“Barty.” Niamh’s eyes filled with tears as she touched Barty’s head. “Tal.” She reached out toward the other gargoyle.
“Took you long enough!” Barty said, and Niamh shrieked and stumbled back.
“We’ve been lying here like this for hours,” Tal said. “No one comes to check on the gargoyles. All we do is open doors for you.”
“I’m starting to feel undervalued,” Barty said.
“You know, we refused to open the door for those heathens,” Tal added. “That’s when they chopped off our heads.”
“Rude,” Barty added.
She knelt down to touch the stone heads, now on the ground and cracked. “Do you think they can be put back together?” she asked.
“I think that’s the least of our worries,” I said gravely, squeezing my eyes shut, an intrusive image of Cillian’s and Nevan’s heads in place of the gargoyles.
“The least of your worries?” Tal shrieked.
“He didn’t mean it like that,” Niamh said quickly. “We will get your heads back in place,” she promised solemnly. “As soon as we find out what happened in there.” She pointed into the castle.
My chest tightened, and tears pricked my eyes. I needed to knowthat my brothers were safe, and I wasn’t sure I could step through those doors knowing what might be on the other side.
“I’m here.” Niamh’s voice broke through my dark thoughts. “I’m right beside you every step of the way.” She stood and moved to the double doors. “I’m going to open the door, okay?”
“You don’t have to rub it in our faces,” Tal muttered from the ground.
My chest constricted, and I couldn’t get any words out, but I nodded, knowing it had to be done. We could be the last defense for Fairwitch, for anyone still alive, and if that was the case, I had to be ready to fight for what was left of it.
She pushed open the door, and it creaked, the sound echoing throughout the silent foyer. Blood trailed across the shiny white tiles, and I followed the trail into a hallway that led to the servants’ quarters, my boots squeaking against the floor.
“Where is everyone?” Niamh whispered. “If there’s blood, shouldn’t there be... bodies?”
It was a good question, one I didn’t have an answer to.
A wail broke out next to us, and we both launched backward, hitting the opposite wall. “Oh, it was horrible,” Margaret cried, covering her face, blood spattering the painting where she stood.
“Margaret!” Niamh surged toward the painting of a field of sheep, Margaret standing in the middle of them. “What happened?”
“We were attacked,” she said, voice shaking. “I was in the library with Morton. He arrived late last night and insisted on opening it this morning. I told him to rest, and he told me to mind my own business. So then I said?—”
“Margaret,” I cut in. “The attack. What happened?”
“Oh it was awful. They came from the sky, riding these broomsticks that flew through the air.”
Niamh wrinkled her nose. “Broomsticks. They rode brooms?”
Margaret nodded. “Magic ones. I saw them through the library windows, and I tried to tell Morton. He said I was seeing things, and maybe I was the one who needed to rest. And I told him?—”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “The attack.”
“Well, the alarms sounded and everyone was ordered to stay in their homes. Of course panic broke out over the streets, everyone clamoring to get indoors and to safety.”
Hope bubbled inside me. Maybe that’s where everyone was. Hiding and safe.
“Luckily it was early in the morning, so no one had come to the library yet. Morton hid in one of the books.”
Relief flooded Niamh’s face, and I had to admit, I was relieved as well. Niamh had lost almost everyone she loved—she couldn’t lose Morton too.
“I can’t hide in books, but I can hide in paintings. You know, I’m very good at staying still and quiet.”
