Chapter 9

Terror seized me as I woke.

My eyes darted around, trying to find the familiar lines of the barn. My ears strained, listening for the rustle of animals shifting in their stalls. They weren't there. They weren't here.

I didn't even know where here was.

I sat up with a sharp gasp and the little cottage came into focus as I remembered everything that had happened yesterday. At least, I thought it was yesterday.

Outside, the Between was still painted in its wash of grays and blacks. Lightning bolts continued dancing from cloud to cloud, never breaking free to strike the earth, offering only their sporadic flickers.

After years of waiting for him, my godfather had finally come. He'd taken me away. He'd brought me here. Showered me with generosity—necklaces and trees and a cottage of my own and the promise of a bright future. It wasn't necessarily one I'd have chosen for myself, had I been asked. But I was only twelve, a poor girl from a poor family, and Merrick's version of my future was better than anything I would have had in the Gravia with my parents.

I blinked.

My parents.

I hadn't given them much thought since arriving in the Between, too overwhelmed by everything here to look backward. Now, in the quiet of this new maybe-morning, I wondered what they were doing, how they were. I waited for the first stirrings of homesickness to quicken within me, but they did not come. I remembered how swiftly Mama had stooped down, eager to grab all those gold coins. She hadn't even looked at me to say goodbye.

That stung more than I wanted it to.

So I pushed my legs out of the bed and stood up, appraising the little cottage with fresh eyes. Merrick hadn't said when he would return, and I was at a loss for a way to spend the first full day in my new home.

The copper tub caught my attention, and I was suddenly aware of how my scent filled the small space, the warm funk of oil in my stringy hair, an unpleasant musk under my arms. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a proper bath, and I suddenly wanted to wash away every bit of my old life. I wanted to scour my skin raw, scrub off that old version of me, watch it swirl down the drain, and be done with it.

There was a hand-pump faucet in the kitchen, and I set to work, filling bucket after bucket to heat near the fire, before dumping the boiling water in the tub. I peeled off my soiled, stinking dress and stockings before casting them into the fireplace. I would clothe myself in dresses of Merrick's making and never have to wear one of my sisters' threadbare hand-me-downs again.

The tub was large enough that I could dunk myself under the water, and I did frequently, scrubbing my hair, rubbing a bristled brush all along my limbs until I felt as smooth and sleek as a seal. I stayed in the bath until the water cooled, causing an army of goose bumps to rise on my skin, and my fingers and toes were as wrinkled as prunes.

Wrapped in a soft bath sheet, I made my way to the armoire and studied its contents, eventually choosing a pretty dress of ochre twill. Tiny white daisies were stitched along its collar, and I marveled at all the details Merrick had so thoughtfully included in every aspect of my new life in the Between. He hadn't needed to fill the armoire with such fine clothing, furnish the bed with so many pillows and throws. The sparsest accommodations would have pleased me. He'd chosen to enchant.

Breakfast was toasted bread and a slice of dark orange cheese, wonderfully cold from the ice chest. I nibbled at it, perched in an armchair, looking about the cottage and wondering how I should spend my day.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement, but when I turned, I couldn't tell what had shifted. Everything was still. Then, on the other side of the room, another something stirred.

I knew I was alone. There was no one else here. Not in the cottage, not in the whole of the Between.

But then…Again. Another movement, just far enough from my focus that my gaze didn't quite catch it. I strained my ears, listening to the quiet. Was it mice?

The thought didn't horrify me. It might be nice to have a bit of company here in this strange solitude, even if it was tufted with fur and whiskered.

I heard a soft rustle behind me and turned just in time to see one of the books move.

Its cover opened, pushed by unseen hands, before a flurry of pages flipped by, stopping on the first chapter. I glanced about and noticed that many of the other books around the room had also been opened, gentle prompts to do as my godfather had asked me.

I turned away from them.

I didn't want to see those pictures again. Didn't want to fill my head with words like cauterization, debriding, or trepanning. I had liked helping the miracle woman in the woods with her tasks, I'd liked hearing her whisper about the best time to harvest echinacea—under the light of a new autumn moon, when the roots were at their most potent—but I didn't like the thought of learning like this.

With books and big words I didn't know.

Without guidance.

Without instruction.

I made up my mind to go outside—perhaps the trees Merrick had conjured would have some sort of healing magic I could show him later. But as my palm grazed the doorknob—an octagon of green cut glass, faceted and dazzling—the wind kicked up, tearing through the valley and past my little cottage with such force that the windowpanes rattled in their casings. It screamed with a sharp pitch, keening and howling and sending shivers through my limbs.

When I pulled my hand back from the door, the gale died just as quickly as it had come on.

Narrowing my eyes, I seized hold of the glass knob once more and swung the door open. A sudden volley of freezing raindrops lashed at my face, so stinging and wicked I was forced to slam the door shut, gasping at the effort it took to push it closed against the wind.

Again, the storm silenced.

My fingers hovered over the doorknob, but I could feel the wild chaos that lingered on the other side of the door, waiting with bated breath, and I dropped my hand.

"Fine," I called to my godfather, certain he could hear me, present or not. "You've made your point."

With a peevish sigh, I flopped into the armchair and grabbed the first book I spotted.

A Treatise on the Physicks of Human Anatomy, read the spine.

Kicking my legs over the chair's arm, I settled in, opened the book, and began to read.

I read for hours.

I read till my limbs grew heavy with sleep.

I read through the pins and needles as they woke.

I read until the words no longer made sense, then stood, stretching, and searched the little cottage for a medical dictionary I was certain I'd spotted the night before.

I looked up the words I'd had trouble pronouncing, let alone understanding, and went back to the first book, determined to reread those sections with fresh eyes.

I read and consulted my dictionary and read again, and slowly—very, very slowly—the text began to make sense, solidifying into something I could remember, something I would be able to recall at a moment's notice, something I could explain and, most importantly, use. I only set the book aside when my stomach let out a grumble so loud it broke my concentration.

There was no clock in the cottage, and without a sun—the windows were still dark as pitch—I had no way of guessing what time it was.

But it felt like lunch, so lunch I had.

In the ice chest was a plate of ham I'd somehow overlooked earlier, already cut into thick slices, and I layered it on the ends of the bread loaf. No one was there to stop me, so I dipped the corners of the sandwich directly into a pot of mustard, again and again, reveling in my new ability to do whatever I wanted, to grab and take without considering anything but my own pleasure.

The mustard was a rich yellow, full of whole seeds that stuck between my teeth, and I nearly groaned at its perfection.

I ate one sandwich, then another, to my gluttonous satisfaction. My stomach had never felt so full. It stretched painfully taut, poking out past the jut of my hipbones. I ran my sticky fingers over it with fascinated wonder, staining my pretty frock.

"Ilium," I murmured aloud, recalling the name of the bone as I touched my hip. I'd read the word earlier and was pleased I'd remembered it.

I ran my hands down my legs, reciting each bone the anatomy book had introduced to me. After I'd reached my toes, I did the same with my arms, talking my way from the clavicle and acromion to the humerus and ulna, down to the metacarpals and the phalanges.

I'd done it.

I remembered them all.

I couldn't wait to tell Merrick, and drummed my fingers on the countertop, wondering when he might return.

"Soon, surely," I said out loud, just to have the sound of something ring out in the cottage. I glanced at the stack of books teetering on the edge of the worktable, reading their spines.

Bad Blood and Medical Interventions, read the third from the top, and I shrugged. It was the most interesting-sounding of the lot, and I had no doubt that if I tried to go on an afternoon stroll, a storm would rise again, dashing any plans but those Merrick had expressly laid for me.

Using the hand pump, I filled the kettle and set it to boil on the strange ball of flames still blazing in the fireplace. Then I curled up in the tufted velvet armchair, opened the book, and began reading.

I awoke with a start, once again disoriented, and with a strange tastein my mouth. It must have fallen open as I slept, because my tongue felt impossibly dry and a little furry.

What time was it?

It felt late, terribly late, as though I should have been in bed, not napping in an armchair.

How long had I slept?

Merrick had left me last night, and though there was no clock to back me up, I was certain I'd slept long and deep. I'd been out for at least ten hours. Maybe twelve. Maybe even more. Then the bath, breakfast, all that reading, lunch. Then more reading. Hours and hours passed in silence and solitude.

It had been at least a whole day.

Where had Merrick gone? What was he doing? How did gods spend their days?

"Merrick?" I called, hoping he could somehow hear me.

Nothing stirred. No one answered.

"Merrick?" I said again, a little louder. I paused, indecision twisting my insides. "Godfather?"

I glanced out the nearest window, squinting at the darkened landscape. I couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean a thing, did it? Weren't the gods always there, watching, judging? We were taught to pray to them—all of them—told that they were forever listening, ready to hear us.

So where was Merrick now?

I didn't truly need him, I tried to tell myself as worry prodded at my middle. I had food, shelter, heat. All my needs were taken care of. He'd seen to that.

So why did the thought that Merrick might have wandered off and forgotten me make me want to crouch down and throw up?

I wanted to laugh my panic away. He wouldn't have taken me from home, from my family, to the Between and created this house and all these lovely things—the dresses, the books, the trees—just to leave me. I was his goddaughter. Everything he'd done here proved that I meant something to him, that I was important, that I was treasured.

"He wouldn't forget me," I decided out loud. It seemed reasonable, my logic sound.

"Wouldn't he?" a terrible little voice whispered in my mind.

For a moment, it sounded so real I glanced about the cabin to see if someone had truly spoken.

"No," I said, trying to firmly banish the treacherous thought. It was a thought, I decided. I was here by myself, so that voice was nothing more than a thought.

My thoughts—how I prayed they were thoughts—laughed at me. "He would."

"He wouldn't," I insisted, wondering if I'd lost my mind.

"He has before."

I fell silent, unable to argue.

He had left me before. Back when I was tiny and small and had needed him most. He'd come and he'd gone and it had taken him twelve long years to remember to come back.

I pushed myself up, nearly falling out of the chair, my body stiff with disuse. Never before had I spent a day so idly, still but for the turning of pages, the lifting of a teacup. I ached in ways I wasn't accustomed to and had the sudden and startling horror that I had been in this cottage, asleep, for far longer than one afternoon. I felt as though I had wandered into a strange and liminal space where so much time had passed, too much time. Merrick had been gone not for a day but for years, decades, millennia. I was no longer a young girl of twelve, nimble and lithe. I was a crone, ancient and eternal, and in that moment, something broke within my mind.

I found I could scarcely draw breath. There was a band of pressure across my rib cage, squeezing and tightening. I could feel it building in my chest, climbing higher and higher, until I was certain my eyes were about to pop from my skull.

"From my orbital sockets," I murmured, and the phrase, learned only hours before, acted as a spell, lulling me from my panic, allowing me to breathe, to think, to hear things other than the racing of my blood, the pounding of my heart.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't keep me here in the cottage, as a captive, jumping to perform whatever task he required. I was not some mindless automaton that would carry out his orders, silent and without protest.

I was his goddaughter, and I was tired of being forgotten.

Without thinking, I threw open the door and greeted the storm, which, predictably, rose to a frightening pitch.

The wind howled.

The rain fell.

If Merrick summoned the storms, conjuring them up whenever I dared to disobey, I wanted him to know that they would no longer hold me back.

I walked into the storm.

The rain drenched me within seconds, soaking my dress, my under layers, my boots. It was colder than I'd thought it would be, colder than the warm spring rains that had begun to shower the Gravia.

I shivered, but I did not let it stop me.

I made my way into the orchard, watching as lightning skittered overhead, hopping and sizzling but somehow never striking here onland.

The wind raced through the branches above me with a persistent low growl that brought to mind stories Remy would tell around the hearth on winter nights, stories of those who would change with the phases of the moon, becoming more beast than man, animalistic and impossibly hungry—the loup-garou.

"I went out anyway," I called, raising my voice to be heard over the wind, over the rain. I shouted my rebellion as loudly as I could, wanting to make sure Merrick heard me. "You can't lock me away in a cottage and forget about me for another twelve years!"

The wind tugged my hair loose from its braids. It whipped across my face, stinging my eyes. My body trembled against the force of it, ransacked with gooseflesh. My teeth chattered; I would undoubtedly come down with pneumonia.

I didn't care.

"I'm not scared of this," I continued, screaming now. "Do you hear me, Merrick? I'm not afraid!"

"Oh, little mortal," the hissing, sly voice said again.

In the cabin I'd convinced myself that it was only my thoughts, but it was not. It was most decidedly not because I suddenly saw a figure whose voice it was.

Here.

With me.

In the orchard.

Lightning flashed and I could make out a face. A broken face of too many gods sharing a single body.

"You should be."