He did not addif she is still alive. He did not need to.
“The Pontiff has access to the catacombs.”
“But we don’t have access to the Pontiff.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Oh good. And he will, of course, listen to my story, sympathize, and let me in at once.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that weask permission.”
Dwale had one bedroll and some thin blankets that we divided between the three of us, the men insisting chivalrously that I take the thickest one. I wasn’t so foolish as to argue. Even after we had swept the little stones aside as best we could to expose the smoother—slightly smoother—sand, the ground was far from comfortable, and the thicker blanket was a boon. With much grumbling and some cursing—the latter mostly from Dwale—we finally lay down and attempted to sleep.
By unspoken agreement, we left the enchanted lantern burning—and all the while, the Mirth thundered and steamed beside us. The incessant roar and the churning, boiling motion of it had an odd magnetism. I found myself staringat it dreamily, wondering what it would be like to let myself roll towards the water, to let myself be swallowed by that vast, hungry mouth.
“Netta.”
I started.
“Your Hair,” said Patrick.
I saw now that my Hair had tumbled from its makeshift ties and lay with its ends reaching towards the water like questing fingers. I sat up and snatched it back, bundling it roughly again at the nape of my neck.
“The dye is starting to fade,” I said. “We will need to apply it again.”
From where he lay beside me, Patrick reached for a loose tendril, turning it between his fingers as if fascinated. “I don’t think so.”
“But the red …”
“Once we get to Mirthwater, we will no longer need to hide.”
I looked at him quizzically, but he said no more.
I thought I would struggle to sleep, as my mind was reeling, but I slumbered deeply until morning. After a rudimentary breakfast, we walked on. I trailed behind the men a little, as my feet had started to blister. Patrick and Dwale were engaged in an intense conversation up ahead that involved a lot of furious gesturing, but I could not hear it. Baldbeak was still tense and silent on my shoulder.
After a few hours, we reached a place where the river was calmer—more like a river and less like an immense temper tantrum. It was even calm enough for Dwale to bait a string and catch a brace of eels, thick and muscled as his own powerful forearms.
“Eels.” I made a face. “Really?”
“There’s gratitude for you,” said Dwale, letting them fall with a wet splat. “They’re good eating. Know how to gut an eel?”
“I … could try?”
He gave an exaggerated sigh, then sat down and proceeded to do it himself as Baldbeak watched with interest.
“Give him the eyeballs,” I said wearily. Dwale tossed them to Baldbeak, and he gulped them down. Patrick glanced over and turned a little green.
Dwale slit the eels neatly just behind their gills, then grasped their open skin and pulled it back. Their blood was watery and thin; their guts pale. The slender vertebrae of their backs were almost beautiful, I thought, like the barbs of a white feather. I put out a finger to touch one of the delicate eel spines, gently, and felt it shiver in response, writhing very slightly as if it were coming back to life—then saw Dwale watching and snatched my hand back. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“How long have you known Patrick?” I asked, to divert him.
“Oh, I’ve known him for years,” said Dwale, still working on the eels. “Since he was a boy in the great house, and I was the son of the game warden. We hunted pigeons together, with slingshots and pebbles.”
“The great house?”
“Ban Edevane’s mansion. Great big sprawl of a place.”
“That’s my family’s house,” I said. “I am an Edevane.”
