The Sweet Far Thing
Page 231

“Gemma! Gemma!” It’s Felicity’s voice.
“Felicity!” I call back.
“Gemma, here!”
A hand takes shape in the fog and I grab for its warmth. Felicity embraces me. We pull each other along. We reach the turret first. Fowlson, McCleethy, Ann, and Kartik follow soon after.
“This is it,” I gasp. “The secret door.”
“Get on with it,” McCleethy pants.
I reach out my hand, and then I see the crow. Its caw is like a shriek from hell. A warning. A battle cry. Within seconds, there are a dozen of the terrible birds. They transform before my terrified eyes, shifting into the mummers who visited us. But that is only a disguise. I know who they are: Poppy Warriors.
The tall one removes his hat and bows low, and when he rises, I see the dark rings around his eyes. The inked poppies running up his arms.
“Hello, poppet. Such a nice evening for our sacrifice.”
The other birds shimmer off their shiny black wings and become those gruesome knights, and I shudder to think of the broken cathedral they call home. The wicked games they like to play with their victims.
“Going somewhere, hmmmm?” the tall one asks, grinning like a death mask. His grimy fingernails are as long as talons.
“I—I—” I stammer.
Kartik has got his dagger in his hand, but it won’t be enough against these fellows.
“’Kin ’ell,” Fowlson gasps. “Wot pit of ’ell did ’e crawl out of?”
Miss McCleethy puts herself between me and the Poppy Warrior. Her arms wrap round me like a mother’s, but this only makes the filthy creatures cackle.
“Won’t work, m’lady,” the one with three teeth growls.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” a Poppy Warrior shouts like an impresario. “Tonight, we’ve a most impressive show for your pleasure! The story of a maiden sacrificed to a nobler cause: to ensure the freedom of the Winterlands and bestow all power to its inhabitants. To open forever the borders between worlds. Is there no one who will save this fair maiden?” His grin turns feral. “No. I think not tonight. For the script has been written, and she must play her proper part.”
“Run!” I shout.
As quickly as I can, I dash for the school with the others in pursuit. The Poppy Warriors give chase, rising into crows behind us. We fall through the kitchen door, with its fading blood mark, and collapse on the floor, breathing hard.
“Are we all here? Gemma, are you hurt?” Kartik says.
“What the ’ell were those things?” Fowlson asks.
“Poppy Warriors,” I say. “You do not want to play with them, Mr. Fowlson, I assure you.”
“They…they know. They’re coming after us,” Ann says.
“How will we reach the door now?” Felicity wails.
The light of the kitchen is weak but I can see the fear in Miss McCleethy’s eyes. A crow’s wings beat against the window. It signals our whereabouts to the others.
“We can’t stay here,” I say. “If we make it to the turret, we might be able to sneak back that way.”
On the other side of the door, the long hall is dark and threatening. Anything could be hiding at the end of it. Anything. Kartik draws his dagger. Miss McCleethy leads the way, with Kartik and Fowlson just behind. Felicity and Ann, holding fast to each other’s hands, follow a pace behind. I am the last, turning every few steps to keep an eye on the dark behind me.
We travel the length of the hall without incident. But to reach the stairs, we shall have to pass the great room, with its newly freed inhabitants. One door remains closed, but the other is open. I don’t know how we can avoid being seen. We flatten ourselves against the wall and listen.
Kartik nods toward the stairs. Miss McCleethy moves stealthily toward them with the rest of us following. Keeping low, we make our ascent. Through the bars of the banisters I see the creatures making a mess of the great hall. The floor is littered with the glass from the lamps, the stuffing from pillows, pages ripped from books. They tear the scarves from Felicity’s tent, ripping them to shreds. It is terrible to see. But there is no time to mourn. We must reach the safety of the realms, though it is not truly safety, only a temporary reprieve.
At the East Wing, we abandon caution and stumble in. We stand on the half-finished turret, hidden by the ragged stone. Across the lawn, I see the riders fanning out, blocking all hope of escape. They call to the Poppy Warrior who guards the secret door.
“They are inside,” he shouts gleefully.
“Then they are trapped,” one of the trackers whispers fiercely. He rides toward the kitchen door we opened earlier. He’ll find us soon. And he’ll bring the others. We are well and truly stuck.