by N. D. Wilson
Ron was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “Sometimes standing against evil is more important than defeating it. The greatest heroes stand because it is right to do so, not because they believe they will walk away with their lives. Such selfless courage is a victory in itself.”
Henry felt his stomach tightening. His breath was short. “Do Nella's dreams always come true?” he asked.
“In her dream,” Ronaldo said quietly, “no one caught you when you fell.”
turned his burned face away from the fire. It, and a few patches on his arms and chest, were producing their own heat. The rest of him was near shivering.
Sleeping in the lawn in Kansas never would have been this cold.
In an ill-fated moment, he had stored the family's sleeping bags in the barn—which was no longer with them. But it wasn't like he could have anticipated that.
Richard had a sleeping bag. Frank had dragged that down from the attic, damp end and all. The rest of the family, along with Sergeant Simmons, were bundled in layers of clothes and wrapped in blankets, lying in a circle around a fire of window frames, trim, and one dining room chair that had been broken, anyway. Frank had been ready to burn everything, but Dotty had not yet been able to process the permanence of their situation. Frank had been lying behind Dotty, but now he had his back against hers and was looking out at the grass bending beneath the sky's very cold breath and stars he didn't recognize. His face was happy. But he could feel his thighs beginning to twitch. And they weren't checking with him first.
“Dad,” Penelope said. “I'm freezing. Can we burn anything else?”
“I'll look around in a bit,” Frank said.
“I think we should sleep inside,” said Anastasia.
Richard sniffed. “I don't want to.”
Anastasia sat up, holding her blankets tight. “Well, you're in my sleeping bag,” she said. “I mean it, Dad. If something comes through the cupboards, it can get us out here, too.”
Frank rolled back toward the fire, and Dotty looked up at him. Her lips were pinched tight.
“Zeke?” Frank asked. “How're you doing?”
“Fine, Mr. Willis,” Zeke said. “The girls could have one of my blankets if they want.”
Penelope didn't say anything. Anastasia laughed. “Zeke's showing off,” she said. “He's just as cold as we are.”
Frank shivered and tried to hide it. “What do you think, Ken?”
Sergeant Simmons's mound of blankets was the highest. Not because he had the most, just because he was beneath it. “I've been worse,” he said. “One nice thing is that I can't feel my foot.”
“Can I just go inside?” Anastasia asked. “No one else would have to come in.”
“No.” Dotty's voice was firm and quick. “Zeke and Ken can do what they like. Lord knows your father will. But you girls are not sleeping near those doors. You're not going to go near them.”
Frank pulled in a deep breath. It was sharp in his lungs. It may as well happen now. No one was sleeping. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we're crawlin' through Grandfather's cupboard.”
He'd expected Dotty to wheel on him. She didn't. No one said anything. Not even Anastasia.
“The way I figure,” Frank began, “we can't stay here. There's only what's left in the toilets for drinking water, and Pen already flushed one.”
“Sorry,” Penelope said.
Anastasia snorted. “I wouldn't drink it, anyway.”
Frank ignored both of them. “There's a bit of milk left, but with the fridge not working, who knows how long that will last. We've got a box of crackers, some dry cereal, a jar of pickles, and Dot's jams and sauces. That's just about the far limit of things that won't go bad anytime too soon.”
“What about Henry?” Zeke asked.
“Well,” Frank said. “Going off Richard's story, it feels like Henry was taken. Then Henrietta tried to follow. Can't say if they're in the same cupboard. But something tells me they're not. The wizard came through looking for Henry, so at least he didn't have him. Yet. I don't want to go anywhere near resetting the cupboard combinations. We leave ‘em be, and we go through to wherever they lead and hope we find one of them. If we find someplace safe, with food and water, then I'll come back and start looking through other doors.”
“Dad,” Penelope said. “The guy who came through the cupboards, the guy who did all this, he didn't say he was looking for Henry. He said he was looking for his son.”
“Whoa.” Anastasia shivered. “Was that Henry's real dad? He'll want to go back to Boston.”
Frank listened to the wind, and he watched his wife breathe beneath her blankets. He looked from shape to shape around the fire.
“I don't think so,” he said.
“I'll come back with you,” Zeke said.
“Maybe,” said Frank.
Richard rustled in his bag. “I will as well.”
“No,” said Frank. “What you think, Ken? See any other choices?”
Sergeant Simmons spoke slowly. “I don't understand any of this. But I have a wife and kids. My boy is starting third base this year. My daughter has a piano recital in August. My baby sister is due with twins in Tulsa. Whatever you do, Frank, I trust you. And I'll follow you. But I can't give up on Kansas. Not for a long time yet. If then. If ever. I'd be alive, but life'd be dead.”
Frank didn't say anything. Dotty's arm slipped back beneath the blankets and found his hand.
“My mom will be worrying already,” Zeke said. “She'll be sick. But we can't stay here. Not unless Anastasia starts drinking toilet water.”
“In the morning, then,” Sergeant Simmons said. “There's not much choice.”
Dotty sat up. She looked around the fire and then twisted so she could see Frank.
“Why not now?” she asked. “No one's asleep, and I'd rather get it over with than lie here for hours thinking about it.”
Two hours later, Anastasia was talking in excitement. Penelope said she felt queasy. Frank thought he might have to carry Richard. Zeke wasn't talking at all. His jaw was set, and he was lost in his own thoughts.
Sergeant Simmons limped in place.
They all stood in Grandfather's room, and Dotty was handing out pillowcases. Frank was holding a long black police flashlight and his shotgun. Each pillowcase contained one blanket and various food items wrapped up inside that didn't seem necessarily useful—dry spaghetti noodles, shortening, split peas, kosher salt. Everyone was still in multiple layers of clothes, so they didn't pack any more. Sergeant Simmons was bulging out of a red Christmas sweater of Frank's. He held his pillowcase over one shoulder and his shotgun over the other.
“All right,” Frank said. “I'm first. When I holler, slide me your gear and then come on after. Ken brings up the rear.”
“Wait,” Anastasia said. “Where's the raggant? We can't leave him behind.”
Frank smiled. “He blazed the trail. We're playing catch-up.”
Taking a pillowcase from Dotty, Frank crouched. He slung it into the cupboard and then pushed it through with the shotgun. Holding the flashlight and sliding his gun, Frank squirmed through.
In Grandfather's room, there was only darkness, a cold wind in the empty windows, and the sound of nervous breathing.
After a moment, they heard Frank's voice. It sounded distant.
“Right!” he yelled. “Penny first.”
In the blackness, Penelope got onto her knees.
The moon was curtained by clouds, and Henrietta walked, feeling her way carefully across hillsides. She had left the road as soon as the old woman's house had been out of sight. When the sun had gone down, she'd wished that she hadn't. Now, she wasn't sure she had a chance of ever finding it again. She could be walking on it, or walking across it, and she would never know.
A cloud's border silvered, and suddenly the ground crawled with the full moon's glare. Henrietta stopped and looked around. She was on a hillside. A clump of trees huddled at the bottom. Another black bulk was sliding across the sky
toward the moon. She would run. She would climb the hill before the light was gone, and when she had reached the top, she was going to pick a direction.
She turned, took two slow, driving steps up the slope, and began to run.
Kansas does have some hills, but Henrietta hadn't been around too many of them. She'd only cut the distance in half when the light disappeared. Breathing hard, and pushing her hands against her knees, she slowed to a walk. The fish and olives had worn off a long time ago, and she was thirsty enough to hope that one of these clouds was packing rain. Running didn't help.
She reached the top in the darkness, sat down, and flopped onto her back.
Something slid up her pants, tickling her shin. She jerked forward and slapped at it. Then she felt around, found the long blade of grass, and pulled it out.
She wondered if they were looking for her. Had Benjamin and Joseph gathered up all their friends who knew how to scowl and handed out torches? Were they sweeping the fields? Maybe they had dogs.
Or they might already be back at FitzFaeren sitting around waiting for her. They didn't need to be in a rush. They knew it was her only way out. They might even know which cupboard she'd crawled through. If they knew that, they wouldn't need to wait for her. They could already be in Kansas ripping through Grandfather's stuff, looking for whatever it was they thought he'd taken.
Henrietta stood up. The cloud above her was glowing.
Where were Henry and Richard? They'd said they were going to FitzFaeren to look for Eli. But they definitely weren't here. Benjamin and Joseph would have rounded them up, too. Or maybe they'd played it safe. Maybe they'd hidden in the hall and watched her get captured.
Well, Richard would have watched. Henry was blind. He would have listened and shushed Richard and told him not to do anything.
Henrietta could feel herself getting mad. She didn't want to. She didn't know that Richard and Henry had ever even been here. Except for the fact that she'd heard them planning, and they'd been gone, and the cupboard had been set to FitzFaeren. But the key had been under Henry's pillow. How would that have worked? Would they have unlocked Grandfather's door and then gone back upstairs to slide it under a pillow? Maybe. It wasn't a bad idea. If something went wrong, people could look for them. If nothing did, they'd get back, and no one would notice. Her hand drifted to her pocket, and her fingers felt the stiff shape of the key through the denim. She hadn't been that thoughtful. No one was looking for her. That much she knew. No one could be.
Half the moon appeared, running through a seam in the clouds. Henrietta stood in place and turned slowly, trying to take in everything. To her left was the hillside she had just climbed. Somewhere behind her, she was sure, was the woman's house. She didn't think she could have gotten that turned around. In front of her, the landscape darkened. Trees. A forest of them. The canopies blended together and ate the light. She had come through some woods on her way here, but even if that was the shortest way back, she knew she couldn't take it. There would be animals in there, and she didn't know what kind. Nocturnal forest creatures were not appealing. Of course, animals could stalk her in the open fields, but at least she would have the chance of seeing them before they tasted her. If the clouds weren't in the way.
She turned and looked down the other side of the hill. The forest sprawled in that direction as well, but it wasn't as thick. The trees were scattered around the edges, and, as the light faded again, she could see something long winding through them. It could have been the road. Or at least a road.
With the light gone, she started to move down the hill. Down was much better. And faster. Grass rustled around her legs while she walked, and as she neared the bottom, trees began to loom.
The ground leveled out, and she moved to a jog, ducking tree branches in the moonlight and feeling her way with arms extended in the cloud shadows.
Pushing between two trees, she stepped out onto air. And then water.
Henrietta threw both of her arms back, grabbing armfuls of reeds and grass. Her shoulders twisted as she dropped, but she didn't let go. Moving water was pulling at both of her legs.
Gritting her teeth, Henrietta managed to twist around, face the bank, and grip two bundles of grass at the root. Kicking and splashing, she pulled herself back over the lip of the bank and lay panting on the edge.
The night had just gotten much colder and much worse. And now she knew that she hadn't glimpsed a road. She'd glimpsed a river. She'd seen streams when she was tied to the back of the wagon, but no rivers. Not even anything that would qualify as a small river. Rubbing her sore shoulders, she sat up, with her still-dripping feet dangling over the bank's edge.
There was just enough light to see the black band that was the bank on the other side. This was a river. And it was a pretty quick one.
Henrietta sighed and then sputtered her lips. There wasn't much point in going on. She could follow the river into the wood, but why would she? She didn't have any idea where she was in relation to FitzFaeren and the door back to Kansas. She could follow it the other direction back toward the old queen. Or she could turn around and climb back up the hill.
A knot tied in her stomach, and she felt the first stage of panic. She didn't want to express her thought. Not even to herself. But she did. She might never get home. After all, her father hadn't. She might grow up here. Die here. Living with short, very serious, semi-magical people. Something slipped off the bank beside her and plopped into the water.
Henrietta pulled her wet legs up and hugged her knees. If Magdalene had suddenly sprung out of the reeds, or Joseph with his irritated beard and a torch, she would give them a hug and ask to be shut back in the closet. She could always escape later. But right now, she knew that she couldn't find her way back to Magdalene's house even if she tried.
She wished that she could at least tell herself that her father was looking for her. That he would do everything he could to get her back. But everything he could do would be banging on Grandfather's door and yelling her name and then hugging her mother while she cried. She would have no sisters to annoy, or be annoyed by. There was nothing in this world for her.
But she was thirsty, and the river solved that problem.
Henrietta swung her legs behind her and lay down on her belly. Inching herself over the lip of the bank, she could just reach the surface of the river with one hand. She cupped water to her face and wondered how much bacteria she was drinking. Probably not as much as there would be in a river back home. Unless there were cows around. Or beavers. But she didn't care right now. The water was sweet and cold, and she drank as much as she could in one-palm installments.
The water didn't exactly clear her mind, but it did make her more cheerful. She would make it back to Kansas. There had to be something she could do, even if she had to wait until morning.
But she didn't want to wait until morning. She wasn't tired. There was too much adrenaline and worry for that. And she was hungry, and she was trying to find some way home without being caught.
Suddenly, she had a thought. Eli wouldn't give her back to Magdalene. Eli would know where FitzFaeren was. Eli might be able to help her get home without being noticed. He didn't like her any, but from the sound of it, he liked his sister less. He might help Henrietta just to spite her.
Magdalene had said he was lurking in ruined houses by the river. Henrietta had found the river.
That meant that Eli was in one of two directions. She had to pick one and follow the water. And she had to pick right.
She wanted to follow the river into the trees. They weren't that dense here, and she still felt like that direction led away from Magdalene. But she also knew that her directions might be completely turned.
Henrietta bit her lip. Which was more likely? That she had gotten turned around in the dark, or that she had kept her sense of direction perfectly while running through hills at night.
She stood up, and began walking along the river-bank, away from the trees. Odds were that she'd gotten her in
ternal compass twisted. She would go directly against her instincts. They'd gotten her into this mess in the first place. Her instincts were not her friends.
* * *
By the time she had picked through three old cottages and one collapsed mill, Henrietta had no idea how long she had been walking. She'd frightened a cat and screamed, but had nothing else to show for her search. The adrenaline was long gone, and her eyes were heavy.
The sky had cleared, leaving her plenty of light, but that wasn't making her any happier. And then she smelled smoke.
It was a wood fire, but there was something else mixed in with it. Something she would have recognized in any world, any time.
Someone was cooking bacon.
Henrietta sped up, still carefully staying back from the river's edge. After twenty yards or so, the smell had gotten stronger, and other things were mixing in with it. Onions. She climbed over a fallen tree, and there, in front of her, wedged between a rock and a rotten tree trunk, was a tiny cottage. It was more of a shed, actually. Looking around, she could see the ruin of a much bigger house, set a little way back from the river. This was almost a boathouse. For toy boats.
Cloth hung over two window holes, but golden light still poured out through the cracks around the edges.
Henrietta could hear the bacon sizzling. And someone was whistling. Smoke was coming out of a hole in the roof.
She walked straight up to the house and stood outside the window cloth, breathing quietly, swallowing down her hunger. Then she put two fingers on the curtain and pulled it back an inch.
A fire on the dirt floor in the center of the room was being smothered by an enormous frying pan. On one half, bacon hopped and arched its back, trying to avoid the heat. On the other, a mass of mushrooms and onions and eggs and chopped potatoes was being stirred and shuffled around by an old man with a knife. His head was bald, and above his ears, white hair straggled away from his scalp. He had a short beard and was wearing gold wire-rimmed glasses.
Henrietta knew his name.