Copper Ravens (19 page)

“Thank you,” I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper. “Your offering does much to ensure the land's fecundity for the coming year,” I added, a bit more forcefully. Well, I was louder, anyway.

The crone said nothing, but bowed respectfully, her gray eyes never leaving mine. After she'd shuffled away, Micah grabbed my hands.

“You mustn't touch it,” Micah warned.

“Don't worry. I won't.” After staring at the apple for another heartbeat, I looked at his hands, his long fingers that were tightly wrapped around my wrists. “Is she dangerous?”

“She is powerful,” Micah replied, “and arrogant. She swears allegiance to no one. While she is not what I'd call evil, she certainly isn't trustworthy.”

I shuddered, remembering the tiny blue vial that sat on my dressing table, and the dubious bargain I'd struck with her. Misinterpreting my quivering shoulders, Micah called for a silverkin to take the apple and toss it into the center of the firewood.

“Worry not, love,” he said, rubbing my arms as if he could rub away the crone's visit.

“I'm—I know you wouldn't let anything hurt me,” I amended, mid-speak. I would never outright lie to Micah, not even to tell him I wasn't worried. My omissions about the birth control didn't count; yeah, I was still trying to convince myself of that one.

Micah smiled at that and leaned forward to kiss my hair. “The sun goes to rest,” he said, gently turning my chin toward the west. “Come, let us light the bonfire.”

We watched the sun paint the sky in oranges and purples for another moment, then we rose and wound our way around the tables and revelers toward the massive pyramid of wood. As we stood before the intimidatingly large heap, I suddenly found myself wishing for a pair of flip-flops. A splinter in the May Queen's toe would certainly not bode well for the coming harvest. Micah had somehow obtained a candle, and we both held it as we guided its tiny flame toward the kindling.

“This won't work,” I whispered. “The flame's too small.”

“Is it?” Micah had no sooner said the words than the firewood caught, and the entire mound was ablaze. We stepped back as others stepped forward, lighting their own sticks so they could create their own fire.

While there had been no shortage of libations earlier in the evening, once the bonfire raged, Micah's wine flowed like a river after the spring thaw. Revelers wandered off among the orchards, either to dance or sing, or maybe begin more private celebrations. Throughout it all, Micah and I walked among his people, ensuring that all had eaten and drunk their fill. Eventually, we happened upon our least-liked guest.

“Farthing,” Micah said, with a polite nod. As Old Stoney turned to reply, the pixie he'd been talking to took the opportunity to flee. I was beginning to think that pixies were the smartest creatures in the Otherworld. “Enjoying yourself, I trust?”

“Always, Silverstrand.” He turned back to the pixie, found that she was gone, and settled his gaze on me instead. “I could ask the same of you. I'd have given the lady a green dress by now.”

I looked down at my dress, wondering what was wrong with white. Was I supposed to change after the bonfire was lit? Then, I heard a breathy moan from beyond the trees, and my toes twitched in the grass.

“Watch yourself, Farthing,” Micah said, pausing to take a sip from his wine. “And watch your mouth around my consort. You may be my guest, but I've no qualms about tipping you into the Clear Pool and leaving you there to be taken over by so much pond scum.” Old Stoney's eyes flamed and his neck bulged, but Micah ignored him as he took my arm and led me away from him.

“I hate him,” I grumbled. “Why does he have to be here, today of all days? He's going to ruin—”

Micah silenced me the best way he knew how, by grabbing my shoulders and kissing me hard. When he came up for air, he said, “Only if you let him.”

I opened my mouth to protest the many ways Old Stoney's presence had me less than pleased, when I caught sight of a line of dancers. In the Mundane world they would have been called a conga line, but here they were just happy. Carefree. Enjoying themselves.

Micah was right. Who cared if that stupid rock wanted to be a jerk? I kissed Micah's chin and asked, “Are we done being the May King and Queen?”

“Almost,” he murmured, drawing me into the darkness beyond the firelight. “There is but one more matter to see to.” And see to it we did.

17

S
omething was bothering me about that last boggart, the one Mom and I had needed to bind. And not just because the binding had turned out to be a total waste of time.

Okay, the fact that the critter was bothering me was a given, since the sole purpose for boggarts to exist is so they can annoy people. But something about that particular boggart was off…way more off than the usual boggarty shenanigans.

It wasn't that the original clutch had been Max's penalty for being a world-class failure at gambling; around here, Max screwing up happened often enough, and it was really only a matter of time before
someone
cursed him. But Mom had managed to break the curse on the rest of the clutch, so why did just the one boggart wander on back to the manor, first to eat nearly half the orchards, then as a supersized menace? What was more, the binding spells worked by me and Mom should have been more than enough to hold it. Of course, we hadn't expected anyone to dig up the poppet we'd buried, either.

So, who had unbound the boggart? And where had the poppet gone?

Those two questions had the same answer—someone had dug up the poppet and destroyed it. Most likely, that someone was the same someone who had then made Max's boggart the Largest Boggart Ever. But who could have done it? Who would have even known there was a bound boggart in the first place?

Even without knowing said digger/enlarger's name, I could puzzle out a fair bit of their identity. It would have to have been someone of considerable power, and someone who knew that the Lord of Silver had recently begun hosting a few out-of-town relatives up at the manor. Granted, it was no secret that the Corbeaus were now staying in the Otherworld, especially with Max's epic losing streak, and all the associated brawls, being the talk of the village; now that Mom had made her appearance at our Beltane festival, I could only imagine what further surprises we were in for. Hopefully these future incidents would just be standard attacks, with swords and spears and the like, and not another plague of stinky, messy critters.

When I'd asked Micah who he thought had been responsible, he'd placed all blame on Max, since he'd been cursed with them in the first place. I admitted that Micah had a point, but when the boggart had made his third appearance at the manor, it had had nothing to do with Max. What's more, for someone to attempt removing a poppet buried on Micah's land, they must have had access to a ready supply of spellcrafting implements, as well as a heaping helping of egotism.

So yeah, I had a few ideas about who this individual could be. And I wanted to pay her a visit.

I found Max lying on a bench in the courtyard, halfway between the manor and the Clear Pool. He was flat on his back, staring at the clouds. “What's going on?” I asked.

“Absolutely nothing.” He drew up his feet, giving me space to sit beside him, so I did.

“Are you going to visit her?” I asked, nodding toward the Clear Pool. My brother seemed to have hit it off with our resident nymph.

“Nah. She's nice, but…” His voice trailed off, and I didn't press him. I was actually kind of glad that Max wasn't too into the Bright Lady, since I needed his full attention.

“I have a theory about your boggarts.”

“What kind of theory?” He hadn't moved, but I heard the edge in his voice.

“Not about the whole group, just about the giant one. I think I might know who cursed it.” At that he sat up, eyes narrowed and mouth pressed into a thin line. “Want to head down to the village with me?”

Max is always game for causing a ruckus, and soon we'd passed the village gates and were walking down the darker path toward the apothecary. Just as Sadie and I had, we found the crone inside. This time there weren't any heaps of freshly skinned pelts, thank the gods for small favors. Instead, we found the crone sorting powders behind the roughly-hewn counter.

“How did the tincture perform?” she croaked, by way of greeting.

“I'd rather talk about this,” I replied. With that, Max heaved a burlap sack onto the counter and dumped out one of the giant boggart's toenails. I'd been disgusted when Max had suggested that we should dig up the boggart's corpse and just rip off a trophy, more so when he explained that a toenail, which was curved and cracked (not to mention smelly) and the length of Max's forearm, would be the easiest, and least messy, body part to carry with us. Really, who could argue with that? And he assured me that he could match the residual magic on the toenail to whoever had cast it.

Based on how the crone's eye twitched at the sight of it, she also thought we could trace any leftover bits of magic. Or perhaps it was just an involuntary reaction to the stench of putrid boggart flesh. “Are you looking to sell this?” she asked.

“Would someone buy it?” I asked.

The crone cackled. “Fools will buy anything!”

She had a point. She also wasn't going to distract me from the purpose of my visit. “Well, someone cursed this boggart to make it a giant pain in my ass. Any idea who would do that?”

“Who are your enemies?” she countered.

“I don't have any,” I said, while Max murmured, “Lots.” Confused, I turned toward my brother. “Think about it, Sara. Micah's got lots of enemies—basically, any Elemental who doesn't want metal to rule, not to mention the rest of metal who think they should be ruling. If they take out Oriana, Micah's next in line. And you know what metal comes after silver.”

I so did not need to be reminded about that. “Why a boggart?”

“Why not? It can annoy us, distract us long enough that we don't see what's really going on.” Max was thoughtful for a moment, as he studied the yellowish, dirt-caked toenail. Then he raised his eyes, his hard gaze wiping the smirk right off of the crone's face. “And you're the one who did it.”

“I did nothing—”

“Don't lie,” Max commanded. “This powder is identical to the stuff in that jar.” Max indicated a reddish, crumbly substance caked on the underside of the nail and jerked his head toward the shelves of jars. “Besides, I can feel your magic on it. It's as unique as a retina scan.”

The crone's eyes burned, and I mean
burned;
flames actually leapt across her pupils. “Just because my powder was used on the beast does not mean that I cast the spell.”

“But you know who did,” I said. “We won't hold it against you. We know that you're only trying to make a living here, selling your wares.” I leaned across the counter and asked, “Come, dearie, I thought you wanted a few friends in Lord Silverstrand's house?”

She glared at me for a long moment, so long that I worried she was about to blast us with her fiery eyeballs. As it usually does, self-preservation won out in the end. “Farthing Greymalkin.”

Old Stoney. Figures. “Why?”

“I've no idea, other than it was easy enough to accomplish. You might want to take up something other than gambling,” she added, with a pointed look at Max.

“Why did you give me an apple?” I blurted out. It was so not the point of our visit, but I had to know.

“It was a test,” she hedged.

“A test of what?”

“Your intelligence.” She cackled again and produced a basket of the shiny red fruit. “Had you been foolish enough to eat it, I would have been summoned to save you, and Lord Silverstrand would have been indebted to me. Since you chose to burn my gift, I know you aren't as stupid as other mortals. Be glad you passed the test,
Lady
Silverstrand.”

“If I'd eaten it and gotten sick, Micah would have killed you,” I said. “Or my mother, if she got to you first.”

The crone shrugged. “Maeve would have been furious if her own child had fallen for such a common trick. Furious with you,” she added.

That was true, but Mom would have worked out her disappointment in her daughter's bad judgment on the crone's hide. Being that I couldn't stand to be in the apothecary for another moment, I slipped a few silver coins onto the counter; in the Whispering Dell, they were worth far more than gold. “If Greymalkin asks you for anything else, come to me. I'll pay for the information. Well.” With that, we turned to leave, leaving the rotting toenail on the counter. That's what the crone got for doing business with people like Old Stoney.

“I'll give you a bit of information at no charge, my lady,” she called after us. “To prove my loyalty to the Silverstrand house, of course.” We turned and waited. “Have you noticed that none of copper yet attend you in person?”

She was right; other than the steadily increasing heap of gifts, I hadn't seen a single copper Elemental in the Otherworld, save for Sadie and Max. “Are they in trouble?”

“They're quite well,” she replied. “They've all been instructed that avoiding the Raven clan is the only way they will remain well.”

Huh. Someone must really think we're a lot more powerful than we are. “Was it Greymalkin?”

“No, this is bigger than that foolish rock's influence.”

I nodded, murmuring my thanks as Max and I exited the apothecary. We were silent as we left the village, and as we travelled the metal pathway. Once the manor loomed in the distance, Max broke the silence.

“There's no one vying for leading copper,” Max said. “All the metals follow Oriana.”

“I know.”

“Not many have more influence than Greymalkin.”

“I know.” There was Micah, but he wouldn't try to keep those of copper from us, and Ferra, but she'd long since rusted away. That left one person with the power to keep those of our own metal away from us. Oriana.