find the energy? But curiosity is its own strength, Deadnettle knew. He was counting on it when it came to Thomas. And Marigold was yet young enough to be curious.
Once outside, feet dragging over stone, Deadnettleâs darker thoughts consumed him. Now was the time to fear that the boy would not come, or that some danger hadbefallen him during the hours since Deadnettle had sent him the note. It had perhaps been a mistake to give the child so much silver, but the coins were the only birthright that could be returned to him. At least the boy could set eyes on his motherâs face, even if just etched in profile and unknown to him.
It was, equally, the time to fear that the boy would come and that Deadnettle would have to tell a story he suddenly wished he could avoid. Thomas had been raised by humans; he was only marginally more trustworthy than they were.
Deadnettle would be early, but that was preferable to the alternative. The lamps lining the path to the middle of the enormous park were blinding spots in the night and stung his sensitive eyes, but theyâd be helpful to the boy. This was the only place in all of London where Deadnettleâs breath came easy, the pain lessened by as much distance from any iron as possible. The lush green lawns almost, almost reminded him of home, in their vivid naturalness. He had once nearly decided to bring the other faeries here, escape with them and live in peace, but it was not a peace that would have lasted long. Mordecai knew about iron, and bells, and that they couldnât pass his magical barrier to flee London itself. It would not have taken him long to find them.
And Mordecai knew this place well.
There, fifty yards ahead, were two trees grown together, with a gap between just wide enough for a faery to slip through. The gap in which Thistleâs sad, last breath had been drawn. Deadnettle would not ask the boy to try tonight, but he would show him. He would explain.
He would beg, if he must.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Meeting and the Truth
T HE COINS WEIGHED THOMAS DOWN. They were not so very heavy as all that, but never before had he watched every man and woman, lord and lady who passed him, one hand gripping tight to the satchel. To be fair, heâd never before seen anyone he thought might be a lord or a lady, but surely some of these fine people who passed him were, so fine were their clothes and carriages.
London spread around him, somehow much larger now that he was in the very center of it, the bustle of crowds around him like a swarm of so many bees.
Finding a place to lay his head had been a challenge. Snowflake note in hand, he had walked the city, yawning after his sleepless night, unsure where he would be safe. Outof doors was much too dangerous, no matter how firmly he held his bag. And if he were to find a soft, feather-filled bed in one of them fancy hotels, he might sleep right through to the next day, or the next week, and not meet the person who had sent him the note.
That he must do. That person held the truth, cupped in hands that might be strong or dainty, smooth or calloused. Might be human . . . or not.
Old ones, old ones, old ones.
He was sure, in the scouring light of day and with some time to think, that he didnât believe the fortune-teller or anything Lucy had said. But it was a pleasantly fanciful notion, and regardless of why, someone was leading Thomas on an adventure the likes of which heâd never had in his short, dull, dingy life.
Whoever was leading him on this adventure had also filled Thomasâs belly with so much food he felt rather ill at the moment. At every stall or barrow he passed, he traded a perfectly ordinary copper penny or shilling for whatever they were selling. Unfortunately, this made him want to sleep even more, for hours or days or perhaps even a year, and not wake up until someone kissed him or pricked him with a pin, like in one of the stories Lucy had sometimes told him before
Once outside, feet dragging over stone, Deadnettleâs darker thoughts consumed him. Now was the time to fear that the boy would not come, or that some danger hadbefallen him during the hours since Deadnettle had sent him the note. It had perhaps been a mistake to give the child so much silver, but the coins were the only birthright that could be returned to him. At least the boy could set eyes on his motherâs face, even if just etched in profile and unknown to him.
It was, equally, the time to fear that the boy would come and that Deadnettle would have to tell a story he suddenly wished he could avoid. Thomas had been raised by humans; he was only marginally more trustworthy than they were.
Deadnettle would be early, but that was preferable to the alternative. The lamps lining the path to the middle of the enormous park were blinding spots in the night and stung his sensitive eyes, but theyâd be helpful to the boy. This was the only place in all of London where Deadnettleâs breath came easy, the pain lessened by as much distance from any iron as possible. The lush green lawns almost, almost reminded him of home, in their vivid naturalness. He had once nearly decided to bring the other faeries here, escape with them and live in peace, but it was not a peace that would have lasted long. Mordecai knew about iron, and bells, and that they couldnât pass his magical barrier to flee London itself. It would not have taken him long to find them.
And Mordecai knew this place well.
There, fifty yards ahead, were two trees grown together, with a gap between just wide enough for a faery to slip through. The gap in which Thistleâs sad, last breath had been drawn. Deadnettle would not ask the boy to try tonight, but he would show him. He would explain.
He would beg, if he must.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Meeting and the Truth
T HE COINS WEIGHED THOMAS DOWN. They were not so very heavy as all that, but never before had he watched every man and woman, lord and lady who passed him, one hand gripping tight to the satchel. To be fair, heâd never before seen anyone he thought might be a lord or a lady, but surely some of these fine people who passed him were, so fine were their clothes and carriages.
London spread around him, somehow much larger now that he was in the very center of it, the bustle of crowds around him like a swarm of so many bees.
Finding a place to lay his head had been a challenge. Snowflake note in hand, he had walked the city, yawning after his sleepless night, unsure where he would be safe. Outof doors was much too dangerous, no matter how firmly he held his bag. And if he were to find a soft, feather-filled bed in one of them fancy hotels, he might sleep right through to the next day, or the next week, and not meet the person who had sent him the note.
That he must do. That person held the truth, cupped in hands that might be strong or dainty, smooth or calloused. Might be human . . . or not.
Old ones, old ones, old ones.
He was sure, in the scouring light of day and with some time to think, that he didnât believe the fortune-teller or anything Lucy had said. But it was a pleasantly fanciful notion, and regardless of why, someone was leading Thomas on an adventure the likes of which heâd never had in his short, dull, dingy life.
Whoever was leading him on this adventure had also filled Thomasâs belly with so much food he felt rather ill at the moment. At every stall or barrow he passed, he traded a perfectly ordinary copper penny or shilling for whatever they were selling. Unfortunately, this made him want to sleep even more, for hours or days or perhaps even a year, and not wake up until someone kissed him or pricked him with a pin, like in one of the stories Lucy had sometimes told him before
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