by Marissa Burt
“Una said that back at the Unbinding, he wanted to write his own Tale.” Sam loped next to him. “Now that he’s going to be crowned King of Story, maybe that’s not enough.” He growled. “Maybe he wants to write all of Story’s Tales.”
“But he’s not the true King of Story.” Indy was outpacing Peter. “That’s nearly blasphemy. Wait until the Sacred Order hears.”
“They won’t be able to do anything either,” Peter panted, “if the Enemy enchants them like Elton just did all of us. But for Kai’s leaf, we’d have believed him, too, and would probably be out shopping for something nice to wear to the Red Castle tonight.” Peter’s heart was pounding, and it wasn’t just because Indy was setting a fast pace. “Let’s hope there’s enough of the stuff to go around.” The packet Kai had given him before he left was full of dry leaves, but they would need more to save all of Story. “I’m not even sure how we’re going to sneak it into the Red Castle,” Peter said.
“The Resistance will help us.” Indy pointed back toward Perrault. “Perhaps more will join us after they read the broadsides.”
As Peter stopped to untangle a clinging vine from his calf, he had the knowing feeling that someone was watching him. He reached over to his boot and silently eased out his dagger. In one fluid movement he swirled around. But instead of one of Elton’s guards, he saw a tabby, flanked by a fierce-looking Siamese and an all-black cat.
“Put that away,” Sam hissed from behind him.
“You’ve been following us this whole time?” Peter tucked his weapon back into his boot.
“You’re as loud as a dog,” the Siamese said as she bared her teeth at the scimitar Indy had pulled out. Peter wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a threatening look or some sort of feline joke, so he just shrugged and looked at Sam, but Sam only blinked at him.
“As loud as a dog who lets his master lead him on a leash,” the black cat said.
“As loud as a pack of dogs who hear their dinner bowl being filled,” the tabby said, and licked a paw. “As loud as—”
“Okay, I get it,” Peter said. “We’re loud.” The trio of cats looked at him expectantly. “And you guys are quiet.”
Sam crouched low to the ground. “Esteemed felines, we give you honor,” he said in a very grave voice. “Thank you for your work at the arena.” The cats seemed pleased with this, and the tabby twined her tail around her paws with a throaty purr.
“Human enchantment disgusts us, and we despise those who use it to control others.” The Siamese primly sat back on her haunches. “We are happy the enchantment failed.”
“You knew Elton was enchanting us?” Indy asked.
The Siamese blinked her crossed eyes at him. “Of course.”
“Well then, you’ve got to help us,” Peter blurted. “At the coronation tonight, they’ll use the same enchantment, and if you can—”
“I am tired of talking.” The Siamese flopped down on her side and squinted at Sam. “The loud ones must leave.”
“No, you don’t under—” Peter began, when Sam hushed him with a growl.
“She said no,” he hissed.
Peter ignored him. “But you helped before.”
The Siamese gave a great yawn and licked her paw. “Where is the one with the pesky feather in his hat? Him I would speak with.”
“Yes,” the tabby purred. “Feathers are fun.”
“He’s gone, but he would want you to help us.” Peter knew he sounded desperate, but he didn’t care. The cats seemed to be impervious to the Enemy’s lies, and the Resistance needed all the clear-thinking characters they could get—especially now.
Sam swiped a paw at Peter’s ankle. “Stop talking,” he ordered. He turned to Indy. “Get him out of here,” he said. “And, both of you, leave this to me.”
“Good luck, Sam,” Indy said as he began to back away, but Peter could only stare at the little cat.
Sam turned and made the same funny bow again. “Perhaps if I were to request an audience with the Feline Quorum,” he said.
“I cannot refuse your request.” The Siamese flicked her tail back and forth irritably. “But the loud ones must leave immediately.”
Peter tucked his head in an awkward bow. What was it Sam had said? “We give you honor,” he said back to the cats, but the cats only made a strange wheezing sound. Peter had heard Sam do it often enough to know the cats were laughing at him. And then Sam was gone, loping away through the underbrush, and Peter felt as though a great portion of his courage was going with him.
Peter joined Indy back on the main path, unfolded the pouch Kai had given him, and looked at the pile of crumbling herbs. For a moment, he felt the folly of their plan. It was something his brothers might think up. Waltz into the coronation of an immortal Muse and—what?—force some of the herbs down everyone’s throats? Peter had an awful vision of a ballroom full of pointing and laughing characters. Of an angry King Fidelus who wanted him dead. He turned to Indy. “What if Kai is wrong? What if the characters won’t fight for Story, even if they see clearly? They might even decide to crown Fidelus king. Or maybe we won’t be able to get them to eat the leaf in the first place.” He shoved the pouch into his cloak pocket. “Doesn’t seem like much against the forces of the Enemy.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking about himself or the plan. The cool fragrance of crushed mint filled the air.
“No,” Indy said. “It doesn’t.” He breathed deeply. “But sometimes it’s the smallest things that end up making the biggest difference.” Indy reached out and clasped Peter’s arm. “And you’re not alone. No matter what happens, Peter, we do this together. And we do this for Story.”
Chapter 16
Una pulled the red thread through the thin cloth. After she had slept in her very own bed in a suite prepared especially for her, she had been escorted to one of the castle’s lavish sitting rooms. They had tea while her mother waited for a messenger to arrive. When Una had asked if it had anything to do with her father, her mother had pulled out the sewing basket. Una had never embroidered anything in her life, but, under her mother’s careful instruction, a red rose was blooming on the handkerchief in front of her.
“Just tie it off like so,” her mother said, leaning over and expertly knotting the string. “Then you can begin again here.”
Una smiled up at her. She could sit and listen to her mother talk all day. The sound of her voice made Una feel all soft inside. She had to focus on trying to keep her stitches even. Every so often she would hand the fabric over for her mother’s inspection, waiting breathlessly for the smile of approval that would show what a good job she had done. Finally, Una was making up for all the lost years.
“Was I born here, Mother?”
Her mother buried her face in the sewing basket. “So many questions, darling!” She pulled out a spool of green thread. “Try this for the stems.”
“Thank you.” Una unwound the top thread. “I just want to know everything about our family. What about my aunts and uncles?”
“What about them?” her mother said carefully. She set the basket on the ground and clasped her hands in her lap. “Una, you must know that your father and I loved his brothers and sisters very much.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Try to understand, darling. We didn’t want to oppose them. We had to.”
Una stopped poking the green thread through the needle’s eye. Something about what her mother was saying felt significant, but when Una tried to remember, her mind felt blank. Oppose who? Why did that make her heart beat faster? “Of course I understand. But why did you have to?”
Her mother frowned and then quickly relaxed her face. “It wasn’t the Muses, darling. It was the King. He means only bondage and servitude for Story. Surely you know that.”
Una dropped the spool of green thread. Someone’s face flashed before her mind. Someone who was looking for a King. A boy. Indy. She was standing in a forest with him, and he was talking about wanting the King to return. “But the King promised to return to Story.”
> Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Yes, dear. But his return is a bad thing for Story. Isn’t that right?”
Whatever spark Una had felt at the mention of the King was gone now. It was replaced with the sure knowledge that her mother spoke the truth. It would be a Very Bad Thing if the King returned. “It was brave of you to fight the Muses like that.”
Her mother’s smile was back in place. “Yes, dear. And hard for your father.” She picked up the wayward spool and handed it to Una. “Even so, he always does what is best for his people. For Story.”
Una began to rethread the needle. She had an idea. “Father should be the King!” She looked up at her mother. How had no one thought of this before? “It would be wonderful for Story! And you could be Queen.”
Her mother gave an embarrassed-sounding little cough. “Now, Una. The very idea.” She smoothed out her skirts and said thoughtfully, “But whatever is best for Story . . .”
Una began to work on a dainty leaf. Of course it was best for Story. They had a castle already and everything.
There were footsteps in the hallway, and her mother stood up, her sewing forgotten at her side. Una glanced at the doorway, and what she saw made her prick her finger with the needle. A man entered the room and held out a book to her mother. Its cover was battered, like it had been torn in many places. Something about his mustache and his glasses was familiar. The man twisted a ring on his finger, and then Una knew him. Mr. Elton!
Half-remembered glimpses of the fight in Alethia’s garden flashed through Una’s mind. Mr. Elton chasing them with wild beasts. His hand cuffing her face. Hot anger boiled up inside and she nearly cried out that he was a miserable traitor, but an overpowering soothing sensation drowned out the emotion. She felt like she was looking at everything from a great distance. Una sucked on her pricked finger. Mr. Elton’s meanness was her old life. The old Una didn’t know the truth about Story. That old Una didn’t know her mother. Now that she knew the truth, what did a little mistreatment done by Elton matter? If what happened in The End was the best for all of Story, the Tale Master’s imprudent mistakes were just tiny bumps on the road. She made another stitch. It was the perfect length. Her mother would be pleased.
“There were complications,” Elton was saying. “I had to double the enchantment to restore order. We’ll have to use more control at the coronation.”
“We can discuss that later.” Her mother’s voice was like silk. “And the Scroll?”
Una paused midstitch. Something about a scroll was important. Someone was looking for it.
Elton shook his head.
“That’s not good enough. We have the other Elements,” Una’s mother said. “You will bring me the Scroll by nightfall, or you will pay with your life.”
Una set the cloth aside. She was good at looking for things. “I’d love to help, Mother. Oh, please, let me.”
Elton gave her a funny look and then turned back to her mother. “Mother?”
Her mother swept across the room to Una’s side. “Mortimer, this is my long-lost daughter. The one I’ve spoken of nearly every day since she disappeared.” She rubbed Una’s shoulder lightly. “We’ve had a lovely reunion this morning, haven’t we, dear? Nothing will make me happier than having you stand next to us tonight”—she gave Una a knowing smile—“when your father is crowned King.”
Una beamed up at her. She could think of nothing better than for Story to have such a King. When she looked back at him, Mr. Elton’s face had gone a sickly gray color.
“A daughter,” he choked out, and then his mouth twisted into an ugly frown. “Fidelus must be pleased.”
“Enough,” her mother hissed. Then she laughed. “Don’t ruin our morning with silly jealousies.” She bent low so that she could whisper into Una’s ear. “My dear, I think it’s time you met your father.”
Chapter 17
You’re the Warlock’s Apprentice?” Snow said to her mother again. The underground room felt pleasant after the swamp’s humidity, and she sat in the chair across from the crackling fireplace. Hopeful sounds of the vampire rummaging around came from the kitchen.
“Yes,” her mother said shortly. She was pawing through the rubble on the desk, tossing aside crumbling scrolls and mysterious-looking maps. “Now if I could just find his book of spells, I could release the Scroll of Fire. Even on its own, it is very powerful, and it may give us the upper hand against Fidelus and Duessa.”
“You know where it is? How?”
“Because long ago I helped discover it.” Snow’s mother frowned as she reached underneath the old desk and ran her hands back and forth. “And with luck, we’ll have it in our possession soon enough.”
Snow felt like she was looking at a stranger. She knew nothing about her mother’s past. And her mother had made no effort to change that. “Okay,” Snow said. “Let’s see here . . . you know where to find one of the Lost Elements, you’re some warlock’s apprentice, you have an underground house in the middle of the Enchanted Swamp, you’re an enchantress. Anything else I should know about you?” Just when Snow thought she was beginning to understand her mother, she dropped another bomb like this one.
“Which reminds me,” her mother said, grabbing an old piece of paper and scribbling something down. “I need to send a message to the Resistance.”
Snow frowned. She’s not listening to me. “Everything you’ve told me is a lie. How do I know if you’re good or bad? Hero or Villain?”
“You are keen on making hasty judgments, aren’t you, Snow?” Her mother shook her head and gave a low chuckle. “Just like your mother.”
“I’m nothing like you,” Snow mumbled. They might have reached an uneasy truce during their mutual imprisonment, but that didn’t mean Snow had forgotten what her mother was. An enchantress with lots of secrets. Not to mention a lousy mom.
Her mother blinked twice, turned back around, and finished her note. The sound of a pot lid clattered from the kitchen, followed by the crashing noise of pans hitting the floor and the leprechauns shouting wildly at the vampire. Her mother brushed by Snow in icy silence and started giving the leprechauns instructions about how to get to Resistance headquarters.
From the sound of it, the Resistance was part of some underground rebellion. More secrets. Snow pushed aside the feeling of guilt that was blooming inside her. A couple of days together didn’t make up for thirteen years. “Where is Archimago, anyway?” she asked when her mother came back into the room.
Her mother peered into the darkness below the desk. “Gone,” she said. “He wasn’t caught in the web. My best leprechaun trackers are looking for him. They say there’s no trace of him, no evidence of him returning to the castle. Perhaps he is still close by.”
“You think he’ll go back to Duessa?” Snow sucked in her breath. “I knew we should have left him behind. What if he turns on us? It wasn’t safe to take him with us.”
“Living isn’t safe,” her mother’s muffled voice said. “And living with other characters is least safe of all.” She emerged with a tattered shred of paper. “You can’t control everyone in Story, Snow, and you will have a very sad Tale indeed if you try. Leave Archimago to make his own choices, and we will make ours.” She got to her feet, and met Snow’s gaze. “I gave my word, Snow. He deserves a chance to make things right.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Snow hissed. “A second chance is well and good for him, but what if he betrays us? Think of what he’s already done!”
“The difference between good and bad, between hero and villain, is not so clear, Snow.” She was talking in her teacher voice. “You think Archimago is all bad because he has made mistakes? Which of us is without error? Have you done everything the way you wished? The way you ought to have done?” She looked at Snow with tired eyes. “Whether you agree or not, he will have his second chance.”
The last thing Snow wanted was a lecture. She didn’t care if part of what her mother said made sense. Sure, she had made mistakes, and she didn’t have any troub
le admitting it. But calling Horace names or making fun of Una wasn’t quite the same thing as watching other characters die. Or lying to all of Story.
“Whatever you say, Warlock’s Apprentice,” Snow said, and didn’t care that she sounded surly. “Is that the spell book?”
Her mother had cleared off the desk and put the tiny shred of paper right in the middle of the flat surface. “No more questions, please,” she said without looking at Snow. “There are many traps around this, and they were all intended to kill enemies.”
Snow eyed the scrap and risked one question. “How do you know?”
Her mother’s voice was hard. “Because I set them myself.”
Of course you did. Snow scowled at her mother’s back as it bent over the desk. Between learning your enchantress spells and hanging out with warlocks, you had time to set stupid booby traps in some underground hut.
Despite all her glaring, Snow did as her mother said. She sat quietly as the vampire brought her a tray of beef stew.
He stood across from her, his gaze sharply following each dip of the spoon as she ate. Creepy.
The vampire seemed eager to talk. He had learned a lot about Duessa living in the shadow of her castle. The more Snow heard the vampire talk about Duessa, the more she despised her. Duessa’s crimes seemed to have no limit: practicing the forbidden arts, dark rituals that left the denizens of the forest paralyzed with terror, underground excavations that turned acres of Story’s land to ruins, unnamed prisoners being taken to and from the castle at all hours.
He licked his lips hungrily as Snow reached for a slice of buttered bread.
“Do you want some?” she offered, then felt stupid when the vampire waved it away. Of course he didn’t want any. Snow asked if there was any recent news of Duessa.
“She’s taken a hospitable turn,” the vampire said. “All of Story is invited to a coronation ball at the Red Enchantress’s castle tonight. There’s a new King in Story.”