Echo North(26)

“All is well, Lady Echo. Go back to sleep.”

“But you are cold.”

Silence. Then, “It will pass, by the morning.”

“Morning will be a long time in coming.”

“Sleep, Lady Echo.”

I thought of how he’d lain next to me after he’d rescued me from the wood. It wasn’t as big a thing, but I couldn’t leave him down there; he hadn’t left me. “Come up here with me. The bed is big enough. You’ll freeze down there.”

“I am fine.”

And yet his teeth went chatter, chatter, chatter.

“Wolf, please. It is so much warmer up here.”

A long, long pause. Then: “Very well, my lady.”

There came a shuffling, scrabbling noise as he got up, the creak and sag of the bed hinges.

I was careful to scoot over to the side to give him enough room; I feared to touch him in the dark.

I heard him burrow under the blankets, felt the weight of him on his side of the bed.

“Echo?” He sounded lost and sad.

“Yes, Wolf?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And then we fell asleep.

Somewhere in the night, I thought I felt the wolf’s warm breath on my cheek. I turned toward him, reached out, but my fingers touched only blankets.

His voice was the barest thread in the dark: “I am sorry, Echo. I am sorry for everything.”

My head was too thick with sleep to answer.

I knew nothing more until morning.





CHAPTER TWELVE

WHEN I WOKE I WAS ONCE more alone, no sign of the wolf but the mussed bedclothes. I wondered where he’d gone. All the gowns in the wardrobe were too elegant for everyday wear, so I asked the house for a new blouse and skirt. They appeared out of thin air, laying themselves over the bed, the skirt a dark green wool with gold leaves embroidered around the hem, the blouse of cream linen, so finely spun it felt like silk.

“I’d like some breakfast,” I said when I had dressed. A little table unfolded from nothing and settled by the door, with a low cushioned stool beside it. I sat down to honey-sweetened porridge, plump sausages, and tangy orange slices.

“May I have some tea?”

A teapot and cup arrived an instant later, and I poured out a cupful and took a sip. I nearly spat it out.

What was this? I raised the cup and took a hesitant sniff—it smelled like dirt with a hint of charcoal, which would explain the taste. I laid it hastily down again, and wondered if it was possible to teach a magical house how to make a proper cup of tea.

Breakfast over, I stepped out into the hall. “Bring me to the wolf,” I said, and started walking. The floor shifted under my feet, and I found myself trudging through a corridor of fine white sand. It slipped into my shoes and clung to the hem of my skirt. I turned a corner and came face to face with the obsidian door. Whispers and music echoed from behind it—the wolf was in there. Remembering.

I put my hand on the smooth black surface. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to my being there than simply to help him care for the house. Could I stop him from dying? Halt the hands of that strange clock and free him somehow? There had to be answers somewhere in this rambling collection of magical rooms. When the wolf wasn’t with me, I could look for them.

And where better to look for answers than a library?

I tapped my fingers against the obsidian door and turned away, telling myself it was my promise to the wolf that was keeping me from going back inside, and not my gnawing fear of the strange and terrible room. I gave the house its next command.



I WASN’T BRAVE ENOUGH TO try a book-mirror that might turn out as tragic as The Hidden Wood, so I chose one with an innocuous description about a rich young fop who liked to go on fox hunts. Perhaps I would get lucky and find Mokosh again—she had an enchanted library, too, after all, and she read so much, maybe she would have insight into the wolf’s situation.

I touched the mirror; magic curled through me.

The next moment I was barreling along on horseback in the midst of a company of riders, wind singing in my ears, banners snapping bright overhead. Laughter rang loud on the summer air. My mount’s mane whipped back into my face and my stomach leapt into my throat. I could barely catch my breath but found I was laughing, too.

A bugle sounded just ahead; hounds bayed. The landscape was a rush of green on every side.

One of the riders looked back at me and gave a loud whoop—to my surprise I saw it was the blond man from the tavern in The Hidden Wood. Was he a reader, too? If he remembered me, he gave no sign.

The tide of the hunt hurtled onward, and I caught sight of our quarry: the orange blur of a fox, dashing madly across the countryside, losing ground.

The men around me hollered louder. They raised silver spears high; the sun made the metal flash and dance.

The blond man didn’t have a spear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another company of riders thundering up. One moment they were still a ways off, the next they surrounded us, a wall of glistering plate armor and naked blades. Swords pressed suddenly against all of our throats—mine included—and I glanced over at the blond man in an attempt to quell my panic. He was grinning widely around the blade at his throat. This might be a story, but pain bit into my skin; blood trickled down my neck.