The Twistrose Key

by Tone Almhjell

  They were driving down a long slope rimmed at the bottom by the river, picking up speed with every step. A lofty bridge of white stone curved over the frozen water, and beyond it, a large town spread out on the shore of the lake like a rumpled quilt of light and wooden houses.

  Teodor offered no explanation for his request. He just hunched his back against the wind and harrumphed, impatiently, Lin thought. She pulled the covers down from the seat and huddled beneath them. Rufus leaned over her, pretending to tuck the blanket into place. “The masks,” he breathed into her ear. “You can use them to see through.”

  The sides of the sleigh were carved with fox faces that all had holes for eyes. From the inside they also doubled as masks. Lin shifted so her face pressed against the polished grain of the wood, squinting against the wind as the landscape rushed by outside.

  The horse galloped up the arch of the bridge, bringing the sleigh over the top and down again in one smooth pull. On the other side, the road widened into a broad street lined with small, snug houses painted in reds and blues and purples. A lush pile of snow lay on every roof and turret and on top of the wrought-iron lampposts that shed a warm light onto the streets. Frost roses obscured the many-paned windows. Some of the houses had a carved sign of lacquered wood mounted on a rod beneath the gable. Lin saw signs shaped like a curled bun, a ski, a winter apple, a stunted shoe.

  Petlings appeared in great numbers as they moved along the street, and soon they were teeming about the sleigh. Teodor climbed off the driver’s seat to guide the little horse through the crowd, and Rufus took the opportunity to whisper down to Lin beneath the covers, pointing out members of all the five Petling clans. She soon grasped that cats were Felines, dogs were Canines, all birds were Beaks, and the horses were Hoofs.

  “And I,” Rufus added, “am a Rodent. We’re not the most powerful of clans, but I like to think that we’re the cleverest.”

  Some of the Petlings wore coats and breeches over their feathers and furs, others carried leather satchels or clumped along in heavy boots. But all except for the Hoofs were roughly the same size and carried themselves like people, whether they were peddling candy or playing flutes for coins or ambling at leisure with their muzzles in steaming cups of hot drinks.

  “See that ermine?” Rufus said as they approached a sleek, white weasel who sold smoked fish from a cart. “See how twitchy she looks? That’s one way Wilders differ from Petlings. They have never lived among humans, so the city makes them nervous. Most of them like to keep to their old ways—in the woods.” The weasel scanned the street, head whipping back and forth. “Hello, Mikula!” Rufus called, pointing to one of the many posters of the Wanderer surrounded by streaky fireworks. “See you in the Square tonight!”

  The weasel inclined her head, but her nostrils flared as the sleigh passed, as if she’d caught a most interesting scent.

  “She’s here for Wanderer’s Eve,” Rufus added for Lin’s ears only. “That’s why the streets are so crowded. The preparations for the feast have been going on for weeks, and there will be music and food in the Great Square, maybe fireworks, too, or so the rumors say. No one knows exactly what to expect, save the House elders. They are the only ones who were here the last time the Wanderer visited.”

  Sylveros was hilly, and as they moved deeper into the town, the street rose and fell a dozen times. Teodor clicked his tongue and led the horse into a quiet side street where the paneled houses leaned so close that Lin saw nothing but walls from her hiding place. Rufus scampered onto the driver’s seat.

  “But this is Peppersnap Nook! Aren’t we going to the House?”

  “No. You would draw far too much attention to yourselves. We will talk at my place.”

  They pulled up in front of a red house. It was larger than the other buildings on the street and had a handsome front door, a double gate that led on to a backyard, and even a little turret. But the paint was peeling and the windows were thick and smoky. From a rod under the eaves hung a sign shaped like a quill. Lin thought the nib had once been gilded.

  Teodor walked over to the gate to unlatch it. His gait seemed stiff and cramped, and his tail hung slack from his coat.

  “What does the quill mean?” Lin whispered up to Rufus on the driver’s seat.

  “The signs are an old Sylveros tradition. They used to show what every house owner did for a living. These days they’re mostly used by shops and artisans, and by Sylverings that have been here a very long time. Teodor is chief chronicler at the House. He keeps records of Sylver events and history, and his work is highly respected. Hence the golden pen.”

  Lin’s savior turned toward her so she could see his face for the first time. Gray had replaced almost all the red on his muzzle, his eyes were wet and rimmed in pink, and when he spoke, his teeth showed yellow and cracked. No fox that old would survive a winter in the woods, she knew. But Teodor’s irises shone golden and clear inside their black rings. They reminded her of glass beads in the skull of one of Mrs. Ichalar’s mounted beasts.

  “Come here, Rufocanus!” he said. “I require a word.”

  Rufus jumped out of the sleigh and trudged over to the gate. Teodor spoke to him, too quietly for Lin to catch the words. She could tell that Rufus was unhappy, though. His brow was furrowed, and he was scraping snow into a little pile with his feet. Teodor held out his paw. Rufus muttered a reply and shrugged.

  “You’ve lost it?” Teodor’s voice rose to a growl. “Are you utterly useless? Have you any idea what this means?”

  “I’m sorry,” Rufus said. “I’ll try to find it.”

  “You had better!” Teodor threw his hands up and stalked toward the sleigh, old boots creaking. “Attend the horse!” he barked over his shoulder to Rufus, and then said to Lin under the covers: “Come with me, fresher. We’ve precious little time as it is. But make sure you keep the hat on and your head down.”

  He fished a key out of his briefcase and unlocked the front door. Lin caught Rufus’s eyes over the rim of the sleigh. The vole nodded. “You should go with him. I’ll be in as soon as I can.” Nudging the gate open, he sighed, “Come along, Fabian. I imagine you’re rather cold and tired as well.”

  To Lin’s surprise, Fabian answered in a very refined voice. “Am I ever! I could certainly do with some caramel oats and a rubdown.” The horse continued listing his various needs and cravings as they disappeared into the backyard. “A hot blanket wouldn’t go amiss. And if you could change my book, that would be perfect. I keep telling Teodor that Hoofs need assistance with such things, but you know how distracted he can get . . .”

  Lin climbed out of the sleigh in her makeshift disguise. Her pajamas were wet and her bandaged foot unhappy to be plunged into the snow again. She still didn’t know why she couldn’t show her face, but it had her nerves on edge. Shivering, she pulled the hat down and her cardigan tight and hobbled up the steps. Teodor had left the front door ajar. As Lin slipped through it, she noticed it had a stained-glass window depicting three leaping tongues of fire.

  The long and narrow hallway immediately felt familiar to her. The rickety stairs to the upper floors reminded her of Morello House on Summerhill, and the air smelled faintly of dung and hay like Uncle Anders’s barn clothes. In the red and violet light that poured through the stained glass, Lin could see that the paneled walls were covered by photographs of Petlings, buildings, and winter landscapes in dusty frames.

  “Girl!”

  Teodor glared at her from the end of the hallway. “This way.”

  Lin followed him into a dim room that smelled of dry paper and leather. The old fox got down on his knees to kindle a fire in a blackened soapstone fireplace. Soon a wavering, reddish glow pushed the darkness into the corners, and Lin saw that this must be Teodor’s library. But it did not at all resemble the prim rows of plastic-covered and labeled titles she was used to from the public library in the city. In fact, even her father’s
sprawling hoard of meteorological books and clippings seemed neat compared to this.

  Bookcases filled the walls from ceiling to floor and threatened to close the small gap where the room’s only window held its own. There were more books in stacks on the floor and desk, buckled old tomes bound in leather with specks of gold on their spines. On a three-legged table flanked by two worn armchairs sat an inkwell, a sand pot, and a quill. Teodor’s briefcase with its clasps of stained silver stood next to the table.

  The old fox pushed the chairs closer to the fire and swung a sooty teakettle over the flames. “Sit here. You must get your strength back after that barefoot trek through the woods. I really don’t know what Rufus was thinking.”

  He shuffled out of the room and returned with a knitted blanket, a robe that stank of mothballs, and a small jug of milk. Lin took off the hat and hung her cardigan to dry before the fire, then wrapped herself in the robe and blanket and climbed into an armchair. There she sank into the dark brown plush seat, toasting her feet. She wanted to ask why Teodor was so gruff with Rufus, but she was afraid he’d transfer his anger to her.

  “I’m glad you showed up when you did,” she said cautiously.

  “You should be,” said Teodor as he eased into the other chair, tugging his coat straight and draping his tail over the farthest armrest. “I don’t often go sleighing at dusk.”

  He regarded her closely, and for a much longer time than any human would find polite. To avoid his gaze, Lin let her own eyes wander to the doorway, where Rufus made no sign of appearing, and the parchment rolls that stuck out of clay pots, and the clutter on Teodor’s desk. They fastened on a table clock of gleaming wood. She squinted. Was she mistaken, or did it show nine minutes to four? Up on the ridge, Rufus had said that it was just after three o’clock. Surely they must have spent more time than a short hour in the woods? Suddenly she remembered something else he had said, too. I’ve been waiting for hours. Do you have any idea how long that is here? Was there something wrong with time in this place?

  Teodor nodded with a lopsided smile that reminded her oddly of her father. “That’s right, girl. Time flows differently in Sylver.”

  “Rufus mentioned something about that. It goes more slowly?”

  “An hour here can be a day in your world, or a day can be a week, we never know. And it’s all because of you.”

  “Me?” Lin shifted in her seat. It made her uneasy that Teodor had known what she was thinking about the table clock. Now he grinned with his cracked teeth as if he knew that, too.

  “Not you in particular, but your kind. Let me ask you this: Have you ever sat in your room, finding the afternoon impossibly dull and long? Or spent a day playing some game and been surprised by nightfall?” He shuffled over to the desk and brought back the clock with its ivory dial behind black roman numerals, placing it on the table between them. “When you are young, you perceive time in a way that has little to do with mechanics and measured units. And what the young people of Earth perceive, or experience, or feel has consequences here. Go on. Touch it. What do your fingers tell you?”

  The clock felt warm against Lin’s skin. In the wood, there was a sign engraved, three leaves filled with unfamiliar letters. The clockwork buzzed, not in the tick-tock rhythm of Mrs. Ichalar’s grandfather clocks, but speeding up and skipping beats under Lin’s fingertips.

  “It’s like a heart.”

  “Just so.” Teodor smiled again. “The passage of time is not the only thing that is affected. Nearly every creature who lives here was once loved by a child of Earth, and loved the child in return. That bond was so strong that when the animals died, they woke up here in Sylver to live a second life.”

  “When they died,” Lin repeated. “Does that mean that I am . . . ?”

  Teodor shook his head. “No. You are responsible for the presence in this world of Rufocanus of Rosenquist, because of the love you two share. But you yourself are here by different means. By invitation, as it were. We have a task for you. A puzzle.”

  Lin felt her cheeks flush with relief. A puzzle. Now, that was something she could do. Compared to the idea of possibly being dead, it seemed rather comforting.

  “What sort of puzzle?”

  Teodor bent down and picked up his briefcase. At his touch, the silver clasps sprang open and the lid flew up, but the old fox tilted the opening away from Lin so the contents remained hidden. He took out a photograph and placed it next to the clock.

  A dark-haired human boy of Lin’s age stared up at her with sapphire eyes. He sat in a window seat, clutching an orb of glass that glowed silver milk and golden white like a captured star. Though he smiled faintly for the camera, there was something about the pull of his mouth that made Lin think this boy was very sad.

  “This is Isvan Winterfyrst. He has been missing for five weeks. Disappeared from his home without a trace, without so much as a scent for an old fox to catch.”

  Lin waited for more, but Teodor lapsed into another silence, caught by the sad boy’s gaze. “I see,” she said at last. “And my task is to find him?”

  “Your task is to find him tonight. While the Wanderer still shines on our valley.”

  Teodor gave Lin a sideways look as he closed the lid on his briefcase. “I see the word ‘why’ on your face. Good. If you are to succeed, you will need to ask questions, and the right ones. This . . .” His paw hovered over the gold and silver orb in Isvan’s photo. “. . . is Isvan’s snow globe. It is the source of all his life and magic. His soul.”

  “Then he’s not human?”

  “No. The Winterfyrsts are glacial kin. Their flesh is shaped of ice, not born like ours. Of all the creatures in Sylver, they are the most strange and powerful, but also the most rare. Their numbers have quietly dwindled over the years, until only Isvan remained, the last of his people. And this is why we need you to find him tonight. At the celebration of Wanderer’s Eve, Isvan must be there. He must perform the most important of all Winterfyrst magic: the Wandersnow.”

  From her father’s books, Lin knew the basic principles of snow: low pressure and cold fronts and freezing temperatures so it would settle. But what sort of snow would come from magic? Teodor clicked his tongue. “The Wandersnow is not a thing of science. It is unexpected, the kind that baffles meteorologists, a massive snowfall that grows and grows, sweeping over borders and continents, until it covers all the lands of the world.” He hooked his golden eyes in Lin’s. “But not this world. Your world.”

  Lin couldn’t help but draw a breath of surprise. Snow in every country in the world! That would definitely confuse her father. Teodor nodded, pleased with this reaction.

  “Millions of children see the crystals swirl out of the sky,” he continued. “Some watch from their windows; others run outside to play. But all of them are possessed by glee, for while grown-ups worry about shoveling and frozen pipes and slippery roads, children know only wild joy when there is sudden snow.”

  It was true, Lin thought. Every year for as long as she could remember, she and Niklas had raced outside to greet the first snow as it fell on Summerhill, making wishes for every flake they caught on their tongues. And every year, Uncle Anders would watch from the kitchen window of the main house, grim of face.

  “Now I told you, what children feel has consequences here in Sylver. Every thought and every dream drifts through to us in tiny flecks and flakes. But the wild glee of millions of children is like a worldwide storm of raw power. It is magic.” He pointed to the little window, from which the flickering tail of the shooting star could be glimpsed. “Tonight, the Wanderer travels the border between our worlds, like a fleeting doorway. It only takes a powerful knock from the other side—such as a storm of raw magic from gleeful children—to blast the door open. Make a gate—the Wandergate—between Sylver and Earth.” Teodor tapped the table clock. “At nine minutes past midnight, Isvan must have conjured the Wandersnow and the gate
must have opened. I say must, for the safety of our realm and everyone who lives in it depends on this.”

  “Why?” Lin asked.

  The kettle whistled mournfully. Teodor busied himself, pulling it out of the heat with a poker and sprinkling a handful of exotic-smelling leaves into the water. He did not meet Lin’s eyes. “I will not burden you with this, not yet. But there is one more thing you should know about the Wandergate, Lindelin Rosenquist. You need it to open, too.”

  “Why?” Lin said again, too absorbed to even care he had called her Lindelin.

  “Because it is the gate—the only gate—that can take you home.”

  Lin stared at him as he shuffled over to a cabinet to fetch two cups along with a pot of honey. “What about the gate on the hilltop?”

  “You came here through a scargate, torn open by great longing and sorrow.” Teodor’s hand trembled ever so slightly as he poured the tea, and the honey spoon clinked against the delicate china. “The one in your cellar had been preparing for you for some time now. You may have noticed a chill in Mrs. Ichalar’s house, or that the clocks ticked too slowly? But that’s all gone now. Once a Twistrose passes through a scargate, it is like the purging of a festering wound. It closes up forever. You cannot go back that way.”

  The fire blazed as hot as before, but Lin felt like she had been doused in cold water. “You are telling me I need to solve your puzzle or I’ll never see my home again.”

  Teodor held out a cup for her. “I began my life on Earth in England,” he said. “There it is widely known that a good cup of tea cures every ailment, particularly if there is milk in it.”

  Lin sipped the spicy drink, but it had a bitter undertone. Teodor seemed to enjoy his, though, because he drank deeply from his cup. “We know it is no easy burden,” he said. “We thank you for volunteering.”

  “Volunteering?” Lin’s voice sounded brittle in the book-lined hush of the room. “What do you mean volunteering?”