The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus Read online

  He began to cough again, and nearly doubled over with the effort. Maggie clutched at him, wishing she could somehow transfer strength from her body into his. He sounded as if he might never stop coughing. But the fit did come to an end, and he leaned against her, exhausted. She was alarmed at how thin and light he was.

  “Come,” she said, guiding him. “I live here, just a few more steps. We’ll take good care of you.”

  Maggie helped him up the steps and opened the door. The hinges squeaked out an announcement of her return.

  Mrs. Cook appeared from the kitchen, already talking. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d run away out there. Heavens, Maggie, what took you so—” she stopped in mid-sentence.

  “Heavens,” she breathed.

  Maggie helped the weak old man into the high-backed chair near the fire. He nearly fell into it. Maggie removed his threadbare gloves and began rubbing his fingers between her own hands. She wanted to say something, but his eyes were closed and so she kept her mouth shut. When his hands felt a bit warmer, she took the muddy boots from his feet and set them near the fire to dry while she wrapped him in a blanket snatched from the arms of Mrs. Cook’s rocking chair.

  The lady of the house emerged from the depths of the kitchen with a washtub full of hot water.

  “Come on, Maggie,” she said. “In with his feet.”

  Mrs. Cook pressed a hand against the old man’s wrinkled forehead. “Fever,” she muttered. “Maggie, get another blanket from the cupboard upstairs. A thick one. Make that two. He’s shivering.”

  Maggie rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and threw open the cupboard at the end of the narrow hallway. She grabbed two thick blankets and flew back downstairs with them.

  Mrs. Cook was stoking the fire, while the kettle shrieked its readiness in the kitchen.

  “Get the tea, would you, dear?” Mrs. Cook asked in a tone of voice that made it clear she was not asking.

  Maggie went into the whitewashed kitchen where the copper kettle rattled on the surface of the wood stove. She snatched it off and poured the water into a white teapot.

  She reentered the living room with Mrs. Cook’s largest tea cup and saucer, as well as two more just in case, and ducked back into the kitchen to fetch the teapot. When she came back out, Old Dan’s eyes were open and Mrs. Cook seemed strangely agitated.

  Maggie shifted her feet and licked her lips uncomfortably, feeling that she had missed something important.

  “This is Old Dan.” She felt like a child saying the name, which was not really much of a name at all. “He’s a friend.”

  “We know each other,” Mrs. Cook said stiffly.

  Maggie’s eyebrows raised a good half-inch. “You do?” she asked incredulously.

  “Evie and I are old friends,” Old Dan said weakly, with a tinge of humour in his voice.

  Mrs. Cook stood abruptly and started up the stairs. She turned when she was halfway up.

  “I don’t want him going up and down stairs in his condition,” she said. “We’ll fix up the guest room.”

  Maggie nodded. Silently, she picked up the bucket of coal that lay beside the fire and took a box of matches from the mantle. She felt Old Dan’s eyes watching her, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Mrs. Cook had seemed almost angry.

  She took the coal and matches to a small, cold room just off of the living room. It had a fireplace of its own, and she knelt down to prepare the room for its new occupant. Soon she had a fire blazing, and the lonely little room seemed cheered. Starched white curtains hung by its windows, overlooking a single bed. Mrs. Cook entered the room and started to make the bed with flannel sheets and a large feather blanket and pillows. A tiny bedside table held a gas lamp and an old book with gold writing on its cover. It had been years, Maggie thought, since the room had been occupied. She didn’t recognize the book—perhaps a friend of Pat’s had left it.

  Before long, the room had been transformed. The lonely chill gave way before the warmth of the fire and the glow of the oil lamp that spilled onto the deep green blankets. Mrs. Cook stood with her hands on her hips and looked the room over with a satisfied nod. Maggie slipped out the door to get Old Dan.

  He was sitting totally still except for the slight shaking of his hands. His eyes were open and he was staring into the fire, seemingly lost in thought. He didn’t hear Maggie’s approach.

  She reached out a hand and laid it on his arm. He jumped slightly, then reached up his own gnarled hand and covered hers.

  “I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He patted her hand. “No harm done, m’dear.”

  “Your room’s ready,” she explained, and took his arm to help him up. He stood with a struggle, and leaned on her as they walked to the room.

  “It’s not much,” Maggie said.

  Old Dan chuckled, and the effort made him fight to catch his breath again before speaking. “Don’t forget I’m an old alley-dweller,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “The emperor’s palace couldn’t be any nicer.”

  He started to laugh again and set off a fit of coughing. Maggie lowered him onto the bed. She cast a concerned look at Mrs. Cook, who had a man’s nightshirt draped over her arm.

  “He’ll be all right,” Mrs. Cook said. “Go off to bed, Maggie. I’ll watch after our guest. Get!”

  Maggie left the room reluctantly. As she climbed the stairs to her own room, a flood of weariness washed over her. She had forgotten how tired she was.

  * * *

  The voices drifted up the stairs, rising and falling through the cracks in the floor into Maggie’s room. She turned over in her sleep, pulling her quilt closer to her ears.

  The voices sharpened, and Maggie awoke. For a moment she thought she had been dreaming, but then she heard them again. The conversation downstairs had grown heated.

  She knew it was none of her business, but curiosity got the better of her groggy mind. She swung her feet out of bed, feeling the shock of cold when they touched the hardwood floor. The floorboards creaked as she lit the lamp beside her bed and pulled a robe on over her nightgown. Picking up the lamp, she stepped out into the hall. The voices had quieted.

  Maggie stepped lightly down the stairs and through the living room to the spare room. The light was on, leaking through the slight crack where the door was not quite shut.

  Maggie peered in through the crack. Mrs. Cook had moved her rocking chair to the bedside. Maggie could see her each time she rocked forward. Her eyes were swollen.

  “You shouldn’t have come here, Daniel,” Mrs. Cook said, a hardness in her voice that Maggie had never heard before.

  “I’m sorry, Evie,” Old Dan’s voice answered. “Perhaps you’re right.” He coughed painfully. “Truth is, I was afraid out there. I’ve never been so cold. I’ve never been afraid to die, before, but now… Well, I didn’t think ye would turn me away.”

  Mrs. Cook’s voice sounded as though she might lose control and start crying again. “No, Daniel, don’t talk nonsense. Of course it was better that you come here than stay out there with such a—such a sickness.” Her voice lowered, but Maggie still caught the words. “If only Maggie didn’t know you.”

  “I didn’t know she was here,” Old Dan said.

  The rocking chair leaned forward with a forceful creak. “Promise me you won’t talk to her about anything more than the weather, Daniel Seaton. No talk of the old days. I don’t want Maggie tangled up with the council.”

  “There is no council,” Daniel’s voice said. “Or have you forgotten? There’s naught left now but you and me and the others, all scattered and hiding—and dead, some of us. The council is finished.”

  “And may it stay that way,” Mrs. Cook said. There was silence for a moment, and then Daniel spoke again.

  “Have you forgotten, Evie? Have you forgotten the way it was, in the old days? Surely you canna hate its memory so much.”

  “It was all a game back then,” Mrs. Cook said.
“We were children playing with fire.”

  There was a heavy sigh from the bed. “’Twas a glorious fire,” Old Dan said. “But dangerous, yes.”

  “I want Maggie kept far away from it,” Mrs. Cook said. “It was bad enough that she was there when Mary—”

  “I know,” Old Dan said. “Evie, there’s somethin’ I need to be tellin’ ye.”

  There was an expectant silence, and Old Dan spoke again. His voice was barely a whisper this time, and Maggie was not sure if she had heard him right.

  “I saw her,” he said.

  The rocking chair leaned forward, and Maggie could see Mrs. Cook’s face. It had drained of colour. Maggie felt suddenly cold—the cold came from within, as though childhood fears had passed over her. She had half a mind to turn and go back to bed, but she knew the fear would only follow her. She stayed where she was.

  “Evelyn?” Mrs. Cook asked, her voice suddenly as weak as Daniel’s.

  “Aye,” Old Dan said.

  “Did she know you?” Mrs. Cook asked.

  “I didna think so,” Old Dan said. “But then this sickness… it makes me very afraid, Evie.”

  Mrs. Cook let out a noise like an angry sob. “How long will she hound us? Was she not content to destroy us with her lies?”

  “It wasn’t as though she came after me,” the old man said. “We stumbled across each other, quite by accident.”

  “And John and Mary?” Mrs. Cook said. “Was that an accident? How many more of us will die before she’s content to leave us alone?”

  Maggie closed her eyes as the shock of what she was hearing sunk in. For a moment she forgot herself and leaned against the door. It swung open and Maggie stumbled into the room. Mrs. Cook jumped half out of her chair, and then sank back into it with a moan. Maggie heard a sigh from the bed. No one spoke.

  “I heard you talking,” Maggie said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Go back to bed,” Mrs. Cook said gently.

  Maggie shook her head. “No. John and Mary—you said a woman killed them.”

  Maggie took a step nearer the rocking chair, almost menacing in her approach. She was trembling. “John and Mary’s death was an accident. Wasn’t it?”

  Mrs. Cook seemed supremely unhappy. She began to answer, bit her lip, and finally nodded. “Yes, Maggie. It was an accident.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t know anything to the contrary.”

  “But you don’t believe it. You think this woman killed them. You think they were—” she faltered. “Murdered.”

  Mrs. Cook reached a weary hand to a strand of grey hair that had worked itself loose from her bun. She brushed it back and regarded the young woman standing before her, eyes pleading.

  “Sit down, Maggie,” Mrs. Cook said. Maggie obeyed, sinking into the deep green feather blanket on Old Dan’s bed.

  “No,” Mrs. Cook said wearily. “I don’t believe the fire was an accident.”

  Maggie leaned forward. “Then what—?”

  Mrs. Cook leaned back in the rocking chair and listened to the pop of the firewood in the hearth. “When we were very young,” she said slowly, “we were part of a council. John Davies, and Mary, and Daniel and I. We were studying old legends and phenomena. Things that couldn’t be explained naturally.”

  Daniel spoke up, and his voice seemed stronger than before. “It was glorious,” he said.

  Mrs. Cook ignored him. “It was dangerous,” she said. “There are powers in this world, Maggie—or outside of it, as it may be—that are best left alone.”

  “Who was the woman?” Maggie couldn’t remember the name they had mentioned.

  “Evelyn?” Mrs. Cook asked. Her voice suddenly grew more tired. “She was nearly one of us. She would have become one of the council, if we had voted her in. Mary stopped that from happening.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Thank heavens.”

  “She were an evil one,” Old Dan suddenly added. “Swore she’d kill Mary for opposing her.”

  Mrs. Cook shot Daniel a scathing look. Maggie felt that Mrs. Cook had planned to leave that part out.

  “We didn’t think she meant it,” Mrs. Cook said. “We didn’t think there was any real danger. Not until the fire.”

  “Do you have any proof?” Maggie asked.

  Mrs. Cook shook her head. “Only the warning bells that went off in my own heart, and the memory of her black face all twisted and laughing.”

  “Laughing,” Maggie whispered.

  Mrs. Cook looked at the young woman and suddenly burst into tears. “Oh, Maggie,” she cried, reaching for the girl who once more looked so orphaned. She rose from her rocking chair and enfolded Maggie in her embrace.

  For a long time they remained together, Mrs. Cook holding onto Maggie as though her tight embrace could stop the sorrow from coming. When at long last Maggie lifted a hollow-eyed face, Old Dan was watching them with a rolled up piece of parchment in his hands.

  “What is that?” Mrs. Cook asked. She did not sound as though she wanted an answer.

  “It was Evelyn’s,” Old Dan said quite simply. “I took it from her.”

  Mrs. Cook paled. “When?”

  “Not two weeks ago,” he said. “When I saw her. She was in Galce, in an inn. I snuck into her room and this was there, and I thought it was important. So I took it.”

  “Why?” Mrs. Cook asked.

  “It’s important,” Old Dan repeated. “It means something. I’ve been up to see the laird with it.”

  A flush of anger rose in Eva Cook’s cheeks. “You mean you’d still speak to that—”

  Old Dan shrugged. “I don’t suppose he’s any friend of hers, not after all this time. It was his council she ripped to pieces.”

  “Why did you come back here?” Mrs. Cook asked.

  “The laird wouldn’t see me,” he said. “So I was takin’ the scroll to Pravik. Maybe Jarin Huss can read it.” He held up the parchment, and his hand began to shake violently. In a moment his body was racked with the terrible cough, and Maggie saw blood on his hand where he covered his mouth.

  “Trouble is,” he rasped when he had regained control of his body, “I’m not sure I’ll make it to Pravik.”

  Mrs. Cook walked slowly to Old Dan’s side. She laid her hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up,” she said. “Daniel—what happened to you in Galce?”

  “She looked at me,” Old Dan said. “I didn’t think she recognized me. At least not at the time. But her eyes met mine.”

  His bony frame sunk back farther into the bed. “All that night I dreamed about her eyes. The coughing fits woke me up. It’s been getting worse ever since.”

  As though to illustrate his words, Old Dan began to cough again. This time, blood ran from his mouth down his chin and onto the sheets and blankets. Mrs. Cook ran from the room for water and rags to clean the blood. Maggie could only stare at the helpless old man, while her own blood ran cold. She knew what they were thinking—somehow, she knew it was true. This was no natural illness, but a living evil that was slowly murdering a frail old man.

  When the coughing fit had at last ended, Old Dan gasped for air. Every breath racked his body with pain, and he shivered uncontrollably. Mrs. Cook sat at his side, holding one gnarled hand in her own, whispering words of comfort.

  The fire was dying out. Maggie went in search of more coal. In truth, she could think of nothing but escaping from that room.

  From the deep recesses of her memory, laughter followed her out.

  An hour had passed before Maggie entered again. The room resounded with silence. The fire had nearly gone out. Mrs. Cook was still clutching Old Dan’s hand, stroking it. He opened his eyes and Maggie wanted to cry when she saw how much worse he looked. His skin was horribly pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He struggled to sit up when he saw her. She hurried to sit down on the bed so that he would not waste his energy.

  He slumped back onto the pillows and his fingers reached for the parchment that was
laying next to him.

  “Evie,” he said in a voice that was barely a whisper. “How will it get to Pravik? To Huss… it’s important.”

  The energy to speak seemed to drain out of him onto the pillows. Maggie picked up the parchment in one hand and took the fingers of the old man who had once brought her toys at the Orphan House.

  “I’ll take it,” Maggie said. Mrs. Cook’s eyes snapped up to look at Maggie’s face, her own full of horror.

  Maggie only leaned closer to Old Dan, who had closed his eyes again. “Do you hear me?” she whispered. “I’ll take it to Pravik.”

  He nodded, ever so slightly, and a smile tried to struggle free from his face.

  He did not move again that night.

  As Maggie left the room to trudge back to her bed, she turned to see tears running down Mrs. Cook’s face.

  * * *

  Daniel Seaton died the next morning. If he had other friends in Londren, Mrs. Cook did not know of them. Maggie was sent after the undertaker, and the austere little man arrived before noon. A coffin was available that would do the chore, and the body of Old Dan was taken to an old graveyard and buried before the sun had set on the day of his death.

  Maggie and Mrs. Cook watched as the black box was lowered into the ground by men who did not care, while dry autumn leaves blew through the maze of tombstones. A bell was rung in the little stone building that watched over the graveyard, and Maggie held tightly to Mrs. Cook’s arm as they leaned on each other.

  “Farewell, Daniel Seaton,” Eva Cook whispered as the bell pealed its melancholy song.

  It was over quickly. The two women climbed into a waiting carriage and began the slow ride back home. The red brick of the Orphan House glared down at them as the horses clopped past, and Maggie turned her face from it. Tucked inside her coat, the parchment scroll burned an awareness of itself into her.

  She had decided to leave for Pravik the next day.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Run, Boy, Run