The Whatnot by Stefan Bachmann

hand, then at the figure in the shadows. He couldn’t see its face. He couldn’t see anything.
    The boots had reached the door. A key clicked into the lock. Turning, turning.
    The figure flicked its fingers, beckoning him. The door opened with a squeal .
    Pikey gripped the hand.
    It was cold. Cold and stiff as a dead man’s hand. It pulled Pikey into the dark.
    Behind him he heard a shout. The figure clutched Pikey. It whispered under its breath, and the shadows seemed to fly like ravens out of the corners and wrap around them. Leadfaces were in the room, hurling picture frames, poking into everything, but suddenly the sound of them was far away, as if on the other side of a velvet curtain. Mr. Millipede stood in the doorway, his mouth agape. Pikey saw it all. Then the thin figure said another word, and Pikey was swept forward, past the jeweler, out the door, carried on an invisible wind. They flew out of the shop, up the street, faster and faster, and no one seemed to see. Houses sped past, steam coaches and automatons, and hundreds of people in hats and hoop skirts. They crossed the river, so quick Pikey didn’t know if they had been on a bridge or if they had simply floated right above the water. And then the figure let go of his hand. Everything screeched to a halt.
    Pikey gasped, wobbling on his legs. He looked about. He was back in the squalor of Spitalfields, in a little court behind a butcher’s shop. An old, old tree called the Gallows Tree arched over him, its branches gnarled and black.
    â€œNow,” the tall figure said. “Do not be foolish again. You are no use when you are dead.”
    It did not wait for a response. It spoke another word, and the Gallows Tree seemed to untwist and open like a gaping mouth. Wind flew at Pikey. Not the heavy, ash-filled wind of London, but a sharp, wet wind that smelled of salt. It ruffled his hair, dampened his lips. Through the tree, as if through a telescope, he saw a seashore, dark cliffs and waves crashing over a bone-white beach. It was all so close; he could practically feel the spray flying up around him and spattering his cheeks. The figure gave him a wink and a nod, and stepped into the tree. There was a snapping sound. Pikey felt a pain in his head, a dark, sharp spark stealing his vision. And when he could see again he was alone in the court. The Gallows Tree stood silent and still, just as it always had. Only the slightest hint of a laugh hung in the air, fading into the snow.
    Pikey did not go back to the chemist’s shop. He didn’t know where to go. He spent the night in the corner of a frozen alley, covered with a few issues of The London Standard, and wondered what would become of him.
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    Pikey woke the next morning surrounded by glittering things.
    He sat up slowly, rubbing the grit from his eyes. They were all around him, scattered over the cobbles in wide circle. Diamonds and opals and poppy-red brocade in crumpled rolls. A complete set of silver flatware, a cup wrought with leaves, a wooden box spilling pearls. A mantle of frost lay over everything.
    Pikey squinted, blurring his vision to see if it would all fade into the smoke and frozen grime of the alley. It didn’t. Everything was sharp and clear, sparkling in the cold. A single black feather fluttered, caught in the prongs of a silver fork.
    Pikey sat up with a start.
    Oh no. Stupid faery. Stupid, stupid faery —
    But it was too late to run. And someone was there. Several someones. In the alley. Standing over him. Three leadfaces.
    â€œGot you now,” one of them spat, so close Pikey could see the spittle strike the cobbles. “Now you’re in for it. Thief .”

CHAPTER VI
    The Belusites
    H ETTIE soon learned a few things, traveling through the woods with the company. She learned that laughing and smiling did not necessarily mean the Sidhe were pleased about anything. She learned that some words left them sulking, and others made the darkness