Foxheart (29 page)

And then Quicksilver was falling, her only anchor Sly Boots's hand. Something deep inside her snapped, slid away from her like a broken rope, and was gone.

T
he world was bright, swirling. Then, darkness. A sharp pain. A faint buzzing sound. They landed on a hard surface.

Quicksilver stumbled to her feet, swaying.

“Fox?” she screamed. “Fox! Where are you?”

“Quicksilver?” Sly Boots's voice was dazed. “Who is that screaming?” A pause, a gasp. Sly Boots shot upright, holding his head. “This is my attic. How did we get back here?”

Quicksilver ignored him and kept calling for Fox. She crashed through the attic, overturning chairs and digging through musty chests of folded linens. She stumbled, her vision
blurred. She wiped her face and fell, scraping her knees. She got back up, drew aside the heavy, patched drapes that covered a small window. Nothing but glass and stars.

“Where are you, Fox? What did you do? Come here, right now!”

Sly Boots reached for her. “Quicksilver, I think—”

She slapped him away. “You don't know! You don't know anything about us! Fox, this isn't funny anymore! Stop playing! I'm your witch, and I command you, I
command
you . . .”

She sat on the floor, holding herself, heaving as she tried to fight off her tears and breathe away everything about this moment. There was a terrible, hollow pain in her chest, and she thumped against it with her fist, again and again, until her skin smarted. She put her face to her knees, wound her fingers in her hair, and pulled, drawing all the pieces of herself into a tight knot. She thought his dear name and pushed it through her mind like a reaching hand—
Fox? Fox, where are you?
Come back, come back!
But the invisible magical cord that had helped her speak to Fox, and direct him and work with him, the cord that had hooked their two hearts together, was no longer there.

Her blood felt slow, her bones heavy. She lifted a strand of hair. It had lost its luster and was now a dull, faded red. The world around her didn't shine and shimmer; it was gloom gray and dust brown.

They were no longer in the Star Lands of long ago. They were in the Star Lands of
now
.
Their
now. The
now
from which Anastazia had taken them—was it weeks ago?

“Fox?” she whispered, but when she said his name aloud, she felt no answering tug in return.

Sly Boots crouched silently nearby. His hand was gentle on her shoulder, and that was the worst thing of all. Because it meant he understood, and this wasn't some horrible trick of Quicksilver's mind.

“He isn't,” she whispered. “I promise you he isn't. Just wait. He'll show up. We'll wait for him.”

“All right,” said Sly Boots, sitting beside her on the floor.

But this was only an attic, dark and cluttered. There was no light. No sound of paws against the floor. No warm, musky fur to hide her face in.

In the back of her mind, a calm voice—which sounded rather like Anastazia when she was in the midst of a lecture—told Quicksilver that this meant she could no longer work magic. She was a witch in blood and always would be, but without a monster, she would never again be a witch in practice.

She found, however, that she didn't much care. For what was being a witch, without a Fox beside you?

F
or a long time, Quicksilver sat on the floor in the dim attic. She gazed blearily at the mess she had made—the overturned chairs, the spilled piles of clothes. Dust clouds drifted throughout the room, disturbed by her screaming and her crashing and her pointless searching. She watched the dust float, and she tried to find her way back into the gray cocoon of the Shadow Fields, where everything felt quiet and safe.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't find that feeling again, couldn't slip back into the Shadow Fields. She was stuck here, in this attic, where the shadows were normal
shadows, where she felt every horrible feeling it was possible to feel.

“He isn't,” she whispered, whenever she found the breath to speak. “He isn't.”

But he was, and she knew it. Fox was gone. He had saved her, and he had used his own life to do it. Anastazia had said, right from the beginning, that time-traveling magic was dangerous, that it required tremendous sacrifice—of both the witch, and her monster.

Which is why
—Anastazia's words came floating back to her—
as far as I know, I'm only one of two witches to ever have done it.

Now Quicksilver understood why.

“I'm sorry, Quicksilver,” said Sly Boots, after a long time had passed. “What can I do?”

Part of her wanted to grab on to him, hide her face in his jacket, and never let go, simply because, at that moment, he was the only other person in her world.

But she would not let herself do that. Sly Boots had betrayed them; he had sent them down this path toward Anastazia's death, toward Fox's death. Maybe it hadn't been his fault, if the Wolf King and the First Ones really had tricked him into doing their bidding. Even so, she was not ready to
forgive him. Not yet, not in this awful, empty moment in this awful, empty attic.

She glared at him, her vision still blurry with tears. “You can make yourself useful and help me do whatever needs doing. Fox died to save you. You'd better be worth it.”

Instead of flinching or looking away, Sly Boots met her gaze. “I will. I promise.”

“Your promises don't mean much to me.” She got up, shaky, and shoved Sly Boots away when he helped steady her. Once downstairs, Sly Boots hurried ahead to his parents' bedroom, crying out with joy when he saw them there, just as he had left them.

Quicksilver followed slowly. Movement felt unfamiliar and difficult. Some stupid, oblivious part of her kept hoping that if she turned around and hurried back to the attic, she might catch Fox there. He had only been playing a game, and he would tease her, without mercy, for taking so long to find him.

But it was a lie, and so Quicksilver kept putting one foot in front of the other, because she did not know what else to do. Her feet took over, doing the thinking for her: left, right. Left, right.

Fox,
she thought, she would forever think.
What am I to do now?
She remembered those nights at the convent when she had
sat blubbering in the chapel, one arm around Fox, feeling lonely and sorry for herself. What had that girl known about loneliness?

“Someone's been here.” Sly Boots inspected his parents' bedroom, frowning. “Things are different. I didn't leave that here, nor that there. And don't they look better to you? They seem better.”

Quicksilver looked. “I suppose,” said her tongue and her lips. How extraordinary, that they could function without her really caring whether they did or not.

Sly Boots paused, holding an empty bowl—the one he had thrown against the wall and shattered was gone. This was a different one, clean and
whole. “I wish I knew how to help you.”

Quicksilver turned away, her eyes stinging—and then a noise came from downstairs. A door opening. Someone was entering the house.

She whirled and ran, her heart in her throat and Sly Boots at her heels. It couldn't be Fox.
He is dead, remember? Dead, dead, dead. Say it enough, and you'll feel better. Say it enough, and your heart will go numb, and you'll never feel anything again.

By the time Quicksilver got downstairs, they were already inside—a group of people wearing hooded cloaks. Quicksilver skidded to a halt, Sly Boots slamming into her back.

“Who are you?” she demanded. Automatically, she tried to fling Fox at them and failed, and nearly fell to her knees at the anguish of her own foolishness.

One of them lowered his hood, revealing a mop of strawberry-blond curls and a beaming, familiar smile.

Sly Boots gasped. Quicksilver stepped back, squinting. “Olli?” she asked.

“No,” said the young man. He looked only a small handful of years older than them. “I'm Lars. I'm his great-great . . .” He paused to count, then shrugged jovially. “His grandson, many times over.”

Quicksilver's mind felt like mud. She stared at Lars, noticing the similarities—and the differences. He had Olli's wide smile, but his hair was a light orange-gold, instead of a blinding, magic-bright white. His skin was a lighter brown than Olli's had been, and he had freckles, like Freja.

“Prove it.” Sly Boots stepped in front of Quicksilver. “Either way, you're trespassing.”

“I know, and I'm sorry about that.” Lars nodded to the others, and they lowered their own hoods. “Olli made sure to pass on your story as well, Sly Boots. We've been tending to your parents in your absence. I think we've done a good job of it, too.
I know how to heal them, by the way, but it would require quite a bit of magic to do so, and we can't risk alerting the Wolf King to our presence. Besides, I need to save all the strength I can, while we're at war.”

Sly Boots waited, his face hard.

“Olli and Freja survived, long ago in Valteya,” Lars explained. “The great witches Lukaas, Aleksi, Bernt, and Lumi fought the wolves in that ice cave and gave them time to escape.”

Quicksilver nearly sat down right there on the floor; the sadness felt too heavy for her to stand up any longer. Lukaas, Aleksi, Bernt, and Lumi—brave witches who had climbed a mountain and fought and been tortured, all because of her.

She fought through the heavy, sticky numbness trapping her whole body and croaked, “I'm sorry they died like that. I didn't mean for them to.”

Lars smiled gently. “They are heroes in our history. Olli and Freja told their stories. They were on the road for a long time, hiding and grieving the loss of their friends. But they knew what they had seen, and what it meant—your Fox, Quicksilver, sending you and Sly Boots back to the future, along with the last skeleton. Someone had to survive, to tell others what had happened so someone would be here, waiting for you, when you came home.”

When Lars said Fox's name, it woke something inside Quicksilver. She reached into her cloak and touched the pocket that held the ermine skeleton. Though it shifted at her touch, it did not bite or hiss. Perhaps now, as a magicless human, she was less interesting to it.

Lars's face sagged with relief. “You have it, then? It's safe?”

Wary, Quicksilver did not answer. “Tell me more.”

“Olli and Freja traveled the Star Lands and told the story to any witch who would listen,” Lars continued. “How you led Olli's coven into the mountains using collective magic. How Fox found the skeleton, and how you resisted the Wolf King's torture.” Lars's face softened. “How Fox sacrificed himself to save the last skeleton from the Wolf King and send you home.”

As she relived these moments—which for her had only just happened, and which for Lars were the stuff of long-ago story—a swift, sharp ache pierced Quicksilver's heart.
Fox's sacrifice.
Her eyes grew hot. She found Sly Boots's hand and grabbed on. His fingers pressed hers, gently.

“Ever since then,” Lars went on, “we witches have lived in hiding, all throughout the Star Lands, waiting for your return. My family in particular has been charged with this task, ever since Olli told us where, and when, Fox would have been most
likely to send you—somewhere safe. Back home, to Willow-on-the-River. My ancestors have lived in this town, in secret, for hundreds of years, waiting for Anastazia to come and take both of you back in time, as she had before. We had to make sure nothing kept that from happening.” Lars gestured at the witches around him. “My coven and I saw you leave, weeks ago, when the Wolf King attacked. Then we waited for your return, watching Sly Boots's house and tending to his parents. When you came back tonight, we felt it. A sacrifice like Fox's sends out waves of magic.” Lars paused, grim. “The Wolf King will have felt it too. We'll have to leave, very soon, before he tracks you here.”

A cold, clean anger swelled within Quicksilver. “He still lives, then.”

“Oh, yes, and he left much of Willow-on-the-River in ruins on the night you traveled to the past. We managed to protect your home and parents, Sly Boots. Now the town is rebuilding, but I'm sure it will be some time before it recovers.” Lars looked sadly at Quicksilver. “The Wolf King is especially hateful of girls. I think they remind him of you. He takes them to the Black Castle, in the Far North, and . . . who knows what happens there?”

Quicksilver thought of her fellow orphans at the convent, and dug her fingernails into her palms. Not even Adele deserved a fate like that.

“It's not him, though!” said Sly Boots. “The Wolf King. He's being controlled by the First Ones. He wouldn't do these things if he were his own true self, I swear to you.”

Sly Boots quickly recounted to Lars and his companions what he knew—how the Wolf King was enslaved to the First Ones' will, and how he longed to be free of them.

“If that's true,” said Lars, “then the boy has my pity. But not my mercy.”

His companions nodded in agreement. A squirrel monster, his fur a faintly lustrous orange-gold, poked his head out of Lars's cloak to gaze inquisitively at Quicksilver.

“Not now!” Lars said, and the squirrel retreated.

Quicksilver stared at where the monster had been, her head pounding. She could almost hear Fox's voice; if she closed her eyes, she would feel his fur beneath her fingers.

“I'm sorry,” said Lars quietly. “They're just so excited to see you. All these years our people have been waiting for a legend, and here you are, at last.” He paused, smiled. “They call you Foxheart, the monsters. Quicksilver Foxheart, in honor of him.”

And Quicksilver understood then that these witches had instructed their monsters to remain hidden—because they had known Quicksilver would have no monster of her own, and that the misery of that would be fresh and raw.

We determine the fate of our world, Fox,
she had told him, and Anastazia had told her—and she believed that. But how could she do such a thing, with this fist of grief squeezing her heart?

She did not know. But she knew she must begin to learn.

So she asked, “What do we do now? We have one skeleton, and he has six.”

Lars knelt before Quicksilver, and his companions did the same, their faces kind and eager. “Now, at last, we go to the Black Castle to fight the Wolf King,” Lars said, “and we would be honored, Quicksilver Foxheart, if you would join us.”