The goat tracks looped across the kitchen floor, from the door to the table to the beds and the potbellied stove under the drying herbs. Mother’s bulk rose and fell gently in sleep, the old bed creaking with each breath. Inside her cupboard, Hettie shifted a little, and sighed.
Bartholomew let his breath out slowly. What has the faery come for? What does it want?
If only he hadn’t invited it. If only he had listened to Mother and heeded her warnings. She had told him what might happen. She had practically begged him not to do it. But he had wanted a friend so badly. He wanted something to protect him, and talk with him, something that would make him feel he wasn’t just strange and ugly. Only it wasn’t going to be his friend. It wasn’t going to protect him, and it wasn’t going to wind up the wash-wringer either. All it did was slither about in the night and put nightmares in Hettie’s head. The number ten on the paper in the attic was another of its pranks, like as not. It was probably snickering into its sleeve right that very moment.
Bartholomew bit his lip and followed the tracks to the flat door. It was still locked. He puts his finger into the keyholes, see, and the locks spring open, just like that. And spring closed again, too, it seemed. Slipping the key down off its peg, he unlocked the door. Then, careful not to make a sound, he tiptoed out into the passageway.
The house was cool and dark. The floorboards, worn smooth by the years, gleamed dully in the feeble light from the window.
The trail of ash led upstairs. It became fainter as he followed it, whispering away until it was only breaths against the wood. By the time Bartholomew reached the third floor it had almost disappeared. It didn’t matter. He knew where the faery had gone.
Silent as the moon, he slipped up through the trapdoor and into the attic. Ducking under the first crossbeam, he crept forward, eyes darting, searching for a hint of where the faery might be hiding. He would kill it if he found it. The thought came to him with sudden violence. If he found the little monster, he would wring its neck. Wring it before it wrung Hettie’s, and Mother’s, and his.
A sound stopped him dead-voices, muttering, muffled under the roof.
“Oh, yes. That one’s a Peculiar if ever I saw one.” The voice that was speaking was hushed, but Bartholomew recognized it at once. Hollow, earthy. The singing voice. Only this time its owner took great wheezing breaths every few words, sucked in between its teeth. “The leetle half-blood builds a house, see? A downright inferior house to catch himself a faery with. I found it whiles I was exploring the place. Kicked it to pieces, I did! Ha-ha! All in leetle pieces.” There was a giggle.
Bartholomew dug his fingers into his palms and flattened himself against the sloping roof. The voice was coming from the place under the gable. His place.
“And the stupid changeling still thinks it worked. It thinks I’m its faery slave.” A wheeze. “It asked me questions, it did. It wrotes me a letter, with words, all fancy like, and asked me what something meant in the language o’ the faery lords and”-another wheeze-“now this is the strangest part of all. It was-”
“I don’t care,” a second voice interrupted. It was also very low, but in an entirely different way. It was a harsh, dangerous low, and so cold. “Is the changeling what I need, or is it not? I cannot afford any more mistakes. Not from you, not from anyone. I hire you to make sure the changelings are usable, to make sure they are what the Lord Chancellor needs.” The voice rose in anger. “And nine times in a row you give me rubbish! It will be taken from my neck if the child is again unsuitable.”
“Well, you got so many necks it wouldn’t hardly make a-”
There was an angry hiss and Bartholomew saw a shadow lash out across the beam. “Shut up. Shut up, I tell you. Too much is at stake now. Did you make certain with the list my master sent you? Did you even get the list? There have been. . interruptions of late with the Lord Chancellor’s messenger birds. He could not be certain it had arrived.”
“Yeh, I gots the bird. Came just as it always does.”
Bartholomew edged closer. Through the gap between the beams he could just make out a figure. Bartholomew’s breath caught in his throat. It was the raggedy man. There could be no doubt. The creature matched Hettie’s description exactly. It was small and misshapen, standing very still with its chin against its neck. A broken stovepipe hat was pulled low over its face. A waistcoat and tattered jacket were its only clothes. It wore no trousers. Bartholomew saw why right away. From the waist down the creature was not a raggedy man but a raggedy goat. The fur on its haunches was thick and black, matted with dirt and blood. Two chipped hooves peeped out from under its shaggy fetlocks. The raggedy man was a faun.
“Very well,” the cold voice said. “I will believe you. I haven’t the time, or I would investigate these matters myself.” Bartholomew couldn’t see who had spoken those words. Whoever it was, he was hidden around the corner of the gable, and Bartholomew didn’t dare go any closer for a better look.
The voice went on, just barely a whisper. “I warn you, sluagh. If the Lord Chancellor is again displeased with the delivery-if the changeling is again a failure-I will knock more from your head than just a few teeth.”
The raggedy man shuffled its hooves and said nothing.
“Is that clear?” The voice was ice.
Bartholomew didn’t wait to hear the rest. Sliding backward, he made for the trapdoor. Everything was different now. Everything had changed. This wasn’t just about some silly house faery anymore. He didn’t want to think what these creatures would do to him if they caught him listening. He climbed down into the third-story passage and hurried toward the stair.
His head was reeling. It never worked, then. The invitation. The pitiful house with the cherries twisted into its walls. It has all been for nothing. The raggedy man wasn’t his faery. The raggedy man had been hired. To spy. To make sure Bartholomew would do, be suitable, not a failure like the other nine. Nine. The Buddelbinster boy was one of those. He must be. And now Bartholomew was number ten. The paper in the attic. He pulled up his sleeve and examined the markings on his arms. Bloodred tens in the faery language. At least the raggedy man had told the truth about that.
He broke into a run, down the stairs, wood splinters pricking his hand from the rickety banister. He didn’t know what they wanted him for. He didn’t know whether he should hide, or tell Mother, or wait quietly until they came for him. The creature-the one he hadn’t seen-had said it was working for the Lord Chancellor. Wasn’t that good? Weren’t only the kindest and wisest people allowed to be Lord Chancellors? But why would a Lord Chancellor employ faeries that sounded like winter and knocked people’s teeth out? Bartholomew didn’t know what to think anymore. He was terrified and excited, both at once, and it felt like a whole cloud of moths were beating their wings inside his stomach. An image flared up in his mind of grand people, of dukes and generals encrusted with medals, of ermine cloaks dragging across marble, and great halls ablaze with candles. A knife tapped, silvery, against a wineglass. A cheer went up. And Bartholomew realized they were cheering for him. Barthy Kettle. Child Number Ten, of Old Crow Alley, seventh faery district, Bath. It was a ridiculous thought. A happy, hopeful, ridiculous thought that had a million cracks running through it.
He was almost to the flat door when something caught his eye through the passage window. Something was out in the alley, an extra shadow where no shadow belonged. He retraced his steps and brought his face up close against the round leaded panes.
It was the lady in plum. She was back again in Old Crow Alley, sitting still as death on a rough-hewn bench against the wall of the place known as moss-bucket house. The moldering eaves hung low over her, drowning her in gloom. She was slumped against the wall, her hands in her lap, her chin resting against her neck.
Bartholomew raised his hand to the glass. The image of the candlelit halls, ermine cloaks, and admiring faces became brighter than ever. Why shouldn’t the lady take him away? Someone-no, not just someone-the Lord Chancellor himself, had gone through a great deal of trouble to find him. That meant he was important. In the faery slums he wasn’t important. In the faery slums he was just another ugly thing to be hidden away and never spoken of. He would die here. Sooner or later.
But the dreadful faeries in the attic, a voice cried, clanging in his head like a fire-engine bell. The Buddelbinster mother’s warning, that ugly face on the back of the lady’s head, and the hooves, and the voices- Bartholomew silenced it. It didn’t matter. What did any of that matter when all they were doing was taking him to a better place? A place where he belonged. It would be better for everyone if he were gone. It would mean one less mouth to feed for Mother, one less changeling for her to worry about. Hettie would cry, and he would miss her awfully, but surely he could visit. And if the room he had traveled to through the mushroom ring was anything like the place he was going, he knew he wouldn’t mind living there. He could just scrape bits of gilt off the furniture and Mother and Hettie would have pies and duck to eat for months.
By the time he turned away from the window he had made up his mind. Somewhere in London people were waiting for him, glorious people with clockwork birds, fine rooms, and fireplaces. He was leaving Old Crow Alley behind.
He laid his head against the door to the flat and whispered, “Good-bye, Mother. Good-bye, Hettie.” He waited several heartbeats, as if listening for a reply. Then he went downstairs. The goblin was asleep on his stool. The face in the door stared out sightlessly, gray wooden eyes over gray wooden cheeks. Silently, Bartholomew said good-bye to them, too. Then he slipped out into the narrow confines of the alley.
The houses all around were black spikes against the sky. The sun was just starting to rise, and only the early morning red gave the alley any light. Somewhere several streets away, a cart was rattling over the cobbles, echoing.
Bartholomew crossed the alley and approached the lady cautiously, scraping himself along the wall toward her. She looked even larger up close, even darker and more forbidding, as if the shadows from the recesses and deep doorways were being drawn to her, soaking into her skirts. The last time Bartholomew had seen her he had been in the attic, behind glass. Now he could see her every detail. She was young. Not a great lady at all, but a girl no more than twenty. Her hat still sat askew atop her head, but the jewels were no longer around her throat and one of her night-hued gloves was torn, crisp with something like dried blood. Her red lip paint was somewhat smeared. Bartholomew thought she was the most marvelous and frightening thing he had ever seen.
He came within three steps of her and then stopped. She sat so still. So very, very still in the shadow of the eaves. He contemplated reaching out and touching her hand. It didn’t seem wise at all.
He was just about to slip back inside and lie shivering against the door until he could think of something to say, when the lady moved. Her eyelids fluttered open and she said ever so softly, “Oh! Hello, sweet child.”
Her voice was airy, dreamy, half between waking and sleeping.
Bartholomew flinched. For a moment he wasn’t sure she had been speaking to him, since she hadn’t turned her head or even really looked at him. But the alley was empty. He and the lady were the only ones in it.
“Did Father send you?” she asked. “Are you the new valet?”
Bartholomew stood, mouth open, unsure of how to answer. Is this some sort of test? Oh, no. I mustn’t muddle it. Something clever, something clever so she will be impressed. This was still the sorceress who had taken his friend, still the lady with the secret, twisted face. But her eyes were so kind. And she had such a lovely voice. He couldn’t even remember that second face anymore. Perhaps it had belonged to someone else.
“Tell him I will not relent,” she continued. “Never as long as the hills are green. Jack will be mine, and nothing shall ever come between us. But I am so tired. . What is this hard chair I sit on? Where are my pillows? Where is Mirabel with peches et creme? Sweet child, where am-”
Suddenly her eyes snapped wide. Her pupils focused on Bartholomew and she sat bolt upright, snatching both his hands. “Oh, no,” she whispered, and her voice shivered at the edges. Desperation wrote itself across her face, and her eyes shone, fearful-bright. “No, no. You must run. Sweet child, they are here to take you. Don’t let them. Run. Run with the wind and never look back.”
All at once there came a sound, a tapping that drifted down into the alley. It was coming from the rooftops. Bartholomew looked up just in time to see the small round window of his little gable burst outward, shooting a cloud of glass into the air. A shape flew out, a writhing mass of blackness. It plummeted, glass glinting around it, and landed in the alley with a dreadful scuttling sound.
Bartholomew’s heart lurched. The lady gasped and dropped his hands.
Everything seemed to move very slowly then. The glass from the window rained down, tinkling like diamonds into the gutter. The writhing shape hurtled toward them over the cobblestones. And the lady’s head turned to Bartholomew, her eyes full of tears.
“Tell Daddy I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Tell Daddy I’m sorry.” And then the dark shape slammed into her and she doubled over, the breath knocked from her lungs.
When she raised her head again, her eyes were sharp and black. Faery eyes.
Bartholomew ran.
“Vekistra takeshi! Vekistra!” the lady in plum shrieked from behind him. “Take the tenth child!”
It was the voice of the creature from the attic. The hidden one that Bartholomew hadn’t been able to see. And it wasn’t quiet and cold anymore. It was shrill, desperate.
Bartholomew burst into the house. The instant before the door slammed shut, he saw the lady in plum swoop down to the pavement, bottle in hand, dribbling black liquid onto the cobbles. Then the door smashed into its frame and he was running up the stairs and into the flat. He pushed that door closed, fingers slipping on the bolt. Footsteps. Someone was in the stairwell, feet booming in the silence. Bartholomew reached for the key, rammed it into the lock. Where can I go? The scream of “Take the tenth child” was still ringing in his ears, awful and final. The lady in plum was not going to lead him gently away, as she had the Buddelbinster boy. She was not whisking him off to some enchanted halls of light and finery. She was going to kidnap him.
“Hettie?” Bartholomew cried, racing to her bed. “Hettie, wake up. Wake up! They’re going to come in!” He threw open the cupboard door, poking and jabbing at the sheets to wake her.
Hettie was not there.
He let out a wail and ran to his mother’s bed. He shook her, beating his fists against her back. “Mother!” he cried, desperate tears biting his eyes. “Mother, wake up!” She didn’t even stir.
The footsteps had reached the passage. They were approaching the door, slowly, deliberately. Why won’t she wake?
He would open the window. He would throw it wide and yell until the entire faery district was startled from their beds. But it was too late. A tiny click sounded from the door. The lock. Someone had opened it.
Bartholomew edged away from his mother’s motionless form. His fingers closed around the iron handle of the coal scuttle. He drew it up, hugging it to himself. It was so heavy. If he had to, he could dash the faery’s brains out with it. Flattening himself against the wall behind the potbellied stove, he waited.
The door to the flat yawned open. Slowly, slowly, it revealed a figure silhouetted against the dim light from the passage. The figure had goat legs and a ruined hat. Two hot-coal eyes glowed under its brim. They slid across the room, back and forth, back and forth. They paused. They turned back to the potbellied stove. It can’t know, it can’t know. .
“Hello, leetle boy.”
With a great raging sob, Bartholomew leaped from behind the stove, brandishing the coal scuttle as high as he could lift it. The raggedy man grinned. A savage bright flash flew from his eyes, sizzled across the room, and struck Bartholomew in some tender spot deep inside his skull. His vision stuttered out. He felt himself standing, blind and clumsy, in the middle of the floor. Somewhere far away he heard wings flapping, dark wings whirling, and the growl of icy wind. His body was so heavy, pulling him down. Hettie, he thought, before he collapsed. Hettie was the one they wanted. And Hettie is gone.
The scuttle slipped from his hand. It clanged against the floor like a thunderclap. But no one in the whole house woke.