by Marissa Burt
The green eyes were steady, her mother’s composure returning with her strength. “The less you know, Snow, the better off you are.”
Snow dropped the dipper into the bucket with a thump. “Really? After all that happened, you’re still not going to tell me what’s going on?” Snow shouldn’t have been surprised. Her mother was the queen of secrets. “I’m in this awful place because of you, and you aren’t even going to tell me why?” Snow wouldn’t let herself cry. Not in front of her mother. She stood up and paced over to the wall with the window.
Her mother shifted behind her. “It’s for your own good—” She didn’t finish the sentence, because she cried out in pain.
Snow turned around. Her mother had one foot under her hips as if she was going to stand. She froze in that position, pressing hard into the ground and breathing deeply.
“They ripped open your feet,” Snow said in a hard voice. “And you won’t even tell me why.”
Her mother set her lips into a thin line and shook her head, and Snow felt like shaking her until she told her the truth. My feet could be next! Shouldn’t she know what was going on before the guards came for her?
Her mother’s fingers trembled as she unwrapped the makeshift bandages. She stared in silence at the angry wounded flesh, her hand hovering over the stripes along one sole. Then, she took the damp cloths and matter-of-factly rewrapped her feet. She looked up at the window, her gaze marking the corners where the walls met the ceiling, and finally took in the entirety of the cell’s interior in a swift searching glance.
“Ten paces square,” Snow said. “I’ve checked. Several times.” She helped her mother take a few steps over to the far wall. “It gets better. Look at this.” The words on the wall were layered, etched in the endless hours belonging to the prisoners who had once shared this cell. In the midst of all the nonsensical words, one simple phrase was carved over and over: Let this be but a dream. Her mother reached out to touch her, and Snow flinched. In one smooth movement, her mother withdrew her hand, instead running her fingers along one of the deepest, most desperate-looking etchings.
The silence was broken by the sound of a faint scuffling in the opposite corner, the one spot in the small space Snow had tried to avoid. The smell alone told her about the chamber pot’s contents.
“It could be rats,” her mother said. The noises grew louder.
“Big rats,” Snow said.
Her mother limped to the corner and with some effort pushed aside the filthy pot. Its contents sloshed onto the floor.
“Gross!” Snow stepped back.
“Get over here and help.” Her mother’s fingers scrabbled against the stones. Dirt from the mortar fell with the pressure from the opposite side. “Someone’s coming through.”
Snow snatched up the water dipper as she crossed the room. She took the handle and began prying at the loose stone. “What if it’s the guards?”
“Coming in to surprise us?” her mother said with a small smile. “I’m guessing they’d use the door.”
Snow wedged the handle of the ladle in a crack and pushed down hard. Was someone about to rescue them? She dropped her tool and tore at the chunks of breaking stone. Soon, the muffled rhythm from the other side of the wall was accompanied by singing, although she couldn’t make out the words.
“Hello?” Snow tried to keep her tone low. Please don’t let the guards come back now. She licked her lips and called again, louder. The stone in front of them wiggled.
“Hallo?” a man’s voice answered back.
“Can you push on the stone?” Snow’s mother asked. “We’re right on the other side.”
“Move away,” the man called. Crumbling dirt cascaded down one edge. The biggest part of the stone inched forward. Then with one last jolt, it plopped out onto the floor and promptly split in two. A head of matted black hair followed it, and a man pulled his thin form into their cell.
“What, ho! That’s not right,” he said. “This isn’t outside. This is my old cell.” He peered into the hole, then back at their cell, and he seemed to notice them for the first time. He bowed and swept one hand out to the side. “My apologies, lovely ladies. I am at your service.”
Snow didn’t buy it. She scooped up the dipper and gripped it tightly. It was the closest thing they had to a weapon, and she knew she could definitely hold her own if it came to a fight. The man looked like he hadn’t eaten well in a long time. Snow couldn’t tell if the stomach-turning smell came entirely from the privy contents that now lay pooled next to the wall, or if he was giving off that sour odor.
“Who are you?” her mother asked.
“Who am I?” the man repeated, gathering his tattered cloak around him as though it were a robe. “What an interesting question. Who are any of us?” He eyed the plate of untouched food and began to tap his fingers together.
“How did you get here?” Snow’s mother moved between the man and Snow.
The man pointed to the hole behind him. “In all work there is profit. The tunnels are vast and far-reaching.”
“Where are we?”
“We are in a cell.” The man’s tongue darted out and licked his cracked lips. Dirt had gathered in the folds of his skin, and his eyes were lined with shadows.
Snow sighed. Every minute spent volleying questions with this idiot meant the guards might come back. “Will this tunnel get us out?” she asked him.
“Of course,” the man said. “But why would you leave such a place? It is better to stay, my fair ladies.”
Snow stooped down and peered into the dark tunnel. “Here? I don’t think so.” She couldn’t see more than a few feet in the darkness, but anywhere had to be better than rotting in prison. She turned back around. “Where does this tunnel go?”
The stranger picked at a grubby fingernail. “Somewhere else.”
“What do you mean?” her mother asked. “If there’s a way out, we need to find it. When the guards return, we must be far from here.” Her tone made the man look up, but his gaze was cold.
“Far, far away from here won’t get you anywhere.” He stared at Snow’s mother with a calculating look, and it seemed to Snow that he had come to a decision. He sighed. “If you must go”—he attempted a smile after he said this, but it didn’t reach his eyes, so for a moment he looked like a cunning old fox—“I will take you through the tunnel.”
Chapter 3
Peter Merriweather’s parents had hosted a lot of guests over the years at Bramble Cottage, but never so many at once. After Wilfred had announced the arrival of survivors from Heart’s Place, things had gotten really busy. The children were sent from the barn with a long list of household chores. Peter had known the grown-ups would take over now that the Resistance was gathering, but he had at least expected to be part of the planning. Instead, he and Una were cleaning the attic.
Peter hid a groan as he lifted a large crate and carried it to an empty corner. He dropped it with a thump that made his forearms ache. Along with just about every other part of his body. The places where the beast’s claws had dug into his back had scabbed over and were starting to itch. Heroes who fought wild beasts shouldn’t be mucking about in dusty attics.
Una helped him move a huge oval mirror in its stand, three more heavy cartons, and a wardrobe full of old clothes. Once they had cleared enough space, Una began smoothing blankets into four neat pallets. Peter wasn’t sure what was worse: having to sleep next to Rufus and Bastian, or hearing more of Indy blathering about what it meant to be a Servant of the King.
“My family’s been protecting important secrets for ages,” Indy had said, much to Rufus and Bastian’s admiration. Una, too, had been keenly interested as Indy prattled on about his year with a caravan learning the oral histories of the Muses. Then there was the bit about meeting with the Sacred Order members scattered throughout Story. Indy had stayed at the Ranch and spent a week in Sleuth Alley, districts Peter never even got to visit. Once Indy had started telling about all the places he had been, everyon
e lost interest in what Peter had done.
“Your brothers are going to think this is the best sleepover ever,” Una said as she unfolded a blanket. “I bet they’ll be up all night.”
Peter shoved back an old steamer trunk and stacked two smaller chests next to it. This was as good a time as any to try and get her to talk. “Did anything else happen? Back in the exam?”
Una fidgeted with the corners of the pillow she was holding.
“You can trust me. I promise.”
Una plumped up the pillow and tossed it on the floor. Tiny feathers floated through the air. “I told you what happened.”
Peter shook his head. “I know there’s more.”
Una brushed the down off her skirt. “Look, Peter. It wasn’t exactly a . . . nice . . . experience. I’m going to have to tell it all over again to every character who comes here today, so can you just give it a rest?”
Peter didn’t want to. He wanted to keep asking questions until he could figure out why she looked so sad. Maybe after they’d finished here and rustled up some food, she’d feel more like talking. “Are the other kids still in the kitchen?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” Una was dragging a dressmaker’s dummy out of the way, the unsewn fabric still pinned to the form. “Except for Indy,” she said. “He’s with the grown-ups.”
“Figures.” Peter crossed his arms over his chest and slouched against a wardrobe. “The rest of us have to clean, but perfect Indy can join their meetings.”
“It makes sense, Peter.” Una’s voice came from the far corner, near the growing pile of junk. “Indy’s done loads of things for the Resistance already. He knows what to look for and how to keep his mouth shut.” She dusted off her hands. “Besides, it’s better to have him there than here.”
“Have who where?” Indy said as he walked into the room.
Una’s face flushed red, and she looked at the rocking chair next to her as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
“Um . . . my brothers,” Peter blurted. “It’s good they’re helping Trix with the food. Give me a hand with this, Indy?” Maybe if Indy was moving furniture, he wouldn’t talk about his marvelous adventures. Peter tugged on the end of a sofa that hadn’t seen the light of day in years. What did his parents want with all this stuff anyway?
Indy came over and hoisted up the other side. “They’re not so bad, your family. It must be nice to have lots of kids around.”
Peter snorted. “Yeah. Nice for getting pummeled in the night or ambushed with stupid jokes or sitting through dinners where you can’t get a word in edgewise. Very nice.”
Indy grunted as he let the sofa fall with a thunk. “I guess that’s what I mean,” he said. “It was always just me and my dad.”
Here we go again. Peter sighed and sat down on the nearest trunk. The only warning Peter had was a creak; then he fell through the lid, his feet poking up in front of his face.
Una’s laugh sounded more like her old self at least. And then Indy was laughing, too.
Great. Peter tried to heave himself up, but his bottom half was stuck solid, and his feet kicked fruitlessly. Indy gave Peter’s hand a brisk pull, and Peter tried to ignore his smile.
“Thanks,” he said, and brushed himself off.
But Indy wasn’t listening to him. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Come look at this.”
There, in the ruins of the ancient chest, was a mass of gray feathers.
“At least you had a soft landing, Peter.” Una pulled out a handful of feathers. “What would your parents want with a boxful of these?” She spun one between her fingers, so it made a gray blur in the air.
Peter picked a sliver of splintered wood out of his pants and leaned over to get a closer look at the box.
“Quills,” Indy said as he lifted one perfectly shaped feather. “From before the Unbinding.”
“So these would have been used to write the old Tales?” Una ran the quills over her palm.
Peter peered over her shoulder. Usually Peter forgot that Una wasn’t from Story, but times like this reminded him she had been Written In. Only an outsider wouldn’t know about the Elements. “Quill, ink, and paper,” he said as though he were Rufus reciting his lessons, “are the core Elements of Story.”
“These quills have never been used,” Indy said. “Quills, ink, bound papers—all of it was outlawed after the Unbinding. This box must have been up here for a long time.” Indy ran the feather through two fingers. “I wonder why.”
Peter thought he heard a note of challenge in Indy’s tone, but he ignored it. “This is Trix’s stuff.” Peter pointed to the name lettered on the side of the chest. “Let’s ask her about it.”
Chapter 4
When Una entered the kitchen, Bastian and Rufus were just on their way out. Each boy was proudly balancing a platter of freshly buttered toast.
“Excuse us, Una,” Bastian said. “The guests are waiting.”
Una watched them go and then turned to Trix, who was stacking cups on another tray.
“All done, dear?” Trix asked.
Before Una could do more than nod, Trix had poured her a cup of steaming hot tea and marched her over to the squatty chair by the hearth. “Have a rest. You must be tired out.”
Una accepted the drink gratefully. “Thank you,” she sighed. She almost wished that she could stay in the cozy kitchen forever, but there were questions to ask. She had volunteered to be the one to get answers out of Trix. Partly because she couldn’t take the blustering that was going on between Peter and Indy. And partly because she thought that what had happened during the Unbinding might give her clues as to what her parents were planning now. The kitchen was quiet, the crackling of the fire only interrupted by the clinking sound Trix made as she arranged the china.
“I’ve sat by that very fire many a day after I’m plumb tuckered out from cleaning work,” Trix said as she measured out tea leaves into a large pot.
Trix couldn’t have given Una a better opening if she had wrapped it up and tied it with a bow. “Have you always lived at Bramble Cottage?”
“Aye. I had no home of my own, and the Merriweathers needed a housekeeper.” Trix brushed by Una to get the copper kettle hanging over the fire.
“What about the rest of your family?”
“My parents disappeared in the Unbinding. Same as those poor souls in Heart’s Place.” Trix rested the kettle on her worktable and stared off in the direction Bastian and Rufus had gone. “I was very young, but I remember the noise. The horrible sounds of battle. Screaming. And the bright lights. My sister and I hid under the bed until it was over. And then we were all alone. Everyone else was taken by the Muses.”
Una licked her lips. “You mean they were taken by the Enemy,” she said in a quiet voice.
“I suppose I do,” Trix said as her hands rested on the kettle’s handle. “Funny to think of it that way. I always had a hard time believing the Muses went bad, anyway. My parents believed in them through and through.” Trix poured the water, and the hot steam enveloped her face.
Una didn’t wait for another golden opportunity. “We found a chest in the attic. It was full of illegal quills.” She played with the teacup’s handle. “The chest had your name on it.”
Trix didn’t say anything right away. She carefully put the lid on the teapot. “My father was very trustworthy,” she said. “He crafted quills for the Muses. Once he took me with him, and we spent a whole day tromping through the woods, hunting for just the right feathers.” She laughed. “He always made a game of it, saying we might find the Silver Quill if we looked hard enough.” Trix put the teapot next to the cups and lifted the tray with both hands, but then she set the entire thing down and studied the worn tabletop. “You tell Peter I meant his parents no harm hiding that crate in their attic. Archimago’s command outlawing quills would have broken my father’s heart. It was all I had left of him.” She looked straight at Una. “Now, is there anything else you wanted to know?”
Una squirmed un
der the old lady’s gaze. Una’s father was the reason Trix had grown up alone, without a family. “No,” she mumbled. “We were just, um, curious, I guess.”
“All right, then,” Trix said with a brusque nod. “Finish your tea, and then back to work with you, child.” Before Una could say anything else, Trix had disappeared through the swinging kitchen door. A few moments later Una was out of the kitchen and down the front path to where Indy and Peter were waiting.
“Well?” Peter jumped up from his seat on the fence post.
“Trix’s father made the quills,” Una said evenly. “Before he was taken by the Enemy.”
“And?” Indy said.
“And nothing. Trix only kept the quills because they belonged to her father.” Una pushed the pain she had seen in Trix’s eyes out of her mind. “She did say something else interesting, though. Do you know anything about a Silver Quill?”
“It’s from the Tale of Beginnings.” Indy pulled the blade of grass he was chewing out of his mouth. “The reason we use ink, quill, and paper to write the Tales is because the land of Story was written into being with magical Elements: ink made from a dragon’s blood, a silver quill, and paper made all of flames. It’s a child’s Tale, really.”
Una snorted. “Just last week all of Story believed that the King and the Enemy were children’s Tales, too, and look where that got us.” Una thought of what she had seen in Fidelus’s book, how in the last moments before his imprisonment her father had braided the river of ink and swallowed it down. “The Enemy drank ink that day in the forest,” she said. “But why?”
Peter shrugged. “No one even uses ink to write Tales anymore.”
“That’s the point,” Una said. “While the Enemy was bound, it didn’t matter. He was imprisoned in his Muse book before he had a chance to do whatever it was he was planning to do with the ink. But now that he’s back, what if the ink is important?” She paused as one of the Romantic refugees passed by, a borrowed apron of Trix’s tied on over her ruffled lace gown.