Most of the wagon’s inhabitants looked at the Tester blankly. A few looked away.
“Know this. If you are thirsty it is for one of two reasons. Either you have been without water for too long or you are Drawing Down. And it is only through Drawing Down that you can call a storm, or Light Up. That is why it is so easy to find your kind. You are as thirsty for drink as we are thirsty for your power.” He looked at the Wraiths. “Whip him so that all might see the price of disobedience.”
They hauled him out, kicking and shrieking.
The Tester looked at the prisoners coolly, saying, “There shall be no storms, there shall be no weather of any variety unless we command it.”
Then they tore off the boy’s shirt and whipped him until his skin was raised and red with welts.
It was the sound that woke him. Bran sat bolt upright, the covers falling back as the chill caught him, kissing all the way along his neck. He tugged at his nightshirt’s collar and sat there in the dark, catching his breath and wondering why it didn’t feel like he’d screamed at all.
He ran a shaking hand along his throat but felt no lingering hoarseness. So he listened, the night heavy and deep in his ringing ears. When the shriek came again he launched out of his bed, covers flying, and vaulted toward Meg’s room, catching the waiting lantern in his hand as he flew past his nightstand.
The light from the lantern was harsh, washing out the scene before him and casting the child in an eerie glow. Seated in the center of her bed, her eyes were screwed tight against some unmentionable horror, eyelashes quivering as her entire body trembled. She screamed again, covered in a sheen of sweat and caught in a cruel nightmare’s snare. He leaped across her bed and pulled her into his arms to wake her, but hopped back, Meg clutched to him, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
His feet were damp.
As was her entire nightgown.
He glanced down at the horn cup beside her bed. Turned on its side, there was not even a drop of liquid remaining within. Carefully he held her out before him, feeling her slick arms slide in his grasp. Tightening his grip, he gave her a little shake as her mouth opened in another cry. “Meg!”
Her eyes flew open and she gasped like someone too long beneath water. “Papa?”
“What happened?” he asked, setting her on the edge of her bed—one of the few spots yet dry. “Did you”— he glanced at her wet gown—“wet yourself?”
“I…” She looked down, mystified. “I was frightened…” She shivered, the cold and the damp combining to wreak havoc on her tender skin. Her flesh turned to goose pimples and she rubbed her arms furiously, her tiny brow knitted.
“Well. You most certainly cannot stay like that,” he muttered, setting the lantern on the floor and opening the chest at the foot of her bed. He rummaged through things, shifting one thin stack of clothing and then another. The chest held the remnants of her mother’s things and any worldly possessions not already on her back. There was nearly nothing to speak of between it all.
“Here,” he said, tugging free an old chemise with a drawstring neckline. It was far too big for a child of her size and would pool around her feet if she stood, but at least it was dry. “Take that off,” he said, “and put this on.”
Timidly she set her feet on the ground and he turned away until she said, “I am well.”
He turned and looked at her, the chemise’s neckline slipping down to expose one petite shoulder, and the ridiculous way she hiked the hem up so she wouldn’t trip over its startling length. He could not help but smile. “I am going to send for Maude,” he explained. “You may stay here while I do, or you may come along.”
She wiggled awkwardly forward, but followed him as he left her room and crossed the main bit of his to where a horn hung by a crank and flywheel. The Maker spun the crank so the flywheel hummed and a small crystal lit and blinked. He leaned toward the horn. “Yes. Servants’ quarters.”
There was a hum and the sound of someone speaking in the distance.
“Yes. Maude.”
A pause and then there was more noise, as if someone spoke to him from far, far away.
“Are you speaking to her now?” Meg asked, stepping closer, her eyes on the horn.
The Maker wrinkled his forehead and nodded. “Yes,” he said into the horn. “We need you now. And fresh linens. And a nightgown if you have one to spare.”
A sound like tinny laughter drifted out of the horn.
“No, of course I understand you don’t have one to spare. Just come. Quickly, please.” He grabbed the handle as it spun free and pulled it to a grating stop. The stormcell’s crystal blinked off and the strange hum ceased.
The room was heavy with silence as they stood there staring at each other.
“Do you remember what you were dreaming?”
She shook her head, damp curls clinging to her forehead.
Bran reached out a tentative hand and slid a few locks back from her heart-shaped face. “Are you certain? Try and remember. Anything. It might help.”
She puffed out her cheeks and blew out a deep breath. “Water,” she finally said, screwing her face tight in thought. “I remember water.”
The shutters rattled so hard the water in Bran’s washing bowl rippled and they both jumped.
Bran laughed, setting a hand on her shoulder. But the sound felt false in his ears and he was certain she saw the way his gaze shot, telltale, to both the shuttered window and bowl.
But she giggled and they stood together for the minutes it took Maude to dash up the stairs, linens in hand.
She was breathless at his door and bent over to suck in air after taking a quick look at Meg to reassure herself that nothing was broken so badly it might not yet be mended. She clutched the linens to her chest and rallied. Rising she said, “She is wet?”
“Yes. She was.”
Meg looked away.
“It’s the water,” Maude said with a frown.
Meg’s head snapped up, but Maude was already walking toward her room, muttering about having given a child with a pea-sized bladder just enough water right before bed that any dream would wring it back out of her. “It’s not your fault, little dove,” she assured as she stripped the bed and tossed the wet sheets on the floor. “Oh.” She paused, seeing the broad stretch of wet on the mattress. “It seems quite wet.” She glanced at Bran, but his expression revealed nothing. She folded an old blanket she’d brought along and spread it over the wet area before placing a sheet over it.
Maude patted it. “Much better. Now. Let’s get you out of that before you trip and kill yourself.”
Bran snorted. “She needed to be dry. Warm.”
“No disrespect intended.” She smiled at him and, twirling the child around, stripped and redressed her faster than Bran could leave the room. “Come, Meggie,” she said. “Scoot in.”
The little girl crawled across the now lumpier bed and settled in. Maude pulled the covers straight up to her chin, seeing her wiggle happily beneath them. “There’s a good lass,” she said, and swept the last of her darkly sticky curls away from her face before leaning over to give her another soft kiss. Maude turned and Meg’s hand snapped out to grab her wrist.
“Sing me a song?” she asked, her eyes imploring.
Bran leaned in the doorway, watching the scene play out.
Maude glanced at him. “Who could ever say no to such a face?” She sat at the bed’s side and, taking Meg’s little hand in her own much larger one, splayed out her tiny fingers and began to sing “Rise Gentle Moon.” Her face lifted as the song carried her happily along and she raised her eyes to the ceiling. She blinked, one note strangling in her throat before she caught the tune and continued.
But it was too late. Bran was looking where she had looked.
“What?” he asked as soon as the song ended and she stood and readjusted Meg’s covers.
“A spider. I thought I saw a spider,” Maude said. “I hate the furry-legged bastards.” She brushed past him and snagged his arm, leading him out of the room quickly.
“Spiders bother you that much, do they?” he asked as they neared his door.
