A/N: Technically, this should be chapter thirteen, and chapter thirteen should be fourteen. Sorry. I'll go back and switch things when I update next. Too sleepy right now.

If anyone's massively confused about this chapter, go back and re-read Chapter Six. Long time ago, I know, I'm sorry. Just trying to pull together all these plot threads I've left loose. I've sowed all my seeds, and am now reaping the harvest . . .

Standard Disclaimers Apply: Susan Cooper owns Will Stanton, Bran Davies, Jane Drews, and The Dark is Rising universe. I have only hopes and aspirations and credit card bills.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"I and the public know

What all school children learn

Those to whom evil is done

Do evil in return."

- W.H. Auden, "September 1st, 1939."

Peter fell and fell and fell, tumbling madly through stretches of time and space unknown. All senses abandoned him. He felt no such thing as hot or cold, and forgot the difference between light and dark. His muscles pulsed and contracted and then seemed to tear away from his bones. But he knew no pain, for this was a place where words such as pain or comfort or joy had no dimensions. He could feel only a sleek fabric beneath his hand, and the sharp angles of a small bony shoulder beneath that.

He landed hard (except "land" wasn't the right word for it . . . he felt only a sudden expansion, as if he were one of those toy sponges children played with that blossomed into animals when dropped in water). What must have been Annie's form escaped his grasp and spun away. Peter shouted, or tried to shout, and reached out into the emptiness to find her again.

But slowly the emptiness began to fill. First came the welcome sensation of ground beneath his feet, solid and dependable. Wherever he was, he was standing at least, and not sprawled out helpless.

Then there came another hand at Peter's throat, similar to Stan's, yet different. This one wasn't choking him, but had him by the coat collar and was shaking him impatiently, but not roughly. Still, even the gentle movement made Peter dizzy, and colorful spots danced like a Tilt-a-Whirl before his eyes. When his cheek brushed against his coat collar, he didn't feel the smooth sleekness of nylon. Instead, the scratchy roughness of wet wool abased his skin.

I'm wearing different clothes . . . Now that's interesting.

His sight began to clear, and he blinked as a brilliant light - a flashlight? - invaded his sensitive pupils. A dark shape was looming over him, tall and angular. When it spoke, it was with the dry rustling of leaves in autumn.

"What are you doing here, boy? What's your name?"

Peter couldn't respond. His head lolled to the side and his dazed gaze wandered the surrounding scenery.

He was standing in the middle of an old-fashioned, desolate cobblestone road. Well-manicured trees loomed on both sides: pines and maples and hemlocks. Ice-encrusted branches leaned heavily to the ground, looking like white sparkling coral. They clattered sharply in the slight wind. Only freezing rain could've caused that, Peter thought dimly. It was night, and large fat snowflakes drifted down from a cloud-smothered sky. He could see an enormous wrought-iron gate loom out of the darkness before him. An elaborate 'T' was affixed on its bars. There was a guard booth to one side. Its occupant must've left in a hurry, for the door was left open, spilling light out onto the ground.

Peter's nose began to tingle in the cold, and he felt the quiet whisper of snow on his cheeks. He blinked again, and small flakes caught in his lashes and tried to freeze his lids shut. He sneezed.

The unknown man gave him another shake, a harder one that made Peter's teeth rattle.

"Didn't you hear me? Do you have any friends lurking out there in the shadows, boy? Thought you'd play a funny trick on me, huh? Appearing out of nowhere just like that? Well, I may be old, kid, but I'm not crazy yet. Now, last time, what's your name? Your parents will certainly be receiving a call from us."

The man was grasping Peter's collar with one hand and shining a flashlight directly into his eyes with the other. Peter squinted and turned his head to the side, unable to see the man's features. He opened his lips to speak, but could only manage a nervous gurgle.

There was an unexpected rustle from the trees to one side of the road. The man released Peter and whirled to face the sound, shining the light into the darkness. Peter, left suddenly without a support he hadn't even known he'd needed, collapsed upon the stony road. Cold gravel and shards of ice dug into his palms through the leather - leather! - gloves he wore. His eyes turned to the trees in horror.

A small black shape tumbled out, and Peter almost laughed in relief as the man's flashlight revealed his sister's features. Her hair was tousled and wild and covered with twigs; smudges of dirt marred her cheeks. She looked dreadfully annoyed.

"Fudgsicles!" she muttered viciously as she struggled to her feet. She came forward from under a clump of gnarled hemlocks, brushing powdery snow from her sleeves. Like Peter, she was dressed differently. Gone was the poofy blue jacket, replaced by a wool coat of muted gray. Her impractical white slippers had also given way to neatly buckled shoes that looked like they would be much better protection against the snow and slush.

She folded her arms across her chest and hunched her shoulders. Shivering and wet from her fight with the trees, she glared sullenly at the man, who stood speechless with his mouth agape. Her voice was sharp and shrill. "His name is Peter Davies. I'm Annie Davies. And get that light out of my face, please!"

The man angled his torch towards the ground. He laughed. Peter looked at him and saw a face crisscrossed with wrinkles and eyes quick and sharp and bright. The body was thin, but carried in a manner that suggested swiftness of movement. His coat was long and dark, and a wool hat with flaps covered his head and ears. The hat was pushed back slightly to reveal short dark hair streaked with grey at the temples. Fifty years old, at the least, but probably closer to sixty, Peter concluded. The man was grinning broadly, a gargoyle trying to beam like an angel.

"Peter Davies? And you're his sister -- Annie, right? Well, I guess we've been expecting you." He chuckled and offered a hand to Peter, still sprawled on the ground. Peter accepted it hesitantly and found himself hauled to his feet by a surprisingly firm, yet bony, grip. "Why didn't you just say you were Peter Davies in the first place?" the man asked him. He reached down to brush slush from the shoulders of Peter's wool coat.

"Who are you?" Peter asked in unthinking astonishment.

"Samuel Nightshade, the security guard here. The headmaster told me you'd be arriving tonight, but we expected you hours ago. Thought that blasted ice storm must have stopped your train, though, and that you'd be delayed 'til morning. But the phone lines are down, so we couldn't call to check. Did you really walk that whole way from the station? And with your little sister?" Nightshade jerked his head in Annie's direction.

"Train?" Peter panicked.

"Are you all right, Mr. Davies? I'm sorry, did I shake you too hard? Did you hurt yourself when you fell?"

"No, I'm all right," he lied. "Just - tired, I guess."

Samuel Nightshade looked contrite. "I'm sorry about the rude welcoming, but you must understand. I never know what those Townies are up to, nowadays. I thought you were one of 'em; you scared me pretty badly when I saw you just standing there like that. Don't know why I didn't see you coming. I must be getting old, my eyesight's starting to fade." He shook his head sadly. "Anyway, the Townies. They always come up here at night with their booze and rock-and-roll music, thinking these woods are some place for a party." Nightshade peered anxiously into the night, as if searching the shadows alongside the road for lions and Townies and bears, oh my.

"Right," Peter replied slowly, eyebrows raised.

"What's a Townie?" Annie asked vacantly, still hunched over against the cold. Her voice was small and strained.

"Locals to you, miss," Nightshade said, a haughty look coming over his face. "Anyone who isn't connected in some way with this school."

"School?" Annie came to stand alongside Peter and took his hand. The strength of her grip on his fingers told him how nervous she was.

"Well, not that you're going to be here long, I'm guessing, miss. Only two weeks, as I understand it." A look of severity came across Nightshade's face, and he wagged one finger at the girl warningly. "I feel obliged to tell you, Ms. Davies, that your being permitted to remain here until your parents return from abroad is highly unusual. This isn't a nursery, you know. If it weren't for the fact that your grandfather was Mr. Lyon . . ." Nightshade caught himself and shook his head, making a tsk-tsk noise. "Well, let's just say that Mr. Lyon - and his funds - are highly respected at this establishment."

"Mr. Lyon?" Peter hoped that at some time in the near future he would be able to communicate in some fashion other than questions. Annie kicked him swiftly, a silent reminder that told him to shut up and play along.

But Samuel Nightshade hadn't heard.

"Look at me, keeping you two standing out here when you've been traveling for hours! What am I thinking'? I'm used to this nasty weather after all these years, but I dare say you aren't, comin' from England and all. I hear it's pretty mild over there. All right then, Mr. Davies, Ms. Davies, let's . . . " Nightshade paused and surveyed the ground in confusion. "Say, where's your luggage?"

Luckily, the lie came glibly to Peter's tongue. "Oh, we left it at the station," he replied, finally finding words that came easily. "Didn't want to drag it all the way up here. The people at the station said they'd send it once the roads were salted and cleared. There wasn't a place to sleep there, so we decided to walk on our own instead of waiting for morning." He crossed his fingers, hoping the fib wouldn't come back to haunt him later. But what else was there for him to say?

"Very well. Although you really shouldn't have come on your own like that so late at night. But that's for Dr. Clay to handle, not me. Some of the other boys will lend you their night things, I'm sure. If any are still awake, that is. Lights-out is at eleven, and it's well past midnight now." Nightshade dug deeply into his overcoat pocket and brought out a large key. He tuned and inserted the key into the gate lock. Rusty hinges creaked as he pushed the doors open. He stood aside and smiled, flourishing one arm grandly and making a ceremonious bow. His voice rang out in the darkness:

"Welcome to Thornhart, children."

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MollyTheWanderer: Dewin, as I recall, means "wizard" in Welsh. I don't think it has a "knight" connotation, however. I hope that's what it means at least! How embarrassing for me if I've been using it wrong all along . . .

Silvergenji: Ok, here are some answers . . . perhaps! Sorry I haven't gotten back on your story, this has been my first week of classes and I'm madly busy and exhausted. Not only did I get a speeding ticket driving back (I hate cops I hate cops I hate cops), but I forgot about a research project due Monday that I haven't started yet on how to cite law from Bosnia & Herzegovnia and Macedonia. Hardly fascinating. But tomorrow is a day I'm setting aside for your story! I've read it already (I couldn't wait that long!), but I just wanted enough time to write you a nice, thorough feedback : ).