Chapter 22

Ursula’s grandfather managed to convince Bael to swear on Nyxobas’s void that he wouldn’t hurt Ursula, and only then would he release them. After they made their way down to the bottom of the tower, Ursula collected her dagger from the gravel path. The mist had thickened, and a chill rippled over Ursula’s skin, even through her shawl.

Her grandfather disappeared into the fog, returning a few minutes later in a carriage. He stepped out, opening the door for Bael and Ursula. “This should get you where you need to go. My ancestral home is in Saint Meratz. Can you find your way there?”

Bael nodded. “Certainly.”

“When you arrive, tell the owner of the Three Pigs that you’re guests of mine. They’ll lead you to my chalet. I’ll send a pigeon to him, so he should be expecting you.”

Bael climbed onto the front seat, collecting the reins to drive the carriage.

Ursula’s grandfather looked at her, his blue eyes bright in the darkness. “Ursula,” he started to say. “I’m so glad you’re alive. When all this is over, I hope we can find each other again.”

A strange, empty sort of guilt pierced her chest. She didn’t remember him at all. “Of course. You called me Ursula Anne Thurlow, but I don’t know your name.”

He smiled. “My name is Frank, but as a girl you always called me Papa.”

She cocked her head. “I’ll be back soon, Frank.” She couldn’t bring herself to call this stranger Papa. “And then I want to hear everything about my life before I escaped to London.”

With a dull ache in her chest, she climbed up onto the front carriage seat with Bael. The void seemed to blossom within her, a gnawing emptiness. When she’d cut off her memories, she’d severed an important part of herself, and now she missed it like a phantom limb. She peered at Frank waving goodbye, and Bael led them down the gravel path into the mist.

“You don’t remember him at all?” asked Bael.

Ursula shook her head. “No. And it’s like I’m missing something. Like I’m not complete.”

Bael’s gaze slid to her. “You’ll remember, Ursula, if you want to.”

As the carriage picked up speed, they raced through the darkness, bumping over stones and pits in the road, and Ursula stared at the sky. A faint glow had spread across the horizon, the rising sun tinged the clouds with pink, and a dusty rose color stained the rocky landscape. They were moving away from the city, over rolling hills dotted with trees. She shivered in the cold, and Bael shifted a wool blanket over her legs. Ursula pulled it up tight, but she found herself leaning against Bael for warmth anyway.

“Not much farther,” said Bael softely.

Amber sunlight illuminated an alpine forest of pines and firs. To the east, the landscape fell off steeply into a deep valley. Snow dusted the tops of the trees, sparkling brightly as they caught the first rays of the sun. At the far end of the valley, a small town nestled into the hillside. Inhaling the cold mountain air, Ursula could smell the faint wood smoke from their chimneys. A significant improvement on the corpse wagon they’d taken to get here.

Bael pointed at the village. “That’s Saint Meratz.”

“Oh,” said Ursula. “It’s beautiful.”

A huge peak towered above them. It rose into the sky like a massive pyramid, its slopes a mix of white snow and sheer cliffs of stone. Snow blew off the summit in a high-altitude wind, puffing into the air.

“That’s Mount Acidale?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Bael. “You used to be able to see it from Calidore Castle, but in recent years, coal fires have left the city shrouded in smoke and smog.”

The road curved, and they raced into the aspen forest toward Saint Meratz.

By the time they arrived,the sun had fully risen. Bael steered the horses toward a brown, three-story building with a peaked roof and curling white eaves.

A boy ran to the horses as they stopped, and Bael handed him the reins. A sign above the building’s doors read Three Pigs.

Ursula stepped down from the carriage, then followed Bael through a creaking door into a small, crooked-walled tavern.

Three Pigs was a quiet place—or, more likely, sunrise wasn’t its most popular time of day. A pair of older men sat at a table playing backgammon.

An elderly bartender nodded to them as they approached, cleaning a pint glass with a cloth. “You must be the friends of Frank’s?”

“Yes,” said Ursula. “He said you could direct us to his chalet.”

“Certainly,” said the bartender. “My boy Callum will show you the way.”

Ursula turned, jumping a little to find that a young boy had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

A smattering of freckles covered his nose, and he blinked at Ursula. “Are you Frank’s guests?”

“Yes,” said Ursula. “And you’re Callum, I take it.”

The boy nodded, turning to lead them out of the tavern. Outside, in the milky sunlight, Callum led them down the road and onto a path that turned up the hillside. As they hiked, Callum kept up a steady stream of chatter.

“Frank’s pigeon is named Jack,” he said very seriously, but to no one in particular. A little farther on, he pointed to a picturesque stream. “That’s Giggling Brook.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Ursula.

Callum glared at her. “A girl drowned in one of its pools last year.” His tone suggested she should have known.

Ursula shuddered. Weird kid. The path led them back into the forest, and the scent of pine invigorated Ursula.

Callum grinned. “There are bears in the forest, but they hardly ever eat people.”

Bael spoke quietly. “Have you ever seen a bear?”

Callum shook his head. “No, but my grandad has. He says they’re as big as a horse.”

“Callum, do you know anything about the White Dragon?” asked Bael.

Callum stopped, and his eyes grew wide, his face paling. “No one’s seen the dragon in a hundred years.” He hissed the last word, sounding eerily like an old woman.

“Do you think it’s still out there?” asked Ursula.

Callum slowly nodded. “At night sometimes…” He shivered as if remembering something terrible. “I can hear screaming. Monsters come when it’s dark out.” Without another word, he turned and ran back toward town.

“Well, that was unnerving,” said Ursula.

Bael shrugged. “People are afraid of dragons.”

Ursula’s footsteps crunched along the path, until the forest ended abruptly and they stepped out onto an alpine meadow. At the far end stood a picturesque chalet, its roof gabled with large decorative moldings. But it wasn’t the beauty of the building that made Ursula fall to her knees.

In the meadow before her, the morning sun illuminated hundreds of flowers of gold and blue and pink—just like the wildflowers of her dreams. Corncockles, anemones, daisies and chickory… Smudges of periwinkle and honeyed hues.

Just like the wildflowers she’d painted on the walls of almost every place she’d lived.