by Nancy Werlin
“Mayer leaned forward eagerly, but the queen held up one hand and shook her head.
“‘Be still,’ she said. ‘For nothing comes without a price. It must be that way so that the earth stays in balance.”’
“Mayer nodded. We must not forget he was a businessman. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘What is the price?’
“‘In exchange for your five extraordinary sons,’ said the Queen of Faerie, ‘you must promise me one daughter.’”
chapter 32
Mallory paused and bit her lip, and glanced at Phoebe.
“What?” exclaimed Phoebe.
“You heard me,” said Mallory. “In exchange for five extraordinary sons, one daughter. One Rothschild daughter.”
“But—”
“Listen to the rest,” said Mallory tensely. “Just listen, Phoebe.”
Somehow, Phoebe managed to contain herself. She would not have thought it possible for her stomach to churn more than it had already been churning, but . . .
One Rothschild daughter?
“The queen smiled,” said Mallory. “‘Come, Mayer Rothschild,’ she said. ‘You cannot claim it a hardship, or unfair. It is sons you value; sons you long for. What is one girl to you?’
“Yet Mayer hesitated. ‘What would become of the girl?’ he asked.
“The queen studied Mayer’s face. Finally she said, ‘I spoke before of balance. Suffice it to say that I will draw from the earth to give you what you want, for this I have the power to do. But the earth must be repaid for its generosity. I can assure you, however, that the rite is sacred. No disrespect is involved, and great honor is given. We, unlike you, value daughters.’
“‘You are saying that the girl would become a valued member of your people? Your family?’ asked Mayer.
“‘No,’ said the queen, and she said it compassionately, but clearly. ‘No, that is not what would occur. We take from the earth. We give back to the earth. You understand me.’
“And he did,” said Mallory steadily. “He did understand.”
Phoebe found that she was leaning against the stone wall, and that it was supporting her weight entirely.
“‘I see,’ said Mayer Rothschild at last. ‘And I thank you. I am indeed honored. My family is honored. Your offer is most generous.’
“But he did not agree,” said Mallory. “And here we must again remember that Mayer Rothschild was not simply a businessman, but one of the greatest businessmen of all time. The proof of it came in this negotiation, the most important of his life.
“He took the queen’s hands in his. ‘You are not wrong about my feelings, and certainly sons such as you describe are worth a serious sacrifice. But here is my dilemma. I fear losing a daughter would break my wife’s heart, and although such a thing could happen naturally, for children die for many reasons and leave their parents in sorrow, yet I could not bear to be the cause of pain to my wife. No, even if she is not aware that I am responsible. I must decline. I will instead take my natural chances in life with my children, as all men do.’
“But he did not drop the queen’s hands, and both of them knew,” said Mallory, “that this was not a true turn-down, but instead a move upon the chessboard. And so the queen listened, and thought, and finally responded.
“‘I like your consideration for your wife. Perhaps you are less dismissive of your womenfolk than I had thought. Very well, then. I will make you a compromise, as the earth is patient and we have some time to repay it. I offer this: the girl shall not be your daughter, nor even your granddaughter. It will be from a future generation that we shall take our exchange. Your wife need never know, and never grieve.’
“‘That is a concession indeed,’” said Mayer. ‘I thank you. I shall accept with gratitude, if we come to terms in the end. However . . .’”
Mallory broke off, her voice impatient. “Phoebe, why are you making that face? You asked me to tell you the whole story.”
“It’s a racist story,” said Phoebe. Her stomach had not ceased to churn, but to her astonishment, her mind had also not ceased to work. And what Mallory was saying—
“What?”
“Come on, Mallory!” Phoebe exploded. “Maybe your Queen of Faerie two hundred-plus years ago knew nothing about the history of anti-Semitism, and had to have it all explained to her. But you can’t claim the same! You’ve had the same education I’ve had! You’ve been to synagogue with my family, and you’ve been invited to our Passover seder every year since I met you, and you know about the Holocaust ... We even analyzed The Merchant of venice last year in English class. And right now you’re making Mayer out to be some Shylock character, bargaining away his own flesh and blood, wheeling and dealing, a complete stereotype—and a completely offensive stereotype, let me add. Bargaining the exact terms for a sacrifice of his—his daughter!”
It felt good to be angry, the anger an effective counterweight to the fear. “Don’t deny it, Mallory,” said Phoebe, staring at her with hot eyes. “Your little Mayer Rothschild fairy tale is just plain racist and anti-Semitic.” She paused. “And antifeminist.”
Mallory took in a tight little breath. “We don’t have time for your tantrums. This isn’t just a story, okay? It’s what actually happened. And if you’ll take my advice, which frankly you ought to, you’ll do your little sensitivity analysis on your own time.” She stopped for a second, and Phoebe thought she was done, but then Mallory swept on, her voice rising, the words pouring out of her as if she too were furious, as if she too couldn’t help herself.
“Also, may I remind you, this was 1772, and a man who didn’t have the luxury of a lot of choice. Look, sometimes people in desperate circumstances do desperate things! Sometimes—” And now Mallory’s voice was like a whip. “They even do bad things, okay? Things they would rather not do. Sometimes it’s just one loyalty pitted against another, and there you are, trapped, and you have to choose. Maybe, Phoebe, you’re just a little bit lacking in compassion for your great-great-great-whatever-grandfather, who you claim to admire so much. Life is complicated. Sometimes people really do get trapped, and why should it be bad for them to use whatever they happen to have, whatever skills, to try to make a bad situation a little bit better? Nobody can look out for absolutely everybody else in the world, can they? Don’t we all have to look after our own, first and foremost?”
Now it was Phoebe who was staring at Mallory.
Mallory drew in the kind of ragged, harsh, wheezing breath that might once have come from Phoebe.
After a minute of silence, in a much altered tone, she muttered, “Sorry.”
“No,” Phoebe managed. “I see—I see what you’re saying. Only—”
“Only we don’t have time,” interrupted Mallory. “Can we—please—can I just go on with the story?”
Silence.
“Go on,” said Phoebe heavily.
After a few seconds, Mallory did.
“‘One daughter,’ said Mayer thoughtfully. He raised first the queen’s left hand to his lips, and then the right. ‘Let me be sure I understand. In exchange for giving me five extraordinary sons, you shall receive one daughter of my line. She is not to be taken from either my own or my children’s children, but from a generation after that.’
“‘Yes,’ said the queen.
“‘But here is one final clause that I suggest,’ said Mayer. ‘To balance the fact that my sons will be extraordinary, the daughter must be commonplace. You said, remember, that any child of my line would do. So, this daughter shall qualify herself when, at an age of sufficient maturity to judge herself and her capabilities, she sincerely and accurately feels herself to be ordinary.’
“‘Interesting,’ said the queen.
“‘ These are my terms,’ said Mayer.
“‘And to these terms you freely agree?’ said the queen.
“‘ To these exact terms,’ said Mayer, ‘I freely agree.’
“So,” said Mallory, “the contract was made on Midsummer night 1772, between the Queen of Fae
rie and Mayer Rothschild. The queen kept her word. But in all the time since, the Rothschild family has not produced that one ordinary daughter that is owed to Faerie.”
Phoebe’s mouth was so dry she could hardly get her question out. “Why not?”
For a second, Phoebe could see in Mallory’s expression a flash of the old witty, insightful, familiar friend she once had had.
“Honestly, Phoebe? I’ve decided Mayer must have been planning on it. Remember the terms? She must sincerely judge herself to be ordinary. He figured no child of his line, female though she might be, would do that. Whether they were ordinary or not.” An expression approaching compassion crept into Mallory’s gaze. “Until you, Phoebe.”
Phoebe was silent. She was thinking of Catherine, imagining what she might have been like at Phoebe’s age. The awkward, homely, socially maladapted young Catherine. Would that Catherine, with all her personal problems, have agreed that she was ordinary?
Never. And no one could have made her, either.
“And now,” said Mallory to Phoebe, “I really have to go. And so do you.”
“But—but—” Phoebe could hardly think. “I don’t think badly of myself, I really don’t—”
Mallory was turning away. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but this is what has to happen now.” She pointed. “Go that way. You don’t have a choice. I mean, you could stay here in the glade after I leave, but then Ryland would come get you and force you. My brother—well. We have all been waiting a long time. Patience is short. You don’t want him to come get you. You want to be dignified.”
“I might be the most ordinary Rothschild ever, but I can still have dignity?” Phoebe managed a trace of sarcasm.
Mallory shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know. At least now you understand. Phoebe—this is where we say good-bye. So. Good-bye. Stand away from the wall now, and let me pass. I still have to take care of—of my mother.”
Phoebe didn’t move.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Mallory steadily. “But the wall won’t let you through now. Only me. Go. They’re waiting.” She pointed again toward the path.
Under Mallory’s anxious gaze, Phoebe finally stepped away from the stone wall. She had a plan: She’d throw herself on top of Mallory and hurtle them both through the gateway when it opened.
But when Mallory reached one hand out to the wall and it began to dissolve, and Phoebe moved closer, Mallory turned. Phoebe got one last glimpse of her face. It was desperate, half feral, and wholly defiant. The face swung close for just a moment.
Then Mallory reached out with her other hand and shoved Phoebe hard, with strength, accuracy, and efficiency.
Phoebe landed on her butt on the ground, within Faerie. A second later, Mallory had disappeared through the gateway to the Tollivers’ house. Then the gateway resolved itself instantaneously back into an impenetrable stone wall.
chapter 33
Phoebe sat on the ground for a minute. Ordinary.
Ordinary.
It was almost like the punch line to a joke, she thought. When were humility and modesty a great big mistake? When you were a Rothschild. Except she couldn’t find any humor in it.
Had Mayer really been so sure that none of his female descendants would be ordinary, as Mallory speculated? Or had he merely been counting on egotism and arrogance? Phoebe wondered briefly about some of her aunts. She didn’t know them all that well; the family was too scattered. But Phoebe would swear that none of them, nowadays, were truly extraordinary, like Catherine or like the five sons. But then again, they had their businesses and charities and their lives, and yes, they all appeared to think well of themselves, and who knew? Who really knew? Maybe they were all special and she, Phoebe, wasn’t, and that was just the truth.
And did it matter about them? No, because she, ordinary Phoebe, was here, trapped in Faerie, and they weren’t.
Oh, and incidentally, she’d been betrayed by her best friend and by her supposed boyfriend. Which at least made her stupid, if not ordinary. She’d been betrayed into some kind of human sacrifice ... she had allowed herself to be betrayed ... It was all still so hard to believe. Even as she looked at the magical stone wall, even as she looked around at the Faerie garden and inhaled its fragrance, even as she felt bruising on her shoulders from Mallory’s shove and on her hands from their earlier struggle, she couldn’t help thinking that in a minute or two, she would wake up and find she’d been having a nightmare. She might even wake up in Ryland’s arms and—
Speaking of nightmares. Ryland.
Phoebe shuddered, and in that second she knew that it couldn’t be a dream. She could tell by the violent way her whole body now reacted at even the thought of him. It turned out to be true that the mere thought of somebody could make you physically sick.
If she could have thrown herself into boiling water at that moment, if she could have scraped her skin from her very bones, she would have. Anything, anything to feel clean. How could she have made such a mistake? How could she have thought he cared about her, when instead he was attempting to trick her into dying? And when she remembered—no, no, no, she would not remember. Not now. She would not let herself remember all the little things. The things she had said and done, begging, and that he must have been laughing at her—
And now there were tears too, trying to force themselves up from behind her eyes.
Both of them. Ryland and Mallory. Luring her, lying to her, manipulating her. Wanting her dead. And Catherine—they had involved her mother, they were killing her mother—
It was good to feel anger. Much better than humiliation and shame and self-pity and fear.
Was there, at least, some way to get them to release Catherine from her coma? If they had caused it? Could she bargain? Like Mayer? Was she enough of a Rothschild for that? Could she use what little she had, to try to win?
Or was she just too ordinary?
Phoebe got to her feet. The air felt piercingly sweet as she inhaled. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, more deeply than she would ever have felt possible. So, this was what healthy lungs felt like. She smiled sourly; she almost wished she could have an asthma attack right here and now, which at least might mean dying on her own terms. Would it help them if she were to die on her own? Or did they need to be the ones to kill her? Maybe she could thwart them yet.
Except she really didn’t want to die. And there was Catherine, and the little idea, the tiny idea she’d just had, about bargaining for her. If she could at least save Catherine, that would be something. Even if her mother and father never knew what had happened to Phoebe, it would be something Phoebe could do to atone for how—she lashed herself—how stupid she had been about Mallory, about Ryland.
One more deep breath. Then Phoebe dusted herself off and grimly began walking deeper into Faerie, as Mallory had told her to do.
The path was supposedly located just beyond the central garden. Phoebe hurried through the garden, not taking the time to do more than glance at the throne that dominated the space, although she did note that its table was now empty of books. Perhaps the books had belonged to the faerie queen, rather than Ryland. No doubt she had kept tabs on the Rothschild family and its varied branches all these years, as she waited for one of the daughters to be as ordinary as Phoebe.
But it hadn’t just been that she was ordinary, Phoebe thought. It was that she had been gullible. Yes, she had been deliberately manipulated by others—by both Mallory and Ryland—into saying she was ordinary. But she also had to take responsibility for her own actions, and her own mistakes, and for where they had led her. She couldn’t simply blame them.
She had known, deep in her own heart, for example, that keeping her involvement with Ryland secret from her parents was wrong. What if she had told? Would that have changed things?
Catherine would say that you couldn’t learn without errors and misjudgments. That you learned better when you made mistakes than if you did things perfectly. But what if you didn’t live lo
ng enough to learn from your mistakes?
Now Phoebe could see an opening in some trees ahead; maybe that was where the path was. She trudged toward it, her pace steady and measured. And while she trudged forward, she kept thinking, trying to stay logical and calm, as Catherine would.
Here was the path. It was a little trail that wound through a substantial copse, almost a forest, of thick white ash trees. The walkway was bordered by soft mosses of various greens. Tiny purple flowers peeked through the moss. Phoebe could not see what lay beyond the trees; only that the path wound downhill through the trees. Doggedly, she walked. She barely noticed the trees around her, or the faint breeze that moved the green leaves that formed a canopy above her head, or the beautiful, flute-like song of a wood thrush somewhere in the canopy.
At last, Phoebe emerged from the ash trees and was confronted by a lake. Its waters were black and flat, and it stretched wide to left and right. But Phoebe’s path ended directly ahead, at the base of a dock that stretched out onto the lake. At the end of the dock bobbed a little gray rowboat that looked considerably less than trustworthy.
Phoebe’s heart stopped for the space of an indrawn breath, and then it took to beating in her chest as frantically as the wings of a hummingbird. Standing on the dock above the rowboat, facing Phoebe, handsome and unsmiling, was Ryland Fayne.
Phoebe turned, bent, and neatly, directly on top of a lady’s slipper, threw up.
chapter 34
Ryland had come near—Phoebe could feel him even though she wasn’t looking at him—but he made no move to touch her.
“I know,” he said to her downturned head, “that you have spoken with my sister.”
Phoebe opened her eyes. Throwing up had made her feel better. If it was not quite the decontamination she had wanted, it was something akin to it. She now felt empty and clear. She could function.