Read Online The Doorway and the Deep by K.E. Ormsbee - Free Book Online

what I can tell, she can only heal on a case-by-case basis, and only then if she’s developed an empathetic connection to the patient.”
    â€œThen what good is she to us?” said the Tailor. “To any of us? Heir of Fiske, indeed. She might as well belong to one of the worthless houses—a Spivey, or an Outeridge. I’ll tell you what the trouble is: she’s been contaminated by human blood.”
    â€œWithout human blood,” said Mr. Wilfer, “she would never have developed such a unique gift.”
    â€œ
Unique?
It is little better than useless.”
    â€œWould you call your own nephew useless?”
    â€œCertainly not. I have no nephew.”
    Silence followed, then was broken by Silvia’s irritated voice.
    â€œWhat is it, Wren? Have you fetched them?”
    â€œYes, m’lady,” said the voice of the wisp guard. “They’re just outside.”
    Lottie pulled her hands out of Adelaide’s.
    â€œThat’s enough,” she said. “I don’t need to hear more.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” asked Eliot. “What did they say?”
    â€œNothing,” she said. “It’s nothing.”
    Adelaide had heard everything, Lottie realized, embarrassment hitting her like a hot splash of water. She expected Adelaide to look smug, but she didn’t. She looked sad. She looked
sorry
, as though she had been the one to tell Lottie that her keen was little better than useless.
    â€œLottie—” she whispered.
    The doors to the Royal Bower swung open. The guard named Wren reappeared and motioned them to walk through.
    â€œThe Seamstress and Tailor will see you now,” she said.
    They entered the bower. Lottie had not set foot in this place since her first visit to Limn, when she, Oliver, Fife, and Adelaide had been on the run from the Southerly Guard. Some things were as she remembered them: the large weeping willow, its bark and leaves a pure white; the gauze awnings overhead; the vastness of the bower. But something had changed. Maybe it was that Silvia did not look anywhere near as regal as she had that first meeting. She floated before the willow tree some six feet in the air, reclining as though she were lounging upon a sofa, drumming her fingers along her jaw like an impatient child. Mr. Wilfer stood at the tree’s base, arms folded and brow darkened.
    Next to Silvia floated a tall, thin figure with the longest black hair Lottie had yet seen on a wisp. His chin was sharp, his cheekbones high, and his nose bent in two separate places. It was a severe countenance, made moresevere by its frigid eyes. Lottie had never before been so vividly reminded of how
inhuman
the wisps were. Unlike his sister, the Tailor of the Wisps sat in midair with perfect posture, the same as if there had been a solid throne, not mere air, at his back.
    Despite the fright Lottie felt at the sight of Lyre Dulcet, she could still see it: he looked very much like Fife. Or rather, she thought, Fife looked very much like his uncle.
    â€œ
Curtsy
,” a voice hissed.
    Lottie realized she’d been staring far too long at the Tailor of the Wisps. Adelaide was bent low in a delicate curtsy, her eyes burning up at Lottie, urging her to do the same. On her other side, Oliver was bowing, and even Eliot was making his own sloppy attempt at a show of reverence. Lottie grabbed the edges of her periwinkle coat and stooped into her own curtsy. When she rose, she noticed Fife standing cross-armed, defiant. His lack of deference hadn’t gone unnoticed.
    â€œWhat do you mean by this?” Lyre demanded of him. Lottie saw spittle fly from his mouth as he spoke.
    â€œI’m a Dulcet, same as you,” said Fife. “And I’m a sprite, which means I don’t owe you a bow.”
    â€œYour friends, too, are no wisps, yet they have appropriately chosen to show veneration to their hosts.”
    â€œOh, but you’re not my host,
Uncle
,”