The Gates of Sleep

see. And do what? If these—these lawyers had been mages, perhaps she could have frightened them—if they had been the least bit sensitive, perhaps she could have influenced their minds and made them go away. But it would not be for long. The next time there would be more lawyers, and more policemen. And there would be a next time. The law was not to be trifled with.

It was all so impossible—In a single moment, her life had been turned completely upside down, and no one was doing anything to help her. This couldn’t be right! This just couldn’t!

Her parents were dead.

How could it have happened? It seemed like something out of a Gothic novel—there had been a horrible accident in Italy—a boating accident, the lawyers said. They’d drowned. Oh, they were definitely dead, their bodies had washed up on the beach within a day, and there were dozens of people to identify them.

They hadn’t left a will. How could they not have left a will? Aunt Margherita seemed stunned, too stunned even to think; she hadn’t said a dozen words since the lawyers broke the news. But there was no will, and her guardians were not her legal guardians.

Somewhere in the jumble of lawyers, estate managers, and men of business had been someone who had known where she was, and when her real aunt—someone she had never even heard of until now—had been told of the accident, had been told that Marina was living here, she had taken charge of everything. She—Arachne Chamberten—had sent these lawyers to take her away.

Now this person that Marina had never heard of, never seen, and never wanted to see, was legally in charge of her, her property, her very life until she turned twenty-one.

And this person decreed that she must leave Blackbird Cottage and go to Oakhurst. Immediately. With no argument or opposition to be tolerated.

Aunt Margherita and Uncle Thomas sat there like a pair of stunned sheep. Of course they were in shock—it had always been clear to Marina that her aunt and uncles considered her real mother and father to be their dearest friends, even though they only had contact with them through letters anymore—but Hugh and Alanna were dead, and Marina needed them now!

And they might just as well have been waxwork figures for all the help they were giving her!

“I don’t want to leave!” she wailed, looking desperately at the policeman, fixing on him as the only possible person that might be moved by an appeal.

“Sorry, miss,” he mumbled, turning very red. “I know you’re upset-like. I mean, know it’s a shock, to lose your parents like this—”

I don’t care about that! she screamed inside. Don’t you understand? My real parents are here, and you’re trying to take me away from them!

But—she couldn’t say that, much less scream it.

“Miss, it’s for your own good,” the policeman said desperately. “These gennelmun know their business, and it’s for your own good. You oughtn’t to be with them as isn’t your own flesh and blood, not now. And it’s the law, miss. It’s the law.”

Her throat closed up entirely, and she felt the jaws of a terrible trap closing on her; she understood how the rabbit felt in the snare, the mouse as the talons of an owl descended on it. if only Uncle Sebastian was here! He would do something, surely—But Sebastian was off in Plymouth and wasn’t expected back until tomorrow—

There could not have been a better time for them to arrive, or a worse time for her. Her chest ached, and black despair closed down around her.

The lawyers had made it abundantly clear that they were not going to wait that long—that in fact, if Marina balked at going, the policeman that they had brought with them was perfectly prepared tuff her into their carriage by force. She saw that in their eyes—

—and in his. He would apologize, he would regret having to manhandle her, but he’d do it all the same.

No escape—no escape—

They couldn’t have gotten the Killatree constable to go along with this—kidnapping! she thought frantically. Which was probably why they had brought one from Holsworthy. A Holsworthy man wouldn’t know them. A Holsworthy man wouldn’t have to answer to all of Killatree tomorrow for helping strangers tear her away from Blackbird Cottage and her guardians.

“Pack the girl’s things,” said the second lawyer coldly—the first words he’d spoken so far—looking over Margherita’s shoulder at Sarah and Jenny. “And hurry up about it. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Ma’am?” Sarah said, looking not at the lawyer, but at Margherita.

“Do it,” the third lawyer snapped, “Unless you’d care to cool your heels in gaol for obstructing us in our duty, woman.”

Shocked, angry, Sarah’s gaze snapped to the policeman, who turned redder still, but nodded, affirming what the lawyer had said.

Sarah made a choking noise, and Jenny turned white.

“But—” Marina’s spirit failed her utterly, and she slid to the floor, sobbing, her heart breaking.

She remained dissolved in tears while Sarah and Jenny packed for her, huddled against the seat of the sofa. Margherita just held her, speechlessly, and Uncle Thomas sat, white-faced, as if someone had shot him and he hadn’t quite realized that he was dead yet.

She sobbed uncontrollably while Hired John grudgingly loaded the trunks and boxes on the top of the waiting carriage. She wept and clung to Margherita, until the policeman actually pried her fingers off of her aunt’s arm, and pulled her away, wrapping her cape around her, ushering her into the carriage, almost shoving her inside.

There was nothing in her mind now but grief and despair. She continued to weep, inconsolable, tears pouring down her cheeks in the icy air as the carriage rolled away, leaning out of the window to wave, hoping for a miracle to save her.

But no miracle came, and the horses continued to carry her away—away—

She continued to wave, for as long as she could see her aunt and uncle standing stiff and still in the middle of the road, until the road took a turning and they vanished from view.

Then her strength left her. She collapsed back into the corner of her seat and sobbed, sobbed until her throat was sore and her eyes blurred, sobbed until her eyes were dry, and her cheeks raw with burning tears.

Through it all, two of the three detestable lawyers sat across from her, the third next to her, with folded arms, and stony faces. If they felt anything, it certainly didn’t show. They were the waxworks, with their cold faces and hearts of straw.

They might claim that they were lawyers—but they were more and less than that. As much as that policemen, they had been sent to make sure she didn’t escape, to make sure she was delivered into captivity, a prisoner of her parents’ lack of foresight and the implacable will of a woman who was a complete stranger.

And so she wept, as darkness fell, and the carriage rolled on, and her captors, her jailers, watched her with the cold eyes of serpents in the night.

Chapter Eight

THE carriage rolled on through the night, long past even the most fashionable of supper-hours; evidently the Unholy Trinity were taking no chances on Marina making a bolt for freedom. The carriage rattled over roads not improved by the snow, swaying when it hit ruts, which would have thrown her against her unwelcome seat-mate if Marina hadn’t wedged herself into place. She continued to huddle in her corner, as far as possible from them, back to them, her face turned into the corner where the seat met the side of the carriage, aching legs jammed against the floorboards to hold herself there. By the time darkness fell, she was no longer weeping and sobbing hysterically, but only because she was too exhausted for further emoting. Instead, she stared dull-eyed at the few inches of window curtain in front of her nose while slow, hot tears continued to burn down her raw cheeks. After sunset, she could no longer see even the curtains. The lawyers didn’t bother trying to talk to her; leaning forward to put their heads together, they whispered among themselves in disapproving tones, but said nothing aloud. Apparently it was enough for them that they had her in keeping.

They can’t keep me from writing, can they? They can’t stop me from sending letters—

Well, actually, they could, or rather, her Aunt Arachne could just by refusing to allow her pocket money for postage. It was very clear from the Trinity’s attitude that they had been completely appalled by the household that