Deep is the fen, p.15
Deep Is the Fen, page 15
We don’t speak—I don’t want to attract the attention of any more fenworms. My head grows heavy, and the world seems close and small and soft.
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I feel a gentle nudge in my ribs.
“Morgan. We’re here.”
My head is on Caraway’s shoulder. Wild hounds of Annwn, have I been drooling on him?
I pull the blindfold off and look around.
The boat has pulled up against a stone dock. We’re somehow inside, and I can smell damp stone and brass. Lanterns burn orange against a thick stone wall, and the light they throw illuminates a domed ceiling above us. Everything feels old and clammy.
The robed figure stands motionless in the boat. I glimpse the brown, warty skin that holds the wooden pole, and my own skin crawls.
Given that we got a private boat and everything, I’m expecting there’ll be someone to meet us. A phalanx of Toadmen, or at the very least Caraway’s father. Surely he’s worried about his son, lost in the fen?
But we see nobody as we cross the chilly stone floor, and Caraway leads me through an arched doorway and down a wide corridor built of the same gray stone.
We don’t encounter a single person as we hurry down corridor after corridor, each lit with glass lanterns that spill yellow light onto the stone walls and floor.
There are doors, sometimes, or other archways. Caraway seems to know where he’s going—although didn’t he say he hasn’t been here for years?
We pass a larger archway, and as we hurry by I glimpse a grand hall, lined with suits of armor, the silver visors styled like toad heads.
We turn another corner and Caraway leads me up a flight of stone steps, each one worn in the middle where feet have trod for possibly centuries.
I’m so tired I can barely see.
“This place is a rabbit warren,” I mutter. “Or a toad burrow, I guess.”
“Nearly there,” says Caraway. We go up another flight of steps, and Caraway opens an ornately carved wooden door and stands back to let me through.
It couldn’t be more different than the poky, damp rooms in Deepdene. The walls are paneled with a dark, warm wood—mahogany, I think, or teak. A cheery fire burns in an ornately detailed stone hearth. There are expensive-looking armchairs and a cherry-velvet chaise lounge, and a dining table set for dinner, with silver-cloched platters set out along the center, and twinkling crystal goblets.
“Oh,” I say softly. “This is…really nice?”
I head through an ornately carved archway and see an enormous four-poster bed—each mahogany post intricately carved with leaves and berries and flowers…and toads.
Through a smaller archway I see white marble and brass taps—the bathroom.
I let out a little moan of longing and flop onto the bed, face-first. I am so, so tired.
The bed is as soft as it looked. It’s like lying on a cloud. I am never leaving this bed. Never ever.
“You don’t want to eat something?” Caraway asks. “Shower?”
There’s no way I could move, not even if I wanted to. I try to tell Caraway this, but all I can manage is a muffled grunt.
I hear him chuckle softly, and the last waking part of me thinks that it is a truly extraordinary thing, to hear Caraway Boswell laugh twice in one day.
8.
When I wake, weak daylight is struggling through an intricately paned window. I blearily check my wristwatch and am shocked to see that it’s after eleven in the morning. I guess there isn’t much light here in this weird Toad castle.
The bed is absurdly comfortable, and it is a struggle to leave it. However, the growling in my stomach wins, and I crawl out in search of food.
“Hello?” I say as I enter the sitting room. “Caraway?”
But the room is empty. There’s a rumpled blanket on the chaise lounge, along with a neatly folded white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. I guess Caraway slept out here. That was…nice of him. I guess.
I prowl around the apartment, opening drawers and cupboards, but nothing seems out of place. In fact, the room is kind of perfect. Every piece of furniture seems beautiful but also comfortable. Everything fits, in an elegant but not ostentatious way.
Well, maybe a bit ostentatious.
There’s something not right, though. A muddy scent of pondweed and rancid sweat. It takes a moment for me to realize that the smell is me, and I recoil in horror and flee to the bathroom.
The shower is enormous—the size of our entire bathroom at home. I let the jets pummel my back, washing away the stench of the fen, before turning my attention to the veritable apothecary of soaps, salts and lotions lined up on a little stone shelf. Every single one labeled with An Ilium Product.
I try a bit of everything and step out of the shower silky smooth and smelling like a florist’s.
After drying myself on the thickest, fluffiest towel I have ever encountered, I venture back out into the bedroom and find my rucksack at the foot of the bed. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt, rolling my filthy clothes into a ball and kicking them into a corner of the room. Hopefully Toad Castle has a laundry service I can make use of.
Back in the sitting room, a meal has been laid out on the dining table. I lift a cloche and let out a little moan of pleasure as I see eggs, bacon, grilled tomato, black pudding and a mountain of toast.
I haven’t eaten anything apart from Caraway’s junk food two nights ago, and the half a scone I had at Miss Prinny’s before that. I’m starving. But I’ve read enough fairy stories to know that the food here could be dangerous. Regretfully, I replace the cloche, my stomach growling in protest, and fish a packet of chips out of my rucksack. They’re crushed almost to dust, but they’ll have to do for now.
“Not hungry?” Caraway says, and I jump, scattering chip crumbs all over my lap.
“Where have you been?” I ask.
Caraway doesn’t answer. Gone is the muddy, fen-soaked Caraway of last night. He’s back to his perfect crisp jeans (seriously, who wears ironed jeans?) and a white linen button-down shirt. His hair is perfect (of course), and he must have applied a fresh glamour patch because he is simply radiating cold indifference.
“You really should eat,” he says. “We’ve got a big night ahead.”
He wants me to eat. Is Caraway trying to drug me?
I glance back at the cloche. “After you,” I say.
“I already ate. Breakfast with my father.”
This does nothing to ease my suspicions.
“I’m more of a sweet tooth,” I tell him with a shrug. “Shame there’s no griddle cakes. Do you have any junk food left?”
“You ate it all in Deepdene.”
“We ate it all in Deepdene.”
There’s an awkward pause. It feels weird to be here, together in this fancy apartment. Our fancy apartment. Without the drama of fighting Mr. Gray or the fenworm, or the squalor of Deepdene. It feels more and more like I’m Caraway’s date. Which I am, I guess.
“Will you need any help getting dressed tonight?” Caraway asks abruptly. “I can call someone to do your hair.”
I stare at him. “I am dressed,” I say, gesturing down to my shirt and jeans.
“Dressed for the ball,” Caraway says.
“The ball,” I repeat. “The Toad ball. Toad Prom.”
Caraway nods. “The very same.”
“Don’t we have better things to do? You promised me you’d help me find Teddy’s missing string. And you still haven’t told me what favor you need me to do.”
“We’ll do it all tonight,” he says. “But we have to make an appearance at the ball first. Once we’ve arrived and everyone’s seen us, it’ll be easy to slip away.”
I realize that I really haven’t thought this whole business through at all. “I…don’t think I can go,” I tell Caraway. “Maybe I can just stay here in the room? You could tell everyone I’ve got a headache, and I can go looking for the string.”
“You’re coming.”
“Actually,” I say, “tell them I’ve got my period. There’s no way all those old men will ask questions about that.”
“I’m not telling them you have your period.”
“Coward.”
“Why the sudden reticence?” Caraway asks with a frown.
“The thing is…” I chew on my bottom lip. “I…didn’t bring anything to wear.”
“That’s a pretty terrible excuse.”
“I’m serious, Caraway. Look.”
I lead him into the bedroom and empty my rucksack out onto the bed.
Caraway’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he surveys my camping equipment. “You were going to run away,” he guesses. “That’s where you were when I came to pick you up. Why didn’t you?”
I don’t answer. Why do I feel so embarrassed? Of course I tried to run away.
“Evans.” Caraway nods, understanding. “You went to find him and convince him to go with you. But he’d already left.”
I lift my chin slightly in acknowledgment.
Caraway’s glacier eyes bore into mine for a long moment. “You should have run away without him,” he says at last. “You would have been better off alone in the woods than here.”
“I wish I had,” I reply, and I’m satisfied to see a little flicker of emotion in those cold eyes.
There is a sudden tension between us, so much that I’m surprised the air isn’t crackling with it. I could close the distance between us in two steps. Caraway’s eyes dart to my lips, and I feel heat spread throughout my body. Is that what Caraway wants? Is it what I want?
But Caraway turns to leave. “There’s a gown for you in the wardrobe,” he says over his shoulder.
“A gown?” I hear myself say. “Like…a ball gown?”
Caraway shrugs. “Not sure.”
No no no no. “I am not a gown kind of girl.”
His eyes slide over me, and I suppress a shiver. “No,” he says. “You’re not.”
My mouth suddenly feels dry.
Caraway nods at me. “I’ll be back at seven to pick you up. Try to stay out of trouble.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Toad business.”
“And I’m just supposed to stay here by myself?”
“Yes.”
Then he’s gone.
I head back into the bedroom, opening the heavy wardrobe door to inspect the contents.
It sure is a gown. A cascading waterfall of wheat-colored tulle and lace, embroidered with a thousand delicate blue silk cornflowers. I slam the wardrobe shut again.
I am not wearing that.
I’ll ruin it.
I’ll look ridiculous.
I bet it won’t even fit.
In fact, I’ll put it on and prove that it won’t even fit.
The dress is as soft as butter against my fingers as I pull it out of the wardrobe. I’d expected that so much fabric would be heavy, but it’s as light as air. With one eye on the apartment door, I yank off my jeans and T-shirt and slide the dress on over my head, letting the fabric ripple over my body. My skin breaks into gooseflesh, and my cheeks grow warm. There aren’t any complicated buttons or laces or zippers. It’s going to look like a potato sack. I hitch up the long skirts and head on over to a large gilt-framed mirror that sits against one wall.
A princess stares back at me.
The dress clings and drapes in all the right places. The satin bodice, richly embroidered with golden vines and flowers, fits me like a glove, creating just the right amount of cleavage—modest, but not too modest.
Uffren’s cauldron, I’m not even wearing a bra.
Below the embroidered bodice, the lace-and-tulle skirt falls elegantly to the floor, embellished with flowers almost the exact same color as my eyes.
It’s a masterpiece. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I am not a gown kind of girl.
It’s enchanted, of course. But this kind of enchantment is expensive. This dress must cost a fortune.
I definitely should not be trusted with this dress. I will trip over it, or spill something on it, or get the long train trapped in a door.
There’s a pair of shoes in the wardrobe too, delicate satin things embroidered with cornflower-blue thread. I have never worn a heel this high. I’ve never worn a heel at all. I hate heels—fashion designed to hobble women and make it harder for them to run away.
But I slip these on and of course they fit perfectly too. And are as comfortable as sneakers. Instead of tottering around like a giraffe on stilts, I glide serenely around the room.
I wish Ma could see me like this. She always wanted me to wear pretty things.
I wonder who chose this dress for me. Who knew that the color of the silk cornflowers would match my eyes?
It couldn’t have been Caraway. Could it? I feel a tingle of anticipation as I imagine him seeing me in this dress. Caraway, who has only ever seen me in a school uniform, or sloppy jeans or shorts. Will his eyes widen? Will he take a step toward me? Reach out and hook me toward him, like he did in Deepdene?
Not that I want him to, of course.
Caraway won’t be back for hours. I have plenty of time to find Teddy and Sol and see if I can repair some of the damage I did last night. See if I can get Teddy to leave this place before he binds himself even further to the Toads.
I change back into my regular clothes and slip out the door into a long stone corridor.
Looking threadwise, I’m shocked to see the spidery brown veins of Toad mettle so thick in the air that I can barely make out anything else. I suppose it makes sense. This is Toad HQ, after all. But there’s so much of it, like a spidery vein reaching from every Toad in Anglyon to this one place. I shudder as I realize this is exactly what it is. The Toads are a brotherhood, after all. It makes sense that they’re all connected. I wonder how they do it. Not by covenant magic, that’s for sure.
The spidery Toad veins are leading downward, to a chamber that must be deep underground. I dread to think what’s down there. A million actual toads, probably, hopping around in the mucky fen and being generally warty and disgusting.
I take a few deep breaths and start to pace the corridors, trying to find an echo of Teddy. But the Toad mettle is so thick, it seems impossible. I go up and down staircases when I find them, trying to let my instincts guide me.
At the foot of one staircase, I find a robed and masked Toadman standing sentry. He stares at me impassively, not reacting at all. One of his eyes under his mask is milky white, just like Mr. Gray’s was in the tea shop.
“I guess I’ll just…go back up,” I tell him.
He doesn’t respond.
I return up the stairs and slip down another corridor, feeling unsettled. I take a moment to try to relax, a few more deep breaths to tune out all the Toad mettle. While I’m standing there, I hear footsteps approaching from around a corner.
I don’t want another encounter with a Toadman, so I open the first door I come across, slipping inside and pressing my ear to the door.
The footsteps approach, and my heart thumps so loudly I’m surprised the whole castle isn’t vibrating along with it.
But whoever it is passes by my hiding place, the sound of their footfalls receding into the distance.
I breathe a sigh of relief and turn to look at the room I’m in.
It’s a library. The kind of library that I have dreamed of my whole life.
In Candlecott, our library is a dusty little room at the back of the town hall. People donate books once they’ve read them, but there’s no real organization. My school has a decent reference library, but barely any fiction outside the moldy old classics we are forced to read. Sometimes Da takes me into Foxford to use the bigger library there. But the Foxford library is barely a cupboard compared to this.
Every wall is a bookshelf, from floor to ceiling, dark, warm wood crammed with leather-bound volumes with gold-embossed spines. The scent of it is exhilarating. I want to live here. To read every single book in the place. Maybe if I try hard I can get through all of them before I die of old age.
A fire burns in the ornately carved stone hearth, crackling gold with violet sparks. The air is thick with the scent of rich leather and something floral that reminds me of exploring the riverbanks of the Mira in late summer, searching for mitten crabs. Wild lotus, I think. And the honey-sweetness of chokeberry.
I walk over a richly colored carpet to the nearest bookshelf, running a light finger over the spines, before pulling out an exquisitely bound copy of The White Book of Rhydderch. I let it fall open in my hand, admiring the marbled endpapers and breathing in the earthy scent of aging paper.
“You must be Merriwether Morgan.”
I jump, startled to realize I’m not alone in the room. A man is seated in one of the leather armchairs, a book resting on his knee. He’s about the same age as my father, silver-haired and elegant, dressed in an immaculate dark gray suit with a wine-dark brocade waistcoat. He gazes calmly at me through silver-rimmed spectacles.
“I—I’m sorry—” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting anything. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
I open my mouth to ask him how he knows who I am, but the man looks around and asks, “Do you like our library?”
I nod. “It’s lovely.”
He smiles at me, and his pale blue eyes twinkle. “I agree. It’s a safe haven for me. When things get too rowdy downstairs, I know I can always come here for some peace and quiet.”
“I really am sorry to disturb you,” I say, backing toward the door.
“Fine choice,” the man says, nodding his head at the book in my hand. “That volume contains one of my very favorite poems, ‘Gwahodd Llywarch i Lanfawr.’ Have you read it?”
