not going to let me go, are you?”

“No.”

She sighed and crumpled to the floor, even as Kate rushed to her side. Rebecca's cries slowed to gulping sobs.

“Tara,” Kate said.

Mom looked up. “You told me I was a fool,” she whispered to Kate, and shut her eyes.

Kate knelt by Mom's side. If she felt any pain in her knees, she ignored it. She checked Mom's pulse and breathing, examined the burn marks, and laid a hand on
her forehead. “Matthew,” she said, her face tight, “a bucket of cold water and some towels.”

Matthew dropped the pack and ran from the room. I clutched Mom's hand. Her skin was so hot.

“I'm a healer,” Allie said. “I can help.”

Kate nodded. “Tell me all her symptoms. Except for the fever. I've figured that out.”

Allie told Kate everything. Kate blinked once when Allie described her magical probing, but she kept listening. The way she looked at Mom made my stomach twist.

Matthew returned with the water. Kate dipped a towel into the bucket and pressed it against Mom's forehead. “This is important,” she said. “I need to know exactly where you've been.”

Allie looked up. “It was the air, wasn't it? I knew there was something in the air. I could feel it.”

“Where?” Kate asked, tension clear in her voice.

“Faerie,” I said.

“How long?”

“We don't know how long for Mom.”

“And for the rest of you?”

“An hour,” I said. “Maybe two.”

Kate nodded. The tension eased a little, but then she lifted her hands from the towel and buried her face in
them. “I don't suppose you're familiar with the term ‘radiation poisoning’? No, of course not.” She stood, leaving the towel on Mom's forehead. “I want all of you out of those clothes and scrubbed down, every square inch of skin, every last bit of ash. Especially the baby.” The sling covered Rebecca's face. As Kate spoke she reached out and drew it back. She froze. “Rebecca?” she whispered.