By the time the train chugged into the small station of Avalon Bluff, Iris and Attie were the only two passengers remaining, and it was half past ten o’clock at night. The moon hung like a fingernail, and the stars burned brighter than Iris had ever seen, as if they had fallen closer to earth. She gathered her things and followed Attie onto the platform, her legs sore from sitting most of the day, and drew a deep breath.
Avalon Bluff tasted like hay and meadow grass and chimney smoke and mud.
The girls walked through the abandoned station, which soon spilled them onto a dirt road. Helena had given them instructions on how to locate their lodgings: Marisol’s B and B was on High Street, just through the station, third house on the left, with a green door that looked like it once belonged in a castle. Attie and Iris would need to go directly there while being wary of their surroundings, prepared to take shelter at any moment.
“I take it this is High Street?” Attie asked.
It was dark, but Iris squinted, studying the town that lay before them. The houses were old, two-storied and built from stone. A few even had thatched roofs and mullioned windows, as if they were constructed centuries ago. Fences were made of stacked rocks covered in moss, and it looked like there were a few gardens, but it was hard to discern things by the light of the moon.
There were no streetlamps to guide them along. Most houses were gloomy and cloaked in shadows, as if they were fueled by candlelight rather than electricity.
It was also very quiet and very empty.
Somewhere in the distance, a cow mooed, but there were no other sounds of life. No laughter, no voices, no music, no banging pots in a kitchen. No crickets or night birds. Even the wind was tamed.
“Why does this place feel dead?” Attie whispered.
The temperature had dropped, and a fog was settling. Iris stifled a shudder. “I think I see Marisol’s,” she said, eager to be off the haunted street.
Helena had been right; the B and B had an unmistakable door, arched as if the house had been built around it, with an iron knocker fashioned as a roaring lion’s head. The building was quaint, with shutters that looked to be black in the starlight. Rosebushes crowded the front yard with scraggly limbs, still bare from winter, and ivy grew up the walls, reaching for the thatched roof.
But it was dark within, as if the old house was sleeping or under a spell. A sense of uneasiness washed through Iris as she knocked. The lion’s head clanged far too loud, given how mum the town was.
“It doesn’t look like she’s home,” said Attie before swearing under her breath. “Are the lower windows boarded up, or am I imagining it?”
Iris stared harder at the windows. Yes, they looked to be boarded up, but from the inside.
“What are we going to do if she doesn’t answer?” Attie turned to survey the remainder of the town, which didn’t look promising.
“Wait,” Iris said. “I think I hear her.”
The girls held their breath, and sure enough, there was the inner pattering of feet, and then a dulcet voice, drawn with an accent, spoke through the front door: “What do you want?”
Attie arched her brow, exchanging a dubious glance with Iris.
“Helena said she wasn’t expecting us,” Iris reminded her in a whisper, before replying, “We’ve been sent by Helena Hammond, of the Inkridden Tribune.”
There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of a lock turning. The green door creaked open a sliver, revealing a woman holding a candle. She had light brown skin and her black hair was bound in a thick braid, spilling over her shoulder. Her bold eyebrows slanted with a frown until she saw the girls, and her face softened instantly.
“Blessed Enva, there’s two of you? And you look so young!” she said, full lips parted in shock. “Please, please come inside. I’m sorry, but you took me by surprise a moment ago. These days, you don’t know who comes knocking at night.”
“Yes, we noticed it’s rather quiet here,” Attie said, a bit dryly.
“It is, and there’s a reason for it, which I’ll explain in a moment,” Marisol said, opening the door further in welcome.
Iris stepped inside. The foyer was spacious, with a cold floor of flagstones covered with vibrant rugs. The walls gleamed in the shadows, and Iris realized there was an array of gilded mirrors of all shapes and sizes hanging upon them, even all the way up the stairwell. She caught her dim reflection and felt as if she had stepped back in time.
“Have you two eaten?” Marisol asked, locking the door behind them. “Train biscuits” was all Attie had to say.
“Then follow me into the kitchen.” Marisol led them down a corridor and into the firelight.
The kitchen was large, rustic, and warm. The windows were covered with boards, though, as well as the double doors. As if Marisol needed to keep someone or something out.
Herbs and copper pots hung from the rafters above, and there was a table that could seat ten people. This was where both Attie and Iris collapsed, as if they hadn’t just been sitting for nine hours.
Marisol was busy opening cupboards and a small fridge, which let Iris know there was electricity in the house, she was just simply opting not to use it to light the room.
“What can I fix you to drink? My specialty is hot cocoa, but I also have some milk and tea,” Marisol said as she set an onion and a red pepper on the counter.
“Cocoa sounds heavenly,” Attie said with a sigh, and Iris nodded her agreement. “Thank you.”
Marisol smiled, rising up on her tiptoes to pull down one of the copper pots. “It was my grandmother’s recipe. I think you’ll both love it. And good gods! Forgive me, but I just realized I don’t even know your names!”
Attie spoke first. “Thea Attwood, to be formal. Attie to friends.”
“Nice to meet you, Attie,” Marisol said, her doe eyes shifting to Iris next.
“Iris Winnow. You can call me by either one.”
“Iris,” Marisol echoed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’m Marisol Torres and this is my bed and breakfast, but I think you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and your place is charming,” Attie said, admiring the kitchen. “But if I may ask … why are you burning candles? Are you conserving electricity?”
“Ah,” Marisol said, beginning to boil water on her cooker and chop up the onion. “I’m glad you asked. No, not really, although the past few months have taught me much about conservation. It’s due to the war, and the front lines being so close to Avalon Bluff.”
“How close?” Iris asked.
“About eighty kilometers away.”
Iris looked at Attie. Attie was already gazing at her with an inscrutable expression. She wondered how long it would take before the war felt real to them. Before they felt how close it was, like a tremor in the ground beneath them.
“All right,” Marisol said, wielding a knife. “How old are you two? Because I will chew Helena up one side and down another if she sent underage children to me.”
“I’m eighteen,” Iris said.
“Twenty,” Attie replied. “By law, we’re both legal adults who can drink and be formerly charged for murder, so Helena’s safe for now.”
“That’s still too young to be reporting on the war.” Attie dared to ask, “And how old are you, Marisol?”
Marisol wasn’t offended. “I’m thirty-three, but I know I look like I’m twenty-five.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Attie commented.
“I suppose,” said Marisol with an arched brow. But a smile lit her face, and Iris thought she might be one of the loveliest people she had ever met. “All right. Tell me about you two while I cook.”
“Do you need help?” Iris asked, rising.
“Absolutely not!” Marisol said. “Stay in that chair. No one cooks in my kitchen but me, unless they have my approval.”
Iris quickly lowered herself back down. Attie was nearly shaking with laughter, and Iris shot her a stern look. Which only made Attie laugh, and gods, if she didn’t have a contagious one, just like Roman Kitt.
The thought of him made Iris go cold.
She pushed him away, far from her mind, and was exceedingly glad when Attie began to talk about her life. She was the oldest of six kids— three boys, three girls—and Iris gaped at her, trying to imagine what that would be like. To live in a house overflowing with siblings.
“I love them more than anything,” said Attie, turning her attention to Iris. “What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”
“I have an older brother,” Iris said. “He’s fighting in the war. For Enva.” That made Marisol pause. “That’s very brave of him.”
Iris only nodded, but her face flushed when she thought about all the times she had resented her brother for leaving. She absently touched her mother’s locket, hidden beneath the jumpsuit.
“And you, Marisol?” Attie asked.
“I have two younger sisters,” Marisol replied. “I would do anything for them.”
Attie nodded, as if she understood perfectly. Iris struggled with a bout of jealousy until Marisol said, “They’re not even my sisters by blood, but I choose them. And that sort of love is everlasting.” She smiled and brought two mugs to the table.
Iris wrapped her fingers around hers, breathing in the rich, spicy steam.
She took a sip and groaned. “This is delicious.”
“Good.” Marisol said, returning to the cooker, where onions and peppers and fried eggs were crackling in a skillet.
The kitchen fell quiet for a moment, but it was comfortable silence, and Iris felt herself truly relax for the first time in weeks. She drank the hot cocoa and felt a warmth in her chest as she enjoyed listening to Attie converse with Marisol. But in the back of her mind, she wondered why this place was so dark and quiet.
Marisol didn’t explain until both girls were done eating the delicious meal she set down before them—plates full of rice, sautéed vegetables, and chopped herbs, topped by fried eggs.
“Now that I’ve fed you,” she began, sitting in the chair across from Iris, “it’s time for me to tell you why Avalon Bluff is the way it is, so you can also know how to respond.”
“Respond?” Iris asked with a hint of worry.
“To the sirens, and what they foretell,” Marisol said, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. A small red jewel in her lobe caught the light. “There are three different sirens, and they can sound at any time. No matter where you are in Avalon, whether it’s the infirmary or the grocer or in the street, you need to always be prepared for them and respond accordingly.
“If a siren wails continuously during the night, you have exactly three minutes to extinguish all light, cover all windows, and lock yourself indoors before the hounds arrive.”
“Hounds?” Attie echoed with a frown. “I thought they were just a myth.”
“Not at all,” Marisol replied. “I’ve never seen one, because I haven’t dared to look out the window when they stalk the night, but a neighbor of mine caught a glimpse once and said the hounds are about the size of a wolf. They destroy anything in their path that lives.”
“Have they ever killed someone here?” Iris asked. She remembered the myth her enigmatic correspondent had sent, about Dacre searching for Enva. How he had called up his hounds from the realm below.
“No,” Marisol replied, but there was a trace of sadness in her tone. “But a flock of sheep was lost once, as well as some other livestock. You will most likely be here with me at night—Avalon has a curfew, because of
this … situation. Everyone is to be safely home by sunset. So if you are woken by this siren, make sure all candles are extinguished and lights are turned off instantly, cover your windows, and then come to my room. All right?”
Both Iris and Attie nodded.
“The second siren I want to tell you about,” Marisol continued, “is the one that wails continuously during the day. If you hear that one, you have exactly two minutes to take cover before the eithrals arrive. They’re wyverns, and Dacre uses them to carry bombs in their talons, which they will drop on anything that they see that moves below. If you are inside, then cover the windows and sit quietly until they pass by. If you happen to be out of doors when they fill the skies, then you must do what feels unthinkable
—lie down exactly where you are and not move until they are gone. Do you both understand me?”
The girls nodded in unison once again.
“Is that why the train doesn’t travel by day around here?” Iris asked. “We noticed that it stopped and delayed its course until nightfall at a certain point in the journey.”
“Yes, that’s exactly why,” Marisol said. “The train has a better chance of outrunning the hounds at night than stopping in time if an eithral is spotted. And if the railway is bombed, it would be catastrophic for us. Which leads me to the third and last siren you may hear—the one that wails intermittently at any time. Day or night. We have yet to hear this one in Avalon Bluff, but with each day that passes, it becomes more and more of a possibility that we must prepare for.
“If you hear this siren, you need to evacuate to the east, immediately. It means that our soldiers on the western front lines are retreating and have given up ground and cannot defend us here. It means that the enemy is coming and will most likely take the town. I’ll prepare dash-packs for you both, which I’ll hang in the pantry for you to grab and run with. There’ll be a matchbook, a flask of water, tins of beans, and other nonperishable items packed inside. Enough to hopefully last you to the next town.
“Now, I know this is more than you signed up for, and your heads must be swimming, but do you have any questions for me?”
Attie and Iris were silent for a full ten seconds. But then Attie cleared her throat and asked, “The sirens … where do they come from?”
“A town a few kilometers west of here, called Clover Hill. They have a great vantage point and a siren that once rang for foul weather and they agreed to alert us the moment they perceived any hounds or eithrals or enemy soldiers.” Marisol began to gather up their empty plates. Iris noticed a slim golden band was on her left ring finger. She was married, then, although she had made no mention of a spouse. It seemed as if she lived alone here. “And it’s late. Nearly midnight. Let me take you both upstairs. You can choose your rooms and then get a good night’s sleep.”
As long as a siren doesn’t sound, Iris thought, and a spark of dread arced through her. She hoped it wouldn’t happen, and then that it would, so she could go ahead and get the fright of experiencing one out of the way.
“Can we help you clean, Marisol?” Attie asked, rising from her chair. “Not tonight,” she replied. “I have a policy. Guests on their first night
aren’t expected to do anything but enjoy themselves. But tomorrow will be different. Breakfast will be at eight sharp, and then you both can help me prepare a meal to take to the infirmary, to feed the wounded soldiers. I thought it would be a good way for you to begin your research. Some of the soldiers won’t want to talk about what they’ve seen and experienced, but others will.”
“We’ll be ready,” Attie said, gathering her bags.
Iris reached for her leather bag, thoughts of Dacre running wild in her mind as she followed Marisol and Attie down the hall and up the stairs. Marisol carried a rushlight with her, the flame burning across multiple mirrors on the wall. She explained how most residents in Avalon Bluff had decided to forgo electricity—which was unapologetically bright and could be spotted from a distance—in the night and appoint themselves with candles that could be easily blown out in case of a hound or intermittent siren.
“Now,” Marisol said when they reached the second floor, “this is the door to my room. There are four others, all empty and very charming. Choose whichever one speaks to you.”
Attie stepped into one, Iris another. It felt like a crime to flip on the light switch after learning about the sirens.
The room Iris chose was decorated in shades of green. It had two windows that overlooked the back of the house, with a bed in one corner, a wardrobe carved into the wall that was similar to Iris’s closet back home, and a desk, perfect for writing at.
“This room is one of my favorites,” Marisol said from the threshold. “And you can use electricity, if you want. Or the candle.”
“The candle will be fine,” Iris said, just as Attie appeared.
“I want the room across from this one,” she said. “It’s red and suits me.” “Wonderful!” Marisol said, beaming. “I’ll see you both in the morning.
Spare blankets and towels are in the wardrobe there, if you need them. Oh, and the lavatory is down the hall.”
“Thank you, Marisol,” Iris whispered.
“Of course. Sleep well, my friend,” Marisol said gently, just before she shut the door.
