‘Let him go.’
Gwen’s voice croaked, barely audible, and yet it stopped the arguers – all six of them, for the girls had joined in – instantly. Orson didn’t move, but his grip must have relaxed, for the town crier slipped free, stumbled back and fled.
Isobelle turned an incredulous stare on Gwen. ‘But—’
‘It’s not his fault.’ Gwen’s eyes swept the empty street again, then she turned back for the inn. ‘It’s easier to be angry than afraid.’
23
A wall around Gwen’s heart
The next morning, after another night’s restless sleep, Isobelle could not find Gwen. The tray on the floor outside her door was untouched, and her room was empty. So was the taproom, and the kitchen. Isobelle stood in the open door of the inn, her cloak pulled around her shoulders, wondering if she could have somehow missed the harbour alarm bell that signalled the return of the sea monster. Could Gwen have slipped out to fight it alone?
Despite the way her thoughts hurried to reassure her thatGwen wouldn’t do that, a trickle of unease made her turn towards the road that wound down towards the harbour. The old Gwen wouldn’t have done that. But this new Gwen …
Isobelle could no longer tell what was magic – what was the curse creeping inside Gwen’s heart and mind – and what was simply the unbearable strain of fighting an immortal monster for a people who hated her.
The fog of fear afflicting the town was spreading, to be sure – she’d seen its signs in Jane, Hilde, even Sylvie. After the incident with the town crier, she’d tracked Orson down with the intention of berating him for losing his temper despite what she had to admit was ample provocation – she might’ve hit someone for badmouthing Gwen, too. But when she’d found Orson, sitting in the corner of the empty taproom with his face in his hands, all he’d been able to say was, ‘If they can make Gwen out to be a villain, what hope is there for a man like me?’
Orson’s fury had been fear, too.
It’s easier to be angry than afraid.
There was no denying that even the inner circle were beginning to crack.
But Bingleton –ugh, how could a man with such a ridiculous name do so much harm? –had targeted Gwen specifically, placing that hex bag in her pocket and doing god knew what else. He’d been behind the return of her nightmares, Isobelle felt sure. Gwen had had another last night, and had not answered when Isobelle knocked on her door.
Bingleton had put a wall around Gwen’s heart.
Or had Gwen done that herself? Had his magic merely handed her the stones?
Magic isn’t always so simple, Tabitha had said. It wasn’t always about real or not, certainty and cause and effect.
Isobelle’s restraint gave up the unequal battle, and she started off for the harbour. She only got two steps before asharp, equine scream from the stables on the other side of the inn stopped her.
She broke into a run, skidding around the corner of the building into the stable yard, and then stopped short.
Gwen was in the stable, the gloom scarcely touched by the overcast winter light of morning through the open door. And Achilles was screaming.
The huge bay stallion was in his stall, trying to rear and raining blows upon the wooden door, making it creak and groan under the force. His lips drew back as he cried out again, the whites of his eyes showing.
Gwen was moving this way and that, holding up her hands, speaking to him, trying to calm him. As Isobelle watched, Gwen’s composure broke and she cried out sharply.
‘Achilles, please …pleasedon’t do this to me. I had you last time. I need you this time. I can’t bear it if you too—’
Isobelle was moving before she could think. If Achilles stopped panicking and focused his efforts, he’d have the stall door in splinters in a single blow, and he might trample them both. It was not a very sensible thing to do, chargingtowardsa mad stallion, but she wasn’t, really. She was charging towards Gwen.
‘What’s happening?’ she gasped, taking Gwen’s arm.
The face Gwen turned to her nearly made Isobelle stagger back – tears in her eyes, a desperate heartache writ plain across her features. ‘I don’t know. I came to feed thehorses – the stablemaster is long gone – and Achilles … it’s like he doesn’t know me.’
The other horses, the two that had drawn the girls’ carriage, and Buttercup, were scarcely in better shape, shifting and half rearing in their stalls and uttering whickers of concern and confusion.
Achilles gave another scream, and Gwen clapped her hands over her ears, mumbling something about the dragon, her own eyes nearly as wild as the horse’s. To Isobelle’s ears, the horse’s distress sounded nothing like the deep, bone-shaking roar of the dragon they’d faced, but that didn’t matter.
‘Right,’ said Isobelle, reaching out to take Gwen’s arm. ‘Look at me. Gwen – stop, look at me!’
Gwen froze, swallowing.
