The Emerald Atlas Page 8

  “What happened?”

  “You screamed.”

  “What’re you talking about? I didn’t scream.”

  “Uh, yeah, you did,” Emma said. “And you kind of fainted too.”

  She helped her to sit up. Kate stole a glance at the book. The page was blank again.

  “What happened?” Emma said.

  “Nothing.” Kate reached over and shut the book.

  “Uh-huh, well, look what I found.” Emma handed her a photograph.

  A cry caught in Kate’s throat. There, in faded black and white, staring up at her from the past, was Michael. He was alone, a corner of the house visible in the background. And he was holding a handwritten sign that read HELP ME.

  Someone tried the door.

  “What’s this? Who’s locked this door?!”

  It was Miss Sallow.

  “Hurry,” Kate hissed. They quickly cleared an area on the bed, and Kate pulled the book toward her. “Make sure you’re touching me.”

  “Worried someone’s gonna sneak in and make off with the crown jewels of France, is that it? Unlock this door!”

  Kate picked up the photo of Michael and opened the book. Once again, the pages were blank. Her heart began to beat faster. She knew she had to do it now, quickly, before she lost courage. She reached down with the photo.

  “Wait!” Emma had grabbed her arm.

  “What’re you doing? We have to—”

  “We need a picture to get back.”

  Kate’s heart stopped. She had almost sent them into the past with no way of returning home. Emma grabbed Michael’s camera, aimed it at Kate, and snapped a picture. The machine spat it out a moment later.

  “Are the royal ears deaf, is that it? The goose is cooked, and Dr. Pym’s sent me to fetch Your Highnesses. Including the Dauphin, whether he’s feeling better or not. So ouvre la porte or I’ll be letting myself in!”

  “Just a second!” Kate called, trying to sound relaxed. “We’ll be out in a second!”

  Emma blew on the photo and put it in her pocket. “Okay,” she said, taking hold of Kate’s arm.

  They could hear Miss Sallow muttering on the other side of the door, sorting through the keys on her belt.

  Kate paused, holding the photo over the blank page. She felt it again, the darkness creeping up out of the book, threatening to engulf her.

  “What’s wrong?” Emma asked.

  Taking a breath, Kate focused her mind on Michael and placed the photo on the page.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Guests of the Countess

  “I’m so sorry,” Kate said, for the sixth or seventh time. “I’m so sorry.…”

  The moment they had appeared, Kate and Emma had run at Michael, nearly knocking him down with their hug. They asked if he was okay, how long had he been held prisoner, if the Countess had hurt him. Emma said she would go murder that witch right now; Michael only had to say the word.

  It was early evening. They were about twenty yards from the house, at the edge of a thick grove of pine trees whose intertwined branches rose into the darkening sky.

  “I’m fine,” Michael was saying. “I’ve only been here a few days. Guys, I can’t breathe.”

  He managed to extricate himself from their embrace, but Kate continued to hold his arms with a fervor that suggested she would never let him go ever again. Her eyes shone with tears. “We didn’t mean to leave you. I thought you were touching me. I would never—”

  “Look,” Michael said as he straightened his glasses, “we don’t have time for that right now. I mean, of course I forgive you and everything. But we have to get out of here. They may already be looking for me. Let me have the book.”

  Kate hesitated just for a second—why, she couldn’t have said—then she handed it over.

  “Excuse me?”

  Kate turned. Abraham was behind them, fiddling nervously with his camera. She hadn’t even noticed him till now. “So, I’m fine with the appearing out of thin air and whatnot, seems to be what you lot do, but if it’s all the same, I’m just going to slip off, then, right? Right, I’ll just—” And before anyone could speak, he hobbled away through the trees.

  Kate turned back and saw that Michael hadn’t even looked up. He was busy paging through the book. A question rose in her mind.

  “How’d you get away from the Screechers? Weren’t they keeping you with the other kids?”

  “And how’d you find Abraham again?” Emma asked. “Was he just hanging around?”

  Michael snapped the book shut.

  “You have to trust me. Whatever happens, everything’s going to be okay.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Kate said. “We need to get out of here.” And she was about to tell Emma to get out the photo she’d taken in the bedroom when someone giggled.

  The sound was like cold water trickling down her spine.

  The Countess’s secretary stepped out from behind a tree. He was wearing the same pin-striped jacket he’d worn that day at the dam; only now, up close, Kate could see the tears and grease stains. He was smiling, his teeth gray and narrow. A tiny yellow bird was perched on his shoulder.

  “Oh yes, good, good, good.” His voice had a high, almost hysterical quality. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “The Countess will be so happy, so happy.”

  “I told you they’d come back for me,” Michael said.

  Kate thought she must be hallucinating. This wasn’t possible. Michael would never betray them. And she was still telling herself that as two black-clad Screechers emerged from the shadows.

  Approaching the front of the house, the Secretary yelled at the Screecher standing guard to open the door. But the dark figure ignored him, and the man had to open it himself, grumbling as he did about lack of respect and how the Countess would most certainly hear of it.

  He led them down a twisting series of corridors. Several times Michael looked about to speak to his sisters, but each time Emma glared at him until he turned back around. Michael’s glasses were bent, and he had a red welt on his cheek. The second after the Screechers appeared, Emma had flown at him, knocking him to the ground. She whaled away with both fists, calling him a traitor and a rat and yelling that he wasn’t her brother anymore. Her attack caused him to drop the book, and Kate and the Secretary dove for it at the same time. A tug-of-war ensued. It ended when one of the Screechers dealt Kate a vicious backhand blow. Lying on the ground, her ears ringing, she watched the other Screecher pull Emma kicking and screaming off Michael.

  Kate’s head still throbbed. But even so, she couldn’t help noticing the difference in the mansion. Windows and mirrors were clean. Candles gleamed off polished wood floors. None of the furniture was torn or broken or serving as the home for a family of animals. The Countess might be evil, but she could teach Miss Sallow a thing or two about housekeeping.

  Kate took her sister’s hand. Emma’s face was a frozen, tear-stained mask.

  “It’s not Michael,” she whispered. “It’s that witch. She put him under some spell. It’s not Michael. Remember that; it’s not him.”

  Emma nodded, but the tears continued to roll down her cheeks.

  The Secretary stopped at a set of double doors in a dim hallway. Kate knew they were outside the ballroom. She could picture the cobwebbed chandeliers slumped on the floor, the half-collapsed balcony, the broken windows.

  “You stay here,” he ordered the Screechers, their yellow eyes glowing in the shadows.

  Cavendish leaned in close. He wasn’t much taller than Kate, and his breath stank of onions. He was the single most repulsive person she’d ever met.

  “You take my advice, little birdies, and not make the Countess angry. You don’t want to go to the boat, do you? Little birdies don’t like the boat.” He smiled his gray-toothed smile.

  “You need to brush your teeth,” Emma said. “For like a year.”

  Cavendish closed his lips and scowled. Jerking his head for them to follow, he pushed through the double door
s.

  It was like stepping into a dream. Kate and Emma blinked a few times, dazzled by the light, and then blinked again, hardly believing what they were seeing. A hundred couples moved about the floor, turning and spinning as a thirty-piece orchestra played a waltz. Kate could see the conductor, his arms waving, glancing back at the dancers like a proud parent. Some men wore tuxedos, with long tails that flew out when they twirled their partners. Others were in uniforms with red and blue sashes, their chests shining with golden medals. The women were dressed in gowns embroidered with rubies, pearls, and emeralds. And everywhere Kate saw diamonds on bare necks, refracting the light from the thousands of candles that burned in the chandeliers. A servant in green livery and high white stockings passed by carrying a tray of champagne to the older men and women who stood along the walls.

  “Little birdies wait here,” Cavendish hissed. “The Countess will come when she likes.”

  And then Kate saw her, the golden hair shining at the dead center of the dancers. Her skin was pure white, her gown the color of blood, and the diamonds covering her throat and chest shone as if they alone gave light to the room. Her partner was an athletic, uniformed young man who had the most impressive brown whiskers Kate had ever seen. The Countess said something, and the young man stepped back and bowed. She gave a tiny curtsy in return and, holding up the hem of her dress, skipped through the couples to where the children stood beside the eagerly squirming Cavendish.

  The Countess’s face was flushed from the warmth and exercise, and her eyes sparkled with life. They were a deep, almost violet blue, and the moment they landed on her, Kate felt as if she were the luckiest person in the world.

  “You’re here! My beautiful Katrina!” The Countess took Kate’s hands and, before she could react, kissed her cheeks. Behind her, couples whirled about in unison, creating a dizzying backdrop. “And how lucky you arrived in time for the ball. The crème of St. Petersburg is here. Even the Tsar is supposed to turn up later, though of course he won’t, the dullard. Now tell me, my dear”—she moved closer to Kate, whispering—“what do you think of the gentleman I was dancing with?”

  The young man in question had moved off the dance floor to join two other men in uniform. He stood ramrod straight, one hand tucked in his belt and the other stroking his whiskers.

  “That’s Captain Alexei Markov of the Third Hussars,” the Countess said in a conspiratorially low voice. “He is a bit too proud of his whiskers, but he’s a handsome beast for all that. We’ll have an affair shortly, though it won’t end well.” She frowned theatrically. “Alexei will insist on bragging about it at his club, and I’ll have no choice but to slaughter him and his entire family.”

  Kate smiled, and as she did, she saw Emma staring at her in horror. It was like being slapped awake. She yanked her hand away from the Countess, her heart pounding.

  If the Countess had noticed Kate pulling her hand free, she said nothing. She was pointing with her fan to a very old man with white muttonchops who was asleep in a chair. The old man sported such an enormous collection of medals that he was listing to one side. Kate half expected the weight to drag him crashing to the floor.

  “Behold my beloved husband,” the Countess said, speaking over the orchestra. “Isn’t he too revolting for words? And do you know that when I married him at sixteen, I was hailed as the greatest beauty in Russia? Shall we take a turn about the room?” She started away, and Cavendish, still clutching the book to his chest, gave Kate and Emma a shove to follow.

  “I admit,” the Countess said, moving through the crowd, nodding to people on either side, “there were those who insisted on praising Natasha Petrovski and her curdled-milk complexion and watery cow eyes. That was before, of course, she had that awful accident with the pitcher of acid. Poor dear, I heard she died in a Hungarian asylum. Mad as a hatter and raving on and on about a witch.” The Countess giggled, covering her mouth with her fan and giving Kate an aren’t-I-bad look. “But what was I saying? Oh yes, my husband. When I married the Count, everyone said he had no more than six months to live. I don’t need to tell you I didn’t plan on allowing him even that long. But wasn’t it just like the old mule to creak on for nearly a year? Honestly, he must have survived a half dozen of my attempts to poison him. Never marry a finicky eater, my dears. Nothing but trouble.”

  None of the guests appeared to notice the children. As the girls or Michael, or the Secretary for that matter, approached, the immaculately dressed people simply moved out of the way without ever looking at them directly.

  The Countess gave a bright little laugh. “Finally, I went to a hag and bought a potion of bees’ root, amber paste, and willow’s breath. No need for him to swallow a thing. He just breathed it in as he slept and come morning was as dead as a peasant in winter, leaving me sole mistress of the largest estate in the Tsar’s realm.” She turned to them, her face glowing at the memory, and curtsied low. “The Countess Tatiana Serena Alexandra Ruskin, at your service.”

  Kate and Emma stared at the bowed, blond head. Michael leaned forward and whispered, “It’s polite to—” but Emma elbowed him in the ribs. Kate was thinking of the day they’d first seen the Countess at the dam, how she’d seemed almost too radiant, too beautiful, too full of life. Now Kate understood: it wasn’t real. The Countess wasn’t sixteen or seventeen. In fact, if she was who she said she was, if she’d been alive when there were still tsars in Russia, she could be a hundred. Or more. Magic was keeping her young. No wonder she sometimes seemed like she was playing the part of a teenager.

  The Countess rose with a soft rustle of silk and gazed out over the dancers.

  “Yes,” she said with philosophical weariness, “this was my world. I had wealth, position, beauty. Simpleton that I was, I thought I had actually achieved something. But I was still to learn the true meaning of power.” She clapped her lace-gloved hands, and it all disappeared, the men in uniforms and tuxedos, the women in gowns, the orchestra, the green-liveried servants, the light from the chandeliers, all gone. The children were suddenly alone with the Countess and her rat-toothed secretary in the large, silent room. Only a few candles flickered along the walls.

  “Now,” she said with a smile, “shall we go out onto the verandah? I’d like to take the air. And I believe you have something for me.”

  The Countess made Kate and Emma wait with the Secretary while Michael helped her on with a black silk wrap. Kate watched the Secretary for any sign his attention was wandering, anything that would give her a chance to seize the book. She’d already whispered to Emma to be ready with the photograph.

  But mostly, she wished her hands would stop trembling. She’d balled them into fists and, when that didn’t work, shoved them in her pockets so Emma wouldn’t see. She didn’t want her sister to know how terrified and truly hopeless she was.

  The Secretary muttered something to the tiny bird on his shoulder and hugged the book even closer.

  Suddenly, Kate felt Emma’s hand in her pocket, prying her fingers apart, sliding her small hand into hers. She looked over and saw her sister’s face turned upward, her dark eyes full of trust and love.

  In a voice only Kate could hear, Emma said, “It’s gonna be okay.”

  Kate thought her heart might burst. She’d always known her sister was strong, but she was still three years younger, and at this moment, when everything seemed so bleak, for Emma to be the one offering her strength …

  “Come along,” the Countess said, sweeping past them toward the door.

  She led them to a stone patio off the back of the house. The night was warm, the air heavy and sweet with the smell of blooming flowers. Glass dragons of every color were strung overhead, candle flames dancing in their open mouths. A porcelain jug stood on a table at the center of the patio and, beside the jug, a crystal carafe filled with dark liquid.

  “Please,” the Countess said, gesturing to the chairs. “I do love sitting outside on a summer’s evening. Perhaps it’s my Russian blood reminding me that win
ter is never far off. Do you care for lemonade? I promise it isn’t poisoned.”

  Without waiting for an answer, the Secretary began pouring, slopping a fair amount onto the table.

  Scared and worried as she was, Kate couldn’t help thinking how familiar everything seemed. The house, the stables. This was the place where they lived. And yet they were such a long, long way from home. She stole another glance at the book under the Secretary’s arm. Somehow they had to get it back.

  Suddenly, the night was rent by a scream. Kate felt Emma’s hand grip hers more tightly. The scream was far off, from somewhere deep in the woods. But there was no mistaking the source.

  The Countess was pouring herself a glass of whatever was in the carafe. It was a deep ruby color and oddly thick.

  “Now and then women from the town attempt to reach the house. No doubt wanting to see their brats. You’d think they’d learn. They have no hope of getting past my guards.” The Countess swirled the liquid around her tiny glass. “They are amazing creatures, the morum cadi. They never grow tired. They know neither pain nor fear nor compassion. They are possessed solely by a hatred for every living thing.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drained it off.

  “What did you call them?” Kate asked, cursing the tremor she heard in her voice.

  “Morum cadi, the deathless warriors,” the Countess said. “Though I admit Screecher is a fitting name. They were men, hundreds of years ago. But they traded their souls for power and eternal life. Which they were granted, of a sort.”

  “They’re not so bad,” Emma said. “Mostly smelly is all.”

  The Countess smiled indulgently. “Aren’t you a brave little liar?” She poured herself another glass. “They say the scream of a morum cadi is the cry of a soul being torn asunder, over and over, for eternity. One is awful enough, but a thousand together on a battlefield? I’ve watched whole armies turn and flee.” She raised the red liquid to her lips. “It really is quite a sight.”

  Kate imagined someone’s mother running through the forest, her legs growing heavy, the screams drawing closer.