Shadowmarch

that.”

“No, and you don’t know that it doesn’t. Why are you fighting me, Opal? Are you so afraid we might lose him?”

There were tears in her eyes—he needed no light to know that: he could hear it in her voice. “Yes! Yes, I’m afraid we might lose him. And mostly because you wouldn’t care if we did!”

“What?”

“You heard me You treat him well enough because you’re a kind man, but you don’t… you don’t. . you don’t love him “ She was fighting to be able to speak now. “Not like I do.”

For a moment anger and astonishment ran together in him. She turned onto her side. Her sobs shook the mattress and something in the brokenhearted sound of it pushed everything else away. This was his Opal, weeping, terrified. He curled his arms around her.

“I’m sorry, my old darling. I’m sorry.” He heard himself saying it, regretted it even as the words left his mouth. “Don’t worry, I… I won’t let anyone take him from you.”

* * *

“Isn’t there any other way?” she asked. They had lit one of the smallest lamps; her face was red and her eyes swollen. “It seems a terrible thing to do—it seems wrong.”

“We are parents now,” Chert said. “I suspect we must get used to feeling terrible about some things we must do. I suspect it is the tunnel-toll for having a child.”

“That’s just like you,” she whispered, half angry, half not. “Anything you take up, you decide you know all about it. Just like with those racing moles.”

The sleeping boy, who as usual had kicked his blanket off, was lying belly-down, face turned to the side like a swimmer taking a breath, pale hair white as frost. Chert stared with a mixture of fondness and fear. He knew he had just signed a treaty of sorts, that in return for getting a look at the contents of the sack he had as good as promised that whatever they might be, he would abide by Opal’s judgment. And he knew in his heart that unless they found evidence that the child had actually committed murder—and not just any old murder, but something important and recent— she would not consider it grounds to send the boy away.

How did that happen so quickly? Chert wondered. Are all women like that — ready to love a child, any child, just as a hand is ready to grasp or an eye ready to see? Why don’t I feel the same way? Because although he knew he truly did care for the child, there was nothing in him like the fierce possessiveness that his wife felt, the almost helpless need. Does she burn too hot? Or is my heart too cold?

Still, watching as the boy moaned a little and shifted, looking at the helpless, smoothly vulnerable neck, the open mouth, he found himself hoping that they discovered nothing damning.

Someone is using this child. Chert suddenly felt certain of this, but did not know why he thought so or what it meant. For good or for ill, there is another will behind him. But what is he? A weapon? A messenger? An observer?

Confused by these thoughts, Chert got down on his knees and carefully slid one hand under the shirt the boy used as a cushion. His fingers touched something solid, but Flint’s head rested firmly on top of it; he would rouse the boy if he tried to pull it free. He put a hand under the child’s shoulder and gently pushed.

“You’ll wake him up… !” Opal whispered.

Would that be so bad? Chert wondered. There was no reason they needed to hide what they were doing, surely. In fact, he would have gladly waited until morning, except that he knew he would not sleep if he did Still, as the boy yawned and rolled onto his side, allowing Chert to pull the sack and its cord out from under the rolled shirt, he did feel more than a little like a thief.

At least he hasn’t hidden it, Chert thought. Tliat’s a good sign, isn’t it? If he knew it was something bad, he would hide it, wouldn’t he… ?

Chert carried it out of their bedchamber to the table, Opal as close behind him as if it were not simply a possession of Flint’s but an actual piece of the boy. Chert had been distracted last time by the discovery of the strange stone, the one that he had passed to Chaven. Now he examined the bag all over again. It was the size of a hen’s egg but almost flat, only as thick as a finger. The needlework was exquisite and complex, in many colors of thread, but the design was a pattern, not a picture, and told him very little. “Have you ever seen work like that?”

Opal shook her head. “Some eyestitch from Connord I saw in the market once, but that was much simpler.”

Chert took it gently in his hands, prodded at it with his finger. It gave beneath his touch with a faint, springy crunch, but there was something hard at the middle of it, hard like bone. “Where’s my knife?”

“That clumsy thing?” Opal was already walking across the room toward her sewing box. “If you’re going to steal the boy’s possessions and cut them open, you don’t have to do it like some butcher’s prentice.” She returned and lifted out a tiny blade with a handle of polished maker’s-pearl. “Use this. No, I’ve changed my mind. Give it back. I’ll be the one who has to sew the thing up again after you’ve finished poking around in it.”

Assuming it’s something that can be put back in a sack as though nothing has happened, Chert thought but didn’t say. The boy himself certainly hadn’t been like that, so why should this be different?

Opal carefully sliced away a few of the threads down one side, where the ornamental stitchery was minimal. Chert had to admit that he wouldn’t have thought of that, that he would have opened the top and spoiled much more of the embroidery.

“What if… what if the stitchery itself is some kind of shadow-magic?” he said suddenly. “What if we’ve spoiled it by cutting it, and whatever’s inside won’t be held in there anymore?” He didn’t know exactly what he was he trying to say but in these deep hours of the night it was hard not to feel they were trespassing on unfamiliar and perhaps hostile ground.

Opal gave him a sour look. “That’s just like you to think of that after I’ve started.” But she paused, and suddenly her face was worried. “Do you think there’s something alive in here? Something that… that bites?”

“Give it to me, then,” Chert said, trying to make a joke of it. “If someone has to lose a finger, it shouldn’t be the one who’s going to sew the thing up again.”

He squeezed it a little to force the snipped seam open, held it up to the light. All he could see was something that looked like bits of dried flowers and leaves. He leaned forward and sniffed it cautiously. The scent was exotic and unrecognizable, a mix of spicy odors. He probed inside with his finger, trying to be gentle, but he was crushing the dried plant material and the smell was getting stronger. At last he touched something hard and flat. He tried to pull it out, but it was almost the same size as the sack.

“You’ll have to cut more threads,” he said, handing it back to Opal.

She sniffed the open side. “Moly and bleeding-heart. But that’s not all. I don’t recognize the rest.” When she had widened the gap all the way down to the bottom and even a little beyond, Chert took it back.

He pulled, gently. Dried petals fell to the table. He pulled again and at last the object slid out. It was an oval of polished white—a quick glance told him it was made not of stone but something more recently and aggressively animated—which had been carved in a decorative manner that, like the embroidery, was not meant to represent anything obvious. For a moment he could only stare at it in surprise—why would anyone spend so much care carving and polishing a simple round of ivory or bone like this?—but Opal took it for a moment, nodded, then put it back on his palm, this time with the other side facing up.

“It’s a mirror, you old fool.” There was relief in her voice. “A hand mirror like a highborn lady might have. I daresay your Princess Briony owns a few of these.”

“My Princess Briony?” He fell into their old rhythms because it was the easiest thing to do; he, too, was relieved, although not as completely as his wife. “She’ll be very entertained to hear that, I’m sure.” He stared at the mirror, lifted it up, turned it until it caught the reflection of the lamp. It did seem quite ordinary. “But why does the boy have a mirror?”

“Oh, can’t you see?” Opal shook her head at his obtuseness. “It is as clear as skyglass.This must have belonged to his… his true mother.” She did not like saying the words, but she continued bravely. “She likely gave it to him as… a sort of reminder. Perhaps she was in danger and they had only a few moments before she had to send him away. She wanted whoever found him to know that he came of a good family, that his mother had loved