Gwen swore, slamming her sword back into its sheath, heart sickening. She’d been so focused on Isobelle, on the idea that their unknown enemy would come forheror Gwen, that she hadn’t realised who needed her protection most that night.
If someone believed that magic might hinder their plans … why target Isobelle or Gwen, when they could target the only living witch within ten miles of Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea?
Tabitha was gone.
19
All splayed out in ghastly splendour
Gwen was ranging around the clearing like a hunting dog questing for a scent. Isobelle desperately wanted to be useful, but couldn’t think of a way to contribute, beyond staying out of her champion’s way.
‘They’ve taken her,’ Gwen muttered. ‘I should have seen it coming.’
‘Who did this?’ Isobelle asked, gazing at the wreckage of their ritual. Too many thoughts and feelings were cantering around her head, entirely out of control – the relief of feeling Gwen’s arms around her again mingled with the guilt and worry that her embrace had done nothing to dispel, the frozen horror of hearing Tabitha’s screams. It all tangled together and rendered her useless.
‘Whoever we were trying to find,’ Gwen replied. ‘They couldn’t let her succeed. There must be a trail somewhere, she would have fought them, her feet should have scuffed … here!’
Gwen was off like a shot, with Isobelle scurrying behind her, trying not to audibly wheeze. Maybe silk and careful coiffures were a bad call for tonight, after all.
‘We’ll have to come back for the horses,’ Gwen called over her shoulder, keeping her voice low. ‘We can’t ride and follow a trail, and they can’t have carried her far.’
The dark of the woods, which had seemed so thrilling and mysterious to Isobelle such a short time before, was now full of danger – undergrowth grabbed at her dress and cloak, branches hung down to catch at her hair, roots rose beneath her feet to trip her. An owl screeched somewhere – a bloodthirsty, hunting sound.
She tried desperately to cling to the last dregs of that incredible golden glow she’d felt during the ritual, and wrap it around her as a shield. It had felt like the first time she’d tried hot chocolate. It had felt like her first kiss with Gwen – the absolute rightness of it, the knowledge that she was just where she was meant to be. Had that really been a spell going wrong? It had felt so … right.
It had felt like magic.
‘Shit,’ said Gwen up ahead, and Isobelle grabbed at the rough trunk of a tree to stop herself crashing into the other girl’s back. Looking up, she saw the tower itself rising to block out the stars. Her breathing shallowed, as if some great hand was squeezing her ribs, and she felt her heart speed up like a frightened rabbit’s.
‘You think they took her …?’
Gwen stepped forward, glancing up at the branches blocking the moonlight in irritation, then grabbing hold of the nearest tree, hauling herself up into its fork to get a view of the ground from above.
‘No,’ she said suddenly, jumping down to land squarely on her feet. ‘They headed towards the tower, but they doubled back again. Maybe it was supposed to be a false trail, make usthinkthe tower was the final destination. The trail heads up here, through the trees.’
Despite her many recent nights in forests on their travels, Isobelle was still in no position to tell one tree from another, let alone follow a trail. As Gwen set off at another blasted jog, Isobelle clung to the last shreds of her golden glow. The warmth of it (the glow, not the jog, though that was causing some perspiration on Isobelle’s part) kept alive a flicker of hope.
And then the trees petered out and the two of them reached a moonlit clearing. In its centre, quiet and unobtrusive, was a cottage.
The cottage itself was in good shape, though the fence around the garden had tumbled down near the gate, vines growing over the fallen stones. There was a stillness about the place, as if it were sleeping, and Isobelle found herself treading lightly as she and Gwen walked forward together. Nobody lived here anymore.
Wordlessly, Gwen pointed to a scuff mark in the dirt at the gate, which had swung open long ago and probablyrusted that way. Someone’s foot had dragged there, and not long before. The knight kept her hand on her sword’s hilt as they made their way into the garden.
Tangles of herbs and flowers tumbled over one another, reaching out onto the path to brush against Isobelle’s skirts. The crisp night air was scented by earth and green, and she saw tiny moths fluttering around huge white flowers that had all their petals open, as if it were the middle of the day, pointing their faces up towards the moon.
At the end of the path was the silent shape of the cottage itself, its wooden door slightly ajar. Isobelle stopped at the door, cocking her head, and closing her eyes to focus all her energy on listening. There was no noise on the other side, no sign anyone was within. She glanced over her shoulder, and at Gwen’s nod, slowly pushed the door open.
Inside, the cottage was lit only by moonlight. It was all one room, and it was clear that it was empty. Tabitha’s kidnappers might have brought her here, but they had already left.
Shelves lined the walls of the place, stuffed with jars and bottles. Isobelle stepped closer to inspect one, then abruptly stepped back as she caught a glimpse of some long-dead animal floating in cloudy liquid. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the rafters, but when she reached up to touch one, the leaves crumbled to dust.
On the far side of the room was a bed, covers crumpled, as if their owner had risen one day and simply walked outthe door, meaning to return and straighten them later. And to the right was a long workbench, covered in books and dust.
‘They can’t have been here more than a few minutes,’ Gwen muttered. ‘Wemusthave been close behind them. Why bring her here at all?’
Isobelle walked over to the workbench, drawn by an urge she couldn’t explain. There were more books here than she’d ever have expected to find in a humble country cottage. How had whoever lived here come by them? How had they afforded them?
She ran her eye over the titles.On The Naturale Worlde, read one.On Anatomie, read another. Carefully she slid a finger under the cover and the first few pages, easing it open. Inside was a dreadfully detailed diagram of a frog, all splayed out in ghastly splendour.
