Chapter 29
A monstrous tournament cheerleader
Isobelle’s lungs were burning as she raced across the cobblestone street.
What had she been thinking? What had she been thinking?
How could she ever have let Gwen go to face danger alone?
It had taken only minutes, standing in the silence of Gwen’s room, glancing around at her familiar things – indulging in a brief, extremely dramatic cry on Gwen’s bed – for Lady Isobelle of Avington to realise she’d made the mistake of her life.
What had she been thinking?
She burst out into the harbour, where a quick glance told a horrifying tale.
Henry huddled well back from the water’s edge, the dock in splinters, and no sign of Gwen as the sea monster rose up above the waves.
Its shape – sinuous tentacles, suckers larger than a knight’s shield – was outlined by an eerie blue-green glow that reflected off the churning waters.
In the foreground was the Elizabeth, one part of her hull reduced to matchsticks, half sunk beneath the water. Beyond that was the creature, and further out the moonlight illuminated the shape of the strange ship, still moving towards them despite the frantic ringing of the bell.
A cry went up from Henry and the few townsfolk who had dared emerge from their houses to watch, and such was the note of horror in those voices that Isobelle stumbled to a halt, her gut clenching in the certain knowledge that they knew something she did not, and that something was awful beyond imagining.
Again her gaze swept the scene before her, quick and desperate, and now, perhaps because she was looking for the worst of all possible sights – she saw it.
The tentacled beast had Gwen in its grasp, waving her through the air like it was a monstrous tournament cheerleader, and she a battered, shredded pom-pom.
Her body was limp, and Isobelle went numb, her feet turned to stone as she stood and watched, paralysed by fear. This couldn’t be happening.
Then Gwen moved, grabbing at some sort of makeshift spear, and with a wordless cry Isobelle was stumbling forward, grabbing at her suddenly cumbersome skirts as she dashed towards the pier that stretched out into the harbour.
She was still running when the beast slammed Gwen down into the waves, and her champion vanished.
‘Gwen!’ The name tore itself from Isobelle’s throat, anguished, as the creature sank down beneath the waves, the water darkened with its own blood.
The pair of them were gone, the disturbance in the choppy water the only sign they had ever been there at all.
Isobelle reached the splintered end of the pier, and there she stopped, staring down into the murky waters. Then, with grim determination, she began pulling off her shoes.
A sudden beam of light from the strange ship’s prow halted her, drawing her gaze up.
Someone had unshuttered the lantern, casting a brighter glow.
By its light, she could see a figure on the boat rapidly disrobing.
A woman. Her silhouette was outlined for a moment, the flimsy material of her shift fluttering in the cold wind as her dress fell away.
Then she dived, cutting a graceful arc through the air and disappearing into the water as smoothly as if she were a selkie.
Surfacing, the woman cut a line through the water towards the spot where Gwen had vanished, and Isobelle’s hands stilled at the lacing on her bodice as she silently urged the stranger on.
She caught a glimpse of dark hair, and then the woman dived, her feet kicking above the waves for an instant before she disappeared.
‘Please,’ Isobelle whispered, her fingers winding around each other, her body rocking slowly, as if urging the woman on.
She didn’t know who the woman was – she didn’t care, so long as she reached Gwen in time.
The numbness was spreading through her limbs, now.
It felt as though she were watching the whole thing unfold from somewhere outside her body.
Gwen, her Gwen, couldn’t have disappeared beneath the waves. That wasn’t how it was meant to happen.
How long had it been?
Abruptly the woman broke the surface not far from the end of the pier, Gwen’s limp body in her arms.
‘Isobelle of Avington,’ came a familiar voice, hoarse but sharp as ever. ‘Don’t you even think about diving in here in that dress. Get back to shore!’
It was Olivia. Olivia, who was struggling with Gwen’s body as she struck out for the ramp used to haul boats out of the water.
Olivia, who had arrived on that ship – had no doubt forced its captain to continue despite the harbour’s alarm bell – had somehow, somehow known to show up in the nick of time, as she always did.
Isobelle was running before she’d fully understood what was happening, her skirts gathered up, her legs carrying her so quickly that she nearly flew as she stumbled over the uneven timbers of the pier, staggering and regaining her balance, rushing onward.
By the time she reached the harbour’s edge, Olivia was staggering up the stone ramp from the water, gripping Gwen’s motionless body beneath the arms and dragging her with her.
Olivia’s shift was plastered to her body, her soaking hair hanging across her face, her skin white and lips blue with cold.
Isobelle had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.
She reached Olivia in a couple of strides, taking one side of Gwen so they could bring her up the last few steps and lay her out on her back. Gwen lolled horribly, her limbs a dead weight, her expression slack. Her eyes were half open – there was a terrible absence in them.
Gwen’s chest wasn’t rising and falling. There was no hint of movement anywhere in her body. No hint of the spark that was always there, even when she slept.
‘No,’ Isobelle whispered, clutching for Gwen’s icy hand, bowing over her body, her throat tightening until she couldn’t speak.
‘No,’ growled Olivia, her breath steaming the frigid air. ‘No, you don’t.’
Isobelle’s head snapped up, but Olivia was addressing Gwen. Isobelle watched in silence as Olivia bent to press her ear to Gwen’s chest in search of a heartbeat, and then pulled Gwen up into a sitting position, starting to strip off her chainmail.
‘Olivia, what are you—’
‘Get her other arm!’ her maid snapped, and years of conditioning meant that Isobelle grabbed for Gwen’s arm, obediently peeling her beloved out of her chainmail.
Tears were spilling down her cheeks now, and she found she couldn’t bear to meet Gwen’s sightless eyes – she let her vision blur as they lay Gwen down on her back once more.
Olivia rose to her knees, interlacing her hands and placing them in the centre of Gwen’s chest. Then she began to push – again and again, quickly. ‘Tilt her head back,’ she said, her voice low with effort now. ‘Pinch her nose, and breathe into her mouth, twice.’
Isobelle rose to her knees, following Olivia’s instructions – her maid ceased the pumping on Gwen’s chest as she delivered the two breaths, trying desperately to ignore the way Gwen’s mouth was slack beneath hers.
‘How did this happen?’ Olivia demanded, returning to pumping at Gwen’s chest. ‘Why weren’t you with her?’
‘Because we fought.’ The words arrived with a sob. ‘I told her I couldn’t stand to watch her die. And now I will anyway.’
‘If you’d been there, she wouldn’t have done,’ Olivia muttered, her eyes on Gwen’s face. ‘Come on!’
Isobelle had no time to question the strangeness of that statement, for Gwen gave a great, heaving cough. Olivia rolled her quickly onto her side, so that what seemed like half the bay could spill from her mouth.
‘Gwen!’ Isobelle cried, relief crashing over her like one of the monster’s great tentacles, crushing her beneath its weight. Now, she began to cry properly, and when Gwen’s hand weakly gripped hers, a great, shuddering sob tore itself from her.
‘She’ll be all right,’ gasped Olivia. ‘We’ll give her a minute, and then bring her inside to warm her up.’ Olivia’s own teeth were chattering, her shift growing frost as she panted for breath.
Isobelle curled herself over Gwen, smoothing back her black hair from her forehead, murmuring nonsense reassurances, rocking slowly as she tried to get a grip on herself.
There was movement behind Olivia, and Henry stepped up to drape his coat around her maid’s shoulders. Only now did Isobelle get a proper look at Olivia’s familiar face.
The woman looked shattered. There were shadows beneath her eyes that Isobelle had never seen before, and she was shivering with the cold – she’d just brought Gwen up from the bottom of the harbour, while Gwen was clad in chainmail. Only Olivia could have done it at all.
The rush of heady relief at Gwen’s revival was mixing with the warm, floating feeling of reassurance that whispered to Isobelle that Olivia was here now. The calmest, most competent of women. Olivia would help them face these insurmountable obstacles. Olivia would know what to do. She always did.
Then Olivia leaned forward to steady Gwen, and Isobelle caught the glimmer of her maid’s necklace in the moonlight. The owl, wings outstretched.
And she remembered. That same symbol was carved all over the half-ruined tower belonging to the witch-hunting
Order of the Evening Star, the one that had defeated an ancient evil – or murdered a dozen innocent women of this town, depending on which stories one believed.
She couldn’t let herself soften – not yet. There were questions she needed Olivia to answer. That she desperately wanted Olivia to be able to answer.
Olivia was checking Gwen’s heartbeat, and listening to her breathing, and feeling the chill of her skin. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get her inside. We’ve got to get her warm – she was in that water a long time.’
She gestured, and a few of the townsfolk brought up one of their carts and helped Olivia bundle Gwen up so they could bring her back to the inn. Isobelle wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in her damp clothes and feeling all her relief drain out of her.
She didn’t know Olivia at all.