Carpenter shook his head, trying to dispel his hazy stupor. An insistent voice echoed deep inside him, but it was too faint to comprehend the words.
Lansing flicked open the casket lid to reveal a silver egg lying upon folds of purple velvet. ‘It is a Caraprix,’ he said with an odd hint of fondness. ‘So simple in appearance, yet containing such great power.’
‘It lives?’ the spy asked.
Lansing’s lips twitched. ‘Yes, it lives. It will be your most trusted companion, should you let it. Oh, the things it will whisper to you, the wonders it will unfold.’
‘And it will help me achieve the ends we both want so fervently?’
‘It will.’
‘Then free my hands, and let me hide it in my pouch. I would be away from here and bring an end to this madness sooner rather than later.’
‘You do not need your hands,’ the Fay said in a calm voice which Carpenter found inexplicably troubling. Before he could probe further, Lansing delicately lifted the silver egg out of the casket and balanced it on his palm in front of the spy’s eyes. The unblemished surface gleamed in the candlelight.
‘We will become one,’ Lansing said with a cold grin.
Legs sprang out of the Caraprix’s side. Like a beetle, it scurried across the Fay’s palm and leapt on to Carpenter’s face. He cried out in shock as the sharp tips of those legs bit into his flesh and held fast. It crawled down, and though he clamped his mouth shut the spindly shanks wormed their way in between his teeth and forced his jaw apart. As it wriggled past his lips, he felt its smooth surface as warm and yielding as flesh. Sickened, he tried to yell, but only a strangled cry came out.
The Caraprix forced itself further into his mouth, towards his throat, filling up every space until he choked. Darkness closed around his gaze. As Lansing’s emotionless face filled his vision, he could only think how weak he had been, and what terrible things were now to come.
CHAPTER THIRTY
NIGHT HAD FALLEN, and the sea bellowed its fury. Iron waves hammered the Tempest as it crashed towards the rocky fangs protruding from the swell. Wrenched back and forth in the grip of turbulent currents, the galleon seemed caught in a battle it was impossible to win. ‘Hold fast to the course,’ Courtenay bellowed, his gaze fixed on the flashes of white water ahead. Sparks of orange light glittered across the dark sea from the vessel’s blazing lanterns, yet the channel ahead remained pitch black.
‘God save our souls,’ Strangewayes called to the heavens. He clung on to the rigging for dear life, his shirt and breeches sodden from the surf gushing over the rail with every dip and crash.
‘Only Bloody Jack can do that now,’ Will shouted back. His fingers ached from gripping the greased rope.
The ship careered into the dark like a leaf caught in a flood. For one queasy moment, the prow pointed towards the glittering stars, then plummeted down into a sable valley. A deluge thundered over the prow. Before the brine had sluiced across the deck, the ship crested another wave. Seasoned crewmen flew from their feet. Had the island lured them in, only to dash them on the rocks, Will wondered?
His ears rang from the thunderous roar as they neared the long line of white-topped breakers crashing against the lethal rocks. It seemed there was no path through, but Courtenay stood like a sentinel on the forecastle, unmoved by the furious heaving.
‘This is madness. We will all die,’ Strangewayes cried. ‘I should be at Grace’s side—’
‘There is nothing you can do for her now. Hold fast or you will be thrown over the side,’ Will called back.
The galleon heaved as a loud grinding echoed through the hull from the rocks scraping along the side. Any moment Will expected the jagged reef to tear through the pitch-covered oak. In those violent currents, the ship would break up in no time.
He gritted his teeth as the grinding grew louder, until he feared the end had come. The Tempest lurched. Men crashed to the deck. Then, suddenly, the grating sound stopped and the galleon swept free of the clutching fingers of the black rocks. Relieved grins leapt to the harrowed faces of the seamen caught in the wildly swinging lanterns. The violent shaking faded, the seas grew calmer, and a cheer rang out from all on deck.
When the Tempest reached placid water, Courtenay gave the order to drop anchor. As he strode the deck, the men showed him their respect with broad grins or bowed heads. Bloody Jack only laughed louder, clapping his hands together in triumphant glee. ‘We have stared death in the face, and once again the bony bastard has backed down,’ he bellowed as he passed.
The night was cool and smelled sweetly of fresh vegetation. Now the danger had passed, Will wondered where his plans would take him next. He found his thoughts swinging wildly between hope that one day he might see Jenny again and dread that Grace had been lost because of his own failings.
Strangewayes cast one eye towards the island. ‘Is this the place mentioned in the captain’s journal ’pon the abandoned Spanish galleon?’
‘We will find out in good time, Tobias, but there have been tales of many a devil-haunted island in these parts. Perhaps the influence of the Unseelie Court grows stronger with each step closer to their home.’
‘Then let us pray we draw no nearer.’ He glanced up, past the men hooting and chattering as they scrambled up the rigging, and then strode towards the captain’s cabin to see how Grace fared.
Once the sails had been furled and calm had descended on the galleon, Will sought out Courtenay on the poop deck, where the captain was swigging from a cup of wine by the light of the moon. Aware of the dangers that might lie ahead, they agreed no landfall would be made until sunrise. Eager as he was to discover Dee and Meg’s fate, Will took the opportunity to snatch a few hours’ rest in a corner of the main deck while the men played cards and drank in the berth.
Sleep came quickly. Through the dark he sailed, deep into dreams.
Once again, he walked with Jenny through the garden of the cottage she shared with her father and mother and Grace in Warwickshire. In the sun, honey bees buzzed lazily past the marigolds on their way to the hives at the end of the garden. Purple-topped lavender swayed past their legs. His gaze flickered towards the dark band of woods ahead, like a storm cloud on the horizon, and he felt uneasy as he sensed that something watched him from their depths. Though he could not see it, for some reason he couldn’t fathom he believed it to be a raven. Those black glass eyes lay upon him, heavy with judgement, he was sure. And then he realized that Jenny was speaking to him, her voice insistent, and when he turned he saw worry in her features. She was telling him not to go on, to turn back, forget everything, live life, for the west was where the dead went. Turn back. Turn back.
The world skewed and shadows rushed out from those dark woods to swallow him. When his head had finished spinning, he somehow knew it was the night of Jenny’s disappearance. He had spent hours searching the lanes and fields around her home, desperation, then fear, then grief, burning a hole in his chest. No sign of her anywhere; no sign of her ever again in Arden. And he was washing his hands by the well, washing furiously to rid himself of the stain, but he knew that it would never go, that it lay deeper than flesh. He was changed for ever. No longer William Swyfte the poet, with a fine career ahead of him after he departed the debating halls of Cambridge University. No longer innocent. And then he turned, as he had, and Grace was there, little Grace, pleading for news of her missing sister. He tried to hide his hands so she would not see. He tried—
Rough hands were shaking him awake.