“All is ready, sir,” he said.
Walford returned the man’s salute and dismissed him with a nod. Turning to Effie, he dipped his head to her. “We must find this creature before the world burns around us. Fare thee well, Effie of Glen Coe.”
Effie’s legs begged her to stop, yet the promise of a warm hearth and hot tea kept her moving. Her muscles had long since grown weary. The cold made her bones ache. She’d reclaimed Jack’s cane and leaned on it more heavily with each breath. Every step found a rock’s sharp edge that dug into the pads of her feet. Each bend in the road revealed a slope to climb. But the cottage where Rose Brewer stayed was not far now.
She had left Rose there with the captured pixies that Cyrus Reed had transformed into Unseily goblins. For weeks, they and their friends had poured over ancient tomes full of crackling parchment, straining their eyes against fading smears of ink, scouring the text for some clue as to how to reverse the pixies’ transformation. They had tried Fey Craft as well, all the mustered knowledge they possessed. They had barely slept. Their limbs had hung like sodden rags. Their cheeks had grown thick, and eyes puffy. Yet they had uncovered nothing to aid them, despite their efforts.
All the same, Effie hoped Rose would have good news for them once they reached her. Something to prove the warden wrong. Something to give the pixies, and now Clara, a chance. She sensed the corruption in the girl’s aura, even not knowing what it’d once been. It felt wrong somehow, as if a pestilence of weevils and mites had taken root.
Clara kept pace beside Effie, with Caledon opposite. The steward’s steady stride was carefree compared to the lass’s wavering gait. They had left the rugged, untamed hills after a few hours. Gone were the long glens of trickling water and high ridges of frosted bracken. They crossed farmland now, and a hint of the pastures hung pungently in the air.
The abbey of Dunfermline rose in the distance, the crenellations of its tower barely visible in the failing daylight. To the south, across the dark waters of the Firth of Forth, the smoke and lights of Edinburgh painted the horizon in beacons of yellows and oranges.
Effie had known they wouldn’t use the same trick to reach the cottage that Caledon and Gaelyph had used to reach the ravine. That trick involved traveling to Elphame, and neither she nor Clara Bowman were allowed its secrets. But she had assumed they would find horses or hire a carriage. The long day of marching felt like a leisure they did not have time to indulge.
Yet the warden disdained steam carriages and had made his dislike of riding animals likewise known. He had insisted they remain afoot, and to Effie’s annoyance, Caledon had obliged the warden’s request.
Marching behind, Gaelyph’s crunching footfalls reminded Effie of a jailer prodding them along. She was grateful Jaelyn wasn’t there to push them faster. The brownie’s legs never tired. But she had departed with Edgar to see to the villagers of Braemuir and to let them know Clara had been found. Effie had sent Gareth with the pair, if only to guard them against each other and ensure the brownie did not leave the poor man lost in the hills.
Clara had chosen not to return home. Her present fate remained too much in doubt, and she’d broken down in sobs at the thought of facing her family. Effie’s heart pained, but a part of her had felt relief at the choice, if only because she didn’t believe Gaelyph would’ve let the lass go free. The decision had for the nonce avoided an argument, if not a shedding of blood.
Irritation welling, Effie’s fists clinched around her cane. She forced them to relax again. She’d already done the same once for all the sheep in Scotland as they marched the day through.
“If only the tales be true, and fey could turn a turnip into a carriage,” she said. Her tone wasn’t quite as pleasant as she meant it to be, but Caledon laughed all the same.
“That would be something. And a toad for a footman, though I fear your Gareth would not make much of a steed,” he said.
“Do…do they have carriages in the fey lands? In Elphame?” asked Clara. Her voice wavered, but she was able to meet Effie’s gaze. “I’ve never ridden in a carriage before, only in Tattie Tom’s cart.”
Effie chuckled at the name. Not knowing the answer, she swung her head around to peer at Gaelyph. The warden stared at her blankly until she stopped and planted her hands on her hips. “Are all wardens as rude as you, or is it only women you dislike?”
Tilting his head, Gaelyph’s brow narrowed. “Rudeness is not a topic commonly considered in Elphame,” he said. “A harmony is reached when all fey know their place and abandon thoughts of self. Submitting to the honor of our court leaves little room for the willfulness of taking offense.”
Effie’s foot tapped furiously. “That sounds strikingly similar to the arguments of the Sidhe Bhreige. But I suppose your pure blood is closer to theirs than we lowly Scots.”
Gaelyph’s hand curled around the pommel of his sword. His eyes found Caledon. “You see, steward, it as I told you. It is the nature of your host to consider themselves first. That they would rather cling to life in these lands than join their ancestors in Elphame speaks loudly enough, but this contempt proves it.”
He tilted his head down to glare at her. “Those who have chosen isolation should be left to their fate. They are not worthy of Elphame.”
“Do not begin again,” snapped Caledon. He raised a finger in warning. The steward’s tone left little doubt an argument had passed between them earlier.
The warden stiffened. He tugged at the cuffs of his shirt. “It is time for the steward of our court to rejoin his duties in Elphame. The mantle has too long been distant. If you wish to remain here, the mantle can be relinquished. It belongs to our shared blood, not yours alone. Pass it to one worthy of our court in Elphame if you will not abandon your folly.”
Effie’s eyes bulged in shock. She had known the steward’s mantle could be passed—her own grandfather had been close friends with the previous steward—but she’d always assumed the mantle, once taken, was kept for life. That Gaelyph dared ask for it openly made blatantly clear why he had come to Caledon. He had no desire to save Scotland from the Sidhe Bhreige, nor did he care about the fey of the empire.
A wash of rustling leaves on a warm autumn day passed over her. Calm, it said. Caledon treated her with a knowing look. He’d said earlier that the warden would aid them greatly. Effie calmed herself and bit her tongue. She would trust in the steward, as she always did. He could see things where all others, including herself, remained blind.
“We shall speak on this later,” said Caledon.
The warden’s face scrunched before relaxing. He brushed past Effie, marching down the road at a brisk pace. She saw no reason to hurry after and let him be. Now that she knew his true design, she determined not to let him goad her anymore. She turned her thoughts instead to Clara and asked whether the lass had ever been to Edinburgh. It always surprised her the number of Scots who lived within a day of the great city who’d never once visited it. When Clara shook her head, Effie began pointing out the different sections of the city across the firth, from the shores of Leith to the shadows formed by Castle Rock.
Caledon listened in silence, and Clara, while not an eager student, politely asked a handful of questions. It served well enough to lighten their step. By the time Effie finished, she recognized the trees and fields around them and soon spied the familiar cottage.