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mouth wide. One cheek was swollen, the inside pressing against the rows of teeth. A box had been mounted there, grown into the red flesh. Both his hands went for it, and he fiddled with it, coughing. A small glass bottle rolled onto his tongue and he spat it out. It was filled with a dark, luminous liquid. He sent it spinning through the air. “Drink. Fast. Get us away from here.”
    The Peculiar’s hand shot out, snatching the bottle. Her fingers were filthy. All of her was filthy, slicked with a layer of grime. Her bare feet stuck out from under a ragged ball gown. Her arms were stamped with wriggling red lines, like tattoos.
    â€œHe’ll be pleased with me. Oh, he’ll be pleased with me.” She sounded as if she were begging.
    She uncorked the bottle and gulped it down. Black liquid dribbled over her chin. When there was nothing left, she took a deep breath, dragging in the air. Then she smashed the bottle to pieces at her feet.
    Nettles glanced over his shoulder, shifting from foot to foot. They would be searching soon—servants, lords, Englishers, leadfaces. They would search the house, corridor by corridor. They would come here. He barely blinked as an inky line began to trace itself along the pale woman’s form. It whispered all the way around her. Then it pulled away. The air shivered, as if being beaten by invisible wings. A door appeared, a very small one, only a foot wide on either side of her. Nettles could just glimpse a seascape behind her, black cliffs and rolling, white-capped waves and a midnight sky full of stars.
    â€œBy stone , you’re getting worse by the day,” the short goblin said. “Soon we’ll be crawling into the Old Country on hands and knees.”
    â€œShut up, Grout,” said Nettles, but his scowl went even deeper.
    The woman made a pitiful face, twisting her hands through the soiled lace of her gown. “Yes, watch your mouth. Watch who you’re speaking to.”
    Grout spat. “Oh, and who’s that? You’re just a slave. You’re worse than a slave. You’re a Peculiar .”
    â€œI am the King’s servant!” the old woman cried. “Show me the dignity!” But that only seemed to goad Grout further and he started prancing, rattling his bottles.
    â€œYou’re just a sla-ave!” he sang, hopping around her. “Just a slave, just a slave, just a rotten slave .”
    The pale woman looked to Nettles, her eyes drooping and watery. “Make him stop!” she said.
    â€œSlave, slave, slave!” Grout screeched.
    The old woman’s eyes became imploring. “I used to be his favorite.”
    That was that. Nettles’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Well, you’re obviously not anymore,” he said, and it was as if he had slapped the old woman.
    She drew back, staring. “How dare you?” she said. “How dare you both ?” She began to shake. She was so small and old, but she was trembling with fury.
    And then suddenly a door banged open at the far end of the cellar and voices echoed, loud as gunshots. Lamplight danced along the walls, coming closer.
    â€œI’ll show you,” the pale woman snarled. “I’ll show you what I can do.” She stepped toward the goblins.
    â€œNo!” Nettles barked, but too late.
    A cold wind whipped into the cellar. And suddenly the space was filled with wings. They slashed past Nettles’s face. With a lurch, the door expanded.
    â€œEnough!” he screamed over the flapping wings. He dashed forward, through the door, onto the cliffs. “Come on, both of you, or we’re all dead!”
    The old woman started to walk. “Say you’re sorry!” she shrieked. “Say you’re sorry!” With every step she took, the door grew, the feathers whirling wilder and darker. The blackness had reached the ceiling. Bits of dust and stone sifted down. The stars of the Old Country shone into the