“Oho!” The voice twinkled. “My young lord! And with a human. How long’s it been since the last one? Must be near as long since last I saw you.”
“Not now, Maud. He needs in the pool.”
The throbbing sharpened as Ira shifted Arthur in his arms.
Then, a strange sort ofnothing.
Arthur opened his eyes.
He was surprised to find he could. He hadn’t been able to do much of anything since the attack except gurgle and cough blood.
As far as he could tell, he was underwater, but it didn’t feel like water. It was neither warm nor cool. It had permeated his clothing but didn’tfeelwet. It was silent but not in the usual way, where water pressed upon the ears, where the silence might be broken by movement or bubbles.
Small, smooth pebbles in green and blue and purple—like sea glass, though it could not be sea glass in this motionless water—layered the bottom of the strange pool. Its walls, or sides, or edges, Arthur couldn’t see. He might’ve been alone in the middle of a great ocean, except that there were no fish, no seaweed, no anything. Just the sea glass, and the water, and his arms making no ripples as they windmilled.
That surprised him, too. He could move his arms. His legs. He no longer throbbed with pain, but thick redness ribboned lazily from his neck.
Panicked at the sight of his own blood, he sucked in a breath, panicked harder—then stopped, heart hammering, because no water had entered his lungs. He could breathe, in fact. His breath whooshed harsh and quick, matching his heartbeat.
Ghostly figures materialized. The faces of woodsmen, some with axes in hand; villagers, some of whom Arthur recognized, or thought he did, sour and pinch-faced. Blood pounded in his ears.
One figure pushed through the rest. The bottom dropped out of Arthur’s stomach.
Dad?he said soundlessly.
George Throckmorton smiled, translucent and wavering. Arthur thought he’d remembered his father perfectly, but it seemed George’s tip-tilted eyes were warmer brown than he’d pictured, his black hair thicker, his belly rounder. In a trance, Arthur swam toward him, arms and legs pinwheeling, the wound in his neck forgotten. He barreled into his father, gripping him tight in a hug that wasn’t quite there.
Dad, he said.
George rubbed his back then pulled away. If he’d heard Arthur at all, he didn’t acknowledge it. Just turned his son’s head, wearing the same calm, serious expression he’d wornwhenever Arthur had come home with a black eye and broken glasses as a boy.
He pressed a hand to Arthur’s neck. Light spilled from his palm, so bright Arthur’s eyes squeezed shut. When his father withdrew, he opened them. George nodded at him.
Arthur touched his neck but couldn’t find where the creature had clung to him. His fingers came away clean, although he couldn’t tell if that was because he was underwater or because he was no longer bleeding.
His eyes prickled. Dead for thirty years, in the middle of an enchanted pool in the forest, his father was caring for him. Arthur reached for him. The spirits faded away, one at a time, until, with a small smile, George faded, too.
Dad, Arthur said, but his father was gone.
Hands gripped his shoulders. Someone wrenched him from the pool. As his head broke the surface, his lungs flooded. He landed on his knees on a pebbled shore, spewing water.
“Arthur.” As it had when Calyx had attacked, panic laced Ira’s hoarse voice. “Arthur.”
He clutched Arthur’s shoulders, but Arthur shook his head and coughed up more water.
“He’s fine,” the creaky voice said dismissively.
“He was down there for almost ten minutes. He’shuman, Maud.”
“He’s not bleeding anymore, is he?”
At the words, Arthur reached for his neck. It was uninjured.
Ira crouched before him, a hand tight on one shoulder. He touched Arthur’s face carefully—so carefully, his touch a whisper like he feared he’d break Arthur open. With a pang, Arthur realized the fur on his hands had thickened and spread.
“Are you all right?” Ira asked. “Can you say anything?”
Arthur opened his mouth but merely wheezed. He coughed several more times, swallowed, and managed to rasp, “Dad.”
