Trix had a golden apple in his hands. The vision flashed and he stood before a pretty young girl, but Saturday could not make out her features, outshone as they were by the brilliant gold of the apple’s skin. Trix split the apple—a feat Saturday wasn’t quite sure how he accomplished with his simple knife—but the two pieces he cut were not equal.
It was a trick. Saturday remembered this from one of Papa’s stories. Did Trix know the story too? He was clever enough, to be sure, but he didn’t look as though he had any supplies with him except that knife. He was mud-spattered and must have been starving. But he could not give in to his basic needs. Generosity must win out.
“Give her the larger half!” Saturday yelled at the looking glass. It was a silly gesture, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Her voice felt cold and flat; the mirrors pulled the words out of her, but they died in the air. Trix couldn’t hear her. There was no way he could. And yet, he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder at something before holding out a hand . . .
Before Saturday could see the outcome, the scene changed again. This time Trix was at the top of another, even taller, tree. Saturday wasn’t worried; Trix had always been at home in the treetops. It was where he’d been found by Papa that fateful winter’s day when he’d become part of their family.
She was warier of the eagle that sat beside him. The bird looked almost as big as their house. Despite the raptor’s wicked beak and talons, which made Saturday shudder in memory of her capture, Trix’s face was unafraid. He and the eagle both looked out over the massive horizon. As they did, so too did the mirrors’ eyes reveal what they saw. Plains and scattered forests spread out before them, leading to hills and valleys with harsh white peaks beyond. The largest of the mountains, dwarfing its brethren in size many times over, rose into the clouds and beyond. The Top of the World.
Saturday blinked. She didn’t know if these looking glasses revealed the past, present, or future, but in this vision her brother was looking right at her.
She cried with all her might: “I’m here! I’m trapped! I’m here!” Over and over again she yelled into the thick, cold air, as if she might force the words through the mirrors and beyond.
She lunged toward the largest looking glass—at least, that’s what she meant to do—but at the first footstep she collapsed. With Peregrine’s arms still around her, she sent them both toppling to the ground. Her energy, forced once more to go on long after it was spent, gave out. The mirrors, every one now responding to Saturday’s outpouring of power, went dark.
For a second time, Saturday’s soul surrendered to blackness.
Saturday woke where she had fallen: in Peregrine’s arms. She did not see hide nor wing of Betwixt. The brazier had burned down and her muscles were screaming. Despite the amount of heat radiating from Peregrine’s body, she was beginning to think that she would never truly be warm again, but then she remembered the heated lake. And the crystals. And the mirrors. And Trix. Saturday sat up and gasped.
Her body scolded her for her lack of proper stretching and the continued lack of her healing sword. She bent one limb at a time, slowly, attempting to placate her muscles before they seized up completely and her entire body became one large cramp. She knew better than to give in to her boundless enthusiasm, and yet she never seemed to be able to stop once she was in the thick of things.
She had done magic! It had cost her, worn her to the bone, but she didn’t care. She considered doing it again immediately, checking in on Mama, or Papa and Peter in the Wood. Would she have the strength to perform that spell? Could she manage it before the witch found them?
Peregrine moved beside her, but Saturday refused to turn and look. She still wasn’t sure what to do with this man whose gilded cage she was about to destroy. The closer they became, the more difficult her decision would be when her destiny arrived. She needed to approach her fate with a clear head. Love. Obsession. Saturday had only ever felt those things about her work. People were just too messy and unpredictable.
“Are you all right?” she heard Peregrine ask.
She was wonderful, terrible, elated, and confused. She pulled the thin blanket tighter around her shoulders, for all the good it did, and edged closer to the dying coals. Briefly, she considered setting her clothes on fire for warmth. “Fine,” she said. “Cold.” She brushed the floor beneath the brazier with her hands until she encountered the sack with her boots and quickly put them on. “Where’s Betwixt?”
Peregrine put a hand to his head and Saturday realized how much her own ached. “That volume of magic would have effected a change. He’ll have slunk off to change shape somewhere colder.”
She didn’t want to imagine anywhere colder than here. “It was too much power. I couldn’t hold it.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “You should have focused on one mirror alone. I just didn’t know if any of them would work, let alone all of them.”
“But all of them did,” said Saturday. “I spent it all, everything I had inside myself, until my body shut down because there was nothing left to give. Perhaps I should try again. On only one mirror this time.”
“No.”
“Come on. Just let me try.”
“No, Saturday. It’s too much. I know how much you like working yourself into exhaustion, but I’d rather you not tax yourself to death.”
She hated his logic. “Then we should probably get up. I can’t imagine that went unnoticed.”
Other than rolling onto his back, Peregrine gave no sign that he had any intention of moving. “I’ve done . . . okay, not worse, but spells just as ostentatious with far more devastating results, and neither the lorelei, nor the dragon for that matter, has ever batted an eyelash.”
“Yes, but the witch wasn’t looking for a reason to kill you.” Saturday’s ears pounded as she stood. “She’s going to seek me out soon enough and expect my task to be finished. You need to find my sword and a way off this mountain.” She picked up the sack with the witch’s ingredients, and then checked the brush in her empty swordbelt and the dagger at her back. “I’ll light a lantern. You get us out of here.”
He seemed a bit taken aback at her gruffness, but she didn’t care. He rose, twisted himself back and forth, adjusted the runesword in his belt, and then bent to touch his toes. He was down there so long, Saturday wondered if he’d fallen asleep again, ass over applecart.
“Here.” She thrust the lantern into his hands. “Now move.”
They hurried, but the dark and winding path took far too long. Peregrine held a steady pace in front of her, but Saturday’s impatience had the better of her concentration, and she smacked her head every ten seconds.
“You keep that up, you’re going to be unconscious again.”
“You keep slowing down when you talk, you really will be a girl.” A set of yellow-gold eyes reflected their torchlight far-ther down the tunnel. Had the chimera shifted form so quickly? “Betwixt?” Saturday asked into the darkness. “Is that you?”
Nothing answered her.
“Get your dagger out,” said Peregrine softly.
Saturday was way ahead of him. “What is it?”
“Brownies.”
14
The Sea of Dead
“ARE THERE usually so many?” Saturday asked as the brownies advanced.
“No,” said Peregrine. “Five or six in a pack at most.” He’d killed them for food and fur only as often as they’d raided his supplies.