“I have naught but the trees and sky,” he began to recite. “No cause to wonder why. No thoughts nor cares, no put-on airs, no task but to live and die.”
“An appropriate sentiment for you,” I said slowly, “with so few thoughts in your head. But where did you learn to quote a human poet like Cicero Cade?”
“A better question might be: where did a drunken buffoon like Cicero Cade come across hisgiftfor writing poetry?” said the Devil with a wink.
Not bothering to elaborate, he veered away from the creek toward the edge of the Hollow, which was narrowing into more of a gully now. I slowed my pace as he approached the steep, rocky hillside, which was littered with protruding tree roots and a vast assortment of suspicious-looking mushrooms. But I did not see the door until he ducked beneath a thick root and knocked on it. Half as tall as a normal door, it was made from dark, deeply knotted wood, with a bleached-antler handle and a tangle of cobwebs in each top corner.
“Late! Late, late, late!” came a deep croak from inside. The door swung open, revealing a creature that would, under any other circumstance, send me fleeing in the opposite direction. But the Devil was not the least bit put off, and I certainly did not want to show discomfort in front of him, nor be impolite to the…woman standing there, glaring at us.
“My apologies, dear Arachne,” he said, taking one of her human hands and kissing the back, then ducking through the door. “You know how difficult it is to manage newcomers.” He turned to look at me and I walked forward, trying to school my face into polite ease, rather than the horrified discomfort which sat in my belly like a stone.
Chapter ten
Spinners & Silk
Never in my lifehad I been afraid of or disgusted by spiders. Every spring, a large, yellow orb-weaver built a web in the top corner of my bedroom window, and I was perfectly content to let her stay as long as she liked. But the woman in front of me now—gray-skinned and hunch-backed—was something else entirely.
Her form was more or less human, like some of the other fay I had met in the Hollow, but four pairs of yellow eyes blinked at me from her squat, wrinkled face, and she offered a black-fanged smile as I stepped over the threshold. What truly disconcerted me, however, was the limbs sprouting from her back. Eight of them. Long and black and shining, lined with tiny spikes, they moved independently of one another, but were still clearly controlled by the old woman, who used the largest one to shut the door behind me with a snap. We were plunged into gloomy darkness, since the only window in the place appeared to have been made with smoky glass, filtering out the daylight.
“Oh dear, this won’t do at all,” said the Devil in a cheery voice. Light zinged down the tattoos on his arms, forming into half a dozen fist-sized spheres, which floated up to the low, root-bound ceiling and bobbed like acorns floating in a fountain.
“Hmmph,” the spider-woman snorted as she shuffled away from us. “T’ain’t my fault ye daylight creatures cannae see in the dark.” By the shape of her long, black skirt, I suspected that a spider’s abdomen grew out of her lower back. Her apron-like shirt tied across the back, between the pairs of extra appendages, showing rolls of mottled gray flesh beneath. I fought back a shudder and glanced at the Devil.
“May,” he said with a patient smile, “this is Madame Arachne, the finest spinner in all the Arden.”
“Theonlyspinner in all Arden,” said Arachne with a click of her dark teeth. She moved over to a broad table and the Devil’s floating lanterns moved with her, providing light so I could see all manner of fabric strewn along its length—chiffon, satin, lace, tweed, samite, brocade, calico, flannel, velvet, linen, gingham, moleskin, and boiled wool, in every color or pattern imaginable. The table was so long, it ran back and vanished into the darkness of the hovel.
“Miss May will be attending the revelry with me tomorrow,” said the Devil, running his fingers over a swatch of bright red silk. “She needs a gown. Something worthy of the occasion…and of her.” Arachne’s eight yellow eyes fixed on me and she drummed several of her spider legs on the tabletop. I found the clicking noise extremely unnerving, but disguised my discomfort with a grateful smile.
“Oh, sly thing,” Arachne said to the Devil, grinning at him. “I dinnae think you’d have the guts to bring a human girl ‘afore Titania. This one must be special, aye?”
“She will be glamoured, of course,” the Devil replied evenly, “for her own protection. But yes, special is exactly the right word.” He smiled at me again, softer this time, and I ducked my head, pretending to examine a strip of brocade so he wouldn’t see the color rising in my cheeks.
“Best get startin’, then” Arachne sighed. She bustled around the table and took my hand, spinning me to face the rest of the dark room, then snapped her human fingers at the Devil. “Well, boy, put all that awful light to use and conjure us up a mirror, won’t ye?”
The Devil gave one of his crowing laughs and moved to stand in front of me. Light pooled at his fingertips, and he began to manipulate it with a series of sinuous movements, like he was shaping molten glass with his bare hands, twisting and stretching it out, swirling and smoothing it, the glimmers playing off his face like a flickering torch. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. After only a minute, he had fabricated what looked like a silvery shield, tall as I was, shimmering and clear in the center with a frame of golden bands running around the edge. He held it up, covering the bottom half of his face, and I shifted my gaze to the image being reflected back.
There were no mirrors in Locksley Abbey. As part of their vows, the Sisters swore an oath of humility and helpfulness. Vanity was heavily discouraged, and they were expected to offer gentle assistance if a fellow Sister’s wimple fell out of place, or if she had food in her teeth. But in the Abbey entrance hall hung a polished metal shield, which nearly every Sister used to covertly check herappearance at least once a day. In fact, I had only ever seen one real mirror in my entire life, since none of my patients could afford to keep one at home either.
When I was six years old, Sissi had taken me with her on a visit to Nottingham’s Cathedral of Martyrs, which sat in the center of the city’s main plaza—a hub for festivals, markets, and other public gatherings. Sequestered in the Abbey since birth, I had never seen the cathedral before, and was awestruck by the towering limestone spires and riotously colorful stained glass on the exterior. While Archbishop Piers and Sissi talked quietly in his study, I’d snuck through a cracked door, eager to try on the tall Archbishop’s hat I spotted sitting on a wooden stand. When I saw the mirror, however, I’d forgotten everything else. It sat in the corner of his dressing room, large and ornate and shining.
But the thing that pulled me in was the sight of my own face. I’d never seen myself before, save for distorted reflections in the water, or an amateur sketch Tuck had once done of the two of us weeding the Abbey garden. The moment was fixed in my mind, not just as one of my earliest memories, but as the moment I truly began to understand who, and what, I was. With only a child’s understanding of what it meant to be an orphan, Sissi and Tuck were the closest thing I’d ever known to a mother and father.
So when I’d looked into that mirror, and neither of their faces looked back, the terrible knowledge of it all came crashing down around me: I belonged to no one but myself. The brown skin and wide nose, the brilliant green eyes and mass of dark curls had all come from people I would never meet. People I would never share a meal or a home with. Sissi had carried me, sobbing uncontrollably, back to the Abbey that day, her meeting with Archbishop Piers cut short by my mirror-induced crisis. Since then, I had dodged my own reflection—in windows, in water, in the Abbey’s polished shield—desperate to avoid seeing the faces of strangers who had, in all likelihood, never wanted me.
To my horror, I realized that the tears I’d cried that day in the cathedral were about to make another appearance. I looked away from the Devil’s magyk light mirror, dabbing my face with the edge of my sleeve.
“Now,” said Arachne, brusque and business-like, “‘tis Arden tradition ye wear the likeness of a favored creature to the changin’ of the seasons. Which animal—”
“A Huntress moth,” the Devil answered before I could even draw a breath.
Arachne scowled at him. “Let the girl answer, ye good-for-nothin’ imp.”
But my mouth twisted involuntarily into a smile as I met his eyes, watching me over the top of the mirror. “I was…going to choose the Huntress moth anyway,” I murmured.
“Well, well, well,” Arachne clicked, “how glad I am to have consensus. We shall need to work quickly, aye.” From the pocket of her skirt, she pulled a long measuring twine, but recoiled when she nearly touched the iron medallion around my neck accidentally.
“Vengeful iron,” she hissed. “It curses and burns, it wants and it yearns for the death of all that is fay. Be wary, be sure, that you do not endure a touch from the metal of gray.”
