Chapter Thirty-Five #2
‘What I’m looking for isn’t here,’ she whispered, finding that if she kept her eyes on the new layers of silver in Dian’s clothes, it gave her a measure of balance.
Moth’s webs were like starlight woven into filament, stitched with care, a dappled leaf threaded in here or there, a particularly handsome twig, a tuft of hay from the stables.
But as she looked at these things fondly, her vision seemed to twist and blur, and suddenly the silver of the LEZ’s spotlights flashed before her eyes.
The sharp silver of the unicorn’s horn. The terrible pale silver that pulsed off the jars, like steel turning inside out.
Suddenly, she grabbed the nearest thing, a heavy glass paperweight, and threw it with all her might at the jar containing the horn.
Within an instant, blinding agony sent her to her knees, but she forced her head up, biting back a scream as the paperweight veered off course, landing harmlessly with a shattering crash in a far corner.
Frida had impeccable aim. She hadn’t missed, she knew she hadn’t. And yet, the jar was still intact.
Breathing through the pain, she got back shakily to her feet. Her next attempt to get inside the jar, to open it by hand, was thwarted just as seamlessly – the pain flooring her before she got within a foot of the jar.
‘Fuck!’ she shouted, kicking one of the tables. And then she put her head in her hands, and confessed, ‘I don’t know what to do.’
For a long moment, Dian – who hadn’t moved an inch through all this – just stared at her.
She almost wished Dian would ask her those questions now, about what she was doing here, what she’d been looking for, who the hell she was.
Because if they’d asked, she would have told them.
The truth bubbled up on her tongue, desperate to get out.
But after a few moments, Dian’s gaze just slipped away.
As if they couldn’t bear to bring themselves to ask anything, terrified of what horrors she might admit to.
Frida’s shoulders slumped.
‘We came here to help the desert-sky dragon,’ Dian said, straightening one of the frayed edges of their sleeve with deliberate grace. ‘Can we still do that?’
‘I don’t know!’ Frida rubbed her stinging eyes until it felt as if they’d come clean out of their sockets.
It was clear that there were no user-friendly switches on the walls, no simple modern solutions.
Gladstone’s accomplice would be back soon no doubt, maybe with Gladstone himself.
Her eyes landed, for the hundredth time, on the sharp edge of the unicorn’s horn.
‘A few days ago,’ she admitted, ‘I could have reached into that jar and taken that horn out no problem. Now I can’t get within a foot of it without feeling like the horn is stabbing me through my cerebral cortex. ’
Dian’s eyebrows shot up.
Moth scuttled closer. ‘A few days ago, you were different?’
‘Yeah,’ she muttered, fiddling with a piece of dirt on her shirt, embarrassed. ‘A few days ago, I was just human, I guess.’
Dian wrinkled their nose so abruptly Frida was reminded of Zuzka when she ate anchovies.
A sigh ached out of her, exhaustion rolling from her toes right up to her aching heart.
She moved dumbly towards the open window.
Dian watched her uncertainly. Frida climbed up onto the table to assess the window.
It was small, but with a squeeze, they might fit.
‘You know, I don’t blame you for hating us.
’ Her gaze fell again on the horn, trapped in the jar.
Whoever had cut it off demanded a place in the worst circle of hell.
‘But did someone–’ She drew in an unsteady breath, unable to look at them.
‘Did someone hurt you? Did someone do something to you. Other than locking your friends in here. I mean, that’s reason enough.
I just . . . You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, I only .
. .’ she trailed off, sitting on her heels. ‘I wondered.’
Dian had gone deadly still. They were looking very hard at a blank spot on the floor, as if the flagstones were suddenly the most interesting things in this room.
Frida wished she hadn’t asked. ‘Look, forget I said anything.’ She tried to sound chipper as she quickly changed the subject, gesturing to the window. ‘I think we might be able to fit through here! Then we’ll be outside at least, and not . . . in here.’
Dian shifted their gaze incredulously to the tiny window, backing away a step. ‘Uh – no. I do not think that is possible.’
Moth gave a dubious squeak too, looking with concern at Dian, who had gone very wan indeed. Perhaps from the prospect of the window, but Frida suspected it was the result of her prying.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, swallowing down her panic as she did some tests, trying to squeeze her torso through the gap.
‘But unless you want to try that door-trick again, I think this might be the only way.’ Her tone was flippant, belying her fear.
She wanted nothing more than to get out of here.
The wards were poison made from the hearts and horns of extraordinary creatures.
Henry Gladstone was an arch villain, the early LEZ was a sickly nightmare, and her whole world view needed a massive overhaul.
What was she meant to do with that? She’d read that Sir Joshua had given Henry a lot of leeway for his experiments, and of course Joshua was away most of the time. But could he really not have known?
And now, to top it off, she’d been thoughtless, hurting Dian unwittingly.
Moth appeared beside her, a thankful distraction.
‘Frida Rose, dear,’ he vibrated with studious politeness.
‘I do not think Dian can fit through this window.’ Then for a moment he seemed to shiver, and steady himself.
Finally, with a pointed glance back at the fairy, he said loudly, ‘I’m not even sure if their ego would get through, let alone all the rest! ’
It was a joke, but it was harsh and Frida looked at Moth in surprise.
But Moth was leaping back and forth along the sill now, a blur of black and white. ‘It serves you right!’ he shouted down at Dian. ‘Magicking you and Frida Rose in here without considering how you were going to get out again. You never listen to me!’
Dian flinched, for a moment looking as if they might burst into tears. But then they gathered themselves, and colour flew back into their face, along with righteous fury. ‘If I hadn’t done so, we’d still be stuck outside!’
She could have sworn she felt something like relief vibrating off Moth’s furry body, but she thought she must have been mistaken as he howled, sounding just as furious as his fairy, ‘Frida Rose could have unlocked the door. She said so!’
‘Well why hasn’t Frida Rose done that then? Instead of trying to squeeze us through this ridiculous window!’
Frida grimaced. When Moth looked at her, waiting expectantly, she had to reluctantly admit that she had no idea how to pick locks, much to his chagrin.
‘If we hadn’t come in here,’ Dian said softly, dangerously, although they couldn’t hide the tremble. ‘We wouldn’t have found them.’ Their eyes turned inexorably to the empty dragonfly jars.
Moth stilled. He gave a pulsating long sigh.
Then he scuttled back down the wall and across the room, scooting quickly up Dian’s leg.
‘I know,’ he murmured, purring as he landed back on their shoulder.
‘It’s just, I’ve spent an age weaving you new webs, and now you’re going to have to spend them on getting yourself out of here? ’
Dian’s shoulders sank. ‘I know,’ they breathed. ‘I’m sorry.’
Moth rubbed their cheek. Then his tone lifted. ‘Maybe Frida Rose can pop you out of that window like a cork from a bottle of that strawberry wine you love so much!’
Maybe it was pure panic, but the image of having to push Dian through the window was too much.
Frida began to laugh, and that set Moth off, flipping over onto his back on Dian’s shoulder, all eight legs waggling in the air.
He laughed so hard, he fell right off, catching himself mid-air with a squeak.
Dian put their head in their hands.
But the sound of Moth’s giggles was like silk brushing over her eardrums, sending a delicious tickly feeling all down her spine, making her wriggle and soon Frida couldn’t stop – she was snort-laughing, tears streaming down her face.
‘Maybe . . . maybe,’ Moth gasped, his fuzzy body spinning in circles. ‘Maybe there’s grease somewhere in this revolting place. Maybe Frida Rose could oil you up and you can slide through, like one of those slippery hangferns that grow in the groves!’
Dian looked entirely unamused by the idea of being lubricated like a hangfern. Frida stalled on the idea however, and her cheeks were suddenly a feverish purple, all laughter dissolving in the pit of heat blossoming in her belly.