Storybound

by Marissa Burt

  “I don’t know about that,” Una said. “Playing a part in a Tale, like a Hero or a Villain, doesn’t sound like anybody taking care of their own destinies.”

  “I’m not that far yet. Just a second,” Peter said.

  Una scanned the room while she waited for him to catch up, her eyes pausing on a wolf three tables over who was napping, his head resting on his paws.

  “Well, we get to decide what type we want to be.” Peter frowned. “That’s something.” He sat back in his chair.

  Una raised one eyebrow and smoothed her hands over the faded text. “I wonder what was so magic about their ink.” She tapped her finger on the table. “Maybe that’s how they Wrote people In.”

  Peter furrowed his brow. “I don’t think there’s really any way we can know that, Una. Besides, don’t you think it would be all dried up by now?” He broke off and stared over her shoulder. “Don’t look, but that boy is watching us.”

  Una looked. A boy with a hooded sweatshirt sat across the room. It was the Truepenny boy she had seen in Villainy, and he was watching them from under his dark fringe of hair. She turned in her seat so that her back was facing the boy. “I almost forgot!” She told Peter about how she had seen him reading during class.

  “You couldn’t have seen a book.” Peter shook his head. “The Talekeepers have them all locked up in the Vault.”

  “But didn’t you say Elton was talking to George about missing books? Maybe the Truepenny kid took one from the Vault!”

  Peter looked doubtful. “That would be pretty risky. Even if that kid had managed to find one, it’s forbidden to keep one of the old Tales.”

  “Forbidden!” Una couldn’t wrap her mind around a bookless existence. “You mean you’ve never read a book?”

  “Nope. Haven’t you been paying attention, Una?” He thumped the center of the scroll. “You think they’re just books. But we know that all books are the old Tales the Muses wrote. They’re probably full of all sorts of awful things. That’s why the Talekeepers took them. You must have seen wrong.”

  Una sneaked another peek over her shoulder. He had looked away. “I’m sure it was a real book.”

  Just then, the tall, spiky-haired boy who had tormented Sam at the Tale station appeared at their table. “Oh,” he crooned at Una, “where’s the little kitty cat? Aren’t you having tea with your ickle kittyums?”

  “Get lost, Horace. We’re busy,” Peter said.

  Una knocked aside the dishes holding the scroll and it rolled together in an instant.

  “Busy doing what?” Horace asked. “Pretending to be a Lady?” He snorted. “I’m not so sure that’s possible.”

  Una gave him a stony glare. “Can’t find any tiny creatures to torment? There’s no way you could actually bully someone your own size. And it suits you, really.”

  “What does?” Horace asked.

  “Your name,” Una said. “Don’t you know it means ‘horrible’?”

  Snow came up behind him just in time to hear Una’s words. She held a bright red scarf in one hand. “Let’s go, Horace. We’re going to be late.” A weary-looking bluebird perched on her shoulder.

  “What a surprise,” Una said. “You two are friends.”

  “Cousins, actually. Nice work, Fairchild. In one day you’ve said nasty things about nearly all of my family.” Snow glared at Una. “As nice as a little chat with my roomie would be . . .” She snapped her fingers, and the bluebird fluttered up to take the scarf. It wound the fabric once around Snow’s neck. “I don’t have time for one right now. Horace, come on.” As Snow walked away, she flung one end of the scarf over her shoulder. The bluebird went flying, hit the wall opposite, and landed on the far side of the table.

  “Oh,” gasped Una, but Snow had already left.

  Horace leaned in closer. “Do you worry about little birdies, too?” His breath smelled like stale onions. He whispered, “Maybe you should know that a little birdie told me something else about you, something about sneaks and strangers and cheating on examinations.”

  At that moment, the bluebird, having recovered from its fall to the table, made a break for the door. A second was all it took. A glob of bird dropping splattered onto Horace’s head. He froze, the poop trickling down one cheek.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be talking to little birdies after all, Horace,” Una said. Her laugh came out like a snort at first. Then Peter joined in, and the next table erupted into laughter that followed Horace as he walked stiffly out of the room.

  “That bird deserves a round of applause,” Peter said after they had calmed down. “Impeccable timing.”

  “Hear, hear,” Una said, and clanked her mug of cocoa against Peter’s. She looked across the room, her smile fading. “The Truepenny boy is gone.”

  Peter followed her gaze. “Maybe he was just staring off into space. Maybe it had nothing to do with us.”

  “Or maybe he’s one of Red and Elton’s spies who’s supposed to keep an eye on me.”

  Peter looked doubtful. “Would they really send a kid after you?”

  Una shrugged and spread out the scroll again. She read through Archimago’s speech a second time and found a small note under the faded photo.

  Archimago Mores has assumed duties as the first Tale Master. His new responsibilities will include overseeing the safekeeping of the Tales, advising on character types, and placing . . .

  But this was where the mold now covered the faded text. Una brushed gently at the paper, but she couldn’t make out the rest of the article. She began to roll the scroll up again. She had to go slowly so as to keep more of the parchment from flaking off. Which was how another headline caught her eye. PROTESTERS CALL FOR ARCHIMAGO’S RESIGNATION. Most of the article was missing, but Una could read a bit about how a group of characters picketed Archimago’s speech, demanding the return of the Tales. They accused the Talekeepers of censorship and called for new leadership that would continue the old ways until the return of the King.

  “It looks like some people didn’t agree with him,” Una said after Peter had read it. She tied the tattered ribbon around the rolled-up paper. “I wonder what happened to them.”

  “I have no idea.” Peter chewed his bottom lip. “Story’s never had a King. How could characters be waiting for a King to return?”

  Una frowned. “Well, I don’t know about any King, but I think those protesters were right about censorship. Archimago called it safekeeping, but I think it’s strange that you aren’t allowed to read any books.”

  “Well, the Talekeepers do keep the books safe.” Peter finished drinking his cocoa. “We just can’t see any of them.”

  “Come on, Peter,” Una said. “You think they’re doing you some kind of favor by forbidding books? Where I come from, censorship always means somebody is hiding something.”

  Peter sighed. “But what?”

  Una thought about what she had learned in history class back at Saint Anselm’s. Governments that controlled what people read did it in order to control the people. “Whatever it is, they don’t want ordinary characters to find out about it. Without the books, all we have to go on is the word of the Talekeepers.” Her heart quickened. “I’d bet anything they aren’t telling the whole truth about what really happened back when the Muses were still around. And who knows what else they’re lying about.”

  Peter set his mug down slowly. “I thought the Talekeepers just didn’t like people talking about the Muses because what they did was so awful. Do you really think they edited our Backstory?” He had a sick look on his face.

  “Well, what the Muses did was awful. They tortured characters!” Una tried to imagine what it would feel like if she found out things she had learned in history class were a lie. “But maybe there’s more to the story than the Talekeepers are willing to tell. And maybe not all of the Talekeepers are lying. If all this happened such a long time ago, the Talekeepers from today might not know the truth either. All we have to do is find out what really happened.” She flick
ed her finger at the scroll. “I mean, they knew, obviously, so—”

  “Great,” said Peter. “Except they’ve all been gone for how many years? Or do you think we should just walk up to Mr. Elton or some Talekeeper and ask all about their secret Backstory?”

  Una snatched the scroll and tucked it into her cloak. She said in a huffy voice, “No, Peter. Elton’s private study. If you found this lying around the outer office, just think what he’s got locked away inside his own desk. I’d bet you anything there’s loads of stuff about the Muses and what the Talekeepers did next and all the rest. We need to find a way to get in there.”

  “Well, we’ll have to do it after the weekend,” Peter said. “We’re going home tomorrow, remember? Maybe my parents will be able to help us.”

  “Maybe,” Una said. “I suppose Elton’s study will have to wait. For now.”

  Chapter 11

  Snow was sitting on a swing in the Wottons’ sorry excuse for a backyard. It consisted of a narrow plot of land covered with concrete on one end and badly pruned shrubbery on the other. A bluebird landed on her shoulder, chirping becomingly. Snow brushed it away. She counted it a lucky weekend when she didn’t have to return to the Wottons’ house. Seeing her cousin in school was bad enough. Living with his family was worse.

  She pushed off with one foot as Horace came out the back door, bringing his practice sword with him. Dressed all in black, as usual, he looked like the poster child for Horror Hollow. His hair stuck out in all directions, firmly fixed in place with whatever stuff was giving off that awful smell. He spent most of his time at home running through moves for Weaponry. Badly. Snow watched him swipe at the air. The weight of the sword nearly spun him all the way around. He caught Snow watching him and sauntered over.

  “Bet you’re wishing you stayed back at school for the weekend,” Horace said, and stuck the tip of the sword in the ground. “Oh, no, wait, that’s right. Peter Merriweather isn’t there, is he? Can’t leave if your little boyfriend’s still there, can you?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Not now. Not ever.” Horace leaned against the sword.

  Snow stuck out a pointed boot and kicked the sword out from under him. He collapsed onto the ground.

  Like I have a choice. About either thing. Peter had taken Una home with him, and the Wottons always told her when she had to go home for the weekend and when she could remain at school. She leaned down to help Horace up. He scowled at her and returned to his poorly executed Weaponry practice.

  The bluebird was back. Snow swatted harder this time. Peter Merriweather. He was the first student who had talked to her when she came to Perrault. She had been sitting alone in the Woodland Room. A girl named Harriet had almost sat with her but continued on when a group of pretty Village Girls called to her. Which was when Peter had appeared with a cup of cocoa and introduced himself.

  Things had been okay after that. She saw Peter in class, and twice he had sat with her for lunch. And then there was the practical. She had asked especially to be paired up with him. Professor Edenberry said it was unusual, that official policy frowned on preset practical teams. But teachers always responded well to her particular brand of cajoling. A few sad tales of being afraid, of not wanting to fail, and the well-placed mention of her mother’s name. It had been so easy.

  But everything had gone wrong. It was supposed to be perfect, the experience that would cement their friendship. Except Peter was in a bad mood that first day and had teased her about her dress, which of course meant that she clammed up and barely managed to form two sentences that night at the campfire. The journey was hardly better. By the end of the practical, she half wished the dragon would attack her.

  Snow dragged her feet on the ground. She really didn’t care that much about failing the practical. What bothered her was that there would be no more shared lunches. No more telling jokes in the quad. No more study breaks in the Woodland Room.

  Horace was heading back to the house. “By the way, my mom said to tell you that Mr. Elton’s here for tea.”

  “Elton?” Snow wished she could bring Horace’s sword in with her. Horrible man. Always lingering in the quad or on the forest path. Asking after her mother. Everyone knew Mr. Elton was in love with her mother. And they all laughed at him behind his back. Sometimes Snow laughed, too, but mostly she just hated him. Hated them both actually. She had managed to evade him most of the term, but now he had her cornered.

  Snow hurried around to the front of the house. Maybe she could sneak up to her attic room and climb into bed. If Aunt Becky thought she was ill—

  The front door opened. “Where have you been?” her aunt said as she propelled Snow into the parlor. “Mr. Elton has been waiting to see you.”

  Snow followed her into the cramped room, where her aunt sat down and began pouring tea from her best teapot. “One lump of sugar or two?” Aunt Becky’s red skin pulled taut over her angled cheekbones as she smiled coyly at Mr. Elton.

  “One will be fine, Becky. I’m much obliged.” Mr. Elton patted the sofa cushion next to him. All of a sudden the room felt stuffy and close. Snow sat down on an old rocking chair as far away from Elton as possible.

  No one said anything for quite some time. Mr. Elton sat sipping his tea. When he raised his cup, he stuck out his pinky finger, and Snow stared, transfixed by the fat ring that encircled it. It wasn’t until her aunt thrust a teacup into her hand that Snow realized she was supposed to talk to Elton. Snow glared into her cup and buttoned up her mouth. Her aunt would just have to be disappointed.

  The silence grew. “Are you having a nice weekend, Ms. Wotton?” Elton finally asked Snow.

  “Very.” Snow took a swallow of scalding tea.

  “And your charming mother? Have you seen her lately?”

  Snow thought of the excruciating hour of stilted conversation and forced pleasantries that made up teatime spent with her mother. “We had tea together this morning.” Snow dropped another cube of sugar into her cup. Whatever Snow felt toward her mother, there was no way she was going to satisfy Elton’s nauseating curiosity by talking about her. Snow raised one eyebrow. “We don’t exactly get along.” It had taken years for Snow to perfect her uninterested drawl, but she had found it well worthwhile. It totally killed a conversation. Which, with some people—with most of them actually—was very desirable. Slowly, slowly, she tapped one fingertip on her teacup. “Was there something else?”

  It had the intended effect. Mr. Elton cleared his throat. “What about Una Fairchild? Have you noticed anything unusual about her?”

  Besides the way she dressed? Probably not what Elton’s looking for. “Look,” she said. “I already agreed to be Una’s roommate. What more do you want from me?”

  Elton tucked his free hand into his tiny waistcoat pocket. “Yes. Well, I’d like you to note anything out of the ordinary. We just like to make sure all our . . . transfer students are adjusting well.” His smile looked painted on. So Elton didn’t buy Peter and Una’s story either. And now he wanted Snow to spy on Una. Fat chance. Snow wasn’t about to do Mr. Elton any favors.

  She set her tea down and smoothed her hair, retying the scarlet ribbon. “I’m sorry, Mr. Elton, I’m awfully busy. Una and I don’t see each other very often.”

  Mr. Elton tilted back his cup to get at the last of his tea. “Are you sure about that, Snow?” he said in a too-pleasant tone.

  “Quite.”

  Mr. Elton’s cup clattered into the saucer. He looked displeased.

  Snow’s aunt stood. “Snow, please help me with the tea things.”

  Snow knew that this was code for “I need to talk with you now.” She followed her aunt’s severe form into the cramped kitchen. The tray hit the counter with a slam.

  “You ungrateful girl!” Aunt Becky’s volume was controlled, but only because Elton was in the next room. Aunt Becky snapped her fingers at the kettle, and Snow took it over to the sink. Her aunt’s demands followed her. “After all we’ve done for you�
��to insult the Tale Master! To turn down such an opportunity for official favor!”

  Snow silently pumped the water into the kettle and placed it on the stove. Right. Because you’ve done so much for me.

  Becky Wotton was nothing if not determined. She moved in close to Snow’s face, so close that Snow could feel the warmth of her breath. “Who do you think has paid for your bread and butter all these years? Didn’t we take you in when you had nowhere else to go? Haven’t we cared for you as one of our own?”

  Snow schooled her face to impassivity. Sure, they had paid for her food. And I never hear the end of it. And they had given her shelter, if the drafty attic could even be called that. The mice and birds who shared the space had been more of a family to her than her uncle and aunt. She hated them both—hated everything about them, from her uncle’s stingy ways to her aunt’s annoying desire to impress everyone. But she hated her mother even more, for leaving her with these awful people, for abandoning her into their care without a word.

  Becky’s mouth was moving, but Snow tuned out her voice, waiting for the storm to pass. She wished Horace were there. Despite his bullying, they shared a sort of twisted camaraderie, and he had a way of stopping this sort of thing before it got too out of hand.

  “If you don’t do this, girl, if you don’t give him the information he wants,” Becky said in a near whisper, “you’ll have seen the last of us. It’s off to your mother you’ll go, no questions asked.”

  Snow considered. She knew that her mother wouldn’t put her up in the dorms. She would make her live in the cramped flat. What would that be like? All their time spent in awkward silence like the Saturday teas? She weighed that against the freedom of Grimm Dorm and the occasional weekend at the Wottons’. Snow already had a summer job lined up. She meant to repay every penny they had ever spent on her. Staying here probably meant, what, five weekends with the Wottons? Snow tried to act as if it didn’t matter. “Fine. Have it your way,” she said. “It’s no big deal anyway. It’s not like I care what happens to my roommate. But if it’s that important . . .”