Caitlin Kittredge - The Iron Thorn  

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright 2011 by Caitlin Kittredge
Illustrations copyright 2011 by Robert Lazzaretti

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens

Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,
visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kittredge, Caitlin.
The Iron Thorn / Caitlin Kittredge. 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In an alternate 1950s, mechanically gifted fifteen-year-old
Aoife Grayson, whose family has a history of going mad at sixteen,
must leave the totalitarian city of Lovecraft and venture into the world
of magic to solve the mystery of her brothers disappearance and the
mysteries surrounding her father and the Land of Thorn.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89598-2 [1. Fantasy.] I. Title.
PZ7.K67163lr 2011
[Fic]dc22
2010000972

Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

v3.1

To Howard Phillips Lovecraft,
who first showed me that strange far place

The moon is dark,
and the gods dance in the night;
there is terror in the sky,
for upon the moon hath sunk an eclipse
foretold in no books of men.

H. P. L OVECRAFT

The Ashes of the World

T HERE ARE SEVENTEEN madhouses in the city of Lovecraft. Ive visited all of them.

My mother likes to tell me about her dreams when I visit. She sits in the window of the Cristobel Charitable Asylum and strokes the iron bars covering the glass like they are the strings of a harp. I went to the lily field last night, she murmurs.

Her dreams are never dreams. They are always journeys, explorations, excavations of her mad mind, or, if her mood is bleak, ominous portents for me to heed.

The smooth brass gears of my chronometer churned past four-thirty and I put it back in my skirt pocket. Soon the asylum would close to visitors and I could go home. The dark came early in October. Its not safe for a girl to be out walking on her own, in Hallows Eve weather.

I called it that, the sort of days when the sky was the same color as the smoke from the Nephilim Foundry across the river, and you could taste winter on the back of your tongue.

When I didnt immediately reply, my mother picked up her hand mirror and threw it at my head. There was no glass in ithadnt been for years, at least six madhouses ago. The doctors wrote it into her file, neat and spidery, after she tried to cut her wrists open with the pieces. No mirrors. No glass. Patient is a danger to herself.

Im talking to you! she shouted. You might not think its important, but I went to the lily field! I saw the dead girls move their hands! Open eyes looking up! Up into the world that they so desperately desire!

Its a real shame that my mother is mad. She could make a fortune writing sensational novels, those gothics with the cheap covers and breakable spines that Mrs. Fortune, my house marm at the Lovecraft Academy, eats up.

My stomach closed like a fist, but my voice came out soothing. Ive had practice being soothing, calming. Too much practice. Nerissa, I said, because thats her name and we never address each other as mother and daughter but always as Nerissa and Aoife. Im listening to you. But youre not making any sense. Just like usual. I left the last part off. Shed only find something else to throw.

I picked up the mirror and ran my thumb over the backing. It was silver, and it had been pretty, once. When I was a child Id played at being beautiful while my mother sat by the window of Our Lady of Rationality, the first madhouse in my memory, run by Rationalist nuns. Their silent black-clad forms fluttered like specters outside my mothers cell while they prayed to the Master Builder, the epitome of human reason, for her recovery. All the medical science and logic in the world couldnt cure my mother, but the nuns tried. And when they failed, she was sent on to another madhouse, where no one prayed for anything.

Nerissa gave a snort, ruffling the ragged fringe above her eyes. Oh, am I? And what would you know of sense, miss? You and those ironmongers locked away in that dank school, the gears turning and turning to grind your bones

I stopped listening. Listen to my mother long enough and you started to believe her. And believing Nerissa broke my heart.

My thumb sank into the depression in the mirror frame, left where an unscrupulous orderly had pried out a ruby, or so my mother said. She accused everyone of everything, sooner or later. Id been a nightjar, come to drink her blood and steal her life, a ghost, a torturer, a spy. When she turned her rage on me, I gathered my books and left, knowing that we wouldnt speak again for weeks. On the days when she talked about her dreams, the visits could stretch for hours.

I went to the lily field , my mother whispered, pressing her forehead against the window bars. Her fingers slipped between them to leave ghost marks on the glass.

Time gone by, her dreams fascinated me. The lily field, the dark tower, the maidens fair. She told them over and over, in soft lyrical tones. No other mother told such fanciful bedtime stories. No other mother saw the lands beyond the living, the rational and the iron. Nerissa had been lost in dreams, in one fashion or another, my entire life.

Now each time I visited I hoped shed wake up from her fog. And each time, I left disappointed. When I graduated from the Lovecraft Academy, I could be too busy to see her at all, with my respectable job and respectable life. Until then, Nerissa needed someone to hear her dreams, and the duty fell to me. I felt the weight of being a dutiful daughter like a stone strapped to my legs.

I picked up my satchel and stood. Im going to go home. The air horn hadnt sounded the end of hours yet, but I could see the dark drawing in beyond the panes.

Nerissa was up, cat-quick, and wrapping her fingers around my wrist. Her hand was cold, like always, and her nightgown fluttered around her skin-and-bones body. I had always been taller, sturdier than my slight mother. Id say I took after my father, if Id ever met him.

Dont leave me here, Nerissa hissed. Dont leave me to look into their eyes alone. The dead girls will dance, Aoife, dance on the ashes of the world.