Nomad Page 8
“I can hear you thinking,” said Martin. “Whatever it is, you might as well say it.”
Ivy looked at her hands, small and pale against the dark fabric of her jeans. “The night before my mother disappeared,” she said carefully, “she had an argument with my father. I overheard her crying, and I asked what was wrong.”
Or at least, that was what Mica and Marigold had told her. Ivy herself had never been able to remember anything about that night, no matter how hard she tried. “She’d started coughing up blood, and she knew she had to leave the Delve before the poison killed her. But she didn’t know where she was going, or whether she’d survive. She didn’t want me following her, so she… she wiped my memory.”
“And that’s what you think someone did to me?”
“Maybe. But if so, they must have cared about you.”
He gave her a scornful look. “Why would you say that?”
“Because,” said Ivy with forced patience, “if they only wanted to keep you quiet, it would have been simpler—and probably safer—to kill you outright. And if they wanted to make you suffer, they’d have left at least some of your memories intact, so you’d know you were being punished.”
Martin frowned, and she could tell he was thinking. “That’s assuming it was deliberate,” he said at last, “and not some kind of accident. I’m not ready to jump to conclusions yet.” He walked to the armchair, sitting down and throwing one leg over the other. “Anyway, enough about that. How did your meeting go with Jenny?”
Resigned to the change of subject, Ivy told him the story. “We’re meeting again in three days,” she finished. “Matt knows a place in the wood, an old adit, where we’ll be hidden from both the Delve and any humans who might pass by.”
“I know the one,” said Martin dryly. “It’s not a bad place to camp, provided you don’t mind being set upon by piskey thugs in the middle of the night and dragged underground without so much as a by-your-leave. Not that I’m bitter, mind. But if you happen to see your brother again, you might consider punching him in the face.”
“Not Mattock?” asked Ivy.
“As I recall, he was fairly restrained by contrast. You’re welcome to box his ears, though, if you can reach that high.” Martin drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “But seriously—do you think this plan of yours is going to work?”
Ivy’s smile faded. “I hope so,” she said. “Because if Betony still won’t listen, even after we’ve shown her all the evidence… I’m not sure what else we can do.”
“Why waste time trying to convince her?” asked Martin. “From what I know of your aunt—and after spending several days in her dungeon, it’s a good deal more than I’d like—she’s as hard as the Delve’s own granite, and just as impossible to move. You’ve gone against her wishes before; what’s stopping you now?”
“You don’t understand,” said Ivy. “Even if I could find somewhere else for our people to live, even if I could convince them that leaving the Delve would be for the best, they’d never agree to it unless Betony does. They believe in her, right or wrong, and they’ll follow her to the death if she says it’s the piskey thing to do.”
“You mean she controls them.”
“No, nothing like that. She doesn’t need to compel people to obey her, the way your Empress did. They obey her because she’s the Joan.”
“I don’t understand.”
Of course he wouldn’t. He hadn’t grown up in the Delve. “Nobody knows where the Joan’s power comes from,” Ivy explained. “It isn’t passed down from mother to daughter, or anything obvious. But when a Joan grows too old and feeble to rule any more, she calls all the piskey-women to her, and tests them one by one. The woman who can draw fire into her hands and wield it without being burned—she’s the new Joan.”
“What if there’s more than one?” asked Martin.
“There never is,” said Ivy. “As soon as the new Joan touches fire, the old Joan’s power goes out. It’s the proof she’s our rightful queen.”
“That’s convenient,” said Martin. “For the woman with the power, anyway. It seems remarkably inconvenient for everyone else.”
“Maybe. But since we piskeys don’t choose our Joan or give her the power she holds, we can’t un-choose her or take away her powers either. The best we can do, even if she’s dim-witted or selfish or cruel, is wait for her to die.”
“Or kill her.”
Ivy’s head snapped up. “That’s not funny, Martin. Especially from you.”
“You’re right.” He pressed his fingertips together and studied them. “It wasn’t funny.” But he did not look as though he was sorry. And there was no hint of a smile on his face at all.
A chill rippled through Ivy, and all at once the room seemed darker than before. If he was saying what she thought he was saying…
No, never. No matter how angry Betony made her, no matter how unfairly she’d treated Ivy’s mother or even Ivy herself, there was no way Ivy could raise her hand against her aunt. It was impossible. Unthinkable.
Yet if it came down to a choice between one woman’s life and the lives of every piskey in the Delve…
“I have to go,” Ivy blurted, leaping up. The last thing she glimpsed was Martin’s startled face before she willed herself away.
Ivy walked across the sand, shivering in the late afternoon breeze. When she’d leaped away from the hotel she’d pictured the nearest place that came to mind, the corner behind the sea wall where Martin had taken her that morning. But though she’d been wandering about the harbor for some time now, watching the gulls and listening to the soothing murmur of the waves, Ivy’s thoughts were no less turbulent than before.
Did Martin really imagine that Ivy would kill her aunt? Such an act would fly in the face of everything she stood for as a piskey—the straightforward honesty and bold courage that Ivy’s people valued most. And even if she could convince herself there was no other way, she’d never dare challenge Betony face to face: all the Joan had to do was raise her hand, and Ivy would burn up like a dry leaf in a bonfire. So she’d have to sneak into her aunt’s bedchamber and stab her while she slept, or some other horrible, deceitful, sprigganish trick…
No, it was out of the question. Just thinking about it made Ivy feel as though worms were eating at her insides, and she wished she could scrub Martin’s words out of her brain. She’d talked to Jenny and Mattock, which was the only way to help her people at present; now she had to trust that her friends knew what they were doing, and leave the matter in their hands.
A flock of gulls wheeled overhead, and Ivy gazed after them in longing. Flying would be the perfect distraction, if she could only shake the memory of the hobby’s talons piercing into her. But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself that she was wiser now and would never be caught again, the thought of taking swift-shape made her shudder.
Which meant she was stuck here, or at least limited to the few places in Cornwall she knew well enough to picture in her mind. There would be no more exploring or making new discoveries for her, unless she walked—or asked Martin to carry her, and right now she didn’t like that idea either…
“There you are.” Martin came out from behind the sea wall and walked toward her. A group of children had been tossing a ball back and forth by the stairs, but at the sight of him they scuttled away.
“What do you want?” Ivy asked, resisting the temptation to do likewise.
“You should have some money,” he said. “So you can buy food, or whatever else you need when I’m gone.” He pressed a square of folded leather into her hand. “Take as much as you want.”
So he was already itching to find more spriggan haunts to investigate. And since Ivy couldn’t fly, he’d decided to leave her behind. Ivy looked at the wallet, stiff with newness and packed with bills—and all she could think about was the faery woman in her dream, bowed beneath the weight of the Grey Man’s hoard. She pulled out a few banknotes and thrust the wallet back at Martin.
Ivy wasn’t, not without counting it first. But she wasn’t about to do that in front of him. “It’s enough for now.”
“As you wish, Lady Disdain.” He put the wallet away and added quietly, “I didn’t mean to suggest that you personally murder your aunt, you know. You didn’t give me a chance to explain.”
“Oh?” asked Ivy, stung into defensiveness. “Then what were you suggesting? That I ask you to do it?”
Martin’s grey eyes became cold as pebbles. “I wouldn’t if you begged me,” he said, and vanished.
The beach seemed even emptier after he had gone. Ivy walked back toward the town, picking her way between the boats left stranded by the ebbing tide and the cars parked along the edge of the sea wall. She was already regretting her harsh words, but there was no taking them back now. She wished she had someone else to talk to, someone solid and practical and kind, who knew how things stood between Martin and herself and could help her make sense of it all…
Ivy stopped short. How could she not have thought of it before? She’d been so caught up in her worries about piskeys and spriggans that she’d forgotten Molly, the one friend she had who was neither. Gillian’s daughter had known Martin even before she’d met Ivy: they’d bonded over their shared love of theater, and he’d encouraged her to pursue her dream of becoming an actress. But she was by no means blind to Martin’s faults, and Ivy knew she could count on Molly to listen to whatever she might say.
She’d been hesitant about visiting Molly before, not wanting to intrude on her grief. But surely it was time to look in on the younger girl and see how she was doing, if nothing else?
Hope renewed, Ivy hurried up the steps into the town. She’d buy a change of clothes, something that didn’t look like she’d been sleeping in it for a week. Then she’d have a quick bite of supper, and leap to Molly’s house.
When Ivy materialized in Molly’s yard, all was just as she remembered it—the stone-walled square of the house before her, and the narrow barn behind. Two horses grazed in the nearby field, a dapple-grey mare and a stocky bay gelding. Ivy waved to them, and they tossed their manes and whickered back.
Ivy would have liked to go down and greet Duchess and Dodger properly, but she had no treats to give them, and she was mindful of her new shoes. The woman in the shop had assured her they went perfectly with the dress, but Ivy was already regretting the heels. She hurried over the cobbles, careful to keep her weight on her toes, and made her way to the front of the house.
She’d never seen Molly’s father before, not even in a picture. But when the door opened, Ivy recognized him at once. He had the same dark hair, sturdy bones and sun-browned skin as Molly, the same lively intelligence in his eyes—dimmed though it was by weariness, and the lingering shadow of grief. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Is Molly here?” asked Ivy, determined not to be shy with him. She’d been intimidated by Gillian’s cold manner even before she knew Molly’s mother was a faery, but the same instinct told her that Mr. Menadue was human, and not unkind. “I’m a friend of hers.”
“Oh?” His shaggy brows lifted. “Well, you’d best come in.”
He held the door for her, and Ivy stepped cautiously inside. A surprising number of things in the house had changed since her last visit—furniture moved or removed, pictures missing from the walls. But what struck her most was how different the air smelled. Not only because of the fading flower arrangements that filled every shelf and table, but there was no trace of the cloying perfume that Gillian had worn to mask her natural faery scent.
“I’ll see if Molly’s up to a visit,” said the man. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before—what’s your name?”
“Ivy.”
“Right.” He strode down the corridor, calling, “Molly! Your friend Ivy’s here!”
“What?” came a muffled shriek, and Ivy’s heart thumped. What if the younger girl had changed her mind, and decided she couldn’t forgive Ivy for her mother’s death after all? What if she regretted helping the piskeys of the Delve, and no longer wanted anything to do with—
A door banged open, and footsteps pounded. Molly burst out of the hallway, skidded past the kitchen, and flung herself at Ivy.
“There you are!” she exclaimed, hugging her. “I rang your mum’s place a few days ago trying to get hold of you, but she didn’t know where you were or when you’d be back, and I was starting to worry—” She took a step back, looking Ivy up and down. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I… I wanted to wear something nice,” said Ivy. “To show my respects.”
“Well, you would have fit in all right at the funeral,” said Molly with a dubious wrinkle of her nose, “but that was a week ago. Now you just look like my dad’s secretary.”
“Executive assistant!” shouted her father from the corridor, and Molly yelled back, “You’re not an executive!” and grinned, as though it were an old joke. But there were strained lines about her eyes and shadows underneath them, and Ivy sensed that she wasn’t her old exuberant self quite yet.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come before,” she said, squeezing Molly’s hand. “If I’d known you wanted me, I would have come right away.”
And she meant that literally. Not long ago she had thanked Molly for helping her free the piskeys Gillian had trapped, and while humans might see that as a simple expression of gratitude, it had a far more potent meaning to magical folk. By saying thank you to Molly, Ivy had declared herself forever in debt to the other girl, ready to do whatever she asked and give her any help she needed—no matter how difficult it might be or how high the cost.
“Oh, I’m all right,” Molly said. “It wasn’t that important. But ever since Martin broke out of the Claybane and turned up here looking for you, I’ve been dying to know what happened.” Her eyes lit with eagerness. “Have you seen him? What did he say?”
Well, at least she didn’t have to wonder if Molly would be interested. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?” Ivy asked. “This might take a while.”
“We can say anything we like in here,” said Molly as she opened the door of her bedroom and led Ivy inside. “Dad’s got his music on, so he won’t…” She stopped. “What are you staring at?”
Ivy had paused in the doorway, speechless. The basics of the room were much as she remembered from her last visit: bright purple walls, four-poster bed, bookshelves in the far corner. But otherwise, the place looked completely different. Gone were the faery-printed coverlet and curtains, the piskey statuettes that had once crowded the window-ledge, the pile of bright-winged dolls in the corner. And all the pictures had been taken down, leaving only bare hooks and forlorn strips of tape behind.
“Oh, that,” said Molly. “I did that when we got back from the funeral. All that faery stuff… it didn’t feel right anymore.” She sat down on the end of the bed, and after a moment Ivy joined her.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“It’s not your fault.” Molly spoke quietly, her eyes on her feet. “I know you would have saved Mum if you could. It’s only… I thought I knew her, and I never really did at all. She gave birth to me and raised me and everything, but…” Her shoulders slumped. “I keep wondering, did she ever love Dad and me even a little? Or was she just using us all along?”
Ivy put an arm around her. “I think she did love you, in her way,” she said. “The look on her face when I talked about you, especially near the end… I could tell that she cared, even if she wasn’t very good at showing it.”
“She was terrible at showing it,” said Molly with a choked laugh, and turned her face against the bedpost. She sniffed, swallowed and went on hoarsely, “But never mind that. Martin did find you, didn’t he? Did he tell you how he got out of the Claybane?”
“Not exactly,” said Ivy, with some reluctance. Only the blood of a close relative should have been able to free Martin from the curse, and Ivy had onl
y tried using her own blood because Molly had insisted. She’d never expected it would work, but it had—and she still wasn’t sure what that meant. “Did he say anything to you about it?”
“He didn’t stay long enough. He was so dead set on talking to you, he took off as soon as I told him you’d gone back to the Delve.” She paused, drying her wet cheeks on her sleeve, then added, “I’ve never seen him so worked up about anything. You’d almost think…”
“What?” asked Ivy, but the other girl only smiled.
“Never mind,” she said. “So what happened after that?”
It took some time for Ivy to explain how she and Martin had ended up traveling together, and all that had happened since. But Molly listened to the whole story with no sign of impatience, and the look she gave Ivy at the end was as sympathetic as she could have wished.
“For a clever faery—or spriggan, I suppose—Martin can be awfully thick sometimes,” she said. “I’m sure he meant to be helpful, but what a thing to say!” She wormed her way up the mattress to the headboard, propping one pillow behind her and hugging another. “No wonder you were upset with him. I would have been, too.”
Ivy twisted the copper bracelet around her wrist, feeling its warmth. Wherever Martin had gone, he couldn’t be far away. “Maybe. But I shouldn’t have said what I did to him, either. He talks as though killing the Empress was just something that needed to be done, but the first time I met him, he was quoting some speech from Shakespeare about guilt and murder and… I don’t think he was acting.”
“I know what you mean,” said Molly. “He acts like nothing bothers him, but I’ve never really seen him happy, either. And he can’t seem to settle down in any place for long. It’s like he’s looking for something, but he doesn’t know where to find it.”
“I think I know,” said Ivy, and when Molly gave her a curious look she added, “I mean his people. The spriggans. But the only trace we’ve found of them so far has been in dreams, and I’m the one having those.”