R. Anderson - Wayfarer

“Right,” said Timothy, oddly relieved that she hadn’t abandoned her scruples.

“But we’d better get you some dry clothes first,” said Linden, sounding worried now. “You really do feel the cold, don’t you?”

“Yes, and I hate it,” said Timothy fervently between his teeth.

“Then let’s hurry,” said Linden, and with that she flew off. Timothy hobbled behind her, and after stumbling down the footpath for a few minutes he spotted the rooftops of the hostel in the distance.

“You’d better hide in my backpack again,” he said to Linden. “Just in case.”

By the time Timothy reached the hostel, the last of the afternoon sunshine had disappeared; the sky was the color of slate, and a thin, drizzling rain had begun to fall. He squelched in through the front door and said to the girl at the desk, “What’s the quickest way to London?”

“Well, there’s a train station at Haverfordwest,” replied the attendant. “But the last bus left St. David’s at half-past five, and there won’t be another until tomorrow.”

“How far is it? Could I walk?”

The girl let out a disbelieving laugh. “Walk? Not likely! It’d take you all night.”

Timothy’s shoulders slumped. Now what were they going to do?

“Look,” said the girl kindly. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? We’ve plenty of space, and it’s cheap. You can have a hot shower and a good night’s sleep, and take the bus out tomorrow morning.”

“Just a minute,” Timothy told her, and hurried outside to speak to Linden. “Is there a chance we might be safe here for the night?” he said in a low voice as he opened his backpack. “Once they lost our trail, the Blackwings might have flown anywhere. Back the way we came, or even back to the Empress, for all we know.”

“I don’t see that we have much choice,” said Linden glumly. “You can’t go anywhere like that, in any case.”

Timothy didn’t need to ask what she meant. His muscles were trembling with exhaustion and cold, and a little puddle of water had formed around his shoes. He only hoped that he could still find some dry clothes in his backpack.

“All right,” he said grimly. “We’ll just have to sleep light-and hope for the best.”

The room was simply furnished, with walls of gray stone and a bare wooden floor-but it was private, and the bed looked comfortable. As soon as the attendant left, Linden climbed out of the backpack and jumped to the mattress, while Timothy grabbed an armful of clothing and vanished in search of the shower.

He was gone a long time. Linden stayed small as she nibbled the last half of her sandwich, so that there would be plenty left for Timothy when he came back. Then she curled up on the pillow, hiding herself with a corner of the blanket while she waited for his return. But she must have been more tired than she realized, because when she opened her eyes again the room was dark, and Timothy was gingerly easing his head onto the pillow in an effort not to wake her.

“It’s all right,” she said sleepily, rolling over and curling up against his shoulder. He smelled of soap and seawater, mingled with the earthier scent of his humanity; it was a good smell, oddly comforting. It occurred to her that perhaps one of them ought to stay up and keep watch for the Blackwings, especially now that the iron key was gone and they had no way to shield themselves against another attack. But the pillow felt soft and Timothy was warm and she was so very tired…

Linden dreamt that she was back at the Oak, with all the faeries gathered around her as she cast the spell that would restore their magic. Rob’s dark eyes gleamed with admiration as he held up the Stone of Naming and said to her, “The Empress is defeated. You have saved us all.” Knife, Paul, and Timothy watched from the veranda of the House, smiling, and then Valerian came up and embraced her, and said, “Queen Amaryllis would be so proud of you, Linden. You have truly fulfilled all our hopes.”

It was everything she longed for, and yet it rang false somehow: It was too perfect even for a dream. But she still could not bring herself to wake, even though somewhere at the back of it all lay a feathery blackness, and the sounds of harsh laughter.

Timothy sat in the spotlight, guitar thrumming in his hands as he played before an audience of thousands all clapping and cheering for more. The song was the catchiest tune he’d ever heard, all palm-slapping rhythm and fast-plucked melody, and Miriam stood beside him with a microphone, singing the words in her husky, resonant voice-but her eyes were on him as she sang, and everyone in the audience was watching him, too, and he knew that it was his concert, his song. There was no more uncertainty in him now, no shadow of doubt. He was Timothy Sinclair, world-famous musician, and the knowledge filled him with a fierce and inextinguishable pride.

But when he woke, he found himself a prisoner.

The bed, the hostel, the rocky Welsh hillside-all were gone. Instead of cozy darkness the room swam with sallow morning light, filtering in through a barred window high above. He was lying on a cement floor without a mattress or even a blanket to cover him, wearing nothing but the T-shirt and boxers he’d gone to bed in. Timothy got up, shivering, and tried to open the door. It was locked.

And yet the room didn’t look like a jail cell. There were screw holes on the wall where a chalkboard had once hung, and bits of old posters taped to the wall. He felt a muzzy sense of recognition, but it wasn’t until he found a blue crayon wedged into the baseboard and a scrap of faded paper reading PPIANS 2:12 that he realized he was trapped in an old Sunday school classroom.

The irony startled a laugh out of him, but he quickly sobered at the thought of what it meant. The Blackwing brothers must have found a way into the hostel during the night-whining pathetically at the door in their dog forms maybe, or just posing as human travelers and waiting for the attendant to invite them in. They’d put a spell on Timothy while he slept, and brought him here to Sanctuary-or at least he assumed it was Sanctuary; how many abandoned churches could the Empress’s people own?

Not that it mattered. He had to get out of here and find Linden. Timothy paced around the room, inspecting every corner for an escape route, or a key, or a weapon. But he found nothing but a few crumbs of plaster, and when he rapped on the wall, no one answered.

He sidled over and crouched in front of the door, shifting uncomfortably as the cement chilled his bare feet, and examined the lock. If only he had something to pick it with-

All at once the door swung inward, smacking him in the face. He was clutching his nose and swearing fervently in Luganda when an amused voice said from the doorway, “Welcome back to Sanctuary, Timothy Sinclair. I trust you slept well? You should feel honored: I wove that dream for you myself.”

It was Veronica.

The floor of Linden’s cage glowed with fiery heat, and when she tried to cling to the bars they burned her fingers. She fluttered helplessly in midair, wing muscles aching with the effort, knowing that she could not hover much longer before her strength gave out-and that the moment it did, she would die.

“Tell me, little one,” said the Empress softly. Linden had imagined the Empress would be tall, dark, and arrogant-looking like Jasmine, but she could not have been more wrong: This woman was almost childlike, with delicate features and hair the color of dandelion wine curling about her shoulders. In fact she looked so sweet that it was hard to believe she could be evil-or so Linden had thought, until her torture began. “Why did you and the human boy go to Wales?”

“We were-trying-to get away-from you!” gasped Linden. Her wings were failing now, and with every breath she sank a little closer to the floor. She could feel the heat beating up at her, searing her skin and crisping the ends of her hair; even the tears that streaked her face were hot.