“And other things,” said Merlin.
“What other things?” asked Susan. She found herself whispering, though she wasn’t sure why.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he answered. “Grandmother keeps them in order. Not far now.”
It grew colder as they descended, and the walls were no longer plaster or worked stone but rough-hewn, pale gray rock, with rivulets of water winding their way down and drips coming from the ceiling. After what seemed to Susan rather farther than it should have been to go down only two floors, they reached a large cavern, most of it impossible to see in the candlelight, save for the massive marble gateway on the other side, the stones pale in the darkness and the open gateway seeming to be even darker than the edges of the cavern. The marble was carved with what Susan thought were battle scenes, but it was hard to tell.
“We mustn’t take more than three steps beyond the gate,” whispered Vivien. She moved up close to Susan on her right side, and Merlin shuffled in from the left. “Stay in line. Don’t move ahead of us.”
They moved together through the gate, candles flickering, and stopped. Susan had no sense of what they’d entered. She could see nothing beyond the narrow pool of light around them, and their footsteps had echoed on the imperfectly smoothed stone, as if they were in some much larger cavern or chamber. It was much colder again, and her breath fogged out, making her notice that she was breathing too quickly. She forced herself to hold a breath in, and exhaled very slowly, counting to six. She didn’t want Merlin or Vivien to think she was afraid, even though she was.
“Gods,” muttered Merlin. “It is Nebrophonus.”
A huge, gaunt, ice-white wolfhound came slowly stalking out of the darkness ahead, stiff-legged and growling.
“Don’t move,” whispered Vivien. She shifted even closer to Susan, their shoulders touching, as Merlin slid his right hand around her elbow.
The wolfhound edged closer, sniffing, lifting his huge, shaggy head, lip curled to show massive teeth.
He didn’t look like a ghost, or a spiritual remnant, or whatever Vivien had said. He looked very real. Susan had been entirely accurate about being good with dogs; they nearly always obeyed her. But part of being good with dogs was knowing when to leave the clearly dangerous ones alone.
“We brought a friend, Grandmother,” called out Vivien. “A friend with a gift for you. It’s me, Vivien, and my brother, Merlin.”
“Antigone’s children,” added Merlin. “Daughter of the fourth Henry, and him the son of Theresa, the one nicknamed Mintie, and her the daughter of Serena.”
“And Serena the daughter of Claude, the second of his name, and him the son of Sophia and her the daughter of the fifth Guinevere, the first to use the name St. Jacques, in the true line all back to the beginning,” added Vivien.
There was a whistle in the darkness. Nebrophonus turned his head and then ever so slowly, like an ocean liner turning, curved away in front of them, retreating once more into the dark from whence he came.
A moment later, a woman appeared in front of the apprehensive trio. A short, businesslike old woman in an unadorned pale gray high-waisted dress, a snow-white fichu pinned at the neck, a faded blue bonnet over her silver hair, and one white glove, on her right hand. She had deep-set dark eyes that were immediately troubling. She looked to Susan very much like a well-known slightly mad old man in Bath, who wandered the streets dressed as Jane Austen whenever he could escape from his family.
Vivien and Merlin curtsied, dragging Susan down with them.
“Vivien and Merlin, is it,” said the woman. It wasn’t a question. Her voice was soft and scratchy, and weirdly menacing. “Come to visit their old granny. But you want something . . . you always do. . . .”
Vivien didn’t answer that. She shuffled half a pace forward and spoke brightly.
“This is our friend Susan Arkshaw, Grandmother. She has a present for you.”
Merlin gave Susan a little push and let go of her elbow.
Susan took an even shorter step than Vivien’s and held out the rose, instinctively lowering her head and bending her knee.
The Grandmother took it from her, and as she did so, the glass flower became real again, though still transparent, the stem bending. Petals shivered as the old lady lifted it to her nose and inhaled deeply.
“Ah,” she said wistfully. “It’s been long and long since I smelled the scent of a rose. I make you welcome, Susan Arkshaw.”
Susan felt more than heard Vivien’s sigh of relief, which was cut off as the Grandmother lowered the rose and peered over the top of the flower, her eyes bright with mischief.
“But it has no color. It should be red, my dears. Red is the color for roses. Roses and blood. The left-handed one, Merlin. You’ve a knife or two upon you, dear. Use it.”
Susan glanced at Merlin, who was looking aside a little. At Nebrophonus, who had reappeared and was staring back at him, his jaws roughly at groin height and only a foot away.
“Susan has the guest-right of the St. Jacques,” said Vivien. She spoke confidently, but her right hand was trembling in its glove. “Bread and water . . . well, tea and biscuits, freely given.”
The Grandmother laughed, a kind of choking, coughing laugh. Susan resisted the urge to turn and run. The wolfhound would be on her back straight away if she did, and Merlin and Vivien hadn’t said anything, or given a sign to flee.
“Oh, you silly children,” said the Grandmother. “I only need a few drops. You want to know who Susan’s people are, do you not? A drop of color for the rose, a drop for me to see what’s what, a drop for Nebrophonus as a treat. That’s all.”
“Three drops of my blood,” said Susan. “And you can
