Except the Queen

by Jane Yolen

  “What a lovely dog,” I said, looking at Sparrow, who was avoiding my eyes. “What’s her name?”

  “Lily,” she mumbled, tugging at the leash. I caught her eyes and I saw neither shame nor guilt in them, but defiance, which I must admit surprised me.

  “Come and see me again,” I offered. “Your visit was much too short the other night and I would be pleased to welcome you.”

  “I might do that. I’m a little busy just now. But soon, maybe I’ll stop by for some of that tea.” Her face was haggard, bluish circles under her eyes. I guessed that she had chosen not to sleep rather than ride the dark mare that caused her to moan so fitfully in the night. But there was also something else going on for her expression was calm, almost devious, and I noticed with a slight shock that she was appraising me even as I was studying her.

  Tugging Lily by the leash, she opened the door to let in a cold blast of morning air, and was gone, leaving me to wonder.

  She is planning something, I thought, she is part of the game. But which part and what side I did not know.

  * * *

  I WENT STRAIGHT INTO THE garden and saw three crows swinging idly on Jack’s scarecrow. It wasn’t hard to recognize Awxes and the girls by the white patches on their wings. I clambered over the turned-up soil and stood before them as they teetered on the jingling copper arms.

  “I’m not the one needs watching,” I said. “It’s the girl. I saw it in her eyes, which are as fey as any Highborn woman. Fair or foul, it’s coming for her and she is preparing to meet it. Follow her if you would find your way home again.”

  The crows stopped pressing down on the arms and the scarecrow came slowly to a standstill. They gazed at me with black-bead eyes that showed only my own reflection. Awxes sidled along the arm of the scarecrow until he came close to my cheek. Ever so gently—which is rare, for a crow’s bill is a fair match for a dagger—he stroked my cheek with the side of his beak. Then he nipped my ear and flew off, the girls close behind him. High in the trees, the other crows, roused by their flight, woke from their arboreal perches with raucous cries, and followed the trio out of the garden.

  I watched them wheel in the air. I am not bait, I told myself, certain at last of why Baba Yaga had brought me here, but a guide, a glowworm, as Serana had called us, to push back the dark for this girl. And whose lost child is she? I thought I knew the answer, but would not speak it aloud for fear of making it known. Not even to my sister could I reveal my suspicions.

  * * *

  SERANA’S SCARE-BIRD ARRIVED WITHOUT WARNING on the second day of a drenching rain that turned the garden into muck and stripped the last roses from their stems. He bounded up the stairs and announced himself with a loud, imperious knock. I opened the door to a young man, sodden as old driftwood, wet elf knots in his dark hair, clothing weighted down by water and mud.

  “Auntie Em said I was supposed to stay here,” he announced and thrust an envelope into my hand.

  “I don’t know any Auntie Em,” I protested. And then asked, “Wait, are you Vanilla Blue?”

  “Yeah, but Auntie Em preferred the name Robin. Thought it suited me better.”

  He smiled at me, through those tangled curls, his skin pale from the chill, but his eyes dark and gleaming. Without a leave, he came into my house, trailing water, set down two bags and asked, “Do you have anything to eat? I’m pretty hungry. Is that the kitchen?” And pointing out the way for himself, he entered my kitchen and opened the cupboards. I stood there speechless, envelope in hand, as he found my bread, my butter, the two ripe tomatoes, and the cheese. And he talked the whole time about nothing, his mouth working around both words and food simultaneously.

  I tore open the envelope and read the note: “A present for you.” My first thought was Serana had clearly lost her mind. For what reason could she imagine that I would enjoy her scare-bird, who seemed much more hound than bird to me. And then I had a second thought. Leaving the boy to his food, I trundled down the stairs to the mailbox.

  In the box, tucked up like a bird in its nest, waiting for me was a second letter, this one sent so the boy could not read it. Clearly Serana expected it to reach me before he did. But I had forgotten to check the mailbox yesterday, content to remain inside, away from the damp and cold of the storms. I pulled it out—noting the smeared ink on the front and the envelope’s seal loosened from what I hoped was the rain—and read it in a single glance.

  Then I read it again, growing more concerned as I walked back up the stairs. Once in my sitting room, I glanced at the boy who was now wolfing down a hunk of cheese. Had he guessed there was another letter? Or was he still addled by a berry in a tisane?

  Well, I thought, I still had a way out if I so chose.

  “Show me the return ticket.”

  He grabbed a pear and took a bite. “I don’t have one.”

  “Yes, you do. My sister bought you one. It says so here in her letter.”

  “I exchanged it.”

  “For what?”

  He inclined his head toward his bags slumped against my red chair. Next to the duffel bag stood a battered violin case. A fiddler! My face grew hot and my hair crackled.

  “I wanted a pennywhistle,” he said, “but a man on the bus sold me this fiddle instead.”

  I groaned. Can there be any more unreliable creature in the mortal world than a fiddler? He spells with music and then he is gone. Even the fey have been held captive by a good fiddler.

  Chaffed, I refused to prepare food for him but it scarcely mattered for he helped himself to whatever he could lay his hands on. He ate like a boy who had not eaten in days, and perhaps he had not. When he was sated at last, he rose from the table and dragged himself to one of the embroidered chairs, and dropped—wet clothing and all—into its embrace.

  I waited. But not a finger did Robin lift to tidy the mess he had made of my kitchen. Dishes, rinds, peelings, and sticky knives all lay on the counters. But from this Queen’s pet or Red Cap’s hammer not so much as a word of thanks. He took off his shoes, set the wet and filthy socks on Baba Yaga’s carved oaken side table. He drew the second chair in front of him, rested his naked feet on the seat, and promptly fell asleep. They were aristocratic feet, the second toe reaching above the big one, the arch high and delicate.

  * * *

  I WENT TO BED, ONLY to be awoken much later in the wee hours of the night by the sound of his fiddle. It was coarse and husky, the wood of poor quality, but he played it well. I knew that it could seduce me, and I had little desire to be enthralled to such a callow, ill-mannered young man.

  “Stop that!” I demanded. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered, and the house grew quiet again.

  But it was impossible to sleep, for denied his fiddle, he rose from the chair, and paced in a circle.

  At last I shouted from under my covers, “Play the rude thing then if it brings you peace. But make it soft.”

  And then I heard the reason Serana sent him to me. Sad indeed was the air he played, a boy lost and grieving in the throat of a tune. No true demon born, no UnSeelie knows how to keen so quietly into a set of strings. I might dislike his ill manners and voracious appetite, but I could not deny the sorrowful beauty of the music he played.

  The rain had stopped; the moon was just peeking out of the tumble of clouds and casting shadows of leaves on the ceiling of my room. For a moment it was like looking back from a great distance at the world I once knew, hearing the undeniable ache in the tune. And even though I was certain he meant me to feel such longing, even though I tried to resist it, I still wept into the pillow for the loss of home.

  * * *

  A FEW HOURS LATER, WHEN he had fallen asleep, I wrote to tell Serana how much I appreciated her present.

  Why me? Why in the name of the Goddess, in the name of our beloved Greenwood, have you sent him to me? It is so like you to cast trouble behind your back and I, only because I am but a moment younger, am forced to take the responsibility. It
has ever been so.

  Remember the miller’s baby? How you wanted the little thing while it slept, pretty as a rosebud? And then it woke up, wailed, and shit itself and you were less charmed. Do you remember who returned that mewling creature to its rightful mother? I still carry the scar on my thumb from the silver blade.

  And what about that harper? You gave him the power to play a tune to honor you. But he forgot all the other tunes in his head, so drunk on you, and we were forced to dance over and over to that one wretched song. Even you held your hands to your ears by the fourth hour of it but could not bring yourself to unbind his love. It was me they sent to cut the strings and it was me who had to console him when he woke from his dream, his ears still itching with the memory but his hands unable to find the notes.

  I am furious because, regardless of the vision that you call your “reason,” I know the real reason you sent him to me. You have your little twigs set just so on the branch, and this child disturbs your pretty settings. He is nothing short of an autumn storm. How often when we were little did you forbid me to touch your things: the polished mirror, the ivory combs, the silver hairpins arranged in their perfect patterns. “Paddle Foot,” you taunted me, slapping my hand away. “Magpie!” was all I could offer in hurt reply. Though when you weren’t looking, I would steal a pin or turn the mirror upside down and then giggle into my palms while you shouted and bullied the little sprites who attended you. Well, you have no sprites to attend you now and so you send this creature on to me, this hound who is all gullet and wet fur.

  I stopped writing and shoved the half-written letter between two tins of tea. I needed to cool my head before I sent such harsh words. For as furious as I was at Serana, she was still my beloved sister.

  47

  Sparrow Sleeps

  Rain battered the windows as Sparrow sat on the side of her bed, surrounded by tattered journals. The ones on the rumpled sheets lay open to reveal certain pages, while the rest remained in a lopsided stack on the floor near her feet. A small bed lamp provided an oval of pale light by which she read the one journal she held in her hands, studying intently the crabbed handwriting, the fading pencil lines all rushing to the edges of the pages.

  She’d been on the run when she wrote that entry, fleeing a well-meaning social worker who had spotted her busing tables in a Southwest diner. The woman had probably recognized her from the picture on a missing child report. Sparrow knew the woman had only meant to help. Probably thought she was rescuing a long-lost, abducted child. But when the squad car pulled up, and the woman glanced nervously in Sparrow’s direction, she’d snatched the tip jar by the cash register, grabbed her backpack from the shelf under the counter, and split out the back door. She wrote down her escape that night while hiding out in the bus station’s restroom. That’s what she did when she reached a new town: stuffed her journals and spare clothes in a locker and kept them there for ease of escape.

  When Sparrow had been taken from the woods that first time, she’d refused to cooperate with the authorities after they brought her to the station. The police had called in a child services counselor to get her to talk. Sparrow gave a half smile remembering that earnest young woman with the short brown hair like an acorn cap. She’d smelled of lavender and wet dog and Sparrow had noticed white hairs clinging to her black sweater.

  “If you don’t feel like talking, honey, why don’t you write out your feelings in here.” She’d passed Sparrow a speckled composition notebook along with an assortment of colored pens.

  Here is the tale of Malia, the deer, Sparrow wrote. And she proceeded to fill the book with every memory of the forest she had, for she could feel the reality of that life already slipping away from her. I must, to remember it all, she told herself, and did by writing it down.

  Of course, the counselor assumed it was a fairy tale allusion to her abduction. Sparrow was fingerprinted, photographed, and placed in a halfway house until someone could figure out to whom she belonged. All she had with her when she arrived at the halfway house—besides the clothes she had on—was the notebook, a handful of wild berries in her pockets, and a withered lady’s slipper that she’d tied into her hair.

  Sparrow brought the journal to her nose and sniffed. Each journal had its own scent, its own handwriting, and its own author. Seven books, a dozen tales, and as many different names. She touched each different name, recalling each identity, some of which had lasted a few months, and others for no more than a few days. Like a litany of fairy-tale saints, she could recite her journey in the story of each new name—Malia, Phoebe, Margaret, Katie, Marion, Tina (short for Titania), Vasilisa, Molly, and many more until taking on Sparrow. Sometimes Sparrow thought she had forgotten her own name, the one that lingered on the edge of her memory, no more than a woman’s voice whispering it into her ear. What her father had called her didn’t bear repeating.

  She lifted a mug of coffee and grimaced as she took a cold swig. She needed it to keep awake. As long as she didn’t fall asleep at night, she could just about fend off the nightmares and the new tattoos that had begun to appear on her body. Pushing back her sleeve, she scratched the raw skin on her wrist where the snake still held her in its fanged grip. Two nights ago, another had begun to coil on her shoulder when she made the mistake of dozing off. She’d awoken with a start just before a head appeared over her breast. Later she’d gone to the library and from a snake identifying book discovered it was an adder, the bite not fatal, but painful. It was meant to torture, not kill her.

  Sparrow roused herself from the bed and looked at the cache of herbs and roots on her desk. She had almost everything she needed. She’d sharpened the tips of the silver dove’s wings into dangerous points. Not much more menacing than the head of a dart. But deadly enough if tipped in what she hoped was the right poison.

  Pacing around the room, swinging her arms across her body and slapping her hands across the back of her shoulders, she told herself, “Stay awake, Sparrow.” She said it aloud to hear the sound of her own voice. On the bed, Lily lifted her head at the sound.

  “You too, you butterball,” Sparrow warned the dog.

  At Sparrow’s voice, Lily yawned, stretching her enormous jaw wide enough to show every tooth, then abruptly scrambled to her feet, leapt off the bed, and headed for the door.

  Sparrow snatched up the little dove and followed after her. Someone was stomping up the stairs, and it couldn’t be Sophia because Sparrow knew she’d never left into the downpour.

  Lily barked at a stranger beyond the door who replied with a single, deep-chested woof. Lily’s tail wagged and she dropped her nose down to the gap beneath the front door to sniff.

  Well, thought Sparrow, at least not foe. But who then? She lifted her head, following the sounds of the footsteps to the top landing.

  There were voices, Sophia’s stern alto, followed by another, softer, more playful male voice. Clearly not Jack, Sparrow decided. The step was heavy, as was the sound of bags and shoes being tossed to the floor. Cupboards were opened and closed; a chair scraped across the kitchen floor. Reluctantly, Sparrow returned to the bedroom, followed by Lily, whose ears perked upright every time she heard the man’s voice.

  Sitting down on the bed, Sparrow picked up another journal and started to read. Her hands trembled from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Her body protested, wanting only to sleep, but she wouldn’t let it. Tomorrow—if the sun rose, she’d rest briefly before going to work at the bookstore. But that was it. She dared not trust herself to a nap in the late afternoon. The last time she’d done that, she’d slept well past sunset and awoken to the scratching of the new tattoo on her shoulder. Instead she forced herself to read the journals, finding solace in her own peculiar history.

  Above her, the sounds of conversation eventually died down, twilight to evening, and Sparrow knew from the creak of Baba Yaga’s bed, that Sophia had retired for the night. But where did the other one stay? That apartment was much too small for two.

  And then sh
e heard the fiddle, its husky voice unrolling down through the floorboards with a jaunty tune. She grinned, thinking that would certainly keep her up! But then she frowned upon hearing the angry muffle of Sophia’s voice. Abruptly, the music stopped.

  The fiddler started pacing, and in her room below, Sparrow followed his footsteps with her own. She smiled at the spiral pattern of his steps, reminding her of Lily’s own dog ritual of turning in slow circles on the bed, her paws ruffling the covers into a nest. Sophia yelled again and the pacing, too, stopped.

  Sparrow sighed and sat down on the bed, weary to the bone. And dangerously bored, she thought, wondering which journal to reread. She plucked a newer one, one that had crude and mildly pornographic illustrations. She figured that, at the very least, she could laugh at her worthless skills.

  That’s when the fiddle began again in a soft, muted voice. It hummed through the lathes, sweet notes cascading down on her like golden dust in sunlight. She put the journal down, the spine opened to reveal a drawing of an almost naked man. He had on a coat, but was holding it open to show his swollen prick. That picture memorialized the first and only time Sparrow had seen a penis. She’d stared, not with disgust as she presumed he wanted, but rather curiosity, trying to remember it so that she could later commit the image of it in her journal. She had heard enough stories from other runaways and knew this kind of man wasn’t that dangerous. But most men were and she’d managed, despite some close calls, to keep herself free of any entanglements.

  Later, Sparrow couldn’t recall the moment the music had lulled her into sleep. She could only remember the way the sound had wrapped around her like cloth, swaddling her limbs with each draw of the bow. She wasn’t frightened, but soothed. As she closed her eyes, she caught the familiar scents of the forest, the springy feel of dried pine needles beneath her palm, and the whoosh of the wind gusting through the branches. Lily’s warm body lay close to her, the dog’s slow, deep snoring as soporific as the fiddle’s music. The memory of the man in the alley flickered dreamlike on the edges of her mind. She walked toward him, and he transformed, the dirty coat giving way to a cowl of pale green leaves and the ruddy phallus growing into a stalk speckled with heavy grains of pollen.