“On the house, lad. Been a while since we had any live ones.”
The way he says the last two words makes my skin crawl. I steal a glance at Bram, but his eyes are fixed on the bartender, that look of distrust in his eyes. As if he wants to slit the man from neck to navel and spill his guts on the floor to read his intentions.
Ransom swipes the glasses from the bar and sloshes toward us, his grin dripping on his face.
Bram grunts and leads us to a rough-hewn table tucked into a far corner. While we settle in, the alehouse returns to its heady noise, and I watch the patrons in awe-like horror.
Some are skeletal, ale sloshing out between their bones and staining meager scraps of clothing. Others appear more like Bram—whole, still mostly alive, the ashen sheen to their skin the only thing giving them away. Ransom passes us each a glass, but I shake my head.
“I think I’ll pass, thanks.”
Bram, who eyes the glasses with suspicion, grabs his and tips it back against his lips before I can stop him. When he places it back down on the table, a line of froth sticks to his upper lip.
“It’s fine for you two to drink. Seems to be the real stuff.”
Ransom does not need any more encouragement. He fists the glass and swallows the lot in four greedy gulps. “Glory be.”
I roll my eyes and turn to Bram. “I don’t understand. How can it be real ale if nothing grows here? You can’t make ale from dead crops.”
Bram shrugs, takes another drink. “You can and you can’t, I suppose. That’s what most of our food and drink is made from here—dead things. Okay for us to consume, deadly for someone still living. But things find their way into the wood. Sometimes, Reapers bring in more than just the dead.”
I stare down at the bubbles in my glass. Reapers. I do not want to think about my blood, what it might mean. If I have Reaper’s blood, which parent do I have to thank? Which parent has lied through their teeth?
“It’s safe enough to drink, Adelaide,” Bram says.
We spend the rest of the day holed up in the alehouse, talking to no one, explaining nothing. But there is food to eat—a sort of meat pie I hope is rabbit—and the ale reminds me of home, though we rarely ever had it at the vicarage. I snuck some when I was little to impress Clara. It hadn’t worked, of course. After several sips, I found myself bent over in Mother’s garden beds, emptying my guts out on the soil.
So, I am careful, nursing the honeyed liquid. The same can’t be said for Ransom. By the time we are led up the stairs to the two rooms we will rest in, he is sloshing ahead of me, leaning heavily on Bram’s shoulder.
Bram’s face is pinched, and I hide a giggle in my hand at his irritation.
“You and Rascal can have the second room, Adelaide.” Bram fumbles the key in the lock while Ransom begins singing the opening notes of an old Rixton drinking song. “Wake me up if you need anything.”
“I don’t think I’ll be the one needing anything,” I say, nodding to Ransom.
Bram turns to him, features traced delicately in the moonlight. “I’ll make sure to tuck him in.”
For a moment, we stare at each other. Ransom begins the next verse. I hear the voices of the mingling dead downstairs, the clinking of glasses, the clamping of exposed jaws, the clicking of dry bones. But it is only Bram and I for a split-second, standing in the hall, the scent of rot all around us.
“Well, goodnight,” I whisper, breaking the tension. “Or good day. Who can say anymore?”
Bram readjusts his hold on Ransom. “Right, well, I hope you can get some sleep.”
“You too.” I open my door.
He does not respond, only nods, and I wonder if Bram Avery sleeps at all.
The room behind the door is as expected. A bed, a window boarded over, no pictures on the walls. The quilt is riddled with moth-chew, but the hues of powder blue and russet woven into the fabric remind me of home. Rascal makes short work of bounding across the floor in springy strides, then circling up in all the dust-kissed pillows.
I laugh, almost forgetfully, as though I am not surrounded by dead things, searching for my mother to bring her back to life. It sounds ridiculous when I think it so plainly.
I slip off my boots and unlace my stays, almost crying when they release and allow my ribs to stretch. How long has it been since I last took them off? Days now.
I scurry from my woolen skirts until I am wearing nothing but a thin cotton chemise. The chill air licks my ankles, and I climb into the bed quicker than a whip. The mattress is soft, and I nestle down amidst the warm wool and linen. Rascal curls next to me, and I weave my fingers through his fur.
My legs will hurt like hell come morning, from all the walking, but we are getting closer to Mother. We must be. I reach into my discarded skirts and lift the bell from my pocket, tucking it safely beneath my pillow. Whatever its role in bringing Mother back home, I must keep it safe and whole. I can risk no harm to it.
Just as I am drifting off to restless sleep, Rascal straightens, a low growl starting in his throat. My skin pricks with cold, and I sit up. Shadows pass beneath the door, back and forth. I hold my breath, counting the seconds, tasting bile at the back of my tongue when knuckles rap on the soft wood.
