Free The Chestnut King: Book 3 of the 100 Cupboards by N. D. Wilson Page B

at this by himself in a quiet attic, let alone now. He slapped his own face and stared at the little door. Nothing.
    “Do it or die, Henry,” he said aloud. “Do it or they die.”
    He could see. He could see the magic of the world, the living, changing words that made it all. Great towering souls of flame swung around him, battling with the cool breeze, chasing away the salty breath of the sea. Tangled anger and grief rose up from the unseen crowd and blended with their cries. In front of him, in all the madness, he could see the tiny swirling drain, a seam between two worlds held in place by a cupboard, by the small, twisting magic of wood and its grains.
    He reached into the drain with both hands, with his mind, with his self, and he forced the swirl to grow, to push against the fire strength and smoke, to use it. He had to make the world-seam bigger than he ever had, big enough for three.
    Henry’s head throbbed. His mind felt crushed. He shut his eyes, and still he could see. He could see nothing but the hurricane of elements in front of him, a galaxy of smoke and dandelions and anger and stone widening ahole, a doorway into a battered old farmhouse and a world of grass.
    His eyes were still closed, but his grandmother’s strands came slowly into view. She swirled in front of him, between him and the doorway. Her threads were old and tired, like the roots of a tree grown on a cliff. They were slow and unafraid. Some were dead, gray and stiff. And then he could see it, a rift inside of her, a wound between her soul and her body, a split in the ancient tree that would never heal.
    In a moment, all of her stepped into the eye of the storm, and she was gone.
    Henry opened his stinging eyes, blinking, and looked at Henrietta. She was trying to sit up. He’d seen her before; he wasn’t tempted to study her threads. They were all fast and bright and as curly as her hair. He jumped up and hooked his arms under hers, boosting her to her knees.
    “Quick!” he said. “Crawl in the cupboard.” She moved forward, but not enough. The hole was already shrinking. Henry dropped behind her and put his shoulder in her backside. She kicked him hard and crawled on her own.
    She was gone.
    Henry turned to the raggant. “Go,” he said. But he knew it was hopeless. The animal would never go without him. It would only follow. Henry turned back to the cupboard. The seam he’d stretched was still larger than any he’d ever done, but much smaller than when his grandmother had walked through. He lunged for it but caught himself, hesitating.
    The cupboard would burn behind him. He could still get back to Hylfing, going through Badon Hill and then through faerie mounds, but he didn’t want to lose his own door. He looked around the roof, and his eyes found the cistern, hopefully full. The cupboard would have a better chance in there.
    Behind him, the doorway swung open, and a column of smoke snaked above the roof. Henry exploded toward it before Coradin even stepped out with his blackened face and smoking hair.
    Henry jumped and put both feet in the man’s stomach, folding him over and sending him tumbling back down the narrow stairs. Henry landed on his side and felt a rib crack on the top step. His breath was gone. Gasping, he clambered back onto the roof, slamming the door behind him. Wincing in pain, coughing for air, he bent over to pick up the cupboard, but he’d forgotten the pull. It was sucking him in. Holding it in front of him, he staggered toward the cistern’s red clay back set into the roof. Kicking the narrow lid open, he dropped to his knees, shoved the cupboard inside, and squeezed in headfirst behind it.
    Warm water slid up his arms and splashed around his face. Black pressure crushed his head and slid down to his chest, down to his cracked rib. Henry screamed silently, and the pressure grew. It wasn’t sliding down his body. He wasn’t moving forward. He kicked his legs slowly, underwater, and his feet found the