The Flame in the Mist (20 page)

“Are you there?” she whispered. A bluish tinge appeared
in one of them—and then her mother’s face began shimmering through. “Show yourself—please!” she said, louder.

“Here I am!” A child’s voice lilted across the room.

Jemma snapped her head up, swiftly pocketing the crystals. “Who’s there?”

“Me.” From behind a pile of crates, eyes the color of forget-me-nots peered at her. Then one foot appeared, followed by the rest of a girl’s slight form, topped by a tangle of honey-colored hair. “You said, ‘Show yourself’,” she said. “So I did.” She broke into a broad grin the image of Digby’s. “Your hair! It’s brighter than they say, even. You really are the Fire One!”

“Fire One?” Jemma felt a little uneasy. “What …? No, I—I’m just me. Jemma. And let me guess: you’re Digby’s little sister, Flora.”

Flora nodded and skittered over to the pallet. “I’m seven,” she announced, as if that explained everything about her. She sat next to Jemma and gazed intently at her. “Was it hard to escape from the castle?”

“Yes, it was,” said Jemma. “But how do you know about it?”

“Well, I— Oh! What’s that?” Flora pointed at the Stone hanging from Jemma’s neck. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s … something I found.”

“Where, at the castle? Did you
steal
it?” Flora’s tone of voice suggested she hoped that were the case.

“Yes. No. Well, not exactly. You see—”

But Flora didn’t wait for an answer. “What was it like livin’ there? Were you scared? Was they really horrid to you? What was the forest like? Was there
lots
of monsters? Hey, d’you know the nursery rhyme about them Agromonds?”

“
Nursery
rhyme? About
them
? No, I—”

“It goes like this:
All little children had better beware. Hide in the attic or under a chair. There’s evil a-comin’ from up on the hill. If the Mist doesn’t get you, the Agromonds will!
But you”—Flora paused for breath—“
you’re
not evil, I can tell. Even though you jus’ came from up there. You’re nice! An’ pretty too.
You
could never be a Agromond. But that’s ’cause you in’t. I know who you is! I heard that lady tellin’ Ma, Pa, an’ Digby, jus’ the other night.”

“Lady? What lady?”

“Tuesday, it was. We was s’posed to be in bed, me an’ Simon an’ Tiny, but there was this loud thumpin’ at the door, see, an’— Oh! How sweet.” Flora looked at Jemma’s feet, where Noodle and Pie, having evidently woken, were now attempting to heave themselves up her legs. “Yellow rats! I ain’t never seen yellow rats before. Are they yours?”

“My friends, yes.” Jemma picked up the rats and plopped them onto her lap. “Flora—”

“Good thing Mowser didn’t get ’em. He’s the cat. Over there.” Flora pointed to the hay bale where the ginger fur pillow had now grown, revealing four legs and a confused-looking face, its green eyes fixed on the rats.

“Flora,” said Jemma, hope glimmering under her skin, “that lady you mentioned—”

“Mowser usually hunts rats, but yours must’ve scared him!” Flora laughed. “Can I stroke ’em?” She reached for Pie’s head without waiting for a reply.

“The
lady
, Flora. Who was she?”

“I don’t know.” Flora shrugged and tickled Noodle and Pie’s heads. “After the knockin’, we creeps to the top of the stairs, me, Simon, an’—”

The storehouse door burst open. “Flora!” Digby marched over and yanked Flora to her feet. “What in Mord’s name are you doin’ here?”

“I jus’ wanted to see her—”

“Flora, the lady—?” Jemma tried to grab Flora’s sleeve, but Digby pulled her away.

“You know you’re s’posed to stay home!” he said. “Mord sakes, I don’t have time to take you back, I got to get Jemma out of here—”

“I don’t care! I came on my own, din’t I? I’ll go home on my own. It’s
her
, I know—the one you was talkin’ about the other night—”

“I can’t let you go alone! T’aint safe. Oh, you …,” Digby growled. “Jus’ when we had the chance to get a head start. Jem, give me half an hour. I’ll be back.” He dragged Flora outside.

Jemma hastily shoved her feet into Digby’s old socks and boots and tied the laces. The breeches she was wearing—also old ones of his, she guessed—almost fell off as she stood, and she cinched the belt to its last notch, stuffed Noodle and Pie into her pockets, then stumbled out of the door. Flora was wriggling in Digby’s grasp as he attempted to lift her onto Pepper’s back.

“But
why
can’t I tell Tiny and Simon?”

“For Mord’s sake, Flora!” Digby’s face was red with anger. “Nobody means nobody!
’Specially
not Tiny. His tongue’s the loosest of all of you. You got to promise me—”

“Ow! You’re hurtin’ me, you pig.”

“Well, if you’d jus’ keep still—”

At that moment, Gordo emerged through the Mist, red-faced
and running. “Flora!” he yelled. “Thanks be, you’re here! Your ma an’ me, we been worried sick.”

“Sorry, Pa.” Flora stopped wriggling. Digby put her down with a sigh of relief.

“You’re safe, is all that matters.” Gordo took her hand. “Mornin’, you two. Jemma, lass, good to see you lookin’ a little lively again.” He mopped his brow, reddening more, then bit his lips. “I … I still don’t know, Digby lad, about you goin’ along,” he said. “Your ma, she keeps frettin’ ’bout what could happen to us if them Agromonds find out you’re helpin’—”

“Why would they find out? Pa, I told you. They got no idea I know her, do they, Jem?”

Jemma thought of Digby’s arrival at last Mord-day’s breakfast, and shook her head.

“So please, don’t you an’ Ma worry. I’ll be back by Tuesday, in time for deliv’ries. ’Sides, I couldn’t let her go on her own. Wouldn’t be what you’d raised me to do.”

“I s’pose not.” Gordo sighed. “Come on then, little ’un, home with you.”

“Remember, Flor,” said Digby. “Not a word, you understand? Promise me!”

“All right, all right. I promise.” Flora broke away from Gordo, then ran over to Jemma and threw her arms around her. “Bye, Jemma,” she said. “You
are
the Fire One, I knows it! I bet you’re magic too, jus’ like they say. Come back an’ see me one day, won’t you, please, please?”

“I’d like that,” said Jemma, wondering how that would ever be possible, with Flora living so close to Agromond Castle. She walked Flora back to Gordo, ruffling her hair. “You
keep out of mischief, mmm? And Gordo, I’m very happy that Digby will be with me. Thank you.”

Gordo hugged her, then Digby. “Jus’ take care of each other, eh?” he said. “Blessin’s be with you.”

Jemma smiled as she watched him lead Flora away into the Mist. She’d been right, thinking that the triplets would be like Digby—Flora was, anyway, both to look at, and with her unabashed cheek.

“Right, Jem,” said Digby, tightening Pepper’s girth. “Get your things, an’ let’s get crackin’. Sooner we go, sooner we’ll be there.”

Jemma fetched her belongings from inside the storehouse. Throwing the wineskin over one shoulder, she packed the cloak, book, and knife into the saddlebags slung across Pepper’s back, then pulled the crystals from her pocket and placed them on top. Only as she was closing the saddlebags did she realize that the pain in her ankle had gone. Once again, the crystals had healed her.

“One more thing,” Digby said, pulling something from his pocket: a square of sacking. “Here. Wrap this around your head. Can’t have folks seein’ your hair an’ guessin’ who you is. You never know where spies is lurkin’.”

Jemma took the sacking and tied it on. Her hair marked her, she realized, but even so, the idea of having to hide it annoyed her. Besides, the burlap stank of parsnips—her least favorite food. “Ugh! You might have rinsed it out, Dig. And it’s so scratchy!”

“Sorry, m’lady.” He tucked a stray lock into her makeshift scarf.

“I forgive you, I suppose.” Jemma glowered at him.

“I sup
-pose
,” he mimicked, making a face. She smiled, despite her momentary irritation.

“All right, all right, you win!”

“Course I do.” Digby gave her a leg up into the broad saddle and sprang up to sit behind her. “Why, Jem—look at that! There’s no Mist around your hands!”

“It’s been that way since Monday,” she said. “My birthday.”

“Really? Well, well. P’raps Flora was right, an’ you is magic.”

“It doesn’t exactly
do
anything though, does it? I mean, it’s just a clear space.”

“We’ll see,” he said, shortening the reins and kicking Pepper forward. “Time will tell.”

The world looked different from Pepper’s back: larger, and wider, giving Jemma a sense of invincibility. Digby held his left arm around her as the path meandered between gorse and hawthorn brush, and she soon got the feel of balancing in the saddle. She marveled at the scene unfolding to her: shadow bushes, crouched in the Mist; the odd shack, looming from the white, then being absorbed into it again; the pale orb of sun, low in the sky. In the distance, the Stoat River lapped gently. Digby urged Pepper into a trot, and held Jemma more tightly. She closed her eyes, amazed by how so simple a thing could ease so much of the past few days’ terror. Even the distant clang of the castle bell tolling the noon hour didn’t ruffle her contentment. But it didn’t last long; a few minutes later, she felt Digby tense up.

“Mord’s spit!” he said. “Up ahead …”

Jemma opened her eyes. At the top of an incline, a group of twelve or fifteen people—men, women, and three children—were milling across the path. They looked cowed and nervous, their clothes ragged, and seemed to be haloed by gray, which disappeared when Jemma blinked.

“Who are they?” she asked, her stomach knotting.

“Hazebury folk.”

“But … they can’t be!” This were not at all how she had pictured them.

“ ’Fraid so. Flora must’ve told Tiny and Simon she was goin’ to come an’ see you. They prob’ly want to get a peek at you too, Jem, jus’ like Flora did. Say nothin’ an’ jus’ play along, all right?” Digby pulled Pepper to a halt. “Mornin’, Mrs. Jenkin, Mr. Scragg. Mornin’, all.”

Jemma looked at the eyes staring at her from sallow, drawn faces.

“We come to see the Fire One,” a young boy said. “ ’Tis her, in’t it, Digby? Tiny said—”

“No, Ned. Tiny got it wrong. This is … my cousin. I’m jus’ takin’ her home to Yarville.”

The crowd shuffled from foot to foot, making Jemma nervous. Then one pointed at her. “Look, her hair …”

A long strand of red blew across Jemma’s face. She hastily tucked it back into her scarf.

“It’s her.… It’s her.… The one from the Prophecy.…” Their voices reminded Jemma of a mournful wind blowing around the castle towers. Several hands reached out and clutched at her breeches with desperate fingers. She recoiled inwardly.

“Easy, everyone, easy,” said Digby. “Look, I’m sorry, I din’t want to lie. But them Agromonds will be out huntin’ for her. Them, or their spies. So listen, careful-like. Any strangers come to the village, you mustn’t tell ’em you seen us, all right? ’Specially not any Inquisitors.”

“No worries, lad,” said an elderly man at the back, who had a shred more spark in his voice. “We won’t say
nothin’. Will us, eh?” A dreary chorus of “no’s” murmured around him.

“Thanks, Mr. Higgs. Much obliged. Be seein’ you, then.” Digby kicked Pepper onward and the gathering parted to let them through. As they passed, the boy named Ned grasped the cuff of Jemma’s breeches, then held on as he trotted alongside, his brown eyes staring up at her.

“Bring us back the sun, won’t you, Miss? Please …”

Pepper crested the incline, and Ned let go. Jemma peered back at him, silhouetted in the Mist. He looked almost as bedraggled as the phantoms.
Yet another
, she thought,
asking me to help
. She turned away, her unease growing.

“Too bad they seen us close up like that,” Digby said as they reached a furrowed track at the bottom of the slope. “Tongues wag, no matter what they promise.”

“Digby, what did Ned mean, ‘Bring back the sun’? And … who’s the Fire One? Flora mentioned that too.”

“Ah. Right.” Digby cleared his throat. “There’s this Prophecy, see, hundreds of years old, sayin’ how someone with hair the color of fire is goin’ to come an’ free Anglavia from the Agromonds’ rule, an’ make the Mist go away. People want to see the sun, like in olden times, only they’re not even sure what it looks like.”

Jemma thought of her own longing. “I know how they feel.”

“This person,” Digby continued, “they call the Fire One. Or sometimes Fire Warrior. Only in your case, I s’pose it’d be Fire Warrioress, eh, Jem?”

Jemma felt as though snakes were curling around her innards. She had never told anyone about her private incantation,
not even Marsh. “But why me?” she muttered. “It can’t be me! Dig … 
you
don’t think it’s me, do you?”

“Well, I can’t say as I ever believed in the Prophecy before. Just some musty old story, I thought, never bein’ one for superstition. But now … I mean, your hair … an’ that clear air around your hands … You got to admit, Jem, it’s weird.”

“But … a Prophecy? Freeing Anglavia?” She thought of Nocturna’s words to Nox last Mord-day night, expressing her fears that Jemma might “fulfil the Prophecy,” and about what Shade had said to Feo about the danger to them if Jemma were to be Initiated by her real parents.

“They didn’t just take me to get my Powers,” she murmured, realization dawning on her. “They took me to stop me from making the Prophecy come true.” Freeing Anglavia … bringing back the sun … It weighed in her gut, like entrail stew. Had a part of her always known, somehow? She’d hated the Mist for as long as she could remember, after all, and had made up her Fire Warrioress incantation when she was only six. And just yesterday, finding her parents in time to be Initiated had felt like a mission that wouldn’t wait. But now that others seemed to expect something of her too, it was overwhelming. She looked up at the wan orb of sun, and sighed.

From nowhere, words floated into her head:
Leth gith bal celde …
The same words she’d heard in Bryn’s cave. Was it some kind of message? An anagram, as she’d thought back then? She tried reordering their letters, but they made no sense. It must be a foreign language.