"Open eyes!" The room was still dark. Clover could just make out the silhouette of the surly Doll standing on her chest, stubby arms akimbo. "What time is it?" Clover groaned, groggy but grateful to be woken from the hungry whisper dream. It was the same nightmare she''d been having for weeks. Listen good. "Wake-up time!" Susanna declared. Morning light was always late to the village, having to find its way through fog-shrouded trees. But there wasn''t even birdsong in the branches outside Clover''s window, only the strangely comforting gasp-and-rattle of Nessa snoring in the next room--the room where Constantine used to sleep.
Susanna generally slept in a candle box on the bedside crate. Sometimes she slept for weeks; no sound could disturb her. Not today, apparently , Clover thought. "Here," Clover said. "You can sleep on my pillow--" "Wake time!" Susanna leaned close. Her voice emerged, raspy as a toad''s, from the frowning buttonhole mouth. "Open squishy eyes!" That was a new one. The buttons of Susanna''s eyes were sewn tightly into her head in an expression of perpetual outrage.
Her previous caretaker, Aaron Agate, probably had no idea Susanna could talk. But the Doll was no longer shy around Clover, and her vocabulary was growing. "Squishy eyes" was better than some of the insults the Doll had been tossing around recently. "They''re open; my eyes are open." Clover reached to light the lamp on the crate beside her bed. These matches, she assured herself, are just matches . She turned the knob, rolling the wick up slowly to light the room she''d slept in since she was a baby. Sweetwater, the rattlesnake under the blankets, knotted tighter against her ankle.
Sweetwater hated drafts. "Witch is come!" Susanna declared. "Is she?" Clover sat upright so fast the Doll had to grab the blankets to keep from toppling to the floor. Despite the tremendous strength forged into her, Susanna was dumpling soft, her stuffing lumpy under her purple-stained cotton. The beads the Sehanna had armored her belly with were as coolly textured as Sweetwater''s scales. Hand-sewn by Clover''s mother, with the strength of an earthquake bundled into ten inches of cotton, Susanna was something to be wary of. Clover held the Doll gently as she shuffled across the floorboards, careful not to jar the already irritable rattlesnake strangling her calf. In the dim light, this white girl of fourteen, her limbs occupied with dangerous considerations, might have been mistaken for someone far older.
The hair spread over her shoulders was as dark and thick as her Russian father''s. She pushed the window open and leaned out into the misty darkness. She saw no lantern light. "You heard something?" "Bandits!" Susanna declared, jumping to the windowsill. "Witches! Worm-belly junk!" She grabbed the rusty fire poker Clover used to prop open the window on summer nights. The Doll pointed with it in the direction of the road. In her doughy fist, the hooked iron looked as light as a toothpick. "All right, all right.
Don''t get worked up." Clover held her breath, listening with her whole body. Sweetwater flicked her rattle once, like the sound of salt thrown into a dry skillet. Then Clover thought she heard a distant creak. It just might have been the sound of a carriage groaning on the rutted road to Salamander Lake. "Take it easy. Breathe," Clover said as she grabbed her overalls from the crate. She was speaking more to herself than to the Doll.
Susanna could tear this house apart with her hands, but breathing to calm herself--breathing at all!--was not in her power. Clover had panicked before, waking Nessa and Widow Henshaw with her shouts in the dark, only to find, when the lamps were lit, that there was nothing lurking in the shadows. It was hard not to be embarrassed by these fits of panic, but even the neighbors were kind about them, especially the veterans of the first Louisiana War, who gave Clover sachets of chamomile-and-lavender tea to calm her nerves. "Nessa!" Clover called. To get her overalls on, Clover had to relocate the snake. She willed the viper up . Sweetwater flicked her tongue against her knuckles and obeyed, muscling up to lie heavily against her collarbones. With the viper this close, Clover''s heart slowed, and she could take a deeper breath.
A Sweetwater rattlesnake was sometimes called the three-step snake because the poor soul bitten by one will take only three steps before dying. Clover had been no exception, but she''d been miraculously saved by an oddity and the love of Widow Henshaw. Ever since, the snake had been practically a part of her body. Sometimes it felt as if the Powder that had spared her from the snake''s venom had also braided her courage into its platinum curves. "What in maple syrup is the ruckus?" Nessa asked, mercilessly mashing one eye with the palm of her hand. She usually bundled her hair on the back of her head, but it had come apart in the night, splayed and sagging like a skein of alder-dyed yarn. "She''s coming. Maybe," Clover said.
"Susanna thinks she heard the carriage." "Witch!" Susanna declared. "Throw gall-drinking junk witch in lake!" With a fearsome scowl, she twisted the poker between her wadded fists. The poker squawked once as it became a tangle of steaming iron. "Whoa, now! No breaking things, remember! She''s no witch," Clover admonished. "She''s a friend. Widow Henshaw trusts her. We''re going with her; you too.
You mustn''t hurt anyone, Susanna." "But who comes charging in before sunrise?" Nessa grumbled as she pulled on her clothes. She blinked and slapped her own round white cheeks until they pinked, but Nessa still looked drowsy. "The editor of the Journal of Anamalous Objects does, I guess," Clover said. She had nearly memorized the letters she''d received from that famous scholar of oddities: Dear Clover, I read your reply with a galloping heart. The account of the last months of your life struck me with awe but not surprise. As promised, I have been in communication with President Auburn''s offices. He has agreed to my proposal.
The outlandish charges against you will be suspended. Neither will you be expected to fight on the front lines. In return, however, you agree to join our new chapter of the Women''s Service League. Ours is a special chapter with a particular mission, one which I believe you are uniquely suited for. I will explain it all when we meet. Even now the knowledge that Miniver Elkin''s daughter is alive and thriving brings a smile to my face. Your mother was dear to me, and, if it is not too presumptuous, I consider you family. Yours, Ruth O.
Yamada These letters, brought by special couriers, were the first mail the sleepy village had received in a long time. The remoteness of Salamander Lake had been her father''s best hope for keeping Clover safe, and it had worked for thirteen years. Then it had failed in the worst way. Clover wished she had something more presentable than the scuffed overalls she wore every day. She found one of her father''s work shirts in a trunk and pulled it on, rolling up the cuffs. Years ago, she''d dyed the shirt herself using old coffee grounds and oak galls. The bloodstains, the mark of her father''s profession, were barely visible against the brown. The mists drifting off the lake had slicked the front steps with dew.
Bats darned the darkness above the girls as they descended. The village was wrapped in its peaceful ash-gray shroud. As they made their way past the woodpile, Clover turned her attention inward until she saw dimly through the rattlesnake''s eyes. Except for a cowering hedgehog, which Sweetwater longed to eat, there were no body-heat blotches hiding in the shrubs that bordered the widow''s garden, no bandits waiting in ambush. Clover sighed with relief. They waited in front of Widow Henshaw''s house, with the dimmest light creeping through the canopy. Their bags sat at their feet. Their breath purled silver before their faces.
From a great distance, they could hear the clank and groan of the vehicle making its way around the narrow corners, noisier than a tinkerman''s cart. "Not that I''m agreeing with the rage doll," Nessa said, "but the last time you entrusted yourself to a Society member you ended up in a cage." "Those poachers wouldn''t have found me if a certain snake oil seller hadn''t--" "I sold tonics--" "You sold marsh wine!" Clover said. "And you sold Aaron Agate to bandits." This silenced Nessa, who sniffed once as she stared out at the road. "I have tried to make up for it." "You have, Nessa, you have. And I''ve forgiven you.
You know that. We don''t ever need to speak of it again. But this is different. Widow Henshaw trusts Miss Yamada." But even as she said it, Clover shivered, telling herself it was just the morning air chilling the back of her neck. She pulled her shawl over her snake-wreathed shoulders and looked down the empty road, where the sounds of Miss Yamada''s carriage grew stranger still.