The Wingsnatchers

by Sarah Jean Horwitz

  “Certainly,” said the Amazifier, at the same time Carmer blurted out, “We can’t.”

  The silence that followed was only a brief pause, but to Carmer, it felt like an eternity.

  “You may make any preparations necessary,” clarified Tellaferror, thick and wiry eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “We will wait.”

  The second silence was, if possible, worse than the first.

  “Carmer?” asked the Amazifier. “Is there a reason why we cannot oblige Mr. Tellaferror in his request?”

  “I . . . I forgot the curtains,” said Carmer, thinking of the velvet drapes currently folded in the black trunk of supplies right at his feet. “Back at the camp.”

  “No, we didn’t,” blurted Kitty. “They’re right—oh.” She snapped her mouth shut, eyes wide.

  Tellaferror turned his steely gaze on all three of them in turn. A murmur swept through the seated judges. “It appears a demonstration will not be necessary.” He spun on his heel, graceful for such a large man, and began descending the steps into the house.

  “Wait—” stalled Carmer, but Tellaferror kept walking, his cloak billowing like the wings of a large bat.

  “I do not see that there is more to discuss,” said the judge. “You can provide no evidence that you are capable of the feats that so dazzled our audience a few nights ago. Unless you would care to enlighten us?”

  “Perhaps you could enlighten me, sir,” the Amazifier spoke up. “Is there anything to suggest that we aren’t capable?”

  Even in the dark, Tellaferror looked taken aback. Carmer could tell he was a man who wasn’t used to having his authority questioned; he had the air of a federal alchemist about him.

  “I don’t take your meaning,” said the judge flatly.

  “You say my illusions are inexplicable. I have done my job well then, I expect. But we are not here to prove my capabilities as a magician or the plausibility of my accomplishments. We are here to address the accusation of cheating. So tell me, sir, is there any indication that I have directly pilfered any of my accuser’s illusions?”

  The judges seated in the house tutted and whispered amongst themselves.

  “The absence of any glaring wrongdoing does not an innocent man make,” bristled Tellaferror.

  “This is true,” said the Amazifier, shrugging. “Though it seems the actual glaring wrongdoing that plagues this community is much easier to ignore.”

  The murmurs from the committee grew louder; a few of the men stood up.

  “Now listen here, Antonin—”

  “Antoine, if you please, Gerald,” corrected the Amazifier. “My reputation as an artist and a man of honor precedes me. I have been pulling rabbits out of hats since before some of you were born. I have nothing to hide.”

  “You may not,” retorted Tellaferror. “But he does.” The judge pointed an accusatory finger at Carmer.

  Silence fell at once.

  “We have several stagehands who will testify to seeing this young man enter the private dressing room area a few days ago. What business could he have there, during off hours, when your base of operations is clearly in the camp outside the city?”

  Dread pooled in the pit of Carmer’s stomach. He had thought no one had noticed him sneak into the Mechanist’s dressing room, but clearly he had been wrong. “I . . . I thought Master Antoine had left his hat back at the theater,” said Carmer lamely.

  Tellaferror continued as if Carmer had not spoken, striding back and forth across the stage. “We have also received a complaint from another competitor who witnessed you lurking about outside his home yesterday afternoon.”

  “I wasn’t lurking!”

  “Then tell us, boy, what were you doing there?”

  Carmer said nothing. How could he explain why he’d been visiting the Mechanist? The judges would either think him a cheater, as they did now, or just plain crazy, if he told them the truth.

  “Carmer, can you explain this?” asked the Amazifier patiently. His calm request was somehow even harder to bear than Tellaferror’s blatant accusations. Yet the only way Kitty and the Amazifier might be allowed to compete was if Carmer was out of the picture.

  “I was visiting another magician yesterday,” said Carmer, “but it wasn’t to steal from him. I was asking for a job.” He heard Kitty inhale sharply, but couldn’t bring himself to look at the Amazifier’s face. “I felt I was outgrowing my apprenticeship with Master Antoine,” lied Carmer, staring straight ahead. “So I’ve been looking for another magician to study under. I didn’t want Master Antoine to win the competition. I wanted him to know what a mistake he was making by . . . by giving me so little to do. So I tampered with his illusions to draw suspicion. It was all me.”

  “Spirits and zits, Carmer!” exclaimed Kitty, her eyes filling with tears. “How could you?”

  The color drained from the Amazifier’s wrinkled face.

  Tellaferror regarded Carmer shrewdly. “So you confess to sabotage, Felix Carmer?”

  Carmer gulped and nodded. What else did he have to lose?

  “I suggest you remove this ungrateful youth from your employ immediately, Antoine,” suggested Tellaferror. “He is no longer welcome at the Orbicle or in any other theater in Skemantis. Of that, we will make sure.” The judge made no effort to disguise his disgust.

  “Now listen to me, Tellaferror,” said the Amazifier, “the decision to sack my employees still rests with me, not you, and—”

  “No,” Carmer interrupted. “I resign. I don’t deserve to be your apprentice, sir.” Carmer could barely keep his voice steady, but he made himself look Tellaferror in the eye. “Master Antoine was ignorant of any wrongdoing, sir. That’s why you haven’t found anything. He’s innocent.”

  Carmer hoped he hadn’t just destroyed his entire future for nothing. Surely, if he distanced himself from the Amazifier, the committee couldn’t find the magician guilty? They didn’t have Grit’s magic anymore, but the Amazifier still might have a shot at second or third place if he and Kitty gave the show everything they had. It was a small chance, but it was all he could give them.

  Smack. Kitty’s hand slapped across his face and left a smarting red blotch behind. “You bet your patootie he’s innocent!” she cried. “You selfish, lying little—“

  “Enough.” The Amazifier held Kitty’s hand back as she raised it again. She stormed off the stage in tears.

  “Well, that was quite the spectacle,” said Tellaferror. “If you are all quite finished?” Carmer and the Amazifier both glared at him. “I will confer with my associates and we shall determine if your testimony is sufficient evidence to allow you to remain in the competition.”

  The judge glided back down the stairs to meet with his fellows in the audience. They had come so close to having a real chance, and now it was all ruined. Carmer had hurt the one person in the world who cared about him when no one else did, who’d cobbled together a life for him and Kitty from a few magic tricks and a house on wheels.

  The Amazifier leaned over stiffly, looking ten years older, to pick up their trunk full of props. Carmer moved forward to help, but the Amazifier stopped him.

  “No, Carmer,” he said, “I think you’ve helped enough for one day.”

  It seemed ages before Tellaferror appeared again, this time flanked by two other black-robed judges. “The committee has decided to allow you, Antoine the Amazifier, and your assistant, Miss Kitty Delphine, to remain in the Symposium,” he announced. “As for you, Mr. Carmer, you will find yourself most unwelcome here. Your name will be blacklisted in every theater and music hall in Skemantis and beyond, and you would be wise not to test our reach. No magician will employ a known saboteur, Mr. Carmer. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Tellaferror and the other judges filed out of the theater, talking amongst themselves.

  Carmer turned to the Amazifier. “Master . . .”

  “I am not your master anymore, Carmer,” said the Amazifier sharply. “I am sorry that I proved to be a disappointing one
.”

  The Amazifier wandered off the stage to find Kitty Delphine. Carmer stood alone, blinking into the spotlight until it finally winked out, plunging him into darkness.

  Grit should have known better than to trust a human. What had she been thinking, letting Carmer use her magic like that? Letting him use her like that? In the end, all he cared about was winning his stupid fake magic competition—and he wouldn’t even admit that the only reason he had a chance at winning was because of her! Grit had thought nothing could be more frustrating than being cooped up with her mother in the Arboretum, but Felix Cassius Tiberius Carmer III (and honestly, who had that many names?) had a nearly supernatural ability to infuriate her.

  Her anger at Carmer fueled her on the long and muddy journey through the circus camp and back to the city gates. It was easier going at night, though riskier, too—it would be much simpler for any prowling Autocats to snatch her up under the cover of darkness. She drew energy from the campfires she skirted around, slipping silently past snoring old magicians, stretching acrobats, and meat turning on spits. Occasionally, she caught puppet-shaped shadows out of the corner of her eye, but they didn’t try to stop her, so she kept on her way.

  It was nearly sunrise by the time she made it to the edge of the camp and scurried through a mouse burrow that ran under the city gate, pausing briefly to thank the surprised inhabitants for their hospitality. Their alarmed squeaks as she surfaced offered the only warning that she was no longer alone.

  Using nearly all of her energy to deflect attention away from herself, Grit scrambled out of the burrow and under the looming shadow of the city gate. No sooner had she crossed a foot of browning grass than an Autocat leapt after her, teeth bared. It barely missed her, but Grit was fairly certain it couldn’t see her while she used her magic to stay unnoticeable, even if it could sense her general presence.

  Grit darted and weaved through the cat’s paws, but the effort to keep herself invisible was taking its toll. She would tire of this dance long before the Autocat would. Did they even get tired? Grit wasn’t sure. She tried to remember what Carmer had said about going for their hearts, but she barely had time to dodge its deadly claws and gnashing teeth, never mind look for a weak spot.

  Grit wasn’t fast enough. A silver paw swiped at her from the side, pinning her down like a mouse any real cat would make a meal out of. The paw pressed her into the dirt, knocking the air out of her.

  All she could do was gasp and wriggle ineffectually as the cat peered down at her, perhaps deciding whether to play with its food before it ate her. A rose gold tongue slid out from the cat’s jaws; it licked its nonexistent lips with the chilling scraping sound Grit was becoming all too familiar with. Her vision started to go black around the edges, the claw pressing into her throat.

  Just when she thought all was lost, tiny figures launched out of the grass on all sides, pinging against the cat’s metal frame. The cat released its hold on her to swat at one of its new assailants. Grit rolled out of its reach as fast as she could, still fighting for breath.

  The Royal Guard was here! Grit guessed Madame Euphemia must have tipped them off somehow. The armored crickets worried at the cat, crawling into its mouth and out through its eyes, pushing out the glowing purple amethysts with sickening pops. Their magically strengthened legs slashed at the cat’s wiring anywhere they could, swarming over the beast inside and out.

  A particularly well-outfitted cave cricket in silver and moonstone armor broke off from the others and hopped in front of Grit.

  Chirp! It gestured wildly in the general direction of the Arboretum, where Grit hoped reinforcements would be waiting.

  Chirp! Chirp!

  Flanked by crickets on all sides, Grit was forced to abandon any notion of avoiding the faerie kingdom. The Autocat ground to a halt behind her, its wires shorting out as it hacked up sparks and grease like hair balls. Even as she ran for her life, Grit couldn’t help but think a worse fate surely awaited her at home: the unchecked wrath of a very, very angry faerie queen.

  A small part of her had to admit she’d rather take her chances with the cat.

  16.

  LIGHT ’EM UP

  There is a human saying that goes, “Never put all of your eggs in one basket.” Humans are wrong about a great many things—this is especially true if you ask a faerie—but even the Fair Folk are inclined to agree with this piece of advice. It is important to keep this in mind when discussing the Great Willow, because if it is a risky business to put all of your eggs in one basket, it is an even riskier business to put all of your faeries in one tree.

  The Great Willow was the biggest and most ancient tree in the Arboretum, as wide as it was tall, roots stretching out halfway across the kingdom, a veritable humming beehive of magic. Even the dullest human could recognize the power in such a tree; surely it would be simple for the Mechanist or his ilk to simply stride into Oldtown Arboretum, chop down the Great Willow, and enslave or destroy all the faeries in the kingdom? This might be so, if the Great Willow were always a willow, and if it always stayed in one place.

  The Great Willow, however, is much smarter than your average willow (and this is saying something, as willows don’t have a reputation for wisdom for nothing). Years of faeries moving in and out of you, singing parts of you up and parts of you down, and making their homes in your deepest of deep, deep hearts will make a tree a Tree, and an ordinary willow a Great Willow, in no time. The Great Willow was clever and loved its faeries dearly, and so just often enough to confuse any humans who might be watching too closely, the Great Willow changed.

  One day it might be a majestic white oak or a sycamore, reaching out far and wide, right in the center of the kingdom. The next, if it is a particularly fine fall day, it might be a yellow birch with plumes of golden leaves reaching up toward the sun and planted right at the North Gate, saying, “Come in, come in! Aren’t my colors lovely today?” It might be an American elm, if it’s feeling rather rebellious, or a hemlock with dainty needles and perfect faerie-sized pinecones, trading secrets with the shadows of the Whispering Wall. A faerie or Friend true of heart can always find the Great Willow by walking toward the heart of the Arboretum and knowing where they want to go; either they’ll find the faerie castle, or it will find them.

  Today, the Great Willow was a wide American beech tree with a smooth silver trunk that discouraged anything with creepy crawling claws from finding purchase in its bark. Beech bark is not usually very tough, but the Great Willow was fortified with faerie magic that made it nearly as strong as steel. Beechnut husks made good armor—mostly helmets and shoulder pads—but the wood was brittle. The leaves should have been a lime yellow this time of year, but Queen Ombrienne’s mood had turned them brown with purple shadows, like a photograph’s negative.

  The queen herself stood in her throne room in a gown of autumn leaves with a bee bristle collar and a headdress of gold-tipped pine needles. The teeth of small animals were strung along intricately woven braids around her head. Two thick auburn plaits fell on either side of her neck and trailed down nearly to her ankles. Grit had always thought it highly unfair that she was expected to wear frilly petal dresses when her mother walked around like a warrior goddess.

  “You have put us all in grave jeopardy. Do you realize this, Grettifrida?”

  A small army of faeries-in-waiting fluttered around Grit, stripping her out of her worn and filthy clothes, attempting to comb out the fuzzy bird’s nest that was her hair, and dabbing at her various scrapes and bruises. Only a few strategically placed butterflies provided her with any semblance of privacy. She was lifted from behind and unceremoniously plunked into a birch bark bowl filled with healing rainwater. She came up sputtering and glaring, enchanted steam pouring out of her ears.

  “And how do you figure that, Mother?” Grit asked acidly. She tried not to sigh with relief as the hot water worked out all her knots and kinks and soothed her scratches from the Autocat’s claws. She was determined not to show weakness in
front of her mother, but it’s a bit difficult to look tough and determined when one is in the bath.

  “Leave us,” said Ombrienne to the other faeries.

  They scattered without comment, though one or two shot Grit sympathetic looks. Now Grit would be at the mercy of her mother’s sharp tongue without any witnesses to defend her (although on the grand scale of punishments, this was preferable to a chewing out with an audience).

  “Not only did you put the legacy of this kingdom in jeopardy with your ill-timed escapist antics—”

  “But Mother—”

  “Do not interrupt me,” said Ombrienne with such force that the whole castle shook, sending errant pinecones crashing to the throne room floor.

  Grit sank up to her chin in the water.

  “Not only did you put the legacy of this kingdom in jeopardy, you divulged our deepest magical secrets to a human—a human who is not even a Friend of the Fae!”

  “I hardly think shooting sparks counts as divulging our deepest magical secrets.”

  “Our magic is not a parlor trick, Grettifrida! It is an ancient art, not a passing amusement for entertaining humans. You risked our exposure in front of hundreds of people. You abused the power bestowed upon you by your ancestors, the power whose sole purpose is to keep this kingdom alive.”

  “That’s what I was trying to do, Mother!” protested Grit as the butterflies flew under her armpits and lifted her out of the tub.

  Ombrienne waved a hand and a warm wind blew in from the west, carrying a handful of pink flower petals with it. Where her mother could find pink flower petals even in the middle of autumn, Grit would never know. She grimaced but stood still as the petals molded themselves to her body to form a frothy dress trimmed with soft green moss from the Arboretum floor. Her mother’s only concession to Grit’s natural style was a crown made of pinecone scales that she placed over Grit’s unruly hair herself.

  “There now. That’s much better,” said Ombrienne. She reached down to stroke Grit’s cheek, but Grit turned away.

  “You’re not listening to me,” Grit said, backing away and nearly tripping over her silly dress. “I only helped Carmer because he agreed to help us! We found out who controls the Autocats—I mean, the Wingsnatchers—and that he’s stealing faerie magic to make something called electricity for the humans, but the captured faeries are still alive somewhere! And the Hyperion—”