Free Darkwater by Catherine Fisher Page B

crowd in there that night. Outside, the wind was roaring, fit to burst.”
    Sarah stood up. She knew what was coming. She walked to the doorway and stood with her back to him, staring tight-lipped at the dark garden. The bears watched her, peering over the hedges.
    â€œIt was Azrael,” the tramp said carefully, “that made the last wager.”
    â€œNo!” She turned. “My grandfather had a pistol . . .”
    â€œNo gun, girlie. ‘This time,’ Azrael says, all light and keen, ‘we bet everything. House. Estate. Life. Even thy immortal soul, old man. On the turn of a card.’ He and thy granfer sat at that table as if they were only mortals left in Christendom. No one spoke. It was as if some dread lay on us. I remember the fire catching Azrael’s face; dark it was, eager. I’ll tell you this too, he’s not changed. Not a line, not a wrinkle. In all these years.”
    He puffed at the pipe. Sarah glared. “Go on!”
    â€œNothing else to say. Trevelyan nodded, befuddled as he was. They drew the cards. Thy granfer’s hand shook so much he could scarce cut the pack. He turned a king. We all knew how it would be, though. How can you play with the devil and win? When Azrael turned the ace the whole room stopped breathing. Thy granfer just stood and staggered to the door. Holding himself stiff he was, his face as if he was already in hell. The door crashed behind him. He never said a word.”
    Sarah turned back to the garden, so he wouldn’t see her dismay. She had no idea what to believe. In the darkness the columns seemed empty. “Why would Azrael lie to me?”
    â€œWhy should I, eh? He’s not like us. He’s the Father of Lies.”
    â€œOh stop all that!” She stormed out onto the grass and turned on her heel to face him, quivering with anger. “I know him! I don’t know you!”
    He was a dark outline. Only the pipe glowed, its redness rising and sinking with his breath. “Take care with him.” The tramp stood heavily. “He’s not brought thee here for any good purpose. Has he tried yet, to win thy soul?”
    Fear shot through her.
    â€œNo. At least . . .” She shook her head. “It was a sort of joke . . .”
    â€œNo joke, girlie. Not with Azrael. He’ll try again. He’ll offer thee anything tha wants, and in the end he’ll win thee.”
    He looked at her closely. “Maybe he’s won already.”
    â€œDon’t be stupid!”
    â€œThen come with me now. I’ll take thee home. To thy father.”
    The tramp stepped forward. The dog barked, nervous. She didn’t know anymore whom she was angry with. She didn’t know what to do. Bewildered, she saw suddenly that it was night, purple and mothy. The sun had long gone. It was All Hallows Eve.
    â€œNo,” she breathed.
    â€œTha must! Don’t go back to the house, girlie! ’Tis what he wants!”
    She thought of her father. The slovenly cottage. Cleaning the privies at the wretched school. And then all the books fell into her mind, the rows of chained, forbidden knowledge, and Azrael sitting by the fire feeding his cat with warm crumbs, saying, “To change metal into gold, Sarah, think of that! Think of the wonder of that!”
    The dog yelped, a sharp warning.
    â€œI can’t,” she muttered.
    The garden crackled with movement. The bears had gone, as if they had slithered off their pillars; now she could hear a rustling all around her. Shadows merged into lithe shapes, panting, gathering. The tramp swung the sack hastily over his shoulder. “Come with me. The chance won’t come again.”
    â€œI can’t.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”
    He looked at her, close. “’Tis worse than that. You do believe me. But you’re still not coming.”
    She couldn’t answer.
    Dogs howled. The uproar rang