Chapter Eight Idris
Chapter Eight
Idris
Father does not take calmly to the news that the enchantment has begun.
“We’ll put a stop to it,” he says as I finish explaining what Mrs. Westness saw. “I’ll lock the door when you go to bed. Then you cannot leave.”
I glance aside at Abram, lifting my eyebrows. I told him this would not end well. But my brother insisted that Father deserved to know. Abram misses my look, staring into the distance with a calculating expression.
“Father’s right,” he says, coming back to the conversation. “You agreed to bear the punishment, but Father did not agree to let you. Maybe just keeping you in place will be enough to stop it.”
Father nods. “I will stay with you tonight to keep watch as well.”
I sigh. Somehow, I doubt it will go the way either of them wishes.
As it turns out, I am right.
The following morning, I wake to a freezing room. My breath mists in front of me. True whimpers, pressing his cold nose to my palm. I give him an absent pet as I try to sit up. My arms ache. A sharp pain radiates from my leg.
I tug my nightshirt out of the way. A long gash slices down my right shin. Dried blood flakes around the cut. Other smaller scrapes crisscross my hands and arms. I have no memory of how they happened—not even of the pain I must have felt.
A gust of chill air comes through the open window, and I lift my head.
No, it’s not open—it’s broken. Shattered from the inside.
One jagged piece juts up like a small mountain, stained brown-red across the top.
My bed has been dragged halfway across the room, closer to the window, and a rope is tied to one of the legs.
I lean up to look over the sill. The rope hangs down almost to the ground two stories below, swaying in the wind. My stomach drops at the sight.
True tries to crawl up on the bed, whining. I move back to make room, but instead of settling beside me he lies down on top of me. My hands shake, and I can’t seem to stop them. I rub True, checking him for wounds, but he seems fine.
“You didn’t come with me?” I ask, scratching his belly. My unease rises at the thought, but I remind myself of the glass and the drop to the ground. “That’s probably good.”
In an armchair by the long-dead fire, Father mumbles and rubs his face. Seemingly he has been fast asleep the whole time—so still I forgot he was here. He blinks and then stares at the wreckage of my room.
From under True’s furry mass, I state the obvious: “It didn’t work.”
“If you didn’t have a rope …” Father muses later, frowning over breakfast. “Where did you even find that rope?”
“Mrs. Muir gave me some after I helped repair the barn roof,” I explain.
“I was keeping it in a trunk. And I think if I hadn’t had it, I would have just thrown myself out.
” I shift my leg under the table, trying to find a position where the fresh bandage on my shin won’t rub against my boots.
“Obviously I am going to leave, whether or not you make it difficult.”
Abram glances from me to Father. He hasn’t said much since he sent for a workman to repair the window. I’m curious what excuse will be given to the man. I’m too annoyed to ask, though I don’t know what exactly I’m annoyed about. I drink a gulp of tea to settle myself.
“We could bar the window,” Father says. “Make it impossible to escape. Set a guard to keep watch.”
“Having you keep watch didn’t make much difference,” I mutter.
“I apologize for that.” Father scowls. “The truth is, I could not stay awake. I think the curse affected me.”
“Then what makes you think anyone else will be different?” I try not to roll my eyes. “Whatever you do, I’m going to find my way out. Or harm myself attempting it.”
“We’re lucky Idris didn’t break a leg,” Abram says quietly.
None of us point it out, but I think we’re all wondering whether the Hidden Folk would make me dance on broken bones.
I push my food around with my fork, then tear off a bit of ham and slip it to True.
He’s crouched beneath the table, leaning all his weight against me, even though he normally gets banished to the hearth during a meal.
“Besides,” I go on, “I promised. I said I’d do the dances. So … I should just do them.”
Father glares at me.
“We can’t very well throw him in a dungeon,” Abram says, trying to joke.
Father sits up straighter, eyes brightening. “That—”
“No,” I cut him off. “I won’t agree to that. You can try to make it safer for me to get there and back, but I won’t be locked up!”
“Getting a witness might not be such a bad idea.” Abram folds and unfolds his napkin. “We could have someone watch over you. I could—”
“No,” Father and I both say at once.
Abram frowns at us.
“I can find someone else to watch Idris.” Father turns back to me. “Maybe if they aren’t part of the family, they won’t be affected as I was. And if they can’t stop you, at least they can get a sense of where you are going. Servants would talk, but perhaps someone more discreet …”
“Jay might be able to do it,” Abram offers. “His ship doesn’t leave for another month or so.”
Father considers this. “Let me speak with him. In the meantime”—Father points his fork at me—”you need to rest. We must keep your strength up until we can find a solution to this mess.”
“And how’s that going?” I cross my arms and lean forward on the table. “Found a loophole yet?”
I know Father has been consulting the storytellers and the wise women.
“No, not yet. Dancing enchantments usually involve the victim becoming trapped—sometimes permanently—within their realm. You seem to be an exception, as you can move between the Hidden Lands and home every night.”
“You’ve told them the whole story?” I ask, surprised. He hesitates but doesn’t reply. I smile grimly. “Ah. Not that desperate yet?”
“I am prepared to do whatever is necessary, when it is necessary.”
“Why don’t you take my room today, Idris?” Abram volunteers, sensing another fight. “At least until the glass is fixed in yours. That is … as long as you won’t be bothered by me working in the study.”
The bitterness eases out of my smile. Abram’s studying is probably quieter than the mouse I’ve heard a few times in our rafters. “I’m not opposed to rest. That would be nice.”
After breakfast, I retreat upstairs with Abram. I thought True might be impatient for an outing—he hasn’t had a good walk in a few days now—but he presses close to my side the whole way, apparently determined not to let me out of his sight.
Abram’s room smells comfortingly of paper and ink.
Through the doors that join this room to our shared study, I can see the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, his large magnifying glass, and the cases on a table in the room’s center.
My unruly desk, drowning in papers and books, sits abandoned near the fireplace.
His tidy desk is tucked into the corner near the circular window.
“Here,” Abram says, turning back the blankets on his bed. He gives an uncertain look at True. “I suppose you want him to …”
Both True and I give Abram our best pleading looks. I say with exaggerated reluctance, “I could tell him to lie on the floor …”
Abram sighs and shakes his head, moving back. “No, it’s fine. Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” I kick off my shoes and lie down. True burrows on top of me and settles his head on my chest, as if to hold me there.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Abram says, starting to close the door between me and the study.
“You can leave it open,” I blurt.
Abram tilts his head but leaves the door ajar. I watch as he goes from shelves to microscope to desk, arranging his work. As predicted, his shuffling steps and scratching pencil are quieter than my rodent friend.
The regular, methodical movements, the creaks of our house, and the murmur of voices downstairs combine into a scene as familiar as it is comforting. I try to sink into this feeling and fall asleep.
But the more I attempt to relax, the more I am awake.
Instead of drifting into hazy thoughts and dreams, my mind sharpens with lists. Things I should be doing, should be fixing. The import records I said I would look over last week. Abram’s still-missing shipwreck. Meetings I need to arrange. Tasks that were put aside while I was in the south.
Catharine, and what my life might be like now if I had proposed. I consider the best location for a wedding, the arrangements we would have had to make. She would have been lovely. Demure. Quiet. Willing.
But happy? I don’t know.
Her sister would have come too. Perhaps her wrist would have healed by then.
I wonder whether it has got any better in the time since I left.
I wonder if there is something more to that family.
Did King Byrne look satisfied after he twisted her through the turn, or do I only imagine it now that I’m looking back?
His interest in her felt strange. Yet despite the shadow there, when we were alone she laughed with unrestrained openness.
I wish I had been able to dance with her.
Someone who laughs like that must burst with life in a jig.
How many jigs have I danced in the nights since my return? Who am I dancing with?
I turn over and stare at the ceiling. Fatigue drags through me, pulling my energy out like the tide. But my fingers fidget on True’s back. My toes twitch. The longer I try to lie still, the less I can keep from moving.
At last, I can’t stand it anymore. I nudge True off me and roll up to my feet.
Abram looks over from his work, frowning when I start pulling on my shoes. “Id?”
“That’s enough napping for now!” I declare, trying to sound more cheerful than I feel.
Abram glances toward the clock in the study. “You’ve only been down for half an hour.”
I could have sworn it was closer to two hours. I try not to let my surprise show. “Well, then I’ll try again this afternoon. I have to get some errands done.”
But that afternoon—in my own bed, window fully repaired—the same restlessness haunts my attempted nap. I cannot sleep, no matter how tired I feel.