by Marissa Burt
Snow looked sharply at her mother, who was muttering under her breath and making little circular movements in the air over the paper. Either her mother wasn’t listening, or the ball was old news to her. A tiny web of light shot out from her mother’s clasped hands, and wherever it touched, the paper flickered. There was a click and the sound of steam escaping from a hot kettle. What looked like a scrap of paper wavered, and Snow caught a glimpse of something big. The air shimmered, and the paper disappeared altogether, revealing an enormous leather-bound book.
Snow let her spoon drop to the edge of her bowl. “How did you do that?”
Her mother glanced at her and laughed. “Haven’t you learned yet?” She wiped beads of sweat off her forehead and pointed toward the book. “Story is rife with illusion. Enchantment and deception are everywhere.”
“Maybe so,” Snow said. Or maybe it was her mother that was full of deception. There was a crash from somewhere beyond the doors, and the vampire hurried away, muttering something about leprechauns not doing as they were told, leaving Snow and her mother alone.
“Oh, Amaranth, if only you were here,” her mother murmured as she flipped through the dusty pages. “How much I’ve missed you.”
“Who was he?” Snow asked in a dull voice.
“You haven’t been taught about Amaranth the Brave?” her mother said as she ran her finger down a column of spidery script. “The one who studied quicksilver?”
Snow shrugged. “Maybe I learned about him in Backstory.” Maybe not, seeing how she at best pulled a C last term.
“It would have been in Heroics, though I doubt that Heroics professor teaches anything useful,” her mother muttered. “Quicksilver is a substance found in the Enchanted Swamp. It’s why we built this”—she waved her hand toward one of the many doors—“chamber, I guess you could call it.” She stood up and looked around the room fondly. “Amaranth and I spent an entire year studying the organic composition of quicksilver. Then there was the matter of the right conditions. Too careless, and it would consume any vessel we used.” Snow’s mother strummed her fingers in the air to explain. “Too soft, and it would evaporate.”
Snow was watching her mother’s description in stony silence.
“During one of our digs,” her mother went on, “we came across an ancient chest. It had been buried in the Swamp’s quicksand for generations. Amaranth knew at once it was the Scroll of Fire. Worse men would have stolen the Scroll. Used it to write ruin on their enemies. Even alone, the Scroll is a powerful weapon. Whatever is written on it will instantly come to pass. Used in combination with the other Elements . . .” She shook her head. “It’s undefeatable.” She leaned back against the desk, the spell book momentarily forgotten. “But Amaranth wasn’t power hungry. He was a good man. We brought it back here where no one would look for it.” She barked a sharp little laugh. “Even Duessa wouldn’t deign to visit the Swamp, though it’s on her very doorstep. We never finished the quicksilver work. We didn’t complete proper testing before—” She dropped her hands to her sides, and all the energy went out of her voice. “Well, before we stopped the project.”
Snow didn’t care about the proper testing. Or the quicksilver. She hated it, in fact. A stupid project? That was why her mother left her with her aunt? What about all the business of her heart turning to ice and naming her Snow? Was it all just a show? “Did you love him? The Warlock of Amaranth?”
“You pry too much, Snow.”
“Too much?” Snow made her voice hard. “You tell me nothing. Was he my father?”
Her mother visibly stiffened. “Your father is dead to me now, Snow,” she said in a tired voice. “And I will not speak ill of the dead.” She turned back to the book and tore out a page. “But no. The Warlock of Amaranth was not your father. He was my friend. And I found him when I most needed a friend.” Snow’s mother came toward Snow, and her smile was soft. “We discovered some incredible things together, he and I.” She brushed by Snow and knelt before the fireplace, the paper spread out in front of her.
Snow stared speechlessly at her mother’s back as she began to perform the spell. Snow had always wanted to know why her mother had left when she was a baby, but now that the truth was in front of her, she wished it was still a mystery. Part of her had always wondered if her mother had run off for love of Snow’s father. But then why were her words about him so hard? Was it really just the excitement of working with the Warlock? Any possible answer left Snow feeling hollowed out inside. Was this what her mother had chosen over her?
The fire was changing colors. The flames were red, or perhaps gold, or maybe even black. There, in the center of its swirling darkness was what they were looking for. A glowing parchment hung suspended in the middle of the magic blaze. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her mother’s words sounded rapturous.
“Amazing,” Snow said in a sarcastic voice, but her mother didn’t notice. “Just amazing that you could remember exactly where something was all those years. Especially since it was so hard for you to remember your own daughter while you were off with your precious Warlock.” Snow spit all the venom she felt into her words. She was through with pretending.
Her mother’s form froze in front of her. Her head dropped down, but then her spine stiffened, and she spoke as though she hadn’t even heard Snow. “The Scroll of Fire. Right where we hid it.”
“When would that be?” Snow pronounced her words carefully. “Before you had a kid, or after you left her on someone’s doorstep?”
Her mother jumped to her feet and faced her daughter. Her hands were shaking. “What do you want from me, Snow? To pick a fight? To punish me?” Her eyes glistened wetly. “Believe me, I’ve punished myself.” Her voice broke, and she wiped hard at her eyes.
Snow blinked back her own unexpected tears. “Just tell me why you didn’t want me.”
Her mother stood very still in front of Snow. “I wanted you, Snow. How I wanted you.” She held her hands out as though she was embracing the air around Snow. “But you weren’t safe with me. After”—her mother looked down—“you were born, I was very confused. And broken. I had wanted to be a Princess, and your father . . . well, after what he did to me, I felt like the worst Villain.” She blinked furiously. “If I had known . . . To me, you were just the reminder of a terrible night. I didn’t know you then. I was angry. I don’t like to remember those years. At the end of them, I found the Warlock. He took me in when I had nowhere else to go. He gave me something important to do.” She pulled Snow to her feet, and her eyes were wet. “I came for you as soon as I was well again.” Her hand wavered, and then she drew Snow into an awkward embrace. “I don’t expect you to understand, Snow. How could you? What I did was unforgivable.”
Snow wanted to believe her mother, wanted what she was saying to be true. But she kept her arms at her side. Tears or no tears, she didn’t want her mother’s hugs or her apologies or excuses. She wanted those thirteen years back.
The room all of a sudden felt very quiet. No sounds of vampire and leprechauns bickering came from the kitchen. Only silence. Snow’s mother froze. “Someone else is here.”
As they whirled around, they saw that Archimago was already at the fireplace. With a shout of triumph, he snatched the Scroll of Fire from its hiding place. “Oh, how touching,” he sneered, as he twirled the Scroll through the air and slid it under his raggedy cloak. “Mother and daughter reunited at last. Just in time, too.” He withdrew a slender wand and pointed it straight at Snow. “Say good-bye to Mummy, puppet.”
Snow stood frozen to the spot, but her mother had no such problem. She leaped in front of Snow, and a web of glistening light shot out from one hand. She spun Snow around and propelled her through the room toward one of the doors. “You have to believe that I did what was best for you, Snow.” She pressed her hand against the door, releasing a lock, and shoved Snow through. “Just like I’m doing now.”
Snow didn’t know what kind of spell her mother had thrown at Archimago. Whatever it wa
s, it hadn’t stopped him for long. The sound of an explosion rang out behind them, a rush of heat whistling over Snow’s shoulder.
“We can’t leave the Scroll,” she cried. From behind them came a sound like a roaring fire followed by the pummeling of a driving rain. “If he takes it to Fidelus, he’ll have all three Elements!”
“That is the sound of our hideout’s alarms.” Her mother pushed Snow through the dark tunnel. “Archimago has not come alone. The Scroll is lost to us for now. We need help to stop him.” Her mother paused at a tangled crossroads. Passageways snaked off in every direction. With only a moment’s hesitation, she chose one.
“But what about Archimago’s promise?” Snow asked. “Won’t something bad happen to him now?”
“Something bad already has happened to him.” Her mother was sprinting. “Poor Archimago. He is beyond the hope of second chances. He has given himself over to the schemes of the Enemy.”
Chapter 18
Una leaned back in the leather armchair. The heat from the fire in front of her weighed her eyelids down and made her sleepy. She missed her mother already. A servant had appeared with an urgent message only moments after their arrival in the cozy room.
“Wait right here for just a minute,” her mother had said, and now Una was alone in the castle library. A chair that matched her own was across from her, its leather surface reflecting the shadows cast by the flickering flames. Lit sconces affixed to the wall revealed floor-to-ceiling empty bookshelves. Una wondered where all the books had gone.
Mother said that Father had been waiting to see her, that Una had been one of the first things he asked for when he was set free. But now Una wasn’t so sure she believed her mother. Una’s head felt strange, like it did when she was recovering from a cold and parts of her that had been stuffed up popped open. This was all wrong. She should be able to remember things. How she got here, for instance. Una looked down at her lap. A scrap of fabric sat there, covered with a knot of badly done stitches. Embroidery? Is this my handkerchief? Una stood up and shoved it into her pocket. Her fingers touched something hard and cold, and she pulled it out.
The gold on the ring looked dull in the firelight. The thick band met in the middle of a flat square panel. She felt a flicker of interest. Someone had given this ring to her. For a specific purpose. Una slid it onto her index finger so that the panel faced up, and it warmed with heat. A shimmer ran across the surface. As Una watched, a tiny tree blossomed with white light. The dull metal was transformed into golden brightness, and, in that moment, Una remembered everything.
I’m in Duessa’s castle. She spun in a circle. Waiting to meet the Enemy. The events of the morning flashed through her mind. Why hadn’t she punched Elton in the face when she had a chance? Was that really her, sitting beside her mother and begging for her smiles? While all of Story was in danger, she had been busy with a sewing lesson? Una ran to the library door, and pulled fruitlessly on the handle. Locked!
She let go of it as though burned. The next person who would come through that door would be her father, the Enemy himself. Una felt light-headed. They would know. As soon as they saw her, Duessa would know that her enchantment had worn off.
Wait. Maybe she could play along. She wished she knew more of how soppy she had been when under Duessa’s enchantment. Had she really hugged the Red Enchantress? Would she have to fake-hug the Enemy? Una looked at Kai’s ring. It had stopped glowing. I can do this. Now was her chance to learn something useful. She didn’t know how she’d escape, or if she’d be able to, but she would be ready. And when she returned to Bramble Cottage, she would be armed with information that would help the Resistance.
The low desk in the corner was surrounded by stacks and stacks of papers. Una crept over and sifted through some of them, but all of them were smudged and blank, as though someone had written a Tale and then erased it. She was reaching for a second stack, when the sound of footsteps echoed outside the door. She scurried back to her chair, spread her skirt beneath her, and tried to slow her breathing. The next moment a figure appeared at the doorway. Even before he stepped into the room, Una knew that it was him.
Fidelus brushed past her and sat down in the chair opposite without a word. He looked at her with gray eyes. Una stared back at him. A square jaw and firm chin framed a handsome face. His skin was lined, but he didn’t look old. His hair was dark like her own, and it shone in the flickering light.
He didn’t smile. “Una,” he said as he stretched out his hands to clasp her trembling hand. “I’m so glad you’ve found us.”
Una did her best not to flinch at his touch. She kept the hand with the ring hidden under a fold in her skirt. “Me, too. Mother said you were resting.” She tried to imagine what this reunion would be like if she didn’t know what her father had done. If she didn’t know that he was the Enemy. It wasn’t hard. Part of her had been waiting to meet him for her entire life. She took a deep breath. “I’ve wondered about you both for so long.”
Fidelus patted her hand and released it. “We’ve missed you, too.” He leaned back in the chair and put both hands behind his head. “And what do you think now that you’ve found us? Now that you know my Tale?”
Una forced herself to look into his gray eyes. “I want to know how the story ends. What happens next?”
Fidelus laughed. “Those who are with me have nothing to fear. We’ll get our happy ending.” He had none of Duessa’s softness, none of the lilting words that made Una forget who she was. Instead, his voice was hard, and he was looking at Una as though she were a piece of food he was about to devour. “Are you with me?”
“Of course I’m with you.” Una twisted her mouth into a bitter smile. “I freed you.”
He folded his hands across his stomach. “A good answer.”
Una needed to take control of the conversation. Her mother’s voice had enchanted her. Who knew what her father could do? “What’s all the paper for?” she asked.
“Some Tales need a lot of revising.” A slow smile crept across his face. “Especially the drivel that pathetic old King wrote for the land of Story. Once I rewrite Story, I will get the ending I deserve.”
“Rewrite?” Una willed herself to remember the details. The slightest turn of phrase could be valuable to the Resistance. “Wouldn’t that change all of Story’s past?”
“You are a clever thing, aren’t you?” Fidelus watched her like a hawk. “The new Story will be mine. Those who oppose me?” He snapped his fingers. “Unwritten. Those who serve me”—he raised one eyebrow—“I think they might come to a good end.”
Una’s mouth went dry. She thought of the legend of the beginning of Story. “Can a Muse really unwrite someone?”
His laugh came out low and menacing. “Don’t worry, Una. It won’t be painful. It will just be over. They won’t feel a thing. Because they won’t have existed at all.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “The more obliging characters will remain and be my happy subjects.”
“Oh?” Una tried to make her voice casual, as though it was the most normal thing in the world to have a fireside chat about an evil plan that would make everyone she had ever cared about unexist. “So will you use the Silver Quill to rewrite Story?”
Fidelus didn’t say anything. He rubbed his index finger and his thumb together in tiny circles.
Una tried a different approach. “You must have all the Elements if you’re crowning yourself King tonight.”
He gave her a polite little clap. “Very good, Una. I knew you weren’t a fool.” His voice grew unpleasant. “But then, neither am I. You think me a stupid Villain who would disclose his whole plan to anyone who wants to listen? You test my patience, Daughter.”
“I don’t think you are a fool,” Una lied. She wanted to shout the truth in his face. Only a fool would betray his family. Only a fool would break his oaths. Only a fool would come back to try again.
“We shall see.” Fidelus leaned forward and let his hands fall between his knees. “You might be
a simpleton, of course, not to realize after you read my true Tale that I stole the Ink.” His eyes were calculating. “But I don’t think so.” He gave her a hard laugh. “Dissembling doesn’t become you, my dear daughter. You should try truthfulness.”
Una looked into the fire. “And betrayal doesn’t become one whose name means ‘loyalty.’ Why did you do it? Why couldn’t you have just listened to the other Muses?” Una had a momentary flash of the way things could have been. Her father wouldn’t have broken his oaths. He would have been a faithful Muse, one who welcomed the King’s return instead of fighting against it. He would have been like the other Muses, excited to finally have their own Tale. Then the King of Story would have written a Tale for them all. Her mother, her father, and her, together in Story from the beginning. Happy. “Why didn’t you just let the real King write your Tale?”
Her father struck her then, and her eyes watered with the sting of it. “Do not speak of him in my presence,” he said.
“Fidelus?” Duessa’s breathy voice came from the doorway.
Una lifted a hand to her cheek. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t rub away the shame of it. Duessa floated into the room in a cloud of red, but she didn’t come over to Una. She draped herself across the back of Fidelus’s chair, and kissed his forehead. “Things are going according to plan. Elton has commanded the characters to attend you here at nightfall.”
Fidelus stood and grasped Duessa by the shoulders. “And my brothers and sisters?”
“Sleeping soundly. I sealed their dreams with my blood. When they next wake, they’ll have horrible ends in the new Story. Or perhaps they won’t be there at all. Aren’t you pleased?”
He gave Duessa a low laugh and wrapped his arms around her. “How could I be anything but pleased with you?”
Una sat very still in her chair. Maybe they had forgotten her.
He rested his chin on Duessa’s head. “The only thing that would please me more is to begin writing now.”