Down Among the Sticks and Bones Read online

  “We shouldn’t be here,” she murmured.

  “Indeed, you probably should not,” said a man’s voice. Both girls screamed and jumped, whirling around to find the man from the fountain standing behind them, looking at them like they were a strange new species of insect found crawling around his garden.

  “But you are here,” he continued. “That means, I suppose, that I’ll have to deal with you.”

  Jacqueline reached for Jillian’s hand, found it, and held fast, both of them staring in mute fear at the stranger.

  He was a tall man, taller than their father, who had always been the tallest point in their world. He was a handsome man, like something out of a movie (although Jacqueline wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a movie star so pale, or so seemingly sculpted out of some cold white substance). His hair was very black, and his eyes were orange, like jack-o’-lanterns. Most surprising of all was his red, red mouth, which looked like it had been painted, like he was wearing lipstick.

  The lining of his cloak was the same red color as his mouth, and his suit was as black as his hair, and he held himself so perfectly still that he didn’t seem human.

  “Please, sir, we didn’t mean to go anywhere we aren’t supposed to be,” said Jillian, who had, after all, spent years pretending she knew how to be brave. She tried so hard that sometimes she forgot that she was lying. “We thought we were still in our house.”

  The man tilted his head, like he was looking at a very interesting bug, and asked, “Does your house normally include an entire world? It must be quite large. You must spend a great deal of time dusting.”

  “There was a door,” said Jacqueline, coming to her sister’s defense.

  “Was there? And was there, by any chance, a sign on the door? An instruction, perhaps?”

  “It said … it said ‘be sure,’” said Jacqueline.

  “Mmm.” The man inclined his head. It wasn’t a nod; more a form of acknowledgment that someone else had spoken. “And were you?”

  “Were we what?” asked Jillian.

  “Sure,” he said.

  The girls stepped a little closer together, suddenly cold. They were tired and they were hungry and their feet hurt, and nothing this man said was making any sense.

  “No,” they said, in unison.

  The man actually smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice was not unkind.

  Maybe that was what gave Jillian the courage to ask, “For what?”

  “For not lying to me,” he said. “What are your names?”

  “Jacqueline,” said Jacqueline, and “Jillian,” said Jillian, and the man, who had seen his share of children come walking through those hills, come knocking at those gates, smiled.

  “Jack and Jill came down the hill,” he said. “You must be hungry. Come with me.”

  The girls exchanged a look, uneasy, although they could not have said why. But they were only twelve, and the habits of obedience were strong in them.

  “All right,” they said, and when he walked through the gates into the empty square, they followed him, and the gates swung shut behind them, shutting out the scrubland. They could not shut out the disapproving red eye of the moon, which watched, and judged, and said nothing.

  5

  THE ROLES WE CHOOSE OURSELVES

  THE MAN LED THEM through the silent town beyond the wall. Jill kept her eyes on him as she walked, trusting that if anything were to happen, it would begin with the only person they had seen since climbing into the bottom of their grandmother’s trunk. Jack, who was more used to silence, and stillness, and found it less distracting, watched the windows. She saw the flicker of candles as they were moved hastily out of view; she saw the curtains sway, as if they had just been released by an unseen hand.

  They were not alone there, and the people they shared the evening with were all in hiding. But why? Surely two little girls and a man who wore a cape couldn’t be that frightening. And she was hungry, and cold, and tired, and so she kept her mouth closed and followed along until they came to a barred iron door in a gray stone wall. The man turned to look at them, his expression grave.

  “This is your first night in the Moors, and the law says I must extend to you the hospitality of my home for the duration of three moonrises,” he said solemnly. “During that time, you will be as safe under my roof as I am. No one will harm you. No one will hex you. No one will draw upon your blood. When that time is done, you will be subject to the laws of this land, and will pay for what you take as would anyone. Do you understand?”

  “What?” said Jill.

  “No,” said Jack. “That doesn’t … What do you mean, ‘draw upon our blood’? Why would you be doing anything with our blood?”

  “What?” said Jill.

  “We’re not even going to be here in three days. We just need to find a door, and then we’re going to go home. Our parents are worried about us.” It was the first lie Jack had told since coming to the Moors, and it stuck in her throat like a stone.

  “What?” said Jill, for the third time.

  The man smiled. His teeth were as white as his lips were red, and for the first time, the contrast seemed to put some color into his skin. “Oh, this will be fun,” he said, and opened the iron door.

  On the other side was a hall. It was a perfectly normal hall, as subterranean castle halls went: the walls were stone, the floor was carpeted in faded red and black filigree, and the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling were rich with spider webs, tangled perilously close to the burning candles. The man stepped through. Jack and Jill, lacking any better options, followed him.

  See them now as they were then, two golden-haired little girls in torn and muddy clothes, following a spotless stranger through the castle. See how he moves, as fluid as a hunting cat, his feet barely seeming to brush the ground, and how the children hurry to keep up with him, almost tripping over themselves in their eagerness to not be left behind! They are still holding each other’s hands, our lost little girls, but already Jack is beginning to lag a little, suspicious of their host, wary of what happens when the three days are done.

  They are not twins who have been taught the importance of cleaving to each other, and the cracks between them are already beginning to show. It will not be long before they are separated.

  But ah, that is the future, and this is the present. The man walked and Jack and Jill followed, already wearing their shortened names like the armor that they would eventually become. Jack had always been “Jacqueline,” avoiding the short, sharp, masculine sound of “Jack” (and her mother had asked, more than once, whether there was a way to trade the names between the girls, to make Jacqueline Jillian, to let Jillian be Jack). Jill had always been “Jillian,” clinging to the narrow blade of femininity that she had been allowed, refusing to be truncated (and her father had looked into the question of name changes, only to dismiss it as overly complicated, for insufficient gain). Jill dogged their guide’s heels and Jack hung back as much as their joined hands allowed, and when they reached a flight of stairs, narrower than the one that had brought them there, made of stone instead of dusty wood, they both stopped for a moment, looking at the steps in silence.

  The man paused to look at them, a smile toying with the corner of his mouth. “This is not the way home for you, little foundlings,” he said. “I’m afraid that will be more difficult to find than the stairs that connect my village to my dining room.”

  “Your village?” asked Jack, forgetting to be afraid in her awe. “The whole thing? You own the whole thing?”

  “Every stick and every bone,” said the man. “Why? Does that impress you?”

  “A bit,” she admitted.

  The man’s smile grew. She was very lovely, after all, with hair like sunlight and the sort of smooth skin that spoke of days spent mostly indoors, away from the weather. She would be tractable; she would be sweet. She might do.

  “I have many impressive things,” he said, and started up the stairs, leaving the girls with little c
hoice but to follow him unless they wanted to be left behind.

  Up they went, up and up and up until it felt like they must have climbed all the way back to the bottom of Gemma Lou’s trunk, back into the familiar confines of their own house. Instead, they emerged from the stairwell and into a beautiful dining room. The long mahogany table was set for one. The maid standing near the far wall looked alarmed when the man stepped into the room, trailed by two little girls. She started to step forward, only to stop herself and stand there, wringing her hands.

  “Peace, Mary, peace,” said the man. “They’re travelers—foundlings. They came through a door, and this is their first night of three.”

  The woman didn’t look reassured. If anything, she looked more concerned. “They’re quite dirty,” she said. “Best give them to me, so’s I can give them a bath, and they don’t disturb your dinner.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “They’re eating with me. Notify the kitchen that I’ll require two plates of whatever it is that children eat.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” said Mary, bobbing a quick and anxious curtsey. She was not old, but she was not young either; she looked like one of the neighborhood women who were sometimes hired to watch Jack and Jill during the summer, when their parents had to work. Camp was too messy and loud for Jack, and summer enrichment programs could only fill so many hours of the day. Childcare, distasteful as it was, was sometimes the only option.

  (Age was the only thing Mary had in common with those poised and perfect ladies, who always came with credentials and references and carpetbags filled with activities for them to share. Mary’s hair was brown and curly and looked as likely to steal a hairbrush as it was to yield before it. Her eyes were the cloudy gray of used dishwater, and she stood at the sort of rigid attention that spoke of bone-deep exhaustion. Had she shown up on the doorstep seeking work, Serena Wolcott would have turned her away on sight. Jack trusted her instantly. Jill did not.)

  Mary gave the girls one last anxious look before heading for the door on the other side of the room. She was almost there when the man cleared his throat, stopping her dead in her tracks.

  “Tell Ivan to send for Dr. Bleak,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten our agreement.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” she said, and she was gone.

  The man turned to Jack and Jill, smiling when he saw how intently they were watching him. “Dinner will be ready soon, and I’m sure that you will find it to your liking,” he said. “Don’t let Mary frighten you. Three days I promised, and three days you’ll have, before you need to fear anything within these walls.”

  “What happens when the three days are over?” asked Jill, who had long since learned that games had rules, and that rules needed to be followed.

  “Come,” said the man. “Sit.”

  He walked to the head of the table, where he settled at the place that had been set for him. Jill sat on his left. Jack moved to sit beside her, and he shook his head, indicating the place on his right.

  “If I’m to have a matching pair for three days, I may as well enjoy it,” he said. “Don’t worry. There’s nothing to fear from me.” The word yet seemed to hang, unspoken but implied, over the three of them.

  But ah, Jack had seen very few horror movies in her day, and Jill, who might have been better prepared to interpret the signs, was exhausted and overwhelmed and still dizzy with the novelty of spending a day in the company of her sister without fighting. They sat where they were told, and they were still sitting there when Mary returned, followed by two silent, hollow-cheeked men in black tailcoats that hung almost to their knees. Each of the men was carrying a silver-domed plate.

  “Ah, good,” said the man. “How were these prepared?”

  “The kitchen-witch conjured things that are pleasing to children,” said Mary, voice stiff, chin raised. “She promises their satisfaction.”

  “Excellent,” said the man. “Girls? Which will you have?”

  “The left, please,” said Jill, remembering every scrap of manners she had ever possessed. Her stomach rumbled loudly, and the man laughed, and everything felt like it was going to be all right. They were safe. There were walls around them, and food was being put in front of them, and the watching eye of the bloody moon was far away, watching the scrubland instead of the sisters.

  The men set their trays down in front of the sisters, whisking the silver domes away. In front of Jack, half a rabbit, roasted and served over an assortment of vegetables: plain food, peasant food, the sort of thing she might, given time, have learned to prepare for herself. There was a slice of bread and a square of cheese, and she had been raised to be polite, even when she didn’t want to be; she did not complain about the strange shape of her meat, or the rough skins of the vegetables, which had been cooked perfectly, but in a more rustic manner than she was accustomed to.

  In front of Jill, three slices of red roast beef, so rare that it was bleeding into the mashed potatoes and the spinach that surrounded it. No bread, no cheese, but a silver goblet full of fresh milk. The metal was covered in fine drops of condensation, like dew.

  “Please,” said the man. “Eat.” Mary reached over and took the silver dome from his food, revealing a plate that looked very much like Jill’s. His goblet matched hers as well, although the contents were darker; wine, perhaps. It looked like the wine their father sometimes drank with dinner.

  Jack hoped that it was wine.

  Jill began to eat immediately, falling on her food like a starving thing. She might have wrinkled her nose at meat that rare at home, but she hadn’t eaten in more than a day; she would have eaten meat raw if it meant that she was eating something. Jack wanted to be more cautious. She wanted to see whether this stranger drugged her sister, or something worse, before she let her guard down. But she was so hungry, and the food smelled so good, and the man had said they’d be safe in his house for three days. Everything was strange, and they still didn’t know his name—

  She stopped in the act of reaching for her fork, turning to look at him with wide eyes while she frantically tried to kick Jill under the table. Her legs were too short and the table was too wide; she missed by more than a foot. “We don’t know your name,” she said, voice a little shrill. “That means you’re a stranger. We’re not even supposed to talk to strangers.”

  Mary paled, which Jack would have thought was impossible; the woman had almost no color in her to start with. The two silent servers took a step backward, putting their backs to the wall. And the man, the strange, nameless man in his red-lined cloak, looked amused.

  “You don’t know my name because you haven’t earned it, little foundling,” he said. “Most call me ‘Master,’ here. You may call me the same.”

  Jack stared at him and held her tongue, unsure of what she could possibly say; unsure of what would be safe to say. It was plain as the moon in the sky that the people who worked for this man were afraid of him. She just didn’t know why, and until she knew why, she didn’t want to say anything at all.

  “You should eat,” said the man, not unkindly. “Unless you’d prefer what your sister is having?”

  Jack mutely shook her head. Jill, who had been eating throughout the exchange, continued to shovel meat and potato and spinach into her mouth, seemingly content with the world.

  Heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs, loudly enough to catch the attention of everyone at the table, even Jill, who chewed and swallowed as she turned to look toward the sound. The man grimaced, an expression of distaste which only deepened as another stranger walked into the room.

  This man was solid, built like a windmill, sturdy and strong and aching to burn. His clothing was practical, denim trousers and a homespun shirt, both protected by a leather apron. He had a chin that could have been used to split logs, and bright, assessing eyes below the heavy slope of his brow. Most fascinating of all was the scar that ran all the way along the circumference of his neck, heavy and white and frayed like a piece of twine, like whatever had cut him had made no
effort whatsoever to do it cleanly.

  “Dr. Bleak,” said the first man, and sneered. “I wasn’t sure you would deign to come. Certainly not so quickly. Don’t you have some act of terrible butchery to commit?”

  “Always,” said Dr. Bleak. His voice was a rumble of thunder in the distant mountains, and Jack loved it at once. He sounded like a man who had shouted his way into understanding the universe. “But we had an arrangement, you and I. Or have you forgotten?”

  The first man grimaced. “I sent for you, didn’t I? I told Ivan to tell you that I remembered.”

  “The things Ivan says and the things you say are sometimes dissimilar.” Dr. Bleak finally turned to look at Jack and Jill.

  Jill had stopped eating. Both of them were sitting very, very still.

  Dr. Bleak frowned at the red-stained potatoes on Jill’s plate. The meat was long since gone, but the signs of it remained. “I see you’ve already made your choice,” he said. “That was not a part of the arrangement.”

  “I allowed the girls to select their own meals,” said the first man, sounding affronted. “It’s not my fault if she prefers her meat rare.”

  “Mmm,” said Dr. Bleak noncommittally. He focused on Jill. “What’s your name, child? Don’t be afraid. I’m not here to harm you.”

  “Jillian,” whispered Jill, in a squeak of a voice.

  “Dr. Bleak lives outside the village,” said the first man. “He has a hovel. Rats and spiders and the like. It’s nothing compared to a castle.”

  Dr. Bleak rolled his eyes. “Really? Really? You’re going to resort to petty insults? I haven’t even made my choice yet.”

  “But as you’re clearly going for the one I’d be inclined to favor, I feel no shame in pleading my case,” said the first man. “Besides, look at them. A matched set! How could you begrudge me the desire to keep them both?”