N. Wilson - The Dragon's Tooth

“Horace,” said Rupert, nodding.

“Greeves,” said Lawney.

The two of them looked at the row of beds.

Daniel Smith. Katie Smith. Antigone Smith. Cyrus Smith.

Diana Boone was curled up with a blanket on the floor. Nolan was hunched over, snoring in a chair by the window. Breeze-rustled curtains dragged through his hair. A slightly frayed red-winged blackbird hopped on the sill behind him.

Groaning, Daniel Smith opened his eyes and stretched his thick, bruised arms above his bandaged head.

“Mr. Smith?” Rupert asked.

Daniel opened his eyes. “Mr. Greeves!” He sat up carefully. “Are you here, too? I mean, were you there last night? In the boat. That part seemed like a dream. I didn’t know why you would be here. Don’t you live in California? You know, in the house? Sorry, I’m really foggy right now. Good to see you, though. It’s been a long time.”

“Likewise,” Rupert said. “I have something for you. And I wish I’d given it to you sooner.” He handed Daniel the envelope. “If you recall, I bought it from you furnished. Since that time, no one has set foot inside it. I owe you an explanation, and at some point, I intend to give you one. But for now, this will have to do.”

When he’d gone, Horace stood up and shuffled over to Daniel’s bed.

“What is it?”

Daniel dropped the papers onto his lap. “It’s the deed,” he said. “To our old house in California.”

With hot eyes, Daniel Smith looked down the line of beds, and he laughed.

CYRUS SMITH RAPPED his knuckles on the table and slowly rolled his head. His right leg was bouncing. A notebook was open in front of him, a pen was in his hand, and a large leather-bound volume faced him on a small stand.

He stared at the window. The world outside was white. Snowflakes were drifting on the sill.

A clock was ticking. Worse, across the table, an hourglass was busily draining its sand.

Beside the hourglass, Nolan was tipping back in his chair, yawning and slowly peeling the skin off his forefinger like he was taking off a sock.

“Do you mind?” Cyrus asked. Nolan set the finger skin upright on the table. It was only missing the fingernail.

“I got a splinter,” Nolan said. “That’s it. This is what happens when I get a splinter.”

“Lame sauce,” said Cyrus. “On the other hand, you don’t die.”

“Shut up and do your Latin. This is your third time taking this test, Cyrus. No more chances. You can’t sluff it again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cyrus said. “I passed that Creole thing this morning, didn’t I?”

“You did. But this isn’t a ‘Creole thing.’ It’s Latin. And you have to pass it, too.” Nolan slammed his chair down. “Get to work, Cy. Seriously. You have to finish this time. After all you’ve been through and all you’ve learned, I don’t want you kicked out over Latin.”

“Rupe wouldn’t really do that,” Cyrus said.

Nolan laughed. “Rupert Greeves? Cyrus, please. You know he would. He’d have to. And you’ve still got your Medicinal and Occult exams later. Both long ones. Did you finish with Jax already?”

Nodding and scrunching his lips, Cyrus turned back to his Latin.

The distant sound of steel on steel crept into the room. A crowd oohed and aahed.

Cyrus tried to ignore it. He was supposed to be there, watching Antigone’s Weaponry exam with Greeves. He glanced at the hourglass, and then at the dead language in the dead book in front of him.

A red-winged blackbird landed on the snow-drifted windowsill.

Why were there so many distractions?

A piece of skin shaped exactly like a nose drifted across the table.

Breathing hard behind her wire mask, trying to stand tall, Antigone walked back to the weapon table. The Galleria was full to overflowing. She scanned the faces. Clumps of girls and boys in long white trousers and white sweaters — black symbols patched onto cable-knit chests. Men in jackets. Nervous women. Even the fat-faced monk who had once attacked her in the dining hall. The Galleria had been full for Cyrus’s exam, too, but he’d passed Weaponry two months ago, even before she’d passed Linguistics.

“Saber!” Rupert yelled. “One adversary!”

Her last one. She’d done well enough with the foil. Not so well with the dagger. But saber was her worst — the most tiring and the most painful of the fencing blades. Slashing was harder for her than touching with a point.

Setting down her dagger, she picked up the heavier blade and returned to the starting position. The crowd was silent, all except for Dan. He was whistling like a football fan — not exactly in keeping with O of B decorum. Adjusting her mask, she patted the symbol embroidered onto her own chest. Cyrus’s leather jacket had chosen it for them. A boxing monkey inside a shield — the symbol of the Polygoners.

A thick Journeyman walked out in his white suit and wire mask, taking his position across from Antigone.

“Dice him, Tigs!” That wasn’t Dan. Cyrus had arrived. She almost smiled. For good or ill, his Latin exam was over.

The signal came, and sabers clashed.

Diana Boone stood in her large Eskimo coat, bouncing in the snow and rubbing her hands together. The airstrip was clear of drifts — for now — and the old Bristol Scout biplane sputtered beside her, idling, remaining warm until Antigone arrived.

Poor girl. Diana didn’t know who had it worse. Cyrus was spending his day moving from dry paper test to dry paper test, while Antigone’s day was a trial of physical endurance. Lifesaving and resuscitation, the gun range, fencing, and now her first solo flight — and in a canvas-bodied museum piece, too. How either of them could fit it all into a day, she didn’t know. But the year was dying. By midnight, one way or another, they would no longer be Acolytes.

Diana heard the crowd before she saw it. Rupert Greeves, hatless, snowflakes tangling in his pointed black beard, was walking between Cyrus and Antigone, followed by the many spectators eager to see the testing of the outlaw Polygoners.

Antigone was still in her fencing suit. She walked straight to Diana and gave her a hug.

“Whatever happens,” she said, “thanks for everything.”

Diana nodded. “You ready?”

“I have to be, don’t I?”

“She’s ready,” Cyrus said. “You should have seen her with the saber. Carved through two Journeymen. It took an Explorer to bring her down.” He gave his sister a boost and watched her climb into the open cockpit.

Once seated, Antigone brushed back her short hair before pulling on her cap and goggles. “Cy-Rusty there didn’t do too bad, either!” she yelled above the engine. “He actually finished a Latin translation.”

“Without strangling Nolan,” Cyrus said. “That’s the impressive part. We’ll see if I passed.”

Antigone wrapped a long white scarf around her face. The crowd stepped back, and the old World War I biplane sputtered and bounced down the snowy airstrip. Slowly, perfectly, effortlessly, the plane rose into the air and climbed out over the icy lake, a hillful of people whistling and whooping as it did.

Cyrus raised his Quick Water and waited. His sister’s bundled face, the sprawling lake, the tail of the plane, Ashtown — all of it appeared in the palm of his hand, bent and warped in glorious fish-eye. Cyrus smiled at Antigone, and then scrunched his lips and flared his nostrils, knowing she could see his clownish face.

For a moment, and only a moment, the image in his hand flickered. Cyrus blinked, and he was again looking at Antigone. But in that brief flash, he was almost certain that he’d seen a black beard, an ear, and a wobbling golden bell.