Chapters 12 and 13

(In which we learn of Pockets and of Grim's trip to find Priest, and oh, hey, there's a freakin' minotaur, too)

Twelfth

Elizabeth's pants were damp from the dew, and her back felt as if someone had tied it into knots. But she had to admit, after the labors of the day before, she should have felt worse. She flexed her limbs experimentally: her legs moved without complaint, and even her palm felt a bit better. She was, however, starving.

The blood-red sun was just visible over the hills in the distance, painting the clouds on the opposite horizon a rosy pink-orange. The air felt thick and primed for rain, though the sky directly overhead remained clear. Perhaps not the greatest day to start a journey, she thought, unless the rain held off. Not unless they were going by car, or whatever Edge’s equivalent was...a carriage? Or would the rain help them, masking their tracks somehow?

Chapters 9-10

(In which we learn a little bit about chicken entrails, and Elizabeth and Priest get into a bit of a row, I'm afraid)

Ninth

Elizabeth had left Grim alone, to allow him to go back to sleep. He had read to her the legend of Garren and Marjorey, as detailed in one of the books stacked next to his sick-bed, ones that Priest had read to him during his fevers, in what struck her as an uncharacteristic kindness from the harsh man. Grim told her that he had first heard the tale in childhood, told to him by his parents or siblings or friends or by a traveling bard, though this last was a rarity in the realms of the Shades.

It was hard to believe that Priest could be the Garren from the story. His given first name of Gareth was close enough, but he did not appear much older than Grim. And the book from which Grim read was ancient, its leaves oiled with age, so the story had to be much older.

Chapter 8 and Interlude

(In which we learn the tale of Margaret and Priest, and a bit about Eliza and Silas's earlier days in Edge)

Priest shook her forcefully back and forth, his jaw clenched and the curlicues of his hair wavering with the momentum. She balled her right hand into a fist and flung it against the side of his head. He winced, then grabbed at her wrist with his free hand, immobilizing it. "What did you do to her?", he repeated, hissing, covering her face with a thin spray of spit.

An unexpected calmness washed over her. She slowly, carefully reached up her left hand and placed it on the forearm that held the front of her hoodie. She rested it there, not pressing, not slicing, not stabbing. She looked at Priest flatly.

Chapter 7

(In which we find Grim, encounter another maze, and learn what is held in Priest's tower)

     The door was thick mahogany, a sharp contrast to the slats composing the walls around it, and had been carved with minute detail, swirling smoke-like patterns and fist-sized faces emerging in bas-relief. But it was almost comically small, its top no higher than Elizabeth's mid-thigh. Priest had to bow down low, almost crawling. He held the door open, a pained and impatient expression on his face as he waited for her to enter.

Despite the diminutive entrance, the inside of the barn was vast, appearing even larger than it did on the outside. The sunken floor was a full body-length below the level of the door, connected to it by a stairway with wooden steps worn smooth with age.

Chapter 6

(In which we rejoin Elizabeth, who has landed alone, in the middle of a vast and confusing garden-maze)

    Elizabeth wasn’t sure if she was awake or still dreaming. There were fleeting moments when her limbs responded to her commands, but even then they felt like they were swaddled in cotton. Her eyes did not seem to be closed, but the only information they passed to her brain was the sort of ghosts-of-light images seen on the underside of her eyelids, too slippery to bring into focus.

     She gradually became aware of an insistent, pressing feeling; an urgency not unlike a full bladder, but it seemed to come from outside of her, as though she was being squeezed through an aperture too small for her body. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be born. The pressure transitioned to pain, starting with a hot pinprick from her scalp into her skull that quickly progressed to a chorus of similar sensations that struck parts of her body in a seemingly random pattern: her throat, now her abdomen, now her toe, now her lower spine.

A quick note to you.

Everyone reading this,
       The book takes a bit of a break/shift with this most recent chapter, what's meant to give a bit of a pause and tries to place a bit of perspective/contrast on present-day Elizabeth's experience in Central with her coming adventures in Edge. I think what I just wrote makes sense. Read this after you've perused the Interlude and let me know if it's coherent,
       Anyway, while we're taking a little breather, I just wanted to again say a huge "Thank You" for stopping by. As I mentioned on facebook (sorry for the repetition), the response (both in personal missives as well as the pageviews that blogger is tracking) has been better/larger than I could have expected, or hoped. This all started as a personal project, with little hope that anyone else might actually read it, let alone enjoy it as much as some of you are.
       I started out with comments disabled, mostly because I was sure they'd be nothing but spam. They're up and running now, though, on a we'll-see-how-this-goes basis. So feel free to write something if you wish. No spoilers, sweetie (said most intentionally in the tone of Dr. River Song). Or, if you're more comfortable, I may be reached at soupbather@gmail.com. Or just yell out your window. I'm hiding in your bushes. It's muddy out here.

       Love,

       Matt

Interlude

[In which we take a small break and shift our perspective back a few years. Stay with me, people. It's gonna be okay.]

             Silas had disappeared.

     Eliza woke with a start, her joints sore and stiff from a night on the cold ground, only to find him gone. He had fallen asleep before she had, and the last thing she remembered was his rhythmic breathing, the faint slurping noises of his lips around his thumb. His nocturnal twitches. The small area of tall grass they had stamped down didn't have any place for him to hide, and there were no signs of a struggle. The morning dew clung to the tall winding strands of grasses that formed the wall of their little hideaway, but there was no obvious break to suggest from which direction he might have exited.