As Harper grips the rope, I reach out, snagging her arm. “Wait.”
I’m fully anticipating a counterattack, but here, a rare glimpse of weariness, a momentary doubt, each stamped onto my companion’s pointed face. “What?”
“There are things you must know before passing into Under.”
She shrugs off my hand, yet gives me her undivided attention—an unprecedented occurrence.
“Firstly and most importantly”—I lower my voice so it doesn’t carry—“you cannot speak your name, or my name, aloud. If any of the fair folk overhear it, they will forever have power over you, and me. Understand?”
“If this is so important,” she snaps back, “why didn’t Zephyrus mention it before?”
That is a valid question. Do I dare take it as a sign that the Bringer of Spring cares more for my safety than Harper’s? “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Very well. Is that all?”
“Secondly, you must not eat or drink anything offered to you.”
“Fine.” Her eyes narrow at the delay. “Anything else?”
“You cannot trust Zephyrus.”
Harper inclines her chin, fingers clamping the rope, but I do not miss the way her gaze darts to the well’s opening. “You’ve already said this.”
“There are things he wants,” I say. “Things he has not made known. He is tied to Under, and he wants out.”
“Why should I care about that?” Harper asks.
And she callsmethe naive one. “You are a tool to him. We both are. At some point, he will manipulate the situation to his advantage.”
She rolls her eyes. “If you had bothered to read anything other than the Text, you would already know of his reputation, the stories of all the women he’s lured into Under. His depraved behavior does not surprise me.”
I’m still reeling when Harper climbs into the well without comment and lowers herself down. Again with Zephyrus’ reputation. I do not want to believe he’s lured women into Under, but I have lived the experience.
The empty bucket returns to the top. I wait a moment longer, but eventually, I, too, climb inside. My thighs are too large to fit, so I perch on the lip, my boots resting in the bottom of the container. It lurches with a squeak, then begins to descend.
The light above shutters.Breathe.In through the nose, out through the mouth. I hang suspended in eternity, my hands cramping from how tightly I cling to the rope, the chill of the underground radiating through my clothes. When the bucket hits the ground, I exhale and climb out on wobbly legs, my boots settling onto the springy soil of the grassy path.
It is dark like a mouth, dark like the world before the Father. Shades of coal smudge the stone chamber—walls, ceiling, floor. A darker strip, shimmering slightly, can only be the underground river, which the grassy path leads to. Water laps against the cave walls, womb-like.
Zephyrus stands at the bank, nudging an arrow-shaped boat with his boot. “We will reach the Grotto via the River Mur.” He lifts the long, slender pole resting atop the vessel’s bench seat. “Sit toward the back, near the stern.”
“The River Mur is located many miles east of here,” I point out, failing to smooth the tremors in my voice. “Surely you are mistaken.”
“Am I?” He sweeps a hand out in front of him. “This, too, is the River Mur. It flows in the opposite direction of the one aboveground, but its waters are the same.”
And that, I decide, is officially too confusing for words.
Harper and I scramble into the vessel. It is cramped, forcing us into close proximity, but for the time being, I accept the solidity of her back against mine, her warmth an odd, if undesired, comfort as we push off into the swallowing dark.
18
ASET OF SPIKED WINGSprotrudes from the blackness ahead.
Initially, the beast’s features lack distinction. The closer we drift in the low-ceilinged tunnel, however, the larger it appears, perched on the heavy iron gate that lies before us. Sharp, puncturing tips jut upward from bent bones, and tapered coal feathers fall in a cascade of lustrous black edged in violet. Never have I seen a creature with so vast a wingspan. They are like dark mountains, these wings, peaked atop the heavy gate below.
Red light bleeds upon the black bars ahead. The water pools like oil before us. A gleaming silver lock bars our passage.
Angling the pole near the stern, Zephyrus drags the end through the mucky riverbed to cut our speed. Harper and I remain quiet, pressed thigh to thigh, shivering in the clammy air pushing through the long tunnel.
