Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(90)

When the rickety cart approached Westminster, Bran and I tucked ourselves down between sacks of weevily flour, in case someone was looking for us. As I breathed in the bland, homey scent, an image popped into my mind. Moira—steady, capable Moira—hands dusted in white as she kneaded bread in the manor kitchen. She’d know exactly what to do to save my mom, and the baby inside her.

I swallowed hard against the new ache. Ridiculous of course, to feel homesick for a place I’d known for such a short time. And yet the people there had believed in me. Trusted me. Taken me in and made me one of their own.

Spooned behind me, beneath the layer of rough weave, Bran must’ve heard my quiet sigh. His arms tightened around me. His breath curled past my neck. As he hugged me to him, I luxuriated in his extraordinary heat. I was beyond tired, and it felt so good to lie there, despite the fine grains that filtered down, somehow lodging into every crease and crevice. A thought occurred to me as I fidgeted inside the rough homespun.

“If I get fleas from these clothes,” I whispered as I twitched the plain brown skirt, “I’m going to kill you.”

I felt Bran’s deep chuckle vibrate through me. “Too cold for fleas.”

Just as I’d relaxed, his lips brushed my ear. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about the lice.”

As the wagon rumbled and jolted down the pitted streets, I elbowed him—hard—and started scratching.

A freezing mist encased us as we hurried toward the high stone walls of Westminster Abbey. Every muscle in my body felt used up, exhausted. Hopping over a stream of something vile and steaming, I noticed Bran favoring his left side.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

He tugged at me, but I noticed the wince and I planted my feet.

“Raise your shirt.”

“Hmm. While I’m terribly flattered,” he said, eyebrows raised, “this may not be the time—”

“Cut it out,” I said, and when I looked up into his eyes, I saw they were shiny and glazed. A feverish spot stood out on each cheekbone. Gently, I laid my palm against his forehead, as my mother had done to me when I was a child. I jerked my hand away, gulping back a gasp of alarm. “You’re burning up.” I said. “And you’re limping. What’s going on, Bran? Let me see.”

I tugged at the rough oat-colored tunic, which smelled of smoke and flour and its previous owner. He grunted with irritation but raised the hem. I sucked in a breath.

A long, angry scab marred his side. Starting just below his ribs, it jagged and disappeared into the tied waistband of the dark, nubby breeches. Red streaks shot across smooth, tanned skin like malevolent spider legs. The black thread someone had used to stitch it had all but disappeared beneath the swelling.

When I pressed hesitantly, he hissed. Dark yellow pus oozed from the scab.

He heaved the shirt down. “See? Like I said. Nothing.”

His words might’ve been dismissive, but I could see pain cinch the corners of his eyes. He’d carried my mom through the tunnels and into the forest. The pain must’ve been excruciating, yet he never complained.

“Wait,” I said, recalling Celia ask about some wound back at the glade. “Did your mother do that to—”

“Leave it, Hope. It doesn’t matter.”

My horror was instant and nauseating. In the snowy courtyard of Mabray House, when Phoebe and I had escaped, I’d seen the moonlight on Celia’s blade when Bran’s mount had shoved hers out of my way. This was my fault. We had to get Bran back. To antibiotics and a sterile, modern hospital. If I was right about the Source, we’d at least know we might have a way out. Yes, we’d have to worry about locating—and likely stealing—two opals. But the stones meant nothing if the Source wasn’t there.

I refused to think about what would happen if I was wrong.





The low, barred grate where we’d emerged from the tunnels only hours before was now sealed. No amount of tugging or kicking made it budge. I yanked on the frosted iron until my palms were ice-scalded. “Gah!”

“Um,” Bran muttered, “it appears to be locked.”

“You think so, Captain Obvious?”

I gave the grate one, last savage kick for good measure, then let fly a string of curses.

Bran’s eyebrows flew up. “Impressive.”

When I told him to do something that was anatomically impossible, he only chuckled and took my arm. “Come on. We’ll find another way.”





“I can’t believe it.” Bran’s eyes scanned across the nave floor to the main altar.

On the road, I’d explained what I’d felt in the tunnel and seen, dangling upside down from the scaffolding during the coronation. We’d discussed Hectare’s cryptic message about a lady in “robes of purest white” guarding “her dark treasure in the deep.” But what if she had been trying to tell us there was a Source beneath Westminster Abbey?

Whether the little nun knew what she was saying or not, the clues added up. And since it was our only shot, we had to at least try.

“You know,” Bran mused, studying the curves imprinted in the black and white marble floor. “Even if the Source is here and we happen to locate some opals, it might dump us in some monstrous dinosaur era. Or even worse”—he shuddered theatrically—“the seventies.”