Torch Page 3

  Ivy stopped and put a hand to her forehead. Where had she been going? Her thoughts kept sliding away from her like gravel. They only had one more day to prepare for the Lighting, and it wasn’t nearly enough to make a proper job of it. “I thought you were helping the little ones make decorations.”

  “I was, but Bramble said we were chattering too much, so she chased me out and took over.” Cicely made a face. “Why do old aunties have to be so fussy?”

  Someone has to be, Ivy almost said, but held her tongue. Cicely meant well, even if she often struggled to concentrate and found it easier to start things than finish them. “What about Teasel and Fern? They could probably use help in the kitchen.”

  Cicely shook her head. “All they ever let me do is turn on the oven and show them where to find things. And I’m tired of sitting around.”

  Ivy sighed. To her relief, the others had seized on her Lighting plan with enthusiasm and thrown themselves into hard work as only piskeys could do. But they were so determined to get their tasks done right and quickly, they had no time to be patient with someone like Cicely who was still learning. And Ivy had too much on her mind already to waste time convincing them.

  “Go around and ask who needs help, then,” she said. “I’m busy. I have to talk to . . .” Who was it? She couldn’t remember. “Somebody.”

  Cicely’s lip quivered, and Ivy felt a pang of remorse. She reached out to her, but Cicely spun away and fled.

  She’d get over it, Ivy told herself, watching her sister go. It might even be good for Cicely to work things out on her own instead of always looking to Ivy, or . . .

  Mica! He was the piskey she had to talk to. They had needed a crowder for the dancing, and he was the only one who could play the fiddle. Ivy quickened her pace, heading for the house.

  As she walked in, the smell of fresh baking greeted her, and Ivy paused to savor it. The hunters had snared rabbits and bagged a pair of fat ducks while the old uncles foraged for mushrooms and wild garlic, and yesterday Ivy had gone to the nearby city of Truro and bought the other ingredients they needed: saffron, currants, sharp cheese, fresh pilchards, and several sacks of flour. Fern and Teasel were two of the best cooks in the Delve, and once Ivy had coaxed them into the kitchen and convinced them to turn human size, they’d set about preparing a proper Lighting feast.

  She would have stopped to greet them, but by their harried and somewhat shrill voices, they weren’t in a mood for interruptions. Ivy slipped past the kitchen, heading for the bedrooms.

  Mica had shut himself up in Marigold’s room, which was now Ivy’s—she’d offered it to Thorn and Broch, but they’d chosen to stay in the study. As she reached the end of the corridor, she could hear him scraping away at a six-hand reel and cursing when he made a mistake. As usual, he’d left practicing until the last minute.

  “Matt said I’d find you here,” Ivy said, opening the door cautiously. “Is everything all right?”

  Her brother stopped playing with a screech that made her wince. “Oh, you’re talking to me now? I thought you were done trying to chisel sense into my great useless lump of a head.”

  She should have known he wouldn’t forget their quarrel so easily. Ivy shut the door behind her and leaned against it. “I was angry then. I’m not now. Mica, can’t we let it go? The Lighting’s tomorrow, and—”

  “Are you still talking to that spriggan?”

  To him it was only an insult, but the word made Ivy’s heart skip every time. “Stop calling him that. You don’t know anything about him.”

  Mica made a sour face. “I know you think you love him. That doesn’t mean you should. Not when there are piskey-men worth a thousand of that . . . faery fellow, and at least one who wants to marry you.”

  “You can’t argue me into marrying Mattock,” Ivy said irritably. “He’s a good man, but I don’t love him that way.”

  “Then you’re stupid. What does that faery—”

  “His name is Martin.”

  “—have to offer you? The only reason you even met him was because Matt and I caught him camping in an old adit, half-starved and jumping at shadows. He barely even put up a decent fight. That’s no man worth having, whatever you think of his fine talk and pretty face. He can’t protect you or provide for you. He doesn’t even have a home!”

  Martin would have, though, if he hadn’t given up his share of the house so that Ivy and her family could live there. It was the hoard of the Gray Man, his long-dead father, that was paying most of their rent.

  But that was Ivy’s secret and none of Mica’s business. “Neither do you or Matt, right now,” she retorted. “If you meet a fine piskey-maid at the Lighting, what have you got to boast of? Do you think she’ll want to come back here and live in a stable?”

  “That’s not the point. I know how to hunt and barter and dig ore, and if I had to make my own way in the world I could do it. Your precious Martin can’t do anything but turn into a little bird and fly away.” He made a scornful flapping gesture. “And it doesn’t make it any better that he taught you to do it too.”

  So he still disapproved of her shape-changing. Even knowing that turning herself into a swift or a peregrine was the only way Ivy would ever fly, Mica blamed her for not sticking to tradition and refusing to change at all.

  “If he hadn’t,” Ivy snapped, “you and every piskey in the Delve would be dead by now. Or have you forgotten how I saved you all from the Claybane?”

  Mica flung his bow aside in disgust. “You really don’t see it, do you? That’s why this is important! Our people look to you, Ivy. If you don’t choose a man they approve of, you’ll lose them.” He passed a hand over his face, and when he took it away he no longer looked furious, only tired. “And then they’ll go back to the Delve and die with Betony, because they think they’ve got no other choice.”

  Ivy stood rigid, disbelieving. Surely Mica didn’t think . . . He couldn’t mean . . .

  “I’m only seventeen,” she said at last, thickly. “And I can’t be the Joan without fire. I don’t have to choose anybody.”

  “So you won’t? Good. Finally something we agree on.” He started to his feet, but Ivy held up a hand.

  “You have to stop interfering, Mica. Even if you’re older and you think you know better than me, I can’t help our people if you keep barging in to tell me that everything I do is wrong.”

  “I never—”

  “Yes, you do.” She held his black eyes with her own, willing herself not to flinch as he stalked closer. Mica wasn’t quite as big as Mattock, but he still loomed over her like a boulder poised to fall. “You’ve been doing it so long you can’t see it, but everyone else does. If you’re so worried about our people losing faith in me, you’d better start showing a little more faith yourself.”

  Mica’s hand clenched on the neck of the fiddle. His mouth worked, as though he were chewing all the words he had to swallow. Then he gave a curt nod, picked up the bow, and went back to playing.

  Ivy soared over the old Engine House in falcon-shape, her keen peregrine eyes scanning the gorse bushes, bracken, and rocks that littered the hillside for signs of life. But apart from a wandering fox and a few mice, the land around the Delve stood empty. She swooped to land by the barred-up entrance to the Great Shaft and cocked her head to listen, but no sound floated up from the depths below.

  “All quiet,” she called to Thorn, who had made the three-mile flight with her on her own faery wings and looked a bit peevish about it. But the older woman had never been to the Delve before, and she refused to let Ivy carry her, so there’d been no other way. “Are you ready?”

  “As long as we don’t stir up a whole bees’ nest of angry knockers, I am,” said Thorn. “Where do you want me?”

  “I’ll start from here and work down.” Ivy gestured to the Engine House. “And you can come up from the wood.”

  Thorn gave a brisk nod and flew off. Concentrating hard, Ivy walked a slow, widening spiral outward from the Great Shaft and around t
he Engine House, willing the wards into place as she went. Usually it was the Joan’s duty to lay the net of illusions and protective charms that kept the Lighting safe from intruders. But Betony wasn’t here, and none of the other piskey-women knew how to do it, so the task had fallen to Ivy.

  What her people didn’t realize was that Ivy had learned all she knew about warding from the faeries—and that when Martin healed her a few months ago, he’d accidentally lent Ivy some of his strange spriggan magic as well. She could only hope no one would sense the difference.

  “Done,” Ivy announced when she and Thorn met in the middle of the slope. Their spells might be flimsy compared to Betony’s, but for one night they ought to be good enough. “I appreciate your help. With everything.”

  Though the words hardly seemed adequate, after all the faeries had done. While the piskeys scurried to prepare the Lighting feast, Thorn had borrowed David Menadue’s carpentry tools and turned a pile of wood scraps into three handsome and solid tables. Broch had worked hard as well, gathering fuel for the wakefire and helping Hew turn his scrambled recollections of old droll-tales into stories that actually made sense. But they’d chosen to stay away from the Lighting so as not to offend the Delve folk, which showed how unselfish their efforts had been.

  Thorn, however, only shrugged. “I like woodworking,” she said. “And Broch can never get enough stories, for some reason. But now I think of it, he overheard Quartz and Pick’s boy—Elvar, isn’t it?—plotting to prank your little sister. You might want to keep an eye out for her tonight.”

  It wouldn’t be a Lighting without at least one good prank, so Ivy wasn’t surprised. But Cicely was still moping and not in a mood to enjoy it. “I will,” said Ivy.

  “I’ll fetch the tables, then,” said Thorn, and vanished.

  The twilight was deepening, and soon it would be full dark. Ivy brushed the gorse prickles and dried bracken off her skirt and climbed back up the trail to the Engine House. A few minutes later, she’d just finished dragging the last table into place when her fellow piskeys arrived, lugging packs and driving handcarts loaded with supplies for the feast.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” said Gem, winking at Ivy. With a flourish he pulled a bottle out from behind his back. “Can’t have a proper Lighting without piskey-wine!”

  Ivy’s eyes widened. “Where did you find it?”

  “Brought it from the Delve when we left. It was the last of Dad’s old stock, and I couldn’t leave it behind for just anyone. D’you think it’ll be enough?”

  “Ayes, if you don’t drink the lot before it gets to the rest of us,” said Feldspar, poking him in the ribs as he passed by.

  “’Scuse me,” said Gem, thrusting the bottle at Ivy and swiping at his hunting partner. The other man ducked, chortling, and in seconds the two of them were pelting around the Engine House like wild hares while the other piskeys whooped and cheered them on.

  They were making quite a commotion, but that was all for the better. Soon the sounds of music and laughter would reverberate all the way down the Great Shaft, and their underground neighbors would come creeping up to see what was going on. Once they found the bonfire lit and their fellow piskeys feasting and dancing, surely they’d be eager to join in?

  If Ivy could get the piskeys who’d left the Delve and the piskeys who’d stayed behind talking to one another, good was bound to come of it. Especially if they could do it while Betony was still too weak to interfere.

  Tucking Gem’s bottle into the crook of her arm, Ivy turned to study the woodpile stacked by the wall of the Engine House. Thanks to Broch and a few of the younger piskey-boys they had a fine heap of branches, big enough to burn all night. But at a proper Lighting the Joan would start the wakefire with her magic, and Ivy had only a box of matches.

  Should she light the fire now, while no one was looking? That would be easiest, but it didn’t feel right to Ivy somehow. Usually the Joan gave a speech, and the Lighting began with great ceremony. And though Ivy wasn’t the Joan, she feared her people might be offended if she didn’t give at least a nod to tradition. “Cicely,” she said, turning to her little sister. “I need your help.”

  Her sister glowed—literally, even, since she’d spent plenty of time aboveground and didn’t need a wakefire to do it. “You mean it? You’re not pranking me?”

  “No prank, I promise,” said Ivy. “I need to start the fire and say the blessing. Will you pour this bottle of piskey-wine into that big bowl over there and hand it to me when I ask for it?”

  “I can do that,” said Cicely, seizing the bottle eagerly. “I’ll do it right now.”

  By the time her sister got back, the other piskeys had spotted Ivy by the woodpile and hurried to join her. Ivy gazed around the semicircle, stomach fluttering. She had to say something, but what?

  “I’m not Betony,” she told them, clearing her throat, “and I can’t do all the things she did to make our Lightings special. But I’m glad to be here with all of you and for all the work you’ve done to make this feast happen. What our neighbors in the Delve will make of it, I don’t know. But I hope this will prove our goodwill to them and remind them that we are all piskeys, no matter where we live or who we follow.” With a tentative smile she turned away, struck a match, and dropped it into the pile.

  A gust of cold wind swirled past, and the tiny flame guttered. Hastily Ivy lit another match. It tumbled into the kindling—

  And with a whoof, the whole wakefire sprang alight. Ivy stumbled back from its surging heat, dazzled. How had it gone up so fast?

  “She’s done it!” Mattock exclaimed. “Ivy’s made fire!”

  Alarmed, Ivy started to protest, but Mica cut her off. “Three cheers for our Joan!” he announced, and all the piskeys began shouting, their skins glowing with joy and renewed hope.

  None of them seemed to notice the sickly sweet smell of petrol wafting off the woodpile. Ivy shot an incredulous stare at Mica, but he made a cutting gesture and shook his head. Don’t say it. Don’t say anything.

  Was this his idea of a prank? She hadn’t meant to fool her fellow piskeys, hadn’t even tried to hide the matches as she struck them. But she’d stood with her back to the crowd, and perhaps the darkness had hidden more than she realized. They really seemed to think she’d lit the wakefire by magic.

  “You did it!” Cicely squealed. “You finally did it!” She flung her arms about Ivy in a jubilant hug, then picked up the bowl of piskey-wine and thrust it at her.

  Should Ivy explain that this was all a misunderstanding? She’d have to at some point, or her people would be angry at her for deceiving them. Yet she didn’t want to embarrass Mattock and Cicely in front of everyone, either. Maybe she’d better keep silent for now.

  Ivy lifted the bowl, willing her hands and voice steady. “This is the Draft of Harmony. Let us drink and be one in heart, so that our enemies can never divide us . . .”

  She knew what ought to come next, or at least what Betony had always said: A blessing on the Delve, and a curse on faeries and spriggans. But she couldn’t say either of those things anymore. Ivy took a deep breath. “And that we and all our friends may live in peace.”

  The piskeys looked blank, but Mattock called out, “To peace!” and one by one the others joined in. “To peace,” they echoed, then louder as they gained confidence, “To peace!”

  Ivy handed the bowl to Teasel, who stood on her right side. The older woman started in surprise, then took a sip and passed it to her neighbor. Little by little the draft made its way around the circle, until it came back to Ivy.

  No wonder Teasel had hesitated; the Joan usually drank first. But Ivy wasn’t the Joan, and it wouldn’t be the first tradition she was breaking tonight. She lifted the bowl, drained it, and shook the remaining drops into the fire.

  “Time to eat!” she announced, and the piskeys hurried to snatch up plates and load them with food from the tables. It was a modest feast compared to most Lightings, all of it cold except a few dishes Bro
ch and Thorn had brought over by magic at the last minute. But judging by the enthusiasm with which her people were digging in, nobody minded.

  Ivy turned slowly, her gaze searching the Engine House. Was that a glimmer of eyes in the darkness, on the other side of the fire? She wasn’t sure at first, but when a shadowy figure tiptoed past the window, her doubts vanished. “All are welcome at our wakefire,” she called. “Come and join us, and bring as many friends as you please!”

  The shape froze, then dropped out of sight, and boots crunched on gravel as the piskey sprinted away. But was he running to invite his neighbors or rouse the Delve to attack?

  Well, they’d find out soon enough. Ivy could only wait and hope the feast wouldn’t end in disaster.

  Once the piskeys had finished eating, Mica picked up his fiddle and struck up a dancing tune. Nobody wanted to sit and shiver, so they all linked arms for a lively winter chain-dance, while Mattock tossed more branches onto the fire. They were halfway through the third reel when a line of figures crept through the doorway of the Engine House.

  They were mostly knockers by the shape of them, powerfully built piskey miners with picks and thunder-axes in hand. Ivy waved at Mica, and he stopped playing. “Do you come as friends?” she called. “If so, you’ll find us friendly. Step forward, and warm yourselves by our fire.”

  Please, she prayed silently. Her followers were unarmed except for a few hunting knives, and if the knockers attacked, they’d have to flee or die.

  There was a long, wary silence as the two groups of piskeys stared at one another. At last one grizzled old knocker lowered his thunder-axe and propped it against the wall. “Do you fancy yourself the new Joan, then?” he demanded.

  “I don’t claim to be anyone but myself,” Ivy replied. “We’re not here to make trouble.”

  “But she did light the wakefire, Copper,” Gem shouted from behind her, and Feldspar added, “Ayes, she did!”

  Copper waved a hand at the other men, who lowered their tools. The last ran to the door of the Engine House and returned with a nervous-looking group of women and youngsters, huddling close and casting longing glances at the fire. An old auntie coughed, the chesty rasp that came from breathing the Delve’s poisoned air, and Jenny’s mother Moss hurried over to take the woman’s arm.