Brittle, p.1
Brittle, page 1
Beth Overmyer
Brittle
Blade and Bone Book One
FLAME TREE PRESS
London & New York
*
‘Adversity does not make us frail; it shows us how frail we are.’
Abraham Lincoln
Part One
Chapter One
The full moon shone down on Maplehurst without the hindrance of cloud cover, which was why Verve could make out the beggar standing at the gate. “I’ll tell Mother in the morning,” she said to herself, cleaning her pen and putting it away. Perhaps, if the poor freezing soul was still there at first light, she would bring him something to fill his belly.
But the man did not remain. In fact, he opened the gate leading into the yard and walked through the snow around toward the back of the house.
Verve extinguished her light and hastened to the side window. By the time she peeked out, she had lost the man entirely. “Blast.” Ever since Father left for the war he so hated, and Verve moved back home, she had put herself in charge of the more masculine tasks, such as protecting the homestead. Someone needed to do it, and it might as well be her. Silently she moved down the steps and opened the cupboard beneath the stairs. Father was a pacifist, but that did not prevent him from keeping a rifle – the barrel having been replaced with a painted broomstick.
With a grunt, Verve pulled the pretend weapon out of its hiding spot behind a crate of rag scraps and old, too-small shoes. She froze when the ‘barrel’ accidentally hit the ceiling of the cupboard. Perhaps I ought to wake someone. She thought about this a moment while throwing a patched brown coat over her shoulders. Best not to. Mother will worry, and the girls will tell me to stay inside and let the thief get away with one of our hens.
No doubt the intruder was after the chickens in the coop they kept out back. In the best-case outcome, Verve would give him some eggs and send him on his way. In the worst-case outcome – well, she would have to hope her threat rang true with the thief.
Hastily she pulled on Father’s old boots, which nearly swallowed her feet, and then unbolted the side door. The air that met Verve was cold and crisp, and a shiver worked its way up her spine. There was usually something almost mystical about the midnight hour, the way the shadows lay over the silent, sleeping houses. Tonight the magical feeling wasn’t lost on Verve, but dread throbbed in her chest. Maybe this was a bad idea.
You aren’t some useless, shrinking violet, she reminded herself, and shut the door snugly. Your family needs you to be strong.
The man’s footprints led around the side of the house. They were deep prints, and Verve stepped in each one, hoping to keep the insides of the boots she wore somewhat dry. She raised the butt of the rifle to her shoulder and rounded the house.
Well, that was strange. The footprints went off in two different directions. Verve followed one set toward the far side of the house, but those prints ended. She doubled back, as the intruder must have, and approached the coop.
Verve made it not five steps toward the hens when she was seized from behind. The force of being grabbed threw her off balance, and the rifle shuddered from her grasp as her assailant muffled her yelp with a freezing hand.
“State your name and business here,” said a familiar gruff voice. The man uncovered Verve’s mouth.
For a moment, Verve thought of attempting to wrestle free or perhaps pretending to faint. But this man was strong, and she could not think how fainting would help her any. Instead, she answered him. “Verity Springer.”
The man’s grip on her tightened. “Is that so?” Something cold and sharp pressed against her throat. A knife. “Is that what everyone calls you?”
What was he getting at? “Most people call me Verve.” To her relief, the knife was lowered somewhat. “Listen, we’re not a rich family, but you’re welcome to help yourself to some fresh eggs.”
He ignored that. “What are your sisters’ names?”
“Who says I have sisters?”
The knife was at her neck again. “Tell me.”
“A-all right. Ainsley, she’s the eldest. But she’s married and doesn’t live here any longer. Then there’s me, Helena, and Davinia.”
“Davinia?”
“Dav,” Verve amended.
There was a silence that stretched onward as though the man were thinking over this information. Finally, he lowered what turned out to be a dagger from her throat. “All right. I’m going to let you go, but don’t scream when you turn around.”
Verve murmured her assent, and the man released her. She waited until he stepped back before she turned, trembling from cold and from the thought of what she might see.
At first, it was difficult to take things in. Was it illusion or fancy that tricked her eyes into observing a soldier’s uniform hanging on the frame of the bearded man? Verve blinked and looked again. “Father?” She made a move to throw her arms around him, but the man raised the knife again, effectively staying her. This couldn’t be Father…could it?
He lowered his weapon, paused, and then tucked it into the sheath at his side before opening his arms. “I’m sorry, Verve. The last seven months have been trying.” When she hesitated, he sighed. This was not the jovial man Verve remembered, the one who tucked her in at night as a child and kissed her cheek in her youth.
She cleared her throat before asking, “What happened? You were supposed to return eight months ago. The war’s over. We won.” Despite herself, Verve cringed when he moved closer, but she held her ground.
“Verve, the war has only just begun.”
“What do you mean it’s just begun? Prime Minister Cooley gave a speech, and the South—”
Father, for Verve was certain it must indeed be him, held up a hand to stay her words. “The South?” He brought his cupped hands to his lips and blew on them.
Verve’s stomach clenched. “You must be freezing. Let’s go inside, where it’s warm.” She attempted a smile. “The others will be overjoyed to see you.”
He did not move but shook his head. “Verve, you’ll – I mean, you have looked after the others in my absence, and I fear you will have to for a while longer.” Father took a few slow steps closer to Verve, and Verve wrinkled up her nose in distaste before she could stop herself.
She bounced impatiently on the tips of her toes and drew the coat more tightly about herself. “But we need you, Father. As much as I wish I could support the family, my stories only bring in so much money.” When he bowed his head, Verve swallowed the rest of her words.
Shivering, Father crossed his arms in front of his chest, and looked Verve in the eye once more. “Listen to me. There isn’t much time.” He stepped closer still and lowered his voice. “You must be careful, Verve. Always know who you’re talking to.” Verve opened her mouth, but Father shook his head. “Don’t interrupt. Just listen. There are forces at work in this world that have hitherto gone unnoticed. Not everyone who looks like themselves are themselves. Mother might not be Mother. Sweet, dear Helena could be someone else entirely. You have to check to make certain.”
“What?”
He persisted. “Always ask the right questions before you entrust someone with important information. Not every one of the creatures can change appearances, and that is a mercy. But we must be vigilant.” An owl hooted in the near distance, and Father jumped. He waited several beatings of a heart before continuing, his words low and urgent. “They have eyes and ears everywhere, Verve.” His voice broke on her name, and though Verve couldn’t say why, her hairs stood on end.
“Father, we really should get you inside.” Neither of them made a move toward the house. Verve’s heart beat a quick tattoo in her breast, and she turned slightly, her feet kicking up snow.
No doubt Father sensed her urge to run; his hands flew out of his coat and he pulled Verve to him. “Meet me at noon in the sugar shack,” he hissed. More loudly he said, “Tell no one you saw me.” He took one of her hands in his and deftly slipped a tightly folded piece of paper into her fist, which he then kissed. “I love you, my dearest daughter.”
“Noon?” she mouthed.
Father nodded. “That’s my girl.” He looked at Verve’s feet and into her eyes again, cracking a smile. “Remember. Tell no one.”
Now Verve felt the stirrings of dread in her belly. “It really is you, isn’t it?” She tucked her fist and the note it contained inside her coat.
“Am I much changed?”
Despite herself, she nodded. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
Father stepped away. “Return to the house and be sure to bolt the door behind you.” When Verve hesitated, Father turned his back. “Good night, Verve.”
* * *
By the light of the fireplace in her bedroom, Verve read the ramblings of a madman.
My dearest Verve,
They are everywhere and can be anyone at any time that they please. I’ve seen them change with my own eyes. One minute a strange yet fair creature stands before you, and the very next you’re looking at your own commanding officer. It’s unnatural. These creatures, these so-called ‘fae’ – other-worldlings, really – must be eradicated. But they’ve proven hard to kill. Daniels and I have tried bullets, poison, blades, and strangulation. Nothing works. We have to be careful now. Though the creatures have yet to attack openly, it’s only a matter of time before they realize the information we have.
There is a knife
Before he went mad, Captain Markson found a mortal entrance to Faerie. He and his men found the long-lost blade and almost got away with it, but they were ambushed. Markson buried the knife before he was captured by our own men. At least, that is what we understand of the matter. Sadly, he was the only one to return from Faerie alive.
He was to be hanged for desertion. I freed him, Verve, and now I am a wanted man as well. Please do not think badly of me, but our world isn’t ready to believe in fae, it would seem. I know I’ve put you in a bad position. But if you are approached by a man calling himself ‘Bear’, first ascertain that it is truly he by asking these three questions:
How does Springer know when his wife is angry?
What is Bear’s favorite preserve?
How many times did Springer and Bear stab the Brighton Fae?
You, Verve, know the answer to the first question. The latter two are blackcurrant and none. Once you have obtained the correct answers, give Bear this message: “Markson roams Thistleback Wood. Extract the burial site.”
To think that the end of one war can be used to cover up the beginnings of another. Burn this letter immediately after you have read it, Verve. Tell no one of the contents, not even Helena.
All my love,
Father.
Upon finishing, Verve stared at the words on the page until they blurred. What nonsense was this? Father couldn’t be serious. Perhaps this was a story he meant her to finish, a tall tale she could write and sell to a paper. Deep inside, however, she knew he was in earnest. “Has he gone mad?”
The wind howled outside her window, its fingers worming and whistling their way through the numerous cracks and crannies around the panes. Verve shivered. She ought to show the letter to Mother. But then the doctors would be called and Father might be committed to an asylum in the city, and the Springer family would be ruined.
Father had seemed crazy. But….
“But nothing,” said Verve, rubbing angrily at her eyes. Insane or not, Father was Father, and Verve would protect him – and her family – as much as she was able. So with one last sad glance, she crumpled up the letter and threw it into the blaze, making certain every last bit was rendered into ash.
Chapter Two
Verve slept poorly for the rest of the early morning, tossing and turning as she wondered where Father was sleeping and if he was warm and, most importantly, if he was safe.
After what seemed like a mere ten minutes of rest, she was awakened by the sound of Dav’s out-of-tune singing, something Verve had not missed when she was away working as a governess. Verve groaned and smashed her pillow over her head.
“Verve?” asked a muffled voice.
She grunted in response and squeezed the pillow more tightly over her ears. “Go away, Dav. I stayed up all night writing and am in no mood to listen to your attempts at sea shanties.” Sensing rather than seeing her sister hadn’t left, Verve removed the pillow, rolled onto her side, and mustered a sleepy smile. “Oh, it’s you. Could you tell Dav to quiet down? I can’t— What’s wrong, Helena?”
Normally cheerful, even in the mornings, her pet sister was pale and trembling. “Weasels must have gotten into the coop last night. Lady Duchess is missing, and there are feathers everywhere.” The poor girl was obviously holding back tears, and her lower lip trembled with the effort.
With a sigh, Verve sat up and paused. “Just Lady Duchess is missing?”
Helena nodded. “I went to feed the hens and let them wander this morning, and they were all clucking unhappily.”
Verve had to school her expression to hide her amusement. What chicken clucks unhappily?
Her sister continued. “And Lady wasn’t there to greet me and— Oh, Verve, you must think me silly, but I am fond of her.”
“Don’t fret. I’m sure she must have escaped and gone off on some grand adventure. Perhaps she’ll send a letter.”
But the joke fell flat, even though Helena gave her a weak smile. “Do you think someone might have taken Lady?”
Verve hesitated, trying to think of what she ought to say. Before she could come up with a good answer, Dav burst into the room and shouted, “Breakfast is ready. Anna really went all out this morning. Potatoes and bacon – real bacon, can you imagine? La! Oh, and poached eggs and toast.” She sailed out the door and popped her head back in once more to add, “We won’t wait long for you. Come down while it’s all still piping-hot.” And with that, Dav was gone.
Helena’s brow creased as Verve pulled back her covers and got out of bed. “You slept in your day clothes?”
“Oh, that,” said Verve. “I was too tired to get dressed for bed, so I just wore what I had on.”
“But you’re in your coat.”
Verve looked down at herself, and sure enough, she was still wearing the coat she’d had on the night previous. “I was cold,” she lied.
Though Helena was the quietest and only shy member of the family, she was also the most observant. It was obvious from her expression that she suspected Verve of not being entirely honest, but much to her credit as a sister, she merely nodded and held out a hand for the garment. When Verve frowned, Helena said, “If the others ask, I’ll say I was mending it for you.”
What sweet relief was that! “Thank you,” Verve whispered before removing the coat and passing it to Helena. She smoothed out her skirt, ran a hand through her wild, red-blonde hair, and they joined the rest of the family downstairs around the breakfast table. “Morning.” After kissing her mother on the cheek, Verve sat down in her usual place at the table and began piling her plate high with eggs.
“Save some for the rest of us, Verve,” Dav scolded, taking her fair share of bacon. “We’re short one hen now, so eggs will be at a premium.”
Verve rolled her eyes and passed the bowl to Helena. “Be a bit more sensitive. Lady Duchess is an esteemed member of the Springer household.” She was trying to be cheerful and funny for her sister’s sake, but Helena would not be cheered, it would seem.
Insensitive as always, Dav snorted. “You mean was a member of our esteemed henhouse. There’s no way that whoever or whatever ran off with the hen let her live. She was too plump to resist plucking and roasting.”
Mother looked up sharply from the letter she was reading at the head of the table. “Dav, hold your tongue. I won’t have such talk from my girls. And you can stop glaring at your sister,” she said to Verve, who looked down at her plate in response.
“Is that another bill?” Dav asked. In what she might have thought was a dainty manner, the insufferable creature nibbled on the crust of her toasted bread before pulling a face and proceeding to slather on more currant jam.
The matriarch of the family let out a heavy sough, and her shoulders crumpled ever so slightly. “I’m afraid so. We’ll have to cut back on sugar for the foreseeable future.”
Dav groaned.
“It’s almost sugaring season,” said Helena, her eyes still shining and red. “We’ll have plenty of maple sugar and syrup if Mr. Woodhouse calls on us to help this year.”
Meet me in the sugar shack at noon.
“Verve, whatever is the matter?”
“Hmm?” she asked, nearly choking on her toasted bread.
Dav groaned. “You’ve gone and dripped preserves all over the tablecloth. And it’s my turn to launder it next.”
Indeed, Verve had made quite the mess of the checkered linen. “Blast,” she said, attempting to wipe it clean with her napkin, staining that red as well with the effort. How would she sneak off to see Father at noon, what with all the work she had around the house? Maybe Helena could make an excuse for her, though Verve hated the idea of asking.
“Boiling hot water poured from a height,” said their cook, Anna, setting a steaming-hot plate of fried potatoes in front of Mother. “And you’ll want to get to it sooner rather than later, if’n you don’t want the stain to set, and I know you don’t, pigeon.”
