Grimshaw’s flint gaze swung from Gwen’s face to Isobelle’s. It wasn’t much, but it eased the tension strung between the two of them, like an archer lowering their bow with the arrow still nocked.
‘Very well,’ he muttered. ‘You have tonight.’
25
Go home, Dragonslayr
They paused on the landing at the top of the stairs. Gwen was shaking, and when she turned, Isobelle was there. But instead of pulling Gwen into her arms, Isobelle reached up and took her face between her hands in a surprisingly fierce grip.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ Isobelle said, with all her old force of will. Like she was casually picking up the reins of reality and giving them a twitch to let it know who was in charge.
Gwen reached up to curl her hands around Isobelle’s wrists, and held them there. ‘He can’t make us go, not by force, not all of us. But if we get back to Darkhaven and he says we defied him—’
‘Let’s worry about that when we actually do get back to Darkhaven,’ replied Isobelle.
Gwen drew breath as if to reply, but halted, watching Isobelle, her expression strangely unreadable. Then shegave herself a shake and said, ‘Brilliant, suggesting that Orson go down and fill him in. He’ll listen to another man with far less …’ She reached for the word but couldn’t find it. The weariness of the battle against the monster was settling back in, now Isobelle had stopped the brewing clash between her and Grimshaw.
‘Prejudice?’ Isobelle suggested. ‘Stupidity? Unbridled male ego?’
Gwen laughed – or made a sound somewhere in that same family at any rate – and let Isobelle tug her from the stairs. But as soon as they turned the corner into the corridor, it became immediately clear that something was wrong.
Jane and Hilde were standing there in the hall outside Gwen’s door, directing twin wide-eyed stares into the room. Jane glanced their way as they approached, but only shook her head at Isobelle when she asked what was happening.
Gwen felt her heart sinking as she stepped up to the doorway, as if some part of her knew what she’d find.
Sylvie was seated on Gwen’s clothes chest, head bowed, the midday light caressing her brown skin, painting red highlights in her black hair. Orson knelt before her, face as grim and concerned as any knight in an old portrait. He had one hand raised to her face.
It would’ve looked very romantic indeed, if not for the fact that Orson’s hand held a handkerchief, and a thick trickle of blood stained Sylvie’s cheek.
Isobelle gave a sharp cry of alarm and pushed past Gwen, who’d frozen in the doorway. Sylvie waved her hand and said briskly, ‘I’m fine, head wounds always bleed far too much. I’m fine, I tell you.’
Isobelle shoved Orson aside so abruptly that he lost his balance and went toppling sideways. Orson, who knew Isobelle better than anyone, usually grinned and rolled his eyes at her impetuosity. This time, though, Gwen saw the muscles in his jaw clench, worry tightening his features.
‘What happened?’ Isobelle asked, anxiously inspecting Sylvie’s head, which sported a small gash above her hairline.
‘I was doing a bit of tidying – the maid won’t come up anymore, even when we’re out.’ Sylvie’s voice had only a fraction of its usual scorn for such obvious weakness. If anything, she sounded the tiniest bit anxious herself. ‘I had just opened the shutters to let in some sun, when that came hurtling in from below and knocked me down.’
She gestured to something lying on the rug a few feet away.
While Isobelle took the handkerchief from Orson and took over cleaning and dressing Sylvie’s injury, Gwen unfroze enough to cross the room, stoop and pick up the object.
It was a stone about the size of her fist. It must have struck only a glancing blow – if it hadn’t, Sylvie would not be conscious and speaking. The rock was the samenondescript limestone that formed the sea cliffs, but as Gwen turned it over in her hand …
Her sharp breath rang like a cry in the silence.
Orson stood and came to Gwen’s side, looking down at the object in her hands. Painted on the stone in the same whitewash that marked the houses were three words: ‘GO HOME, DRAGONSLAYR.’
Gwen could not take her eyes off the stone, winded; her hand started to shake. Orson reached out and took the stone from her, giving her hand a surreptitious squeeze as he did so.
Isobelle and Sylvie had been having a low-voiced altercation about how to bandage the gash on Sylvie’s head. (‘If you cut my hair, I will murder you in your sleep,’ Sylvie had said calmly. ‘Leave it, it’ll stop bleeding on its own.’)
Now, Isobelle was watching Gwen and Orson, her face grave; the white lettering on the stone was easily visible.
‘Ignore it,’ she said, her voice as calm as Sylvie’s had been, though her eyes were flashing in a way Gwen knew quite well. ‘Howdarethey, when you’re risking your life to save them!’
‘But do you think …’ Hilde began, her voice uncharacteristically tentative. ‘That maybe, if they wish us to leave, we ought to go?’
‘Nonsense,’ retorted Jane, though her gaze was troubled. ‘People do stupid things when they’re scared.’
