The Peculiar

on the ground. The trees were black and leafless, older and taller than any English trees. Far back among them, Bartholomew could see a stone cottage. A light was burning in its window.

Hettie wrapped her arms around herself and looked at him, eyes wide.

“It’s working,” a voice lisped from the ceiling. Bartholomew glanced up, whirling, and saw a small white shape in the gloom, perched at the end of one of the dangling chains. It was staring at the woods, at Hettie. Its mouth was wide and empty, and somewhere inside its cold, wet voice was the echo of Mr. Lickerish’s whispery one. “The door is opening.”

Bartholomew spun back to Hettie. The door was opening. Slowly the black line expanded, stretching into a ring, like a black flaming hoop for a tiger to leap through. And as the door grew so did its frame, until it was no longer only a thread but a writhing chain of angry, flapping wings. They looked like the wings that flew around Jack Box and Melusine wherever they went, only stronger somehow, blacker. And whatever they touched, they destroyed. The stone slabs of the warehouse floor curled and snapped as they brushed them. The crates nearest them exploded in showers of wood. And still Hettie stood rooted to the spot, a small figure against the woods and snow of the Old Country.

“Yes.” Mr. Lickerish’s voice came through the milk imp’s mouth, soft and sibilant. “Child Number Eleven. You have opened.”

The faery butler lurched toward the elevator, but Mr. Jelliby was upon him again, kicking and punching with all his might. Bartholomew started toward Hettie. He felt the wind, smelled the ice and rot of the ancient woods. The door was not very large. Mother always said the one in Bath had been the hugest thing the world had ever seen.

“Go to her, boy,” the milk imp said from the ceiling. “Go and get her and bring her home.” Its voice held a sly edge now, like silk wrapping a sharp knife. “Don’t worry. The sylphs won’t hurt you. Not one of their own.” The imp leaned down off its hook. “Go on,” it coaxed. “Go get her.”

Bartholomew did not need to be told twice. He broke into a run, dodging Mr. Jelliby and the faery butler. Then Hettie was in front of him and he was pulling her to him.

Hettie flew out of the black wings of the doorway. Her feet touched the stone floor. Bartholomew had her hand, was already starting to dash for the window, out. Behind them the door gave a horrible jolt. With sickening speed the wings shrieked outward, devouring everything in their path. Bartholomew felt them scrape against his skin, rough feathers and bones. But the imp had not lied. Whatever faery creatures were hidden inside those wings, they did not hurt him now.

“Bartholomew!” Mr. Jelliby screamed, ducking as the faery butler’s knife whizzed over his head. “Put her back! Put her back or you’ll kill us all!”

In a panic, Bartholomew pushed at Hettie, but the damage was done. The door had almost reached the warehouse roof, a vast tornado of wings swallowing everything in sight. The wind buffeted his face, sharp with snow. The forest seemed to fill the whole space, growing dark out of the crates and the river. Feet pounded the stone floor close by-Mr. Jelliby’s or the faery butler’s-but he didn’t see anyone.

Hettie was trying to reach him again, her hands grasping for his shirt. On the other side, the forest was no longer empty. Something had emerged from the cottage in the distance. The light was still there, but it blinked on and off as a figure darted in front of it, now hiding behind trees, now rushing forward, coming closer. Behind it, other shapes were approaching through the woods, dark and quick, curious eyes glinting in the moonlight.

The faeries. They were coming.

“Don’t you want your sister?” the imp mocked. “Oh, dear little Hettie, do you see? Your brother doesn’t like you anymore. He doesn’t want to save you.”

Bartholomew looked at her desperately. He wanted nothing more than to save her. He had traveled hundreds of miles, braved the Bath police and the Goblin Market and the rat faery to find her. But Hettie was peering at him, eyes round and uncertain.

“You know, if you push her back-if you shove her into the Old Country and that dark winter’s wood, with those wicked, wicked faeries approaching from all sides, the door will begin to shrink. Wouldn’t that be grand? Wouldn’t that be smashing? It would become unbalanced. It would implode. I’m not lying. Try it. Abandon your darling sister for a world you don’t care a pennyworth for.”

The imp’s words sparked something in Bartholomew’s memory. In a flash, he was back in the greenwitch’s clearing, walking away from the painted wagon and the cheery light of its window. I don’t care about the world. That’s what he had said, growling under his breath as they trudged into the night. No one else did either. The faeries didn’t care. The people didn’t care. They had other things to worry about, like coins, and bread, and themselves. Bartholomew could let them all die. He could pull Hettie away, and the wings would sweep out across that cruel, hateful city. They would destroy everything, topple churches and houses and palaces of government. Mr. Jelliby would turn to dust. And Bartholomew and Hettie would walk away, hand in hand, across the ruins. It would be so easy.

You’re no different, that nasty voice had said, and it was saying it again, louder and harsher than ever. You’re no different from the rat faery. No different from Mr. Lickerish, and the greenwitch, and all the other people you thought you hated.

But Bartholomew was different. He knew he was. He was frail and ugly and not very tall, and he didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care if the faeries hated him, or the people feared him. He was stronger than them. Stronger than the rat faery had been, stronger than Mr. Lickerish ever was. He had gone places and done things, and he had done them not for himself but for Hettie and Mother and Mr. Jelliby, who had taken him with him when Bartholomew was standing alone in the alley. They were what made him belong. Not the faeries, and not the people. He didn’t need to be like them.

Bringing his face up to Hettie’s ear, he began to whisper, quickly and urgently, his hand tight around her fingers. “Don’t listen to him,” he said, through the wind and the wings. “He’s all lies. Don’t be afraid. You’re going to have to go in there for a short while, but as soon as the door is as small as it gets, leap back to me. Leap with all your might, do you hear me? It’ll work, Het, I know it will.”

“Barthy?” Hettie’s voice was shaking. And then the wind howled around them and he couldn’t hear her anymore. But he knew what she was saying. Barthy, don’t make me go in there. Don’t let the faeries get me.

Bartholomew tried to smile at her. His face wouldn’t move. Even the tears were frozen, aching behind his eyes. He hugged Hettie to him, hard and fierce as if he would never let her go.

“It’ll work, Het. It’ll work.”

Very gently, he pushed her through.

Her bare feet sank into snow. Wind whipped through her branches, her clothes. For an instant the wings became still, as if soaring through open sky. Then they seemed to turn, shrieking inward.

“What?” the milk imp spat, clutching at its chain and staring. “What are you doing, you wretched child. Pull her out! Pull her out or you will never see her again!”

I will. But Bartholomew knew there was no point answering. He kept his eyes fixed on Hettie, waiting to shout, to tell her it was time, and she could jump.

The door was shrinking quickly. The smaller it became the faster the wings spun, until suddenly a pillar of blackness burst upward, screeching along the elevator cable toward the airship. The imp gave a whine and was consumed. From somewhere high above came a deep, rolling boom.

The wings filled the door, blotting out everything. Bartholomew could see only snippets of the woods beyond, little glimpses of Hettie’s frightened face, the cottage, the snowbound forest.

“Now!” Bartholomew shouted. “Now, Hettie, get out! Jump!”

She wasn’t moving. Someone was standing behind her. A tall, thin, shadowy figure, a pale hand resting on her shoulder.

Bartholomew lunged forward. His arm went through. He felt Hettie, her dirty nightgown, her twig hair. He fumbled for her hand, trying to drag her to him, back to London and the warehouse. Home.

“Come on, Hettie, now! Jump!”

But the wings were everywhere, battering him, shutting him out. Hettie’s hand was wrenched from his grasp. He was thrown back, flying through the air until he struck a wall of crates. He slid to the floor, head spinning. Something warm trickled across his brow. His tongue tasted blood.

Hettie, he thought blearily. Hettie needs to jump. Slowly,