Saturday sucked and spat again. “Go find that witch of yours. Tell her that her daughter is dying.” She didn’t want to involve the witch, but she saw no other choice. Jack Woodcutter would take the blame for this, though it was Saturday who deserved the punishment. She resolved to tell the witch everything if this boy died.
Betwixt did not argue. He leapt toward the archway through which Saturday had entered, only to be stopped by a mass of cerulean wings. The raven was blue now? Fantastic. She’d probably be blamed for that, too. Well, if that loathsome bird was here that meant the witch wasn’t far behind. Saturday hoped the lorelei wasn’t too addled over the state of her “daughter” to cast some sort of antidote spell.
Saturday wiped her mouth and laid an ear flat against Peregrine’s chest. She feigned calmness in an effort to discern a breath and heartbeat that were not her own. His shivering increased. His skin was clammy. Saturday’s lips tingled. She should have asked him which of his gods he’d like for her to pray to. Perhaps the catbird knew.
“Step aside, daughter.”
The words were not the witch’s, and the daughter referred to was not Peregrine. Saturday recognized the voice as the one that had echoed loudly inside her head upon her arrival, deep and rough as a chimney sweep’s.
Betwixt hissed. Where the raven had once been now stood a sturdy, blue-robed woman of average height with a face like Mama’s: grim, no-nonsense, and full of lines. Her messy hair was as rich a blue as the raven’s feathers had been and her build was thick, as if she were no stranger to hard work. The woman rushed to Peregrine’s side.
An enchanted bird turning human did not surprise Saturday. One of her sisters had done the same thing just that spring, and that goose had been as white as a wedding gown. “Did you bring the witch with you?” Saturday asked the woman.
“This will go far more smoothly without her,” she replied. “We have to act quickly. Is there a container of any sort handy?”
Saturday hastily scanned the armory and returned with a smallish helmet, a metal gauntlet, and a finger-claw. There might have been something more suitable in the room, but she didn’t want to waste Peregrine’s breath trying to find it.
The woman smiled at the choices Saturday laid before her. “Well done,” she said, and leaned over them. Saturday had no idea what the woman was looking for. Hadn’t she said they were in a hurry? Curious, Betwixt leaned in too. The woman gently reached out a hand as if to pat his dark ears reassuringly, but she grabbed a whisker from his muzzle and pulled it out instead.
The catbird screeched, hissed, and flapped his wings. He unsheathed the wicked claws on his right front paw and snapped at the woman with his beak. She held his head down. “Tears,” she said to the chimera. “Don’t waste them.”
Betwixt stopped struggling. The woman placed the gauntlet under the cat’s beak and coaxed the tears from his eyes with the finger-claw. She did not touch the tears herself.
“You deserve to be pecked,” Betwixt said from beneath her arm.
“I could have told you a sad tale and waited, but your friend is in quite a bit of danger,” said the woman. And then, to Saturday, “Hold his arm still.”
Saturday placed her hand in Peregrine’s, turning his arm so that the festering cut on his wrist pointed heavenward. There was little blood, but the skin was red and angry. Around the cut, the veins ran black and blue and green.
The woman tilted the gauntlet and let the tears fall—one, two, three—directly onto the wound. Almost immediately the blood dried and the redness began to fade. The flesh turned pale again but for a thin blue line of scar marking the original cut. His shivering stopped, but not in a bad way. Saturday placed her other hand on his chest and felt his breathing, slow and deep and even.
“Was there a need for all that?” asked Betwixt. “He cannot die in this place.”
“Just because a man cannot die does not mean he cannot be crippled,” said the woman, “and there are many ways to cripple a man.” She dipped her finger in the tears again and traced Saturday’s lips before gently placing the gauntlet aside. “Gryphon’s tears have healing properties. Do not waste the rest.”
“Thank you,” said Saturday. Her lips still felt swollen, but the pain had stopped.
“Who are you?” asked Betwixt.
The woman sat back on her haunches, crossed her legs, and rested her folded hands on her belly. “I have many names,” she said. “In these mountains I am usually known as Vasilisa. Here, the lorelei calls me Cwyn. That will serve.”
Saturday gave a half-laugh. “No one else in this cave is what they seem. Why should you be any different?” She felt a gentle squeeze and realized that she was still holding Peregrine’s hand. She let it go immediately and leaned away from him. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice.
His eyes were open now, staring at the blue woman. “Is that . . . ?”
“Yes,” Betwixt finished before he could bother asking, just as Peter would have done if Saturday had posed the question.
“Smart bird. Never did that before.” Peregrine sounded euphoric. Either a gryphon’s tears also reduced the amount of oxygen to one’s brain, or the cure had somehow rendered him drunk.
“I did not have the power before,” said Cwyn. “It takes much for me to resist the geis.”
“Before what?” asked Saturday.
“Before you,” said Cwyn. “Don’t worry. It will not last long.”
What an odd thing to say. What cause would Saturday have to worry? “Are you a goddess?” she asked.
“You flatter me, daughter. You are closer to the gods than I.”
“You’re a demon,” said Betwixt.
“Another witch,” said Peregrine. “Bah.”
“I’ve been called worse things.” Cwyn brushed her hair back to reveal two small horns protruding from high on her forehead.
“Tooo many bluuue witches,” slurred Peregrine.
“I am not a lorelei.” The witch said the word as if it were a curse. “I am a pyrrhi, a fire witch. I’m only blue because the lorelei’s imposter daughter cured my wounds with a salve made from rancid cave mushrooms.”
Peregrine giggled guiltily. “Oops.”
“A healing for a healing,” Cwyn said to Peregrine. “My debt has been repaid.”
“Bad mushrooms dye your skin?” asked Saturday.
“The ones up here do,” Betwixt answered. “As they wither, they change colors.”
“Like leaves in the Wood,” said Saturday.
“Like leaves that run the spectrum of the rainbow,” said Betwixt. And then to Cwyn, “How can you stand to be her familiar?”
“How do you stand it?” Cwyn shot back. “Her need drew me here, amplified by the dragon’s power. She summoned me from the Earthfire at the heart of this mountain.”
“S’not very good at spells,” mumbled Peregrine.
“Indeed. Acquiring a familiar to restore her vision was what she intended. Acquiring me wasn’t.” She looked pointedly at Betwixt. “Nor do I plan to enlighten her about my true identity. While I act as her eyes, she sees only what I want her to see.”
“Understood,” said the chimera.
“I don’t think you do,” said Cwyn. “The lorelei must be stopped. She is attempting to open a doorway back to the demon world from which our ancestors came. If she succeeds, it will rip this world apart.”
“Never happen,” said Peregrine. “She’s rubbish. No worries.”
“Jack took her eyes to slow down her progress,” said Betwixt. “Peregrine and I have been doing what little we can to sabotage her, but mostly, she sabotages herself.”
“Your efforts have not gone unnoticed by me, though they remain unseen by our mistress,” said Cwyn. “Until now, her spells have been fueled by what little magic she can siphon off the dragon. That’s changed, thanks to our new visitor.”