‘If you freak out too, you can’t help Achilles. Take a breath with me.’ An idea struck Isobelle, and she said, sharply, ‘Think of Madame Dupont’s exercises!’
Gwen blinked in confusion, but the memory did its job, and she drew one of those long, steady breaths that the Darkhaven dancing instructor had shown her. The stall door banged and creaked, and Gwen flinched but closed her eyes.
By the time she opened them again, she was the old Gwen – or perhaps some version of Gwen between the one she knew and the one the necromancer had toyed with. For once, Isobelle didn’t recoil at seeing that shutter come down over Gwen’s eyes.
The banging on the stall door had stopped. Achilles stood, sweating and trembling, legs braced and head bowed. His ears were straight up, as if searching for the slightest hint of danger.
Gwen didn’t move, but she said, very softly, ‘There’s a good lad. You know me. We’re okay.’
Isobelle watched as Gwen cautiously approached her horse, murmuring praise, as Achilles watched her with equal caution. She didn’t notice that she was holding her breath until Gwen finally laid a gentle hand on the bay’s velvety nose, and the air went out of her lungs in a whoosh.
Gwen took her time caressing the stallion, before finally pressing her forehead against his cheek. The horse blinked and heaved a sigh, a ripple running through his body as though he were shaking off a dozen flies.
‘Why is it that you aren’t scared?’
Gwen’s voice was very soft, and she still had her face against Achilles. It wasn’t until Gwen lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at Isobelle, her eyes troubled, that Isobelle realised the question was for her.
Isobelle blinked at her, taken aback. She knew why Gwen was so much more affected than she – the necromancer had been specifically targeting her. Not for the first time, Isobelle felt the truth bubbling up inside her; Gwen believed in magic now, she wouldn’t dismiss Isobelle’s story about the hex bag.
But how much worse might Gwen get if she believed she was cursed?
Isobelle was saved from answering by the arrival of Henry, who came to a halt at the edge of the stable-yard fence, leaning wearily on a post. The young folk in the town weren’t as deeply affected by fear as the elders – they hadn’t lived through the first round of magical terror fifteen years ago, or had been too young to remember. They weren’t hiding behind the shutters, confined to their homes – but like the girls, like Orson, Henry too was showing signs of strain.
Isobelle’s heart sank as she saw his face.
‘It’s time,’ he said heavily. ‘It’s back.’
The fight ended quickly this time. Henry had scarcely cleared the dock before the monster burst out of the water, flinging itself at the ship all at once in a blur of angry red limbs and grasping suckers. A new tactic, given its usual approach of attacking first with one or two arms, and only escalating once Gwen had sufficiently annoyed it.
Gwen was right – the creature was learning.
Somehow – Isobelle would never know how – Gwen had been ready for it. She’d been standing on the ship’s railing, holding a trailing rope to steady herself as she scanned the waves. And as the great beast rushed up from the sea, she flung herself out over empty space in a singlearc inscribed by the length of the rope she held, and slit an ugly gash across the creature’s head from eye to mouth.
It was over before Isobelle could scream a warning. She stood panting, clutching the mast as she watched the creature’s death throes churning the waves into scarlet foam.
No one spoke as Henry guided theElizabethback to her mooring. Gwen stood cleaning her sword, and Isobelle stayed by the mast, so consumed by conflicting thoughts she could scarcely move.
Sometimes, when they were sitting by a fire or sharing breakfast, Isobelle forgot that Gwen could become this whole other thing – this legendary hero, agile and brave and strong, so dazzlingly competent it robbed her of breath. It was like watching Hercules slay the Nemean lion, after having watched him at afternoon tea, demolishing a plate of croissants with jam on his face.
As Henry leapt from the boat onto the dock to begin securing the mooring lines, Gwen slid her sword back into its scabbard and finally glanced over at Isobelle. She must have seen the way Isobelle was looking at her, for her eyes fixed on hers, searching. Then the grimness about her expression eased, and she smiled, just a little.
When they went to disembark, Gwen took her hand and whispered, ‘I know I should be telling you to stay behind, but god, am I glad you always come with me.’
Isobelle let the warmth spread up through her arm, and sternly told all her worries –how long can she keep doingthis?– to sit down and keep their unhelpful questions to themselves.
Their return to the inn was delayed somewhat by a flock of sheep that had taken up residence in the town square. The shepherd was trying in vain to get them moving, but no matter how many times he called and whistled, clapped his hands, or sent his dog darting around their flanks, the animals only huddled tighter, shoulder to shoulder, eyes rolling white. They planted themselves like stones in the square, hooves scraping but never lifting, as though the cobbles had grown roots to hold them there.
Until, that is, Gwen and Isobelle emerged between the houses. Several of the nearest ewes let out panicked bleats and ran. The rest of the flock milled and shifted and considered bolting. One large ram emerged from the mass of white and grey, the whites of his eyes showing and his breath steaming the air.
Gwen immediately took a step back, drawing Isobelle behind her with a tug of her hand before releasing her. The ram was quivering with rage and fury, bracing himself, squaring up to make a charge.
And then the sheepdog danced at him, barking sharply. The sound seemed to shake the ram’s focus, and he gave a heartbreaking squeal before he broke and ran. The rest of the flock took their cue from him, and bolted together, back towards the edge of town.
Isobelle glanced at Gwen, who was carefully, finger by finger, letting go of the hilt of her sword.
Her eyes were still on the now-empty – except for a few reminders of the sheep’s presence – square, her own breath fogging the air. ‘Even the sheep hate me,’ she muttered.
Isobelle couldn’t help it – she let out a laugh, albeit a slightly hysterical one. She slid an arm around Gwen’s waist and felt the other girl’s breath tremble in a release of some kind as her tension drained.
