Ivy bent down and picked something up.
“An acorn!” She cupped it. It was surprisingly heavy.
“It’s solid silver!” Rowan gasped.
Looking around, closer now, they saw that the oak leaves appeared to be made of silver as well; they tinkled pleasantly in a slight breeze.
“Acorn,” Ivy whispered. “Means eternal life, right? Do you think it’s Flower Code?” Ivy was beginning to see a larger connection between herself and the world all around her, but before she could say so, Rowan spoke.
“Or imminent death,” Rowan whimpered, remembering. “It depends on how it is presented.”
Ivy was silent.
“Axle says that nature has retreated and does not want to be interpreted. Right now, I hope he’s right,” Rowan added.
The pair stood before a path. It was a meandering one, and as they stepped forward, the great oaks accompanied them along their way, bowing low in welcome and knitting a basket above Ivy’s and Rowan’s heads from smaller branches. A jackdaw twittered a complicated song.
They walked for some time, lulled by the wood. Astonished, the friends watched as the acorns and oak leaves turned from silver to gold, and then back to silver.
“Haven’t we already been this way?” Rowan demanded. “The leaves are silver again, and I could swear we passed that low branch there earlier.”
Ivy stopped and looked around.
“I don’t know.”
A wind had picked up, and the metallic sound from the trees was a fury of chimes. A few acorns fell roughly to the ground beside them.
“I think you’re right—we’ve been walking in circles,” she decided. Suddenly the forest seemed more like a maze.
“I think we’re lost,” Rowan said hopelessly.
“Nonsense.” Ivy crossed her arms. They were so close to the King—she could feel it!
The light was dimmer now, and a storm was picking up. Above, the great trees bent and swayed, and soon a hailstorm of silver acorns began pelting down upon them.
“Oww!” Rowan, who had been attempting to collect the acorns, gave up and ran for cover.
Whosoever speaks to the trees speaks to the King, Ivy thought.
“I am Ivy Manx!” she shouted. She raised high the acorn that she still clutched. For her efforts, she received a nasty strike to the cheek—a welt rose up, and indeed, a bruise would appear and last for weeks.
“Ivy!” Rowan called, desperate. “They’re coming down everywhere!”
There was no safe haven from the streaking acorns, and Rowan cowered beneath his arms. Whereas one silver acorn was a novelty to the former taster, hundreds falling from the sky were suddenly an abomination—and, clearly, quite dangerous. Rowan shut his eyes.
“I am Ivy Manx—and you will let me pass!” he heard his friend say.
Something happened then.
With a loud crack, followed by a reverberating rattle, the world shifted.
Ivy was suddenly back in the barn, and she was alone. Flecks of dust caught shards of moonlight from above, filling the air with glittering constellations. Pinholes in the roof threw down spears of silver, and Ivy saw that above the grange’s first story rose another, blanketed in dust and pigeons’ roosts. Severe windows pierced the walls in several places along the way and provided Ivy with enough light to wonder at the dim vision that now rose before her.
A set of pillars, unlikely in a barn, of the densest marble and highest polish stretched the height of the room, and they were crowded with ivy and creepers—heavy and old. Ivy’s eyes were drawn to the recess between the pillars, but something was there that stirred great fear within her. Gathering her courage, she looked, and saw an unforgettable throne of such majesty she inexplicably started crying.
A figure was seated on the throne.
The man before her was grave and dispassionate, and very old. It appeared to be raining on him—a gentle, persistent rain, and one that the King showed no proclivity to address. His blue eyes were clouded over, but he sat tall and defiant. His hair grew long, a cloud of spun wool that cascaded to his shoulders and draped to the floor—where it intertwined with his similarly long beard. Each was covered in silk ribbons, everywhere, tied at chaotic intervals. His robes were of an unnameable green—the color of spring, perhaps, or summer, or the underside of a rock. They were plush with embroideries, woven strands of gold and rich colors that moved about seemingly on their own. The garments fell heavily to his knees. His hand rested on his lap, in which he clutched a book, bound with chains and sealed with an ancient lock.
“Ivy,” came a voice, a voice of the wind, of the wood. “Your name means friendship.”
Ivy was silent.
“Let me gaze upon you. You remind me of someone whom I loved greatly.”
Ivy took a tentative step forward, and as she did, she noticed the King shrink—as if struck. She stopped.
“You have her face. Violet—my daughter’s.”
Ivy examined the King’s dull eyes—they were the saddest she had ever seen.
“King Verdigris,” she began, “the Prophecy …”
King Verdigris’s grip tightened upon the locked book in his lap, and she stepped forward again. Once more the King cringed.
Ivy looked closer at the throne upon which the ancient King rested. This was not easy, as there was an embroidered tapestry draped across the King’s knees. The tapestry itself wanted to be admired—it was of the same quality as the very ones in Templar, and seemed lively and pulsating. But it was the throne now that Ivy wished to see, and it appeared to be of the densest wood, with a dark stain. Upon further examination, Ivy saw that it was not solid but rather a mass of trained branches impossibly growing in concert in the shape of a cathedra, or royal seat. The rain poured down upon it, soaking and strengthening it.
With a sick feeling, she realized the throne was fashioned of hawthorn. Hawthorn binds people and imprisons souls, she remembered Axle saying. There was no place where one might say the King began and the throne ended. And still the rain fed the awful scene. The ornate chair was a part of him, growing into and from him, and with each of Ivy’s steps, the barbs stabbed further into the great King’s flesh. King Verdigris’s old skin was thin and transparent, and beneath it a thicket of veins could be seen—a dark, brown, woody color.
If grief and sadness had physical form, it would look very much like this throne, Ivy thought. How had the King allowed this to happen? She began weeping.
“How am I to help you?” she sobbed. Her tears landed with loud authority upon the sawdust floor, and small pools sprang up, reflecting the moonlight at her feet.
“There is something I need you to do,” the King said.
She noticed a box before her. She leaned down to examine it—after assuring herself that this action would cause the King no further pain. It was tied with a ribbon.
“What is this?” she asked.
The King lifted a thin finger, and the box sprang open. Inside, Ivy saw a peculiar pair of matching stones. They were beset with deep, patterned grooves and were a pale gray, tinged with pink.
“Plant these,” the King directed.
“What are they?”
“They are an old King’s burden.”
“A burden?” Ivy looked again in the box, frowning. They were not rocks at all but the pits from a summer fruit—a plum, perhaps, or a peach, but different, too. New and foreign. They smelled strange.
“Where shall I plant them?” She felt the pits. They were a bit too heavy for their size, and something about their touch was repellent. She returned them to their box quickly, closing the lid.
“In Caux. Where they belong.”
Ivy nodded.
“How will I know where to plant them?”
“You will see when it is time. But do it quickly—before they become your burden, too. Although I fear they already are.”
Just how a matching set of plum stones could be so much trouble Ivy now wondered.
“Find
me here when you are done. I will be ready for you.”
Caux! Ivy stood, frozen, an awful feeling welling up inside her. Breaux’s warning! She had forgotten to take with her something that grows from the earth of Caux! How was she to ever get home?
She wheeled about, looking for Rowan, but the barn door was nowhere to be found. She was back among the silver and gold of the great oaks.
Chapter Eighty-four
The Thorn
Ivy reeled, turning back to the King.
“Please—I need to speak with my friend!”
But the King and his awful throne were gone, and what remained was a small patch of damp earth, as if it had just rained. A barn owl was perched upon the nearest tree branch, and, seeing Ivy, he opened his mouth to cry but changed his mind, snapping it shut. The bird was simply enormous, snowy white, flecked with gray.
She fought to stay calm, but this was a preposterous exercise. On silent wings, the owl now flew a small ways off—settling again on a low branch, bobbing his neck and staring calmly at her with his round eyes. Grasping the box with the plum stones inside, she turned and set off after him.
It was not long before Ivy saw something through the trees.
Rowan stood before the barn entrance against Pimcaux’s night sky—he was but a speck in the distance. He was still so far away, and Ivy had the impression he was calling to her—both his hands were cupped beside his mouth, and he strained forward. Evidently her mother had overcome her apprehension, for she was by his side, pulling his arm. Ivy watched as Rowan tried to shake her off, but Clothilde’s grip was too strong.
Ivy ran, turning once to look for the owl, who was, quite strangely, flapping silently by her side. The golds and silvers of the leaves streaked like comets behind the bird as he kept pace with her. More tingling—as if she ran through a curtain of cobwebs—and she was there. She nearly stumbled into Rowan.
“Ivy! I thought you were lost! Where did you go?” He shook free of Clothilde’s grasp and, casting her a rebellious look, straightened his suit. “She wanted to leave without you—”
“Mr. Foxglove is coming!” Clothilde announced urgently. “He must not find us!”
Ivy barely listened. She pulled at the taster’s coat, untidying it again, and for her efforts received a scowl.
“Rowan! We forgot to bring something that grows from the earth—the earth of Caux! Professor Breaux’s warning!” she cried, searching first Rowan’s exasperated face, which became immediately pale and downcast at the thought of his future in this new land.
“Think!” Rowan was panicked. “You must have something!”
Ivy shook her head. “My poison kit is in Rocamadour! There is nothing. Oh, Rowan! What are we going to do? We need to go back! King Verdigris told me to plant these in Caux.” She brandished the small box. The stones clinked inside. “It’s urgent.”
“Hurry!” Clothilde wrung her hands, peering behind her desperately. “He’s nearly here!”
Ivy looked at her mother crossly and thought about the disturbing figure of the King upon his hopeless hawthorn throne.
Hawthorn! she thought.
“Rowan,” Ivy cried, remembering. “Your thorn!”
Ivy pushed Rowan’s jacket and shirt aside and inspected the dark barb that was all that remained from the hawthorn forest, just below the skin. She pinched at it, but Rowan’s skin had healed over. She needed something sharp.
“Mother—come here.”
To her surprise, Clothilde dutifully obeyed.
“I need one of your hairpins—quickly.”
Her mother felt her hair, now unusually wild, and, sure enough, produced a silver hairpin—one that had pricked Ivy’s little finger atop the Craggy Burls what seemed like so long ago. Taking it, Ivy touched the glinting shaft to Rowan’s ribs. An eerie, cold numbness spread across his chest. As Ivy plucked at the thorn, Rowan felt nothing. But he contemplated an unusual thought: the remnants of the ancient tree that imprisons souls, the hawthorn of Caux, seemed to be of some use after all. If Ivy was right, it would be bringing them home.
At last, Ivy had the thorn. The wound was clean and already beginning to close. The barb wasn’t much to look at—small, brown, a splinter of dead wood. Sharp. But when Ivy held it up, it began to grow. First, it sprouted to life with merely a small tendril, unfurling cautiously, but soon it was growing small leaves, and not long after that it abandoned all tentativeness and expanded with growing strength and thickness. Ivy placed it on the earthen landing beside the grange and stepped back. It had fashioned itself into a twisting arbor.
An archway of bramble.
Looking through, Ivy could not see much within the doorway—a small, friendly-looking splash of greenery, as if very far away, through thick mists and swirling cloud, there might be a sort of garden. The archway formed a shady hall, a long and winding path. She was aware of a scented air calling to her with all the verdure of Caux.
From behind them came the sound of coughing, sputtering, and a litany of curses. Flux was nearing.
Ivy looked about the King’s domain, the dark hill and the field below—stretching to the night sea. The strange stars were out, shining upon the velvet ocean. Above her somewhere were Klair and Lofft, and she thought a quick goodbye. Ivy clasped Rowan’s hand in hers. Holding the box from the King tight against her chest, together they stepped through the garden archway.
Chapter Eighty-five
The Ring
Sorrel Flux had reconsidered his decision to let the Manx girl attend to her loony great-grandfather. His interest was piqued by the mention of this ink of which she had spoken, and he debated the ink’s various merits to himself for several minutes until its importance had grown to great proportions. His mind kept returning to the simple fact that if his former master, Vidal Verjouce, was devoting himself to its manufacture, then there must be some gloriously horrible—and momentous—reason. Like a moth, a small and unlovely moth, it was Flux’s character to be attracted to a flame.
And this ink flickered like fire.
So Sorrel Flux wrapped his cape around himself tightly and, with eager footsteps, flitted by the perky alewife in his parlor. Crossing the field to the old grange, and stepping over the prone body of his guard with little emotion, he determined to finally put an end to that awful Manx child once and for all. She was of no further use, and since there was very little that Flux liked about children in general, he would take great pleasure in plying her with something deadly—returning the favor for the year he had suffered in her dreary tavern. Only the most awful of poisons, the most painful of poisons, would do. He drew himself up.
Incredibly, before him stood the tiny alewife. How had the midget gotten past him?
He blinked.
“Step aside,” he intoned. If necessary, he could easily jump upon her.
Wilhelmina skipped forward.
“I don’t think so,” she quipped in her eternally optimistic fashion.
“No?” Flux laughed, a slight snort, and then a hiccup, finishing it off.
“No.”
And with that, she drew from her small, dainty hand one of her wondrous rings, a jewel as delicate as a soap bubble. She raised her hand and threw the thing, and it landed at Flux’s feet. As it hit the ground, it bounced once, and Flux looked down at it nervously. Still, there it sat. A full moment passed, and Flux looked at Wilhelmina wickedly.
With a grim smile, he leaned down to grab it—it was, after all, sparkly and reflected him nicely—and it was then that Wilhelmina’s ring made a remarkable transformation. No longer a ring at all, it was now, amazingly, a vast lake that separated her from Flux, a lake with thick drifts of sea fog upon it. And the shock of the appearance of such a deep pool before him caused the already off-balance Flux to topple in.
He was, at best, a poor swimmer, having had little to do with water as a child. And since he had swallowed a great deal of it in his surprise, and since his heart was heavy with malice, he was finding it quite hard to stay aflo
at.
Sorrel Flux gasped and choked—and began to sink.
Chapter Eighty-six
Caucus
Stepping through the thorn door, Ivy and Rowan did not return to the Tasters’ Guild—quite thankfully for both of them. Nor did they arrive at Templar, which had grown lonely and dispirited in their absence as the people of Caux restlessly awaited the fulfillment of the Prophecy. They did not find themselves at Axle’s trestle, amid his many stacks of enchanted Verdigris books, the quiet river flowing beneath it.
Instead, they stood before the seven majestic tapestries, returned to their home deep beneath the forest floor in Underwood, the garden archway growing from the living roots of the regal retreat’s wall. It took Rowan a moment to realize that they had arrived before the final panel, the one that held Ivy’s crow captive. The garden scene rippled, and here and there little bluebells popped into bloom. But one important thing was missing from the tapestry—or, rather, two. The mysterious lady in white—and Ivy’s crow, Shoo.
Rowan turned to Ivy, but she shouted first.
“Underwood is alive! Isn’t it wonderful?”
Rowan nodded. Indeed, the brown and dying roots from Southern Wood above were growing once more, infused with life. Upon the walls, the tapestries before them rippled as if made from wind—lines stretched and puckered, and in a dizzying display the borders of the panels became indistinct.
All except one.
The nighttime panel was silent, eerily so. It was quite lifeless. As the children inspected it, Rowan was again reminded of the sensation of being pulled in.
“I know this place,” Ivy whispered. The rough wool obliterated the light within, and the once-tidy garden of Verjouce’s imagination was overrun with spiky weeds. Seeing it again filled her with dread. “It’s my father’s Mind Garden.”
From behind them came a voice, and both Ivy and Rowan jumped. They had not arrived alone.
“It took Cecil long enough to return the tapestries to their rightful place,” Clothilde sniffed, brushing an inchworm from her arm. She turned next to the task of smoothing her black hair into a neat bun, returning the hairpin to its proper place. Standing quite straight, Clothilde was suddenly the picture of her old self. She looked about Underwood as if she owned it.
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