Cath shivered.
‘We shall see what role you have to play,’ said Tillie.
‘Once you reach the other side,’ added Lacie.
Tillie pulled open the ancient door. Its iron hinges creaked and the wood grated against the moss-covered stone. Cath could see nothing beyond but more hedges.
In unison, the Sisters murmured, ‘We will all greet fate, on the other side.’
Cath took a hesitant step forward, with Jest gripping her hand and Hatta a mere step away. As they approached the door, she saw that there were stairs on the other side, a short flight of crumbling stone steps that dropped down into another forest meadow. Overgrown hedges pushed in on either side, making the stairwell too narrow for her and Jest to walk side by side.
She followed Hatta through, lifting her skirt to keep from tripping on the uneven stones. Leaves clung to her hem. Shadows pushed in from the sides.
The moment they passed through, the massive door slammed shut, making Cath jump. Jest squeezed her shoulder and his presence alone warmed the chill from her bones.
They reached the bottom of the steps and Cath paused. Her brow furrowed.
She glanced back, but the stairs were gone. She was staring at the empty wall of an enormous hedge, with no doors and no exits.
She turned again, her heart pattering against her sternum. They were still in the same forest glen with the same treacle well.
But this time, the Three Sisters were already waiting.
CHAPTER 43
ELSIE, LACIE AND TILLIE sat on the edge of the well sipping from porcelain teacups. They still wore their plain white dresses, though the meadow seemed colder than before and Catherine thought they must be freezing in such flimsy fabric.
The oddest thing, though, was that the three girls were now wearing masks. An owl. A raccoon. A fox. The masks were tied to their heads with ribbons and only the girls’ enormous eyes could be seen through circular cutouts – so black and fathomless it was like looking through the holes into nothing.
Catherine was grateful when Jest’s hand found hers again, lacing their fingers together.
It was a strange thing, to stare across a peaceful forest glen at three little girls and feel that she’d stepped on to a battlefield.
‘Hello,’ said Hatta, with a calmness that was offset by his tense shoulders. ‘Tillie. Elsie. Lacie.’
The girls did not move. They held their teacups in one hand and their saucers in the other, their pinkie fingers pointing at matching angles.
‘We’ve been practising,’ said the Owl.
‘We’ve been drawing,’ said the Raccoon.
‘We’ve seen many things,’ said the Fox.
They sipped their tea in unison.
‘I have given you five minutes of my time,’ said Hatta. ‘Show us, so we might be on our way.’ It sounded like a script, like a tired conversation he’d recited too many times.
The Sisters were quiet for a while, their empty eyes gazing, before Lacie the Fox set down her teacup and stood. Her long hair clung to her calves as she stepped away from the well. The silvery ends were sticky with treacle.
Jest and Cath released each other’s hands so Lacie could pass between, splitting them like an axe into a log. She reached the wall of hedges and pushed her hands into the brush. Grabbed and pulled.
The leaves and vines fell away, revealing a wall of stone. It was covered in drawings. Some were faded and smeared, while others still glistened from wet ink. The Fox stepped back and beckoned them to approach.
Cath stepped closer, scanning the array of drawings. A marigold. A mosquito. A menorah. A milk bottle. A branch of mistletoe. Mousetraps and mirrors and memory.
‘See our new work?’ said Lacie the Fox, gesturing to a group of drawings, and Cath noticed that she had Raven’s quill tucked behind one ear, dripping ink down the back of her neck. Her fingers were smudged with recent ink as well, though Cath was sure they’d been clean before.
Catherine followed the girl’s gesture and felt the blood drain from her body.
The drawing showed two men. One was on the ground, surrounded by a pool of darkness that she assumed was blood. His head had been severed clean from his body. A three-pointed joker’s hat lay on the ground beside him.
The second man stood in the distance – enormous and cloaked in an executioner’s hood. A bloodied axe was in his hand.
A memory darted through her thoughts. It was the same ominous shadow that had followed her across the castle’s lawn on the night she met Jest. The shadow that always attached itself to Raven.
She recoiled, pressing a hand over her mouth. ‘Why?’ she stammered, knowing that Jest was right beside her, alive and well, and Raven was his friend and would never hurt him. Or did she know that? The picture was detailed enough to insert a sliver of doubt into her thoughts. ‘Why would you draw something so terrible?’
‘Cath . . .’ Jest’s voice was strained. He wasn’t looking at the same drawing. Her gaze followed his and she saw –
Herself. Sitting on a throne, wearing the crown of the Queen of Hearts and gripping a heart-tipped sceptre in one hand. Her expression was cold as stone.
Her mouth ran dry. ‘What is this?’
‘It’s . . . it’s you,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘They’re just drawings. Terrible drawings.’
Beneath that image was another, this one of Hatta. He sat at a long table scattered with broken teacups and cracked plates. Rather than surrounded by friends and music and laughter, the chairs around the table were empty. His hair was unkempt, his hat tilted to one side, dark circles beneath his eyes. His smile was crazed.