Briar Queen_ A Night and Nothing Novel - Katherine Harbour Page 0,69

So, in the forest, when you kept sweeping against me—but it didn’t work.”

“The Black Forest doesn’t like transformations.” Ellen looked out the window. “It won’t allow that sort of thing. It used to be an army of mortal men, and they were enchanted by a ban dorchadas.”

“A ban dorchadas is a witch,” Moth reminded Finn, who, recalling the World War I helmets and rifles in the forest, shivered.

“You need to go to Harvest Station,” Roland said. “There are maps in our attic, in a cigar box, I believe. We drew them. Do I know you?”

The question was directed at Moth, who squinted. “I don’t remember.”

Finn was gazing down at the elixir and wondering what it would do to her. She whispered, “What is Maraville?”

“A town. A rotted-out place. You need to trust us and drink that.” Roland pointed to the vial.

Moth held out a hand. “Let me see that?”

She gave him the vial. He uncapped it, sniffed it, let a drop fall onto one thumb, and tasted it. He nodded and returned it to her. “It’s safe. Go on. You’ll need it. One drop.”

“How do you—never mind.” She thought of Jack searching for her, how he would worry. Could she trust Moth? She didn’t have a choice. She tilted her head back and let one drop of the elixir fall onto her tongue.

She’d expected a kick—and got one; the elixir tasted of lightning and champagne, mist and berries. It made her insides warm like a blush and her eyes water. As she slid toward the floor, Moth caught her, and said, “Don’t fight it.”

She hunched over as her stomach heaved and closed her eyes.

When she opened them, the world had become one of exquisite details and colors so vivid they didn’t seem real. She could see the patterns in Moth’s irises, the strands of gold in his pewter hair. Ellen and Roland seemed as luminous as lamps, their hair so red it was like crimson velvet against their gloomy surroundings. She straightened and felt every muscle glide beneath her skin. Her exhaustion had vanished. Strength coiled through her.

Moth pointed a finger at her. “Don’t get used to it.”

She moved around the salon, touching things—a porcelain figurine, a bottle of dried figs, a selection of rusting metal keys. She could see the most delicate details. Everything had a scent and seemed to have a secret; the world had become hyperreal. She heard Roland say, “In the attic, there are trunks of other people’s belongings. You may find things you can use.”

Finn turned. “Why are there other people’s things in your attic?”

“Seth Lot used to bring his captives here.” Ellen reached for Roland’s hand, clasped it. “It’s called stitchery, what he does, to make Jacks and Jills.”

Finn flinched. “You mean, he murdered them here?”

“He murdered us here.”

With these words, Ellen and Roland vanished. The parlor descended into dusky shadows. The red light from a new morning bled over the rotting furniture and the button eyes of the toy rabbit on the floor. Cold and dust drifted through the room. Finn couldn’t move. She wondered if she’d ever be warm again with the elixir frosting her blood.

She felt Moth’s hand close over hers. “Finn.”

She wanted to go home. She tucked the vial of elixir into her backpack. “Let’s go to the attic and find some useful things.”

As she walked into the hall, a disturbingly familiar perfume that reminded her of nightshade and snakes drifted over her.

She and Moth stepped into a high-ceilinged chamber shaped like an octagon, its art deco furniture shrouded beneath cobwebs. The black floor, patterned with crimson spades, was littered with leaves, the red walls hung with large paintings of ruins in the wilderness. A stairway curved up in the chamber’s center.

Finn glimpsed her reflection in a large mirror framed by pewter leaves—she’d become a shadowy-eyed girl with tangled hair and a feral face. When she tilted her head, her eyes glinted oddly. She looked around, realized she could see in the dark. “Moth, can you see?”

“Of course. It’s the elixir.”

The elixir. She walked toward a huge fireplace and tried not to think about exactly what that stuff was doing to her. On the fireplace’s mantelpiece was a clock with thirteen numbers, its hands turning backward. Above it was a painting of a Victorian coach and horses plunging through a forest.

Moth began trudging up the rotting stairs—she reluctantly followed. They ascended to a black hallway with waxy vines tentacling over the walls. At the hall’s end was a large room,