Chantress (3 page)

Never take that stone off
, Norrie had told me.
It’s meant to protect you.

But then Norrie had lied about my mother. Who was to say she hadn’t lied about this?

There was only one way to find out. Yet my hand slowed as I reached for the pendant. Almost as long as I could remember, I had been following Norrie’s rules. The thought of breaking them—deliberately, perhaps irrevocably—made my heart pound.

The wind howled at the cracks in the window, making the candle dance. I thought I caught the whisper of a tune.

This is it. This is your chance to go home. Be bold, and take it.

I grasped the chain and pulled it over my head.

The moment the stone was off, the songs came for me—hundreds of them, humming like bees, flickering like firelight, crossing like shadows. And the strongest one was the wild tune I’d heard in the garden. This time, however, it went on and on. It spoke of the sea and of home and of times long past. It tugged at my heart and my throat and my lips.
Sing me
, it said.

And I did.

I had no idea what the words were, or what phrase came next. But I did not care. A dizzying sense of freedom flooded over me. All I wanted to do was give voice to the notes that came to me, one after another, in an endless stream of sound. We climbed together, strong and sure, rising ever higher. I felt as if I were flying.

Sing and the darkness will find you.

Norrie’s warning rang out in my mind. But it seemed to come
from somewhere far away, somewhere very much farther than the music itself.

I hardly even noticed when Norrie herself banged the door open. With a horrified cry, she bounded forward and clutched my wrist, the net of seaweed dripping in her hand.

“Lucy! No!”

But already the wind was rising. It swirled through the room, midnight black, and caught us both in its grasp. As the candle went out, the song rose to a shriek, and everything around us vanished.

After the wind seized us, I could see nothing whatsoever. Not the candle, not the room, not even my own bare hands. Worse still, I touched only emptiness. There was no floor beneath me, no table, no walls. From the pressure around my wrist, I guessed Norrie was still with me, yet I could not see or hear her.

I nearly broke off singing then, but the song had a powerful grasp, and it refused to leave me so easily. It filled my throat and opened my lips and insisted on being sung. In that terrible void, it was all I had left, so I clung to it, taking each note as it came, giving each its full measure. And with each note I sang, I allowed myself to trust the song a little more—to believe that I was indeed leaving the island and going home.

Just as my confidence soared, the song fractured, splitting into harmonies I did not understand.

Which line to follow? I hesitated. Only a moment, only a
beat. But thick and strong as rope, the music coiled around me and pulled Norrie away.

I screamed, and the darkness closed in like a shroud on my face. Above me, I saw a gray arch, like the curve of a cresting wave. Was I about to drown?

But no, it was growing light now, and the wave above me was solid, was still, was . . .

Stone.

Above my head, the golden-gray vaulting soared, its interlocking arches meeting in exquisite geometry. And as the last of the darkness lifted, I saw to my astonishment that I was standing in a long and elegant room, facing crimson draperies that hung like drooping sails. Near me, a vast hearth glowed, its flames reflected in glass cases that lined the rest of the room. In those cases were books by the thousands. Books in chains. Books glowing with gilt. Books blackened with age. Books upon books upon books. And not a soul in sight to read them.

My throat convulsed. I had worked magic. I had sung myself off the island. That alone dumbfounded me. But where was I? This was not the small cottage I remembered, or any other place I knew.

More dreadful question still—where was Norrie? For there was no sign of her anywhere.

What have I done?

It was no use telling myself it was Norrie’s own fault for keeping secrets. I was the one who’d chosen to sing, and now Norrie was lost. That was the plain truth of it. For all I knew, my magic had killed her.

She lives.
It was the merest breath of a song in my ears. I strained to hear the rest, but the notes told me only that Norrie was alive—somewhere.

Oh, Norrie, how could I have lost you?

My hand tightened around my necklace, still twined around my fingers. I could reproach myself all day, but that wouldn’t help Norrie one whit. I must act instead. I must find her. But how? With more singing?

I wasn’t sure I had the stomach for that, given what my first song had brought about. And in any case, I couldn’t hear the music anymore, not properly. It was fading so quickly that the soft notes were half swallowed up by the beating of my own heart.

My bewilderment only grew as I caught sight of the necklace still dangling from my fingers. In place of the dull ochre pendant I’d expected to see, a ruby sparkled. It glowed against my skin like a small red-hot sun.

I stared at it in dismay, then ran my fingers over it. To the touch, it was still my stone, the same size and shape and weight, with bevels and bumps in precisely the same places. But if it was my stone, why and how had it changed? And what was I to do with it?

Keep it around your neck, child.
With Norrie’s constant admonition ringing in my memory, I looped the necklace back in place. I couldn’t tell if it was protecting me, but its familiar weight was comforting.

As I tucked the stone into my bodice, something rustled in my sleeve: my mother’s letter, tucked there in haste and forgotten until now. After glancing around to make sure the library truly was
empty, I hastened to the fire. Perhaps the letter had changed along with my stone, and now it would give me the guidance I needed.

Even in the bright firelight, however, the letter was no more legible than before. Discouraged, I tucked it back into my sleeve for safekeeping. Only then did I become aware that the last faint music had dwindled into nothing.

Unnerved by the silence, I looked around hesitantly. At the far end of the room, a massive door stood slightly ajar—apparently the only way out. But when I walked toward it, chill air wafted over me, smelling of damp and sawdust and something disturbing that I couldn’t put a name to. I took a step back and turned toward the nearest bookcase. Perhaps before leaving I was meant to find something here: a guide to magic, perhaps, or another letter from my mother, or a map. Anything, really, that might help me feel a little less lost.

I pulled out the first book that came to hand, a thick volume that was out of line with the others. Bound in red and black leather, it was titled
Id. Chan.

Looking for more clues, I leaned toward the hearth light and read the title page:

O
N THE
I
DENTIFICATION OF
C
HANTRESSES,

T
HEIR
P
HYSICAL
M
ARKS AND
C
HARACTERISTICS;

B
EING ALSO A
G
UIDE TO
T
HEIR
H
ABITS
, T
ERRITORIES, AND
P
OWERS
,

H
UMBLY
S
UBMITTED TO THE
L
ORD
P
ROTECTOR,

BY AN
A
RDENT
S
CHOLAR

AND
D
EVOTED
F
RIEND

Chantress
. My mother had used that word in her letter. I pulled the book closer and rifled the pages. Was there anything here that might help me?

I was still scanning the Table of Contents when I heard a clank some distance behind me.

In a flash, I slipped the book back into place.

Where could I hide? The polished tables and cane chairs by the hearth were too bare and open to offer any refuge. And every other square inch of the library was devoted to books . . .

. . . except the draperies.

I bounded to the left-hand bay and parted the yards of flowing velvet. Behind them, a high window sat deep in the stone wall. So bubbled and skewed were its panes, however, that I could see very little through them—only a blurry twilight sky and a high, crenellated wall. Was I in a castle, then, or some grand manor house?

Well, wherever I was, I must take care not to be seen. I crouched under the window and rearranged the draperies. Leaving a tiny slit at eye level, I settled myself—and only just in time, because a panel by the fireplace swung open. A tall boy in dark clothes stepped through it and stole into the room.

At first, I guessed him to be somewhere around my own age, but then I wasn’t so certain. Was he a year or two older, perhaps? It had been so long since I had seen anyone but Norrie, and there was an intensity about this boy that made him hard to pin down.

He padded along the line of shelves toward my own hiding place, till he was so close that I could see the fierce light in his eyes.
Crossing to the other side of the room, he scanned the cases, then knelt and removed a moss-green volume. Taking a quick look behind him, he tucked it into his coat. Was he stealing it?

Voices rang out in the hall. The thief—if that’s what he was—went still.

“Funny sort of place to meet, a library,” a man in the hall complained. “And a library about magic, at that.”

“Keep quiet, Giles!” a cross voice replied. “D’you want the whole world to hear you?”

The boy made a run for it, but he was too far from the hidden panel to reach it easily. Instead, he veered toward the draperies closest to him, some distance from mine. He vanished from my sight as the massive library door swung open.

I shrank back against the wall, then wished I hadn’t, for I could no longer see anything. But it was too late now to adjust the curtains, for the men were coming into the room.

“Ravendon House is one of the greatest establishments in London, indeed in any city in England,” the cross man was saying. “And one of the largest and oldest as well. You must understand, Giles: It’s an honor to be invited here.”

I heard the word
London
with some relief. At least I was in my home country—if not in any house I remembered.

“I wouldn’t take the place on a silver plate, myself,” Giles answered. “It’s a cursed, drafty old warren. And say what you will, this library is a deuced odd place to meet.”

“It’s not for you to question Lord Scargrave’s judgment. Not if you’re the King’s man.”

“Of course I’m the King’s man,” Giles harrumphed. “None truer, ’pon my word. I’d not turn spy for him otherwise. Informing on family, on friends—it’s not a gentlemanly thing to do, eh?”

“It’s for the good of the country,” his friend said sharply. “And if our friends and family behave themselves, they won’t have anything to worry about. You ought to be pleased that Lord Scargrave has called us here. His invitation is a mark of favor and trust.”

“But—”

“Enough. You may have forgotten where you are, but I haven’t. And I’ve no wish to find myself before my lord Spymaster in the Council Chamber. Or worse.”

“Forget I said anything,” Giles said nervously.

“Let’s talk of something else, then. No, wait a moment—I think I hear him coming.”

Blinded by the draperies, I could not see anyone enter. But I heard the heavy tread of footsteps on the library floorboards, and the groan of the door swinging shut.

A deep voice said, “Gentlemen, you know why I have called you here.”

It was a pleasant voice, even musical, but there was a note in it that made me keenly aware of how very dark and cold it was by the window, and how very thin even the thickest velvet curtains were when nothing else stood between you and discovery.

“You have offered to serve the King,” the deep voice went on. “You have offered to serve me.”

“Yes, Lord Scargrave,” the two men murmured.

“That being so, I give you this simple task: to listen carefully to those around you, and to report any disloyalty to me, so that I may keep His Majesty safe.”

More murmuring: “Yes, my lord. Yes.”

“And for the sake of His Majesty, I set another task before you as well, a task I ask of everyone in my employ: to keep a watch for anyone who works magic by singing, or any other sign of Chantress blood. You know what to look for?”

“The spiral scar,” said Giles’s friend promptly. “Raised and white and no bigger than a penny piece, right at the base of the forearm.”

My breath caught in my throat as I fingered the scar on my arm. A birthmark, that’s what Norrie had called it. But Giles’s friend had described it precisely. And what had my song been, but magic?

“Correct. Should you meet any such, you will inform me at once.” The deep voice added, “Only me, you understand. Not one word to anybody else.”

The answer came in unison, swift and obedient. “We shall report to you—and only to you.”

“You had better.” The voice was no longer pleasant, but harsh and full of discord. “Otherwise, I shall give you to the Shadowgrims.”

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold window above me. I stood still as a deer, not daring to move, except to run my fingertips over the scar on my arm—the scar that would betray my Chantress nature if they found me. Would I, too, be sent to the Shadowgrims, whoever or whatever they were? The very sound of the word made me want to retch.

A matter of a few yards, that was all that lay between me and discovery. A few yards and the flick of the draperies, and I would stand there exposed.

Pulse racing, I trained my ears on the man Giles and his friend. They were falling over themselves to prove their loyalty.

“No need to resort to the Shadowgrims, my lord.”

“We will report only to you, Lord Scargrave. You have our word.”