They arrived at Bent Knee Hollow at sunset; all around lay fields of gold, burnished red in the bloody light. Alice got down out of the back of the wagon and stood with her mother, uncertain, in the eye of a storm of women, all of whom had poured out of the buildings as they approached, some in aprons, some still clutching carving knives or hatchets or bundles of wool, their faces weathered but happy, their eyes clear. Adra went among them, embracing all. The women, suddenly shy, would stare at their feet as she passed.
There was a calmness, a gentleness in that place. It took Alice weeks to recognize the feeling that was in her, there: peace.
Seasons passed. Rachel began to change, imperceptibly at first, then noticeably. She cut her hair short, like Adra’s; she dressed in the same gray burlap dress as Adra; she rarely left the older woman’s side. Her anger, if it was still there, went underground; Alice no longer saw the same tense straining expression in her forehead, in her jaw. But Alice saw entirely less of her too—her own days were filled with the tasks of communal life, plucking and chopping and peeling for the great vats of soup, stacking firewood, mending clothes, beating blankets with sticks, stitching boots. At harvest they traded their labor to the local farmers in exchange for food and stores. The women worked in a monastic silence, and there were no other children at all. On Sundays the community gathered at dusk to light a great bonfire and to sing hymns and roast potatoes in their jackets. The fire was holy, Adra Norn taught, the fire would cleanse the world entire, when at last the end times came.
Only the pure, she warned them, would walk through the fires and be saved.
* * *
Margaret Harrogate knew about all of that, of course.
Or the greater part of it, at least. She’d heard tell of Bent Knee Hollow, and of Adra Norn’s foolishness, and she’d read the reports written by Rachel Quicke’s doctors, about what the madwoman had done to all those poor souls in that commune, and also a long letter by Coulton about Alice herself and the state of her mind. Oh, she knew. If secrets were currency at Cairndale, then Margaret’s pocketbook was full.
But none of that concerned her.
What did concern her was Dr. Berghast—Henry—the Henry she had left at Cairndale.
He was not the man she had known all these years. That much was ominously clear. He’d changed, she could see it now, surely anyone could. He was becoming consumed by his obsession. Never mind grief or fear, sorrow or hope. The drughr was all. Did he sleep? She had her doubts. Did he dream? Only of the drughr. He blamed himself for its horrible deeds; he carried the guilt of it inside him, like a cancer. Oh, he sounded reasonable and calm in the day-to-day, yes. But shame and fury had slowly mangled his heart into a shape that no longer resembled anything good and which would justify anything, any act, if it led to the obliteration of the drughr. She was frightened for him.
As she sat in the small train compartment, heading south, the spattered windows rattling in their frames, Margaret watched her companion sleep. Miss Quicke had proved herself brave, beyond a doubt; and she had proved herself loyal, to the children at least. Mr. Coulton had always sworn she was capable, trustworthy. Margaret sighed. Well, she’d know soon enough.
They were passing now through the north of England. They’d changed trains twice, and each time Margaret had scanned the gloomy railway platforms, watching for any sign of Marber or his litches. She’d seen nothing, no one. The ticket booths, the reading stalls, the solitary men in their drab black suits and hats, clutching their cases close—none of it made her easy.
She cast her mind forward, to London. The first thing she’d need to do would be to let Miss Quicke rest, to let her gather her strength. Then she’d need to find Mr. Fang, her contact in the exile community. He’d be the way to finding what she wanted: the weapon that could kill Jacob Marber.
It was the same weapon Walter had been searching for, all those weeks ago. It would have been no use to him, or to Margaret. Neither could have wielded it. The keywrasse would respond only to a dustworker’s touch. But if Margaret was correct—and she was nearly certain that she was—then Miss Quicke, because of the wound from Marber, because of the traces of dust that were now inside her, would be able to wield the weapon. She would be able to control it.
Margaret watched the younger woman’s face, pale and drawn, watched her shoulders shudder in time to the railway carriage. Shadows and daylight flickered over her. Miss Quicke slept on.
I only hope she is strong enough, thought Margaret.
* * *
But Alice wasn’t sleeping.