Trembling, she watched as the hairline crack along Scrimshaw’s skull began to widen. Others soon appeared as the pressure increased. The web-thin fissures spread quickly across his startled face like black veins.
Pinfeathers continued to tighten his hold on Scrimshaw’s neck until, at last, the blue Noc succumbed, sinking to his knees.
For a moment, it seemed as though Scrimshaw might try to speak, to say something to her, but his words were cut off, crushed into silence along with his neck, which caved at last under Pinfeathers’s unrelenting grip.
Isobel shrieked, cringing as Scrimshaw’s head toppled from his shoulders. It fell to the floor, where it shattered amid the layer of dust and petals. His body followed soon after, slumping slowly to one side, then toppling to the floor.
Isobel stared at the empty torso, transfixed by its hollow interior. Her eyes skimmed the surface of the remains, focusing on the few beautifully carved images that, despite the extent of the destruction, had managed to remain intact. A swirling whirlpool, a rolling cascade of waves and foam, the curling tentacles of a giant octopus. There was the sailing ship too, only half of which now existed, the other half seeming to have dropped off into the jagged and open cavity of his side.
Looking closer still, Isobel noticed what seemed to be a miniature portrait among the carvings. Engraved just above the heart, the image showed the quarter profile of a young woman, her head turned as though she was peering back at something over one shoulder. Her eyelids, heavy and drooping, veiled her downcast eyes, which seemed as though they wanted to close. The girl’s dark hair, etched with care in minute curving lines, was bundled around her head in an old-fashioned style. Isobel thought she recognized the image, but before she could place her finger on it, her attention was drawn to Pinfeathers’s wavering shadow.
Isobel tilted her head up to find the Noc still hovering over her.
He swayed, seeming disoriented, even lost as he peered down and around himself. It made her wonder if he even knew what had just happened, what he had just done, or exactly how much damage he had sustained.
She watched as he lifted his hand to his collar. Grabbing hold of the top strap of his jacket, he wrenched it loose, baring his chest. He touched the fragmented area just above his heart, the place he had repaired the morning Isobel had found him sitting by the fountain. He cringed as several shards tumbled forth, falling to clink against the marble floor.
“I . . . told you,” he wheezed, his words almost entirely voiceless. It was as if, like a shattered violin, he had lost the ability to resonate sound. “Didn’t . . . didn’t I tell you?”
Holding his hand over the open crater in his chest, he tottered away from her, away from the mess that was Scrimshaw. As he moved, his whole frame creaked, groaning like a rickety structure preparing to collapse in on itself.
Isobel placed her palms on the ash-powdered floor, about to push herself to her feet, when a quiet pop made her stop. It was the sound of one of his knees fracturing. He began to list to one side, then slip straight down toward the floor. He landed on his knees with a crack. The weight of his torso caused his upper body to tip forward, like the trunk of a tree whose base had been sliced cleanly through.
Fumbling forward, Isobel caught him as he toppled into her open arms. His hand fell away from his chest, allowing a slip of fabric to pour halfway out of him as he slumped against her.
Keeping a firm hold on him, his broken form as light and lifeless as a marionette’s, she guided him gently to the floor. Then her eyes went to the thin length of smooth cloth that had tumbled from his chest and partially into her lap.
Isobel frowned at the sight of the pink satin ribbon. Her ribbon.
She seized it and peered down at Pinfeathers, who stared upward and past her at something above them.
She glanced briefly at the statue of the woman who stood atop the fountain.
“You let her win,” the Noc rasped. “You make it so easy.”
Isobel returned her gaze to him. “Pinfeathers,” she said, hoping to bring his attention back to her.
“Present,” he said, his eyes shifting to meet hers, “if unaccounted for.”
She held up the pink ribbon. “Where . . . where did you get this?”
He squeezed his eyes shut as though the question pained him. When he opened them again, his lips began to move, attempting to form words. “You gave it to us,” he whispered, making a feeble gesture with his hand before turning his head from her, refusing, it seemed, to meet her gaze. “Asked us to keep it. Said you needed it. Or don’t you remember?”
“I . . .” She shook her head. “I gave it to Varen.”
