The Water and the Wild (12 page)

“So where do we go?” whispered Lottie.

Oliver, whom Lottie had thought had not even been paying attention, spoke.

“Ingle,” he said quietly. “Mr. Ingle, at the old inn. He's one of Father's oldest friends. He'll know what to do.”

“Then we'll go to the inn,” said Adelaide. “Mr. Ingle will know how to help Father, and we can stay with him until we know it's safe to come back to Iris Gate.”

It was about that time that Lottie again saw something that the others did not; only this time there was no chance that she could have imagined it. It was too big and too
terrible a thing to imagine. A great big bluish blast of light had shot up from Iris Gate and hung, for just a moment, bright and dazzling in the air. Then the light began to change, writhing into hundreds of long flames that curled into the darkening sky like serpent tongues, and then shot down, fast and frantic, back onto the roof of Iris Gate. Lottie's ears filled with a thick, crackling sound. A rush of heat swept across her face, prickling her skin. Then the roof was suddenly a spectacle of white flames and black smoke. The fire began to lick down the sides of the stone house and toward the garden. The thick tongues of flame turned into thinner, fiery cords, and those cords weaved and crossed a path from the walls of the house down to the silverwork of the garden fence.

Lottie was not the only one staring now.

“By Puck,” whispered Fife. “Grissom wasn't kidding about smoking us out.”

There was a smell in the air that Lottie liked very much under normal circumstances. It brought to mind autumn, early nights, cider, patched-up coats, and crunchy leaves. It was the smell of burning wood, but tonight it did not come from a snug fireplace or a friendly bonfire.

Iris Gate was burning.

Sparks shot from the unnatural white flames, catching fire to ivy and shrubberies. In the harsh, orange light, Lottie saw the bent silhouettes of hundreds of irises wilting. Tendrils of blue flames licked down the garden path, eating up more irises still, then wisteria, then mulberry leaves. The fire was crawling quickly, greedily toward them.

“Enchanted fire,” said Fife. “Grissom thinks we're still here. He's trying to trap us.”

“Then we've got to get out!” said Adelaide.

“Can't you float us out of here?” Lottie asked Fife.

Fife shook his head. “Not carrying three other people.”

Oliver looked as though he'd gone into a trance, his eyes the color of coal. “From what I've tasted of desire,” he whispered, “I hold with those who favor fire.”

“This is no time to be quoting!” shrieked Adelaide. “Run for the back gate. Just run!”

Adelaide took off, her satchel clutched to her chest. Lottie stumbled after, toward the back garden gate. Her eyes stung, leaking tears across her toasted cheeks. Her hair grew wet with sweat, sticking to her ears and chin. She could feel the fire growing hotter and hotter at her back. Lottie ran faster, keeping her eyes on Adelaide's
feet in front of her. Just a few more steps. Three, two—through the gate, and with one great swoosh, Lottie was free from the garden. They were out, all four of them, in a cobblestone alleyway, staring back at the flaming garden of Iris Gate.

“Everyone all right?” asked Oliver.

“Well enough,” coughed Fife, floating back to the ground. One straggly clump of his hair was glowing.

“Watch it!” Adelaide cried, licking her fingers and closing them over the crackling hair.

“Guh,” said Fife, shrinking back. “Sprite spit.”

“You're welcome,” said Adelaide.

“Which way?” Lottie asked, wiping sweat from her cheek.

“Up the hill,” Oliver said. “We'll have to use the main road. Just stay in the shadows and out of sight.”

Oliver led them out of the alleyway. Blue turrets of flame crowned the high walls of Iris Gate. The crackle of burning greenery followed them as they slipped onto the main road. The road was cobblestone and lined with tall old lattice-worked buildings and gaslit lampposts whose dim, sweet smell mixed with the stench of burning flowers. A large crowd had already gathered around Iris Gate,
muttering loudly, gasping, and coughing from the smoke that billowed into the streets. Lottie and the others skirted around the crowd, away from Iris Gate and up the beginnings of a steep hill.

“Hurry,” said Adelaide.
“Hurry!”

But Oliver had stopped running and was staring back at the house.

“Something's happening,” he said.

Something
was
happening. The clamor of the crowd had softened, and Lottie could just make out the sight of a man dressed in a long red cloak, who was shooing away those nearest the house. He turned toward the crowd and raised his hands in a silencing gesture. Lottie supposed that this must be an important man, for the crowd hushed immediately, and the only noise that followed was the insistent sizzle of burning garden. The man lowered his hands. He then produced something from his cloak that looked like a scroll. He uncurled the scroll and cleared his throat.

“By order of his most revered majesty, Starkling, King of the Southerly Court, Healer Moritasgus Horatio Wilfer of Iris Gate has hereby been revoked of the title Head Healer!”

A ripple of murmurs trembled through the crowd. The messenger raised his voice as he continued.

“Healer Moritasgus Horatio Wilfer is hereby banned from his private practice and has been taken into custody of the Southerly Court!”

Louder whispers spread through the crowd. Lottie saw Adelaide clench her fists. Oliver was staring at the cobblestones, and Fife looked ill.

“The Wilfer Estate of Iris Gate is hereby ordered to be strictly guarded. It is suspected to be the haven of a great enemy of our most illustrious Southerly Court.”

The crowd booed.

“Should the public enemy not be recovered from within Iris Gate,” the messenger went on, “the menace shall be duly apprehended. All apple trees within New Albion shall be strictly monitored. Houses may be searched. Any sprites who aid or abet these wanted souls will be tried to the full extent of Southerly law. Report all suspicious activity to your nearest Southerly Guard official.”

In the silence, a nearby streetlamp guttered and popped, followed by the shriek of an unhappy baby. Coughs peppered the crowd. The man in red lowered his arms.

“End of dictation.”

A burly man on the outskirts of the crowd stooped to pick up a loose cobblestone. Lottie's mouth dried in horror as she watched him raise the stone above his head and hurl it toward the house. A window of Iris Gate shattered.

“Good riddance!” shouted the stone thrower. “Down with the traitor, Moritasgus Wilfer!”

A few other hoarse voices of approval rang out. The messenger, encouraged, raised his fist in the air.

“Down with all traitors of the Southerly Court!” he shouted.

“No,”
Oliver whispered.

Adelaide gasped and grabbed Lottie's elbow. Then she realized what she had done and quickly let it go again.

The crowd erupted into agreement with the man in red. More windows shattered. The crying baby began to squall, and the guttering lamplight gave way to the dark of night. Lottie was cold. She wanted nothing more to do with this place. She wanted to go home.

“This is
your
fault!”

Lottie stumbled back. Adelaide had lunged at her, grabbing the collar of Lottie's tweed coat.

“We're not the guilty ones,” she shrieked, “you are!”

“Hey, get off her!” said Fife, wrenching Adelaide loose. “Lottie didn't know. She couldn't have!”

“You and your stupid ancestors!” Adelaide spat at Lottie, shrugging Fife from her shoulders. “We wouldn't have any trouble at all if it weren't for you Fiskes.”

“Wh-what?” Lottie stammered.

“Father taken away,” Adelaide went on, “Iris Gate burned up, and the Guard trying to take us away. What are we supposed to do now?”

Adelaide sank to the cobblestone, sobbing into her folded knees.

Lottie was trembling. “We can't just stand in the middle of the street, can we?” she asked Fife, who seemed the likeliest to hear her out. “You heard what that messenger said. Something about duly apprehending and—and important orders and all that. They're sending people to look for us, aren't they? Bad people.”

“Yeah,” said Fife. “We're marked sprites now, I guess. Aiders and abettors and all that, huh, Ollie?”

Oliver had knelt next to Adelaide and was whispering words to her that Lottie couldn't make out. He now
looked up and wiped a trickle of either sweat or tears—Lottie could not tell which—from his cheek.

“Others,” he said, “I am not the first, have willed more mischief than they durst. If in the breathless night I too shiver now, 'tis nothing new.”

Lottie groaned at Oliver's first rhyme, but by the end of it all, she found that the words had made a strange sort of sense. To Fife, at least, the poetry worked like a proper answer.

“Then it's settled,” Fife said. “We've got to get to Mr. Ingle. And fast.” He touched his tongue to the side of his mouth and crouched in front of Adelaide. “Listen, Ada—”

“Don't you
dare
!” Adelaide cried, slapping him away. “Don't use your keen on me! I don't need your special attention.”

By now, the swarm of spectators had had their fun taking out every window of Iris Gate with loose cobblestones and were disappearing into the bends, gates, and alleyways off the main street. Nearby, a group of hiccupping, singing boys had begun to straggle up the cobblestone hill.

“C'mon, Ada,” said Fife, still crouching. “We've got to move, unless you want to get trampled on by your boyfriend and company.”

“
Don't
call me Ada,” snapped Adelaide, though she looked genuinely terrified when she saw the group of rowdy boys approaching them. “And Hagen Marplemeyer is
not
my boyfriend!”

“Sure, he's not,” Fife conceded, helping to hoist a wriggling Adelaide to her feet. “But he still knows who you are, doesn't he?”

“Of course he does. Every sprite in this city knows who I am. I'm a Wilfer.”

“Well, every sprite in this city is going to be looking for a Wilfer. Didn't you hear? You're criminals now.”

“I bet you're just relishing that,” growled Adelaide, shoving Fife back again.

“Both of you, cut it out,” said Oliver, whom Lottie had assumed had just been lost in another poetic trance. “Let's
go
.”

With that, Oliver started briskly up the hill, and Lottie and Fife followed. Adelaide, however, clenched her hands to her hips and stomped in the opposite direction, down the hill, toward the gaggle of laughing boys.

“Hagen Marplemeyer, you
fiend
!” Adelaide screeched into the group.

Hagen, a stout, long-haired boy, whistled up at her. “Well, if it isn't Miss High-and-Mighty herself! Not so proud to be a Wilfer now, are you?”

“I saw you smash
my
bedroom window with that rock!”