by Kate Milford
There was a gap right where her left eyetooth ought to have been.
“I needed it to replace one I lost,” she said. “Although you sure came up with some good ideas, and I’m plenty glad I asked for two teeth instead of one.”
You can imagine the Devil got out of there as fast as he could manage without looking like he was trying to get out of there as fast as he could.
And that’s how a scavenger girl with a missing tooth beat the Devil.
INTERLUDE
Negret was right: Maisie liked that story a lot. She applauded energetically along with the others. “So usually the Devil wins?” she asked as Tesserian tugged up the hem of his right trouser leg to retrieve a queen of signs and a two of points from inside the ankle of his sock.
Negret’s smile twitched. “Usually.”
Maisie made a steeple of the two cards and looked up again. “Are there many of those stories?”
“Of the Devil making bets?” Negret glanced from her to Amalgam, whose chair almost directly overlooked the castle construction. “Rather a whole mess of them, yes?”
“I believe I’ve heard Phin tell one or two of those,” Mr. Haypotten said, rubbing his balding head. “I seem to recall something about a guitar player.” He brushed a few crumbs from the sideboard into his pocket.
“There are, in fact, a mess of them,” Amalgam confirmed. “And more than a few with musicians. When it’s a musical challenge, it’s called a duel, or a headcutting. The Devil almost always wins those. I’ve heard there’s one song and one song only that beats the Devil, but it’s a beast to play. Not just anyone can do it.” He stirred his coffee and tapped the spoon on the lip of his cup once, twice. Then he looked at Jessamy Butcher.
The gloved woman had still been seated at the corner table at the start of Negret’s tale, but during the telling she’d strayed closer to the fireplace. Now she faced the flames, her own cup and saucer abandoned on the mantelpiece. “Have you thought of a story yet, Miss Butcher?” Amalgam asked gently.
“Not yet.” Jessamy’s tucked shoulders straightened sharply, awkwardly. “Whose go is it next?” she asked, too brightly. She twirled to survey the room, looking for the next teller with a strange light in her eye—perhaps just a reflection from Sorcha’s well-kept fire; perhaps not—and with that single action, she told her secret to Maisie. Just one twirl, just one rotation, but there was an entire terrible dance within it, to eyes for which motion was its own kind of storytelling.
Jessamy had come in to listen to the song that was everything, the song that even Madame Grisaille could not fail to dance to. But Jessamy had refused to dance. I know that song well. I tried to play it once, but it’s more difficult than it sounds. I was a musician once upon a time, you know.
Maisie choked back a sound as she found the secret and knew the tale without needing to hear it.
Mrs. Haypotten, seeing the girl’s stricken face, misunderstood. “Come, now, we’ve had enough of these dark stories,” she announced. “Enough of peddlers and devils and their shenanigans. Hasn’t anyone got a cheery tale?” She took what passed for the center of the room and looked around it, then clapped her hands together. “Well, then I’ll go next.” She leaned between Reever’s and Amalgam’s chairs and over the card castle to ruffle Maisie’s hair. “You’ll like this one, young lady. Nothing terrible in it at all.”
FIVE
The Queen of Fog
The Collector’s Tale
There was once a town—no, a kingdom, by the sea. And it was just full of all the things that children like: unicorns, fairies, lollipops, and . . . well, I’m sure I don’t see any reason for making that face, Phin. It was just full of lovely things, this town—kingdom—was. And in it was a gir—no, a queen. Let’s just call her . . . what shall we call her, love? Let’s call her Queen Maisie. Sounds just right, I think.
Queen Maisie lived with her auntie, Lady Dorcas, which is a lovely name too, being also my sister’s name, as it happens. (Not the “Lady” bit, of course, just the “Dorcas.”) Anyhow, one day Lady Dorcas sent Maisie—Queen Maisie, that was—out to the seashore to collect up some pretty shells—well, of course, Phin, yes, I suppose it was somewhat irregular, the lady telling the queen what to do. Yes, of course there was a reason. I’m just getting to it, if you’ll let me tell the story.
Lady Dorcas, as I was saying, gently suggested one day that Queen Maisie go out of doors and collect up some pretty shells, which, the kingdom being right there on the coast, it was full of, and beautiful shells they were, too, conch and whelk and horseshoe crab and all of them bright as mother-of-pearl in the right light—Yes, even the horseshoe crab, Phin—which of course there always was, since in that kingdom there was only sunshine and never ra—Phineas Amalgam, if you don’t stop interrup—yes, I suppose it would make things difficult for the farmers, but aren’t you always saying stories can’t tell every single detail or they’d go on forever and lose the plot? So what do you want to hear, how agriculture worked in that place, why the lady sent the queen out, or all the lovely things that happened when the queen went to the beach?
Well, I don’t personally see them as plot holes, you monstrous old know-it-all, I see them as editorial choices, which I’ve often heard you speak of. So let’s move on, shall we? Or are you telling this story and not I?
Now, where had I got in the tale? On the beach, I think. Queen Maisie rode her pet unico—well, that look on our miss Maisie’s face reminds me that perhaps the queen didn’t have a pet unicorn after all. Instead she had a . . . a . . . well, all right, Miss Maisie, I suppose we’ll go with that. She had a three-headed donkey, and its name was Fred-Morty-Tucker, same as my brothers, who, come to think of it, are not unlike a three-headed jackass themselves.
So Queen Maisie and Fred-Morty-Tucker went out to the beach below the castle, and the queen had a nice little basket with her in just exactly the queen’s favorite color, which was what, Miss Maisie? What was the queen’s favorite color, Miss Maisie? Miss . . . well, anyway, let’s say it was a pretty orangey color like those daisies on your shawl. Or are they dahlias? Oh, chrysanthemums. Of course, exactly what I meant. But just that color. And the queen hopped off Fred-Morty-Tucker and took off her shoes in the sunshine and walked across the sand, which was not at all hot on her toes—Now you listen to me, Phin, of course you can have a sunny day and not also have toe-scorching sand. And anyhow, that’s not the point. What is—THE QUEEN TOOK HER BASKET AND COLLECTED SOME SHELLS, YOU OBNOXIOUS OLD FOOL. THAT IS THE POINT. And then she collected Fred-Morty-Tucker, who had wandered off to eat some tasty nettles, and they rode home. And it had been a lovely day at the beach for all.
The—WILL YOU STOP INTERR—oh, excuse me, miss, just say that again? Er . . . well, no, no, of course that isn’t the end. I was just going to tell about all the different kinds of pretty shells that—but I suppose I can skip that part, if you’d rather hear . . . because yes, of course, you’re right, something else must happen. Let me just remember what it was. Not because I don’t know what happens next, you understand. I’m accustomed to doing the shells first, you see. Trips me up a bit, telling it out of order. But as you wish. Let me think.
Just a moment more, it’s right on the tip of my brain.
What was that, Sorcha?
Yes, I believe you’re right. Thank you for reminding me.
Queen Maisie was just on her way back to where Fred-Morty-Tucker was chomping at the nettles, when she spotted—what did you say, Sorcha?—a washerwoman by the sea. And when Queen Maisie introduced herself, the woman looked up and said, “Of course I recognize our sweet, good, kind queen, Your Majesty! You surprised me, is all. My name is”—what was it, Sorcha? Oh, yes—“Bean-Knee,” said the washerwoman.
Bean-Knee, Sorcha? Really? What on earth sort of name is Bean-Knee?
. . . Oh, my. Really? Good Lord, that’s dreadful. Never mind. I’ve just remembered it wasn’t Bean-Knee that Queen Maisie met there at the water’s edge. It was—
What’s that, Miss Maisie?
You’d like for the queen to meet Bean-Knee?
But—but my dear, did you hear who Bean-Knee is? What it means for the queen to meet her?
You did?
And you’d still like sweet, good, kind Queen Maisie to meet her there by the sea?
Good Lord. Children are macabre little beasts, aren’t you?
I had really meant to end the story with a birthday party, you know. Candles and fireworks and cake with the queen’s name in icing of that pretty orangey color, or any color you like, if you’d rather a different. Presents and games and so forth, with the queen winning a special prize of . . . of a new frock! A new frock with a . . . a matching hat! And both of them made of . . . of the feathers of a bird that grants wishes! Doesn’t that sound nice? That, of course, was why Lady Dorcas had sent her out. Because it was going to be a surprise, you see, which obviously I couldn’t have said at the beginning, or it might have spoiled everything, Phin. Sometimes the plot holes are there strategic-like, so endings don’t get spoiled.
Except now we’re going to have to ditch all that, if Queen Maisie really meets Bean-Knee. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer the party, dear? They could bob for apples.
No?
Fine.
Queen Maisie walked up to Bean-Knee, and it was a good thing for her that she’d spotted Bean-Knee before the washerwoman spotted her, because if Bean-Knee spots you first, all sorts of awfulness can happen to you. But as it happened—What sorts of . . . ? Well, really, Miss Maisie! I wonder at you, wanting to hear all these dreadful things. You’ll have nightmares.
You have them already?
Oh.
Well, then I suppose I can tell you that if Bean-Knee had spotted the queen first, the queen would have lost the use of her limbs, for one thing, and fallen over helpless into the surf, where perhaps she might have drowned, or a sea creature might have come and carried her off. I’m sure you’re about to ask what sorts of sea creatures, and I suppose no friendly mermaids or sea cows will do, so you might as well know that the waters off the coast of the queen’s land were simply infested with golevants.
You’ve never heard of golevants?
That’s funny; I thought everyone knew about those. There was a rhyme when I was a girl that people used to say. I think the idea was to keep us off the rocks out at Morrawhick Point, for it was at least once a season that someone lost a child or a best friend on those rocks or the waters below them. Anyhow, it went:
The rocks are tall, the rocks are slick;
Don’t climb up at Morrawhick,
For in the waters off that shoal,
The golevants will eat you whole.
Except, of course, it isn’t terrible enough, the idea of monsters eating one whole, is it? Because then you might survive in their bellies until someone came along to get you out with a strategic sneeze or bit of vomiting or a good sharp fillet knife, like Red Riding Hood or Pinocchio and Geppetto or Jonah. No, there was a second verse, if I recall, one that explained in detail that by “eat you whole” the writer didn’t mean you’d be guzzled down in one gulp, but rather chomped slowly to pieces, the whole of you, beginning with the toes and ending with your screaming head. It didn’t say precisely what a golevant looked like, though, now I think of it. I always thought of them as—well. Never mind.
The point is, the queen saw Bean-Knee first, and called out her hello, so then Bean-Knee had to reply, bound as she was by tradition and the laws of politeness, which apply doubly to uncanny things. Let it be a lesson, Miss Maisie. Always be polite, for a hello-how-are-you is as good as a salt ring to many a supernatural creature. Also good manners is good manners, no matter where you go.
Well, Bean-Knee replied politely enough, but she immediately began folding up her washing. And Queen Maisie was such a good, kind girl that when she saw this, she immediately reached down for a piece of cloth to help the washerwoman finish her work. And from that moment on, Bean-Knee couldn’t leave until such time as the queen handed that piece of laundry back. You see? Politeness and manners pays, because if Bean-Knee had run off, Queen Maisie might never have learned a secret that would change her life.
She was folding that one bit of cloth when Queen Maisie realized it was just exactly the double of her favorite nightgown, only stained all over in rust-colored patches, and raggedy holes all over, too. “I say,” said she, “this looks just like one of mine. How funny. How did it get ruined so?”
Bean-Knee sighed. Because, you see, since Queen Maisie had spotted her first and since she held a piece of the washerwoman’s cloth, Bean-Knee was bound to answer truthfully. And so she said, reluctantly but honestly, “It is yours, Your Majesty, and it came that way because that is how yours will look in the morning, after Lady Dorcas has had you killed and taken your crown.”
Oh, dear. That took a rather morbid turn. But I warned you, didn’t I? Sorcha said Bean-Knee washes the shrouds of the dead, and I offered you a birthday party instead. But here we are: golevants in the water and murder in the castle.
Queen Maisie took this very much in stride. “I suppose that’s why she sent me out for shells, isn’t it?” she asked.
“No,” the washerwoman answered. “She sent you out for shells because she is going to throw you the best-ever birthday party, with cake and presents and games and apple-bobbing and fireworks, and she’s busy setting it up. Just the very best party you could have wished for. Then she’ll kill you after, when you’re sleeping off all the sugar you’ve eaten.”
Queen Maisie hugged the bloody nightgown to her chest. “Is there nothing I can do?”
The washerwoman pointed to the nightgown. “If you had not caught me before I finished washing that, there would be nothing. But you have, and so you may be able to stop it.”
“How?” the queen asked.
Bean-Knee shook her head. “I am obliged to answer only three questions, and that question makes four. But you’re a kind girl, and I appreciate that you tried to help me with the folding.” She turned and rummaged in a work basket full of bottles that sat beside her on the beach and took one out.
Now, here I am going to tell you exactly what Bean-Knee said when she gave this bottle to Queen Maisie. I don’t say that I agree with it, but it’s what the washerwoman said, and I will relay it faithfully, because the alternative is lollipops, and you’ve rejected those.
I suppose really you’re a bit too old to be satisfied with lollipops. I apologize.
The washerwoman said, “You’re a good, kind, sweet girl. And goodness and kindness will take you a long way on the right sort of day, and if I could make one wish for you, Your Majesty, and for all of your friends, it would be that you never meet anyone undeserving of your noble heart. But the truth is, there are people out there who will throw you a birthday party in the afternoon and kill you in the evening, and that’s a sad fact of this terrible world. You cannot save yourself unless you can become a different sort of person when you need to.”
“Become a different sort of person?” Queen Maisie repeated, and she was fearful. “Will I turn back afterward?”
The washerwoman smiled sadly. “That’s your fifth question, and I’m not obligated to answer it. But surely you understand that whether you succeed or fail, you will never again be a girl who no one has tried to kill.”
For a moment, Queen Maisie cried, and I think we can forgive her for that.
The washerwoman put a hand on her shoulder. “But I suspect,” she said quite gently, “if you succeed—if you survive—you will discover something new about yourself that you will be glad to know. You will find that you are brave. And not because you had to become brave, but because you were brave all along. So there is that, if it is a consolation.” And here she put the bottle from her basket into Queen Maisie’s hand.
Queen Maisie examined the bottle. Inside was something like a swirling mist, gray-blue and shifting. Maisie began to ask what was in it, but of course that would have been her sixth question, and
she didn’t want to push her luck. Fortunately there was a label pasted to the glass, and the one word written on it was FOG.
Now, of course you can be sure that questions seven, eight, and nine were also on the tip of the queen’s tongue as she looked at the washerwoman’s bottle. But Bean-Knee was not obliged to answer any more, so the queen didn’t ask.
“By your leave, Your Majesty,” Bean-Knee said, because one doesn’t take one’s leave from royalty without you get their say-so, and also because, since Queen Maisie was still holding that ruined nightgown, the washerwoman couldn’t just go anyhow, not without being granted permission.
“Yes, of course,” Queen Maisie said, and she held out the nightgown.
“Oh, you mustn’t give that back to me,” Bean-Knee told her. “If you give it back, I must wash it, and then all hope is lost. Not to mention,” she said with a wink, “who’s to say it won’t come in useful?”
So the queen and the washerwoman parted ways. Queen Maisie put the bottle of fog and the nightgown into the bottom of her sunset-colored basket, and then she piled shells on top of it. Then she went back to the nettle patch where Fred-Morty-Tucker was still munching.
“That was odd, no?” asked Fred.
“Could’ve knocked me over with a nettle,” said Morty.
“What’s our plan?” asked Tucker, who was the pragmatic one.
“I’m not sure,” said Queen Maisie as she mounted up. “But anyhow, let’s go get this stupid party over with.”
And it was no easy feat, pretending to care about the cake and games and apples and the basket-colored frock. It had even occurred to Queen Maisie that the dress might be poisoned—such things happened, after all, out there in the world—but then she remembered the state of the nightgown she’d gotten from Bean-Knee, which certainly looked more like the aftermath of a stabbing, and anyhow, if the plan was for the new dress to kill her, she’d never have been wearing the nightgown to die in. So when Lady Dorcas suggested she go and try it on, Queen Maisie agreed. She had been told about the wishing-bird feather-trimmings, so as she put on the frock and hat, she tried desperately to wish the whole situation different—but of course nothing happened. You can’t pluck a magic bird for a dress and still expect it to grant wishes for you. So Maisie sat in that dress out on the balcony with her dearest friends as the sun went down and fireworks exploded over the sea, which I don’t need to tell you drove the golevants positively out of their minds, so that the fireworks reflected off of waters as choppy as Queen Maisie’s heart and mind. She still had not figured out what to do with the bottle of fog, and it was nearly bedtime.