“I don’t want to go in no wall, Eliot,” she said again, louder, as he dragged her on. “Eliot—”
“Please, Ilsa.” He had the sense to look apologetic, but not enough to relent. They arrived at the door of Hester’s bedchamber and Eliot knocked. Several locks turned and Fliss appeared on the other side, looking harried.
“She won’t let me lift her,” she whispered as they passed.
Hester was sat on the bed, her fingers clinging to the sheets. A narrow door had been opened in one wall, and a lamp glowed inside. Ilsa’s chest tightened.
“This is my house,” Hester said through clenched teeth. “Take me downstairs so I can defend it.”
Eliot groaned and ran a tense hand through his hair. “You know, in a better moment, you approved of this plan,” he said as he approached the bed. Hester only glared. “You can’t defend us today, Hester, but you can stay alive. Please.”
Slowly, her fingers relinquished their grip on the sheets, and when she let out a relenting sigh, Eliot swept her up and placed her in the hidden space behind the wall.
Then it was Ilsa’s turn. There was a chance she would be sick.
“No. Eliot. Please don’t put me in there,” she rasped.
He and Fliss exchanged exasperated looks. Ilsa took a step towards the bedroom door, but Fliss shifted in front of it.
“Forgive us,” she said, “but you’re the acolytes’ target, Ilsa. We can’t protect the house while we’re trying to protect you.”
“You don’t need to protect me, I can hide! I’ll shift into a mouse. They won’t see me.” She backed away as Eliot approached, shaking his head. “Eliot—”
But Eliot lifted her clean off the floor and, before she could shift and skin him, deposited her next to Hester.
“I have to,” he said weakly, backing her further into the hidden room. Bare brick met her back less than three feet in. “It’s what we decided if they attacked again. We can’t risk your murder.”
What we decided. Anger lanced through her.
“I din’t decide. Let me fight!” The words spilled out in a jumble. “I’ve been practising! I’ve got a combat form—”
“This isn’t practice!” he yelled. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of another window breaking. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“No—”
As the panel slid into place, its edges vanishing against the seams of the wooden wall, Ilsa’s knees buckled. Her vision was blurring around the edges, perhaps to save her from seeing the dimensions of the “room”. But she could feel them; feel four solid walls within arm’s reach.
She closed her eyes and drew her knees to her chest, not caring if Hester was watching and judging her. She wasn’t at the orphanage, she told herself. She wasn’t trapped, not forever. The wolves would fight off the invaders and then she would be freed. She just needed to survive until then. She needed to breathe.
But the memories were coming with startling clarity. The screams of the other children as she became one of them by mistake. Bruising her feet as she was dragged up the stairs, begging. The iron scrape of the lock on the attic door. The taste of dust and rot on the air; the cold whisper of a draught kissing her hairline. The hides of dogs and birds and horses prickled across Ilsa’s skin, but the harder she grasped for them, the more their full forms eluded her. She couldn’t do it. She would never be able to change at will; to get out of here. Miss Mitcham would open the door again, and Ilsa would perform her penance, shaking, because she knew that within days, her ungodly curse would erupt again, and maybe this time the matron would tie her up. Ilsa made her do it, she said. She had to protect the other children from this devil she’d been cursed with.
Ilsa heard herself moan. How could she hurt the other children when she was barely allowed to spend time with them?
Something cold and hard pressed against her arm. Ilsa covered her mouth to stifle a yell and opened her eyes. Hester was staring opaquely at her, her arm outstretched. In her hand, against Ilsa’s arm, was a metal flask.
“I’m sorry we don’t have a magic potion for misery, but whisky laced with vemanta has always worked for me.”
Focusing on nothing but the flask, Ilsa took it from her and hastily unscrewed the top. She took two long gulps, relishing the burn as it barrelled through her. The sensation that followed was unexpected. It was like sinking into a feather bed when exhaustion was about to claim you. The wall and floor grew softer. Her limbs felt loose. It occurred to Ilsa that this lack of control was why she had vowed never to drink as Blume had, but the corresponding emotions were blunted. She wasn’t content, she wasn’t comfortable, but she wasn’t going to vomit either.
“Better?” said Hester, taking the flask.
Ilsa only nodded, and Hester let out a humourless chuckle and frowned at the flask. “The effects get weaker with constant use, but this small dose just about keeps me sane. Most of the time.” She sighed. “I hate to state the obvious but this box would be larger if you were smaller. A rabbit, perhaps.”
Ilsa only shook her head. She couldn’t be smaller, weaker. If anything, she wanted her snow leopard. But she couldn’t explain that to Hester; she could barely explain it to herself.
But Hester didn’t press, and they lapsed into silence. Ilsa tuned out the distant sounds of violence and focused on the feeling of the vemanta.
“I’m sorry you got hurt.”
Hester’s eyes snapped to hers. “You grew up in an orphanage, yes?” she said with no hint of sympathy, as if she were asking where she could buy nutmeg. Ilsa nodded. “And you ran away. Why? And don’t lie. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
The memories felt so real that Ilsa wondered if Hester could see them too. The older she got, the more her magic grew, and the
