Boreal

Chapter Twelve

Ptarmigan squared his shoulders, facing the weather-beaten door before them. It hadn't belonged to this house, originally; too short, gaps left at the top and bottom, through which trickled the flickering yellow light of a fire. The brickwork was crawling with ivy, patches of dried salt, and had been marred with now familiar deep and angry claw marks. The windows on the bottom floor had been boarded up, and those on the upper floor were dirty, curtains drawn.

His hand hovered over the rusted knocker. This was Fulmar's house, no doubt, but still, uncertainty crawled through his head. What if the boy wasn't even home, still busy trying to catch whatever was killing the dock cats? Or maybe he was, but he'd changed his mind, and he wouldn't even consider hearing them out?

Before he could talk himself out of it, Ptarmigan let the knocker drop. It was startlingly loud; Shyam flinched, her talons digging into his back. He reached up to calm her, but before he could, something shifted, behind the door. A mumbled voice, the soft thudding of bare feet against wood, and the door swung open.

Fulmar's hair was a mess, wearing a pair of baggy trousers and nothing else. Ptarmigan was surprised to see, even though he was only a few Emergences older, the boy's torso was already adorned with tattoos. He rubbed at his face, more annoyed than surprised by their unexpected visit.

"How'd you find my house?" he grunted, beckoning them inside.

"Shyam scouted it out, figured it would be easy enough."

"Aye well, my Ma's sleepin', so keep your voices down. Leave your shoes by the door, she don't like people trekkin' in mud."

Ptarmigan stepped inside after the boy, kicking off his boots before trailing after him.

The house was small, living room backing directly into a kitchen, with a rickety wooden staircase. A worn wolfskin rug had been tossed haphazardly before a low burning fire. There were no couches; just a single, tattered armchair, upon which a woman had bundled herself in blankets, eyes closed, breathing steady. She turned over in her sleep, scowling, mumbling to herself.

"She won't bother us," Fulmar said, as if sensing his unease. He'd paused halfway up the stairs, watching him carefully. "Been out all day, filling in for my Pa."

Ptarmigan hesitated, then nodded. He took the stairs two at a time, slipping quietly along a creaking landing. Fulmar held the door open for him, practically shoving them into his bedroom.

Like the rest of the house, there wasn't much; just a bed positioned beneath an open window, a gently breeze jostling navy curtains. A handful of books and scrolls sat upon a three-legged desk directly opposite, though most of the tabletop was taken up by bundles of fishing nets, halfway through being repaired. The room itself was long and narrow, rafters exposed with oil lanterns suspended from the ancient wood. It reminded him of his room, back in Hayd. A pang of homesickness rocketed through him, like a knife in his gut. He was quick to push it aside as best he could; Fulmar had closed the door quietly behind them. The older boy's arms were crossed. Eyebrows raised.

"It's late, Tabby. What do you want?"

"We went down to the Archives, found out what your Pa was talking about."

"Angels?"

Ptarmigan nodded, fumbling to pull the book from beneath his cloak. Fulmar sighed but accepted as he passed it over. The older boy padded over to his bed, sitting down with his legs crossed beneath him.

"This is Kobari."

His brow was furrowed, eyes tracing the text, flicking through the pages in the same way Almas had when she'd been trying to make sense of it. Ptarmigan almost snorted; of course, Fulmar could read it. He was the Dockmaster's son, he'd probably spoken to hundreds and hundreds of Striders. If any other child in Kyba would be able to read the text of another land, it would be him.