“I may as well,” the old woman croaked. “One daughter dead, another quite as good as, what with her no-good husband who’ll surely ruin her—”
Charlotte sighed. With Brigid dead on the ground before her, Mrs. Tierney found breath to bemoan Mary’s elopement to Glenwhistle. Perhaps that tragedy was easier to face.
“Kitty said your gout’s been acting up,” Charlotte continued, as if Mrs. Tierney hadn’t interrupted. “Standing in the rain will make it worse. Let’s have a spot of tea, shall we?”
To her relief, Mrs. Tierney nodded. The howling wind blew rain sideways under Charlotte’s bumbershoot, not that it mattered since they were both soaked anyway.
A sudden scream behind them. Charlotte twisted around so fast she slipped in the wet grass, but Mrs. Tierney kept hold of her. Clutching each other, they gazed toward the forest, where Kitty and Mr. Tierney had convinced the villagers to dig Brigid free.
The Tierneys’ horse squealed and kicked, trying to free itself from the trap. Mr. Tierney snatched its bridle, whispering soothing things to it. The villagers backed away as another scream sounded. Kitty snatched a shovel off the ground and brandished it before her, whiter than ever.
A horse burst through the trees, a burly palomino creature wearing nothing but a bridle. It screamed a third time, its eyes wild. Claw marks raked across its haunches.
“See there!” a cannery worker said. “A devil upon us already, and we ain’t hardly touched her yet!”
Charlotte staggered toward the creature, her heart in her throat. The horse tossed its head but stood quivering and silent when she caught hold of its bridle. Stamped in the cheekpiece were the initialsTLfor Theodore Livingston, Agnes’s deceased husband. It was one of Agnes’s carriage horses. The same gelding that had disappeared into the shadows of the forest not two days ago, harnessed to Agnes’s cart, with Arthur taking the lines cheerfully. Arthur could not get to Port Lorne without it.
“Mrs. Prentice?” Kitty gripped her elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“Arthur,” Charlotte gasped, and the rain and chill and ache caught up with her. She collapsed, her legs jellylike.
“Mrs. Prentice!” Kitty looked over her shoulder. “Someone help me get her inside.”
Someone gripped Charlotte’s arms, someone took her bumbershoot, someone steered her into the cottage. Jonas ran to put water on for tea. Sasha wanted to know what had happened, but Charlotte could only sit in her armchair, soaked and shivering, wondering how to tell the children their uncle was in trouble.
xii. In which Arthur ill-advisedly crosses a bridge
Arthur sprinted alongside the stream, afraid to leave it. With each of the eagles’ whistles, cold air blasted behind him, closer than before. But the stream was all he had. If he lost sight of that, he feared it wouldn’t matter what the eagles did to him.
The water dove thundering into a ravine. Arthur stumbled, avoiding the chasm. Freya’s claws dug into his chest.
Winging along behind him, the eagles caught sight of him. One opened its terrible beak and let out another whistle. A burst of wind cut through him like a knife.
Arthur fell to his knees, numb with cold. The blood froze on his forehead. Frost spread over leaves and flowers, rocks and bark. Ice crackled across the waterfall.
Breathing hard, Arthur struggled to his feet. He staggered along, the cat at his side, with one eagle following. Its mate winged onward without it, vanishing in the trees.
Arthur skidded to a halt. A swinging bridge swayed over the ravine.
Its ends were speared into massive trees whose bark had grown around them, or perhaps the bridge had grownfromthe trees. Its rails were not rope but long, thin twists of bark andwood. Moss and lichens stained them gray-green. The planks were raw and soft with age; several were missing. At the bridge’s far end, brambles grew so thickly in the shadow of tall black pines that there seemed no way past.
Arthur swallowed. The bridge looked treacherous. He didn’t know what lay beyond the brambles, or if he could get through them in the first place.
The eagle whistled behind him. Arthur rubbed his arms with numb fingers. Gritting his teeth, he started across the bridge.
“Oh, I don’t like this,” he moaned.
The cat raced past, her fluffy tail waving in his face. He watched her closely, certain she had a special animal sense for which planks were safe.
Then he stopped watching, because the eagle was closing in. He stumbled along. Planks creaked. Frost crackled. A plank cracked underfoot, and Arthur lunged for the bridge’s sides.
The plank gave way. Arthur’s leg slipped six inches. The straps of his knapsack dug into his shoulders.
The eagle cried out, closer now, the frost thickened to ice with a sharp crack, the cat bounded back across the bridge as if to help—
The eagle was upon him.
Arthur yanked his leg up. Freya launched herself at the raptor, clawing into one massive wing. Snapping its beak angrily, the eagle rammed the bridge, buffeting Arthur against its sides.
