Chapter 23
A wall around Gwen’s heart
The next morning, after another night’s restless sleep, Isobelle could not find Gwen.
The tray on the floor outside her door was untouched, and her room was empty.
So was the taproom, and the kitchen. Isobelle stood in the open door of the inn, her cloak pulled around her shoulders, wondering if she could have somehow missed the harbour alarm bell that signalled the return of the sea monster.
Could Gwen have slipped out to fight it alone?
Despite the way her thoughts hurried to reassure her that Gwen wouldn’t do that, a trickle of unease made her turn towards the road that wound down towards the harbour. The old Gwen wouldn’t have done that. But this new Gwen …
Isobelle could no longer tell what was magic – what was the curse creeping inside Gwen’s heart and mind – and what was simply the unbearable strain of fighting an immortal monster for a people who hated her.
The fog of fear afflicting the town was spreading, to be sure – she’d seen its signs in Jane, Hilde, even Sylvie.
After the incident with the town crier, she’d tracked Orson down with the intention of berating him for losing his temper despite what she had to admit was ample provocation – she might’ve hit someone for badmouthing Gwen, too.
But when she’d found Orson, sitting in the corner of the empty taproom with his face in his hands, all he’d been able to say was, ‘If they can make Gwen out to be a villain, what hope is there for a man like me?’
Orson’s fury had been fear, too.
It’s easier to be angry than afraid.
There was no denying that even the inner circle were beginning to crack.
But Bingleton – ugh, how could a man with such a ridiculous name do so much harm?
– had targeted Gwen specifically, placing that hex bag in her pocket and doing god knew what else.
He’d been behind the return of her nightmares, Isobelle felt sure.
Gwen had had another last night, and had not answered when Isobelle knocked on her door.
Bingleton had put a wall around Gwen’s heart.
Or had Gwen done that herself? Had his magic merely handed her the stones?
Magic isn’t always so simple, Tabitha had said. It wasn’t always about real or not, certainty and cause and effect.
Isobelle’s restraint gave up the unequal battle, and she started off for the harbour. She only got two steps before a sharp, equine scream from the stables on the other side of the inn stopped her.
She broke into a run, skidding around the corner of the building into the stable yard, and then stopped short.
Gwen was in the stable, the gloom scarcely touched by the overcast winter light of morning through the open door. And Achilles was screaming.
The huge bay stallion was in his stall, trying to rear and raining blows upon the wooden door, making it creak and groan under the force. His lips drew back as he cried out again, the whites of his eyes showing.
Gwen was moving this way and that, holding up her hands, speaking to him, trying to calm him. As Isobelle watched, Gwen’s composure broke and she cried out sharply.
‘Achilles, please … please don’t do this to me. I had you last time. I need you this time. I can’t bear it if you too—’
Isobelle was moving before she could think.
If Achilles stopped panicking and focused his efforts, he’d have the stall door in splinters in a single blow, and he might trample them both.
It was not a very sensible thing to do, charging towards a mad stallion, but she wasn’t, really. She was charging towards Gwen.
‘What’s happening?’ she gasped, taking Gwen’s arm.
The face Gwen turned to her nearly made Isobelle stagger back – tears in her eyes, a desperate heartache writ plain across her features. ‘I don’t know. I came to feed the horses – the stablemaster is long gone – and Achilles … it’s like he doesn’t know me.’
The other horses, the two that had drawn the girls’ carriage, and Buttercup, were scarcely in better shape, shifting and half rearing in their stalls and uttering whickers of concern and confusion.
Achilles gave another scream, and Gwen clapped her hands over her ears, mumbling something about the dragon, her own eyes nearly as wild as the horse’s. To Isobelle’s ears, the horse’s distress sounded nothing like the deep, bone-shaking roar of the dragon they’d faced, but that didn’t matter.
‘Right,’ said Isobelle, reaching out to take Gwen’s arm. ‘Look at me. Gwen – stop, look at me!’
Gwen froze, swallowing.
‘If you freak out too, you can’t help Achilles. Take a breath with me.’ An idea struck Isobelle, and she said, sharply, ‘Think of Madame Dupont’s exercises!’
Gwen blinked in confusion, but the memory did its job, and she drew one of those long, steady breaths that the Darkhaven dancing instructor had shown her. The stall door banged and creaked, and Gwen flinched but closed her eyes.
By the time she opened them again, she was the old Gwen – or perhaps some version of Gwen between the one she knew and the one the necromancer had toyed with. For once, Isobelle didn’t recoil at seeing that shutter come down over Gwen’s eyes.
The banging on the stall door had stopped. Achilles stood, sweating and trembling, legs braced and head bowed. His ears were straight up, as if searching for the slightest hint of danger.
Gwen didn’t move, but she said, very softly, ‘There’s a good lad. You know me. We’re okay.’
Isobelle watched as Gwen cautiously approached her horse, murmuring praise, as Achilles watched her with equal caution. She didn’t notice that she was holding her breath until Gwen finally laid a gentle hand on the bay’s velvety nose, and the air went out of her lungs in a whoosh.
Gwen took her time caressing the stallion, before finally pressing her forehead against his cheek. The horse blinked and heaved a sigh, a ripple running through his body as though he were shaking off a dozen flies.
‘Why is it that you aren’t scared?’
Gwen’s voice was very soft, and she still had her face against Achilles. It wasn’t until Gwen lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at Isobelle, her eyes troubled, that Isobelle realised the question was for her.
Isobelle blinked at her, taken aback. She knew why Gwen was so much more affected than she – the necromancer had been specifically targeting her.
Not for the first time, Isobelle felt the truth bubbling up inside her; Gwen believed in magic now, she wouldn’t dismiss Isobelle’s story about the hex bag.
But how much worse might Gwen get if she believed she was cursed?
Isobelle was saved from answering by the arrival of Henry, who came to a halt at the edge of the stable-yard fence, leaning wearily on a post. The young folk in the town weren’t as deeply affected by fear as the elders – they hadn’t lived through the first round of magical terror fifteen years ago, or had been too young to remember.
They weren’t hiding behind the shutters, confined to their homes – but like the girls, like Orson, Henry too was showing signs of strain.
Isobelle’s heart sank as she saw his face.
‘It’s time,’ he said heavily. ‘It’s back.’
The fight ended quickly this time. Henry had scarcely cleared the dock before the monster burst out of the water, flinging itself at the ship all at once in a blur of angry red limbs and grasping suckers.
A new tactic, given its usual approach of attacking first with one or two arms, and only escalating once Gwen had sufficiently annoyed it.
Gwen was right – the creature was learning.
Somehow – Isobelle would never know how – Gwen had been ready for it.
She’d been standing on the ship’s railing, holding a trailing rope to steady herself as she scanned the waves.
And as the great beast rushed up from the sea, she flung herself out over empty space in a single arc inscribed by the length of the rope she held, and slit an ugly gash across the creature’s head from eye to mouth.
It was over before Isobelle could scream a warning. She stood panting, clutching the mast as she watched the creature’s death throes churning the waves into scarlet foam.
No one spoke as Henry guided the Elizabeth back to her mooring. Gwen stood cleaning her sword, and Isobelle stayed by the mast, so consumed by conflicting thoughts she could scarcely move.
Sometimes, when they were sitting by a fire or sharing breakfast, Isobelle forgot that Gwen could become this whole other thing – this legendary hero, agile and brave and strong, so dazzlingly competent it robbed her of breath.
It was like watching Hercules slay the Nemean lion, after having watched him at afternoon tea, demolishing a plate of croissants with jam on his face.
As Henry leapt from the boat onto the dock to begin securing the mooring lines, Gwen slid her sword back into its scabbard and finally glanced over at Isobelle.
She must have seen the way Isobelle was looking at her, for her eyes fixed on hers, searching.
Then the grimness about her expression eased, and she smiled, just a little.
When they went to disembark, Gwen took her hand and whispered, ‘I know I should be telling you to stay behind, but god, am I glad you always come with me.’
Isobelle let the warmth spread up through her arm, and sternly told all her worries – how long can she keep doing this? – to sit down and keep their unhelpful questions to themselves.
Their return to the inn was delayed somewhat by a flock of sheep that had taken up residence in the town square.
The shepherd was trying in vain to get them moving, but no matter how many times he called and whistled, clapped his hands, or sent his dog darting around their flanks, the animals only huddled tighter, shoulder to shoulder, eyes rolling white.
They planted themselves like stones in the square, hooves scraping but never lifting, as though the cobbles had grown roots to hold them there.
Until, that is, Gwen and Isobelle emerged between the houses.
Several of the nearest ewes let out panicked bleats and ran.
The rest of the flock milled and shifted and considered bolting.
One large ram emerged from the mass of white and grey, the whites of his eyes showing and his breath steaming the air.
Gwen immediately took a step back, drawing Isobelle behind her with a tug of her hand before releasing her. The ram was quivering with rage and fury, bracing himself, squaring up to make a charge.
And then the sheepdog danced at him, barking sharply. The sound seemed to shake the ram’s focus, and he gave a heartbreaking squeal before he broke and ran. The rest of the flock took their cue from him, and bolted together, back towards the edge of town.
Isobelle glanced at Gwen, who was carefully, finger by finger, letting go of the hilt of her sword.
Her eyes were still on the now-empty – except for a few reminders of the sheep’s presence – square, her own breath fogging the air. ‘Even the sheep hate me,’ she muttered.
Isobelle couldn’t help it – she let out a laugh, albeit a slightly hysterical one. She slid an arm around Gwen’s waist and felt the other girl’s breath tremble in a release of some kind as her tension drained.
‘Let’s go to the hot springs this afternoon,’ Isobelle suggested, as they turned once more for the door of the inn. ‘I’m sure your body is aching – I know mine is.’
Gwen sighed. ‘That,’ she said, with an attempt at a smile, ‘is possibly the best idea you’ve had in a good long while.’
They strode into the inn, and made it halfway across the taproom before they realised it wasn’t empty.
He sat by the cold hearth, the chair tilted back against the wall and his boots up on the table. When they saw him, he straightened and let his boots hit the ground with a dull thud that rang in the stillness.
‘Enjoying your little outing?’ asked Master Grimshaw in that low, reverberating growl of his. ‘I hope so. But now it’s time to go home. I’m here to take you back to Darkhaven.’