Free Chantress by Amy Butler Greenfield Page A

sound self-possessed, I asked, “What time is it?”
    “Nearly nine. You need to stir yourself.” Nat no longer sounded alarmed, only impatient. “Dr. Penebrygg will return anytime now, and he’ll want to see you as soon as he’s back.” He gestured toward a washstand in the far corner. “There’s clean water there. And a chamber pot under the bedstead. When you’re done, come and find me upstairs.”
    He sped out the door, leaving me grateful for the privacy—but relieved, too, that he had been frank in addressing the essentials.
    I slid out of bed and set about making myself ready. Everything proved straightforward enough, except for my hair. As I struggled to smooth it back, I could almost hear Norrie scolding. Your hair’s a tangle of seaweed, child. Plait it back now, there’s a good girl.
    Last night, before I had gone to sleep, Penebrygg had reassured me again that they would do their best to help me find Norrie. “She could be anywhere, I’m afraid. But if you give me a description of her, I will make some inquiries. Very discreetly, of course. Anything else might endanger her—and you.”
    The nature of those dangers was not something I wished to contemplate. Instead, I remembered my last evening on the island with longing—a fire warming up the hearth, and Norrie and I cozy in our chairs in front of it. Of course, the fire had been built to rule, and I had chafed whenever Norrie gave me pointed reminders on tending it. But we both had been safe, and that seemed a blessing to me now.
    However much I wanted to, however, I could not turn back time. And even if I could, it would not undo the Shadowgrims.
    What’s done is done, and we must make the best of it.
    With Norrie’s words echoing in my ears, I forced myself to concentrate on the job at hand, plaiting my hair. As my fingers worked, I stood by the tiny window and tried to make sense of the view: a scrap of muddy yard enclosed on three sides, with a sloping shed along the other. Aristotle’s stable, I guessed.
    There. I’d done the best I could with my hair. As for my clothes . . .
    I looked down at my skirts and sighed. No amount of shaking out would make them look anything less than bedraggled.
    I did the best I could, gave my plait one last tug, and went to find Nat.
    † † †
    Upstairs, he had said. So up the narrow flight I went, touching the walls for balance, until I reached the attic room where we had talked last night. Remembering the reason why I’d left the room last night, I couldn’t help but feel a certain trepidation as I opened the door, yet it passed the moment I saw the sunlight on the walls. The place felt bright and safe and altogether wonderful—perched so high that it belonged not to London, but to the sky.
    I shut the door behind me and looked out the nearest window. In the chinks between the rooftops, I saw a wide river, its banks tight-packed with houses, its quays bustling with skiffs and cargo. Swimming through my memory, I recalled another river view, the one from the London garret we had stayed in so long ago. I could remember nothing else about the city or our stay in it, but for a moment, as I stood at that window, I felt my mother at my side.
    “You can see the Thames from there,” Nat said, “if you know where to look.”
    At his words, the fragile memory collapsed in on itself. I swung around and looked at him. He was sitting at a tilted desk at the far end of the room, almost hidden by a horde of curious objects.The largest was a leather-covered coracle, a good four feet across, improbably stuffed with a set of globes, a cracked bellows, and a long length of poppy-red silk. Next to this stood a pile of bones, several colossal vases overspilling with feathers and grasses, and a cabinet containing scores of smoky-colored bottles with strange inscriptions on them.
    Most of the remaining space was a jumble of shelves, books, shells, pulleys, scales, paintings, and pots. And then, of course, there were the