Teodor smiled like someone who feels the first warmth of spring. “A good cup of tea cures every ailment, particularly if there’s milk in it. Or so we used to say where I come from.”
Silently and straight-backed, Clariselyn watched her son, the Blood Lord, drink his tea. But when Isvan’s cheeks began to heat and his hands stopped trembling, her shoulders sank and tiny ice pearls dropped down her face.
A different scene in a different place came unbidden to Lin’s thoughts: Anne Rosenquist, standing with her back turned on the threshold of Lin’s attic room. She was wearing her checkered dressing gown, the one she put on for cozy mornings of waffles and milk tea, and she held a breakfast tray. But her hands clenched white around the handles of the tray. That, Lin knew, was what her mother would look like if Lin was not in her bed by morning.
When she turned, she found that Rufus was watching her. His tail hung all heavy and his eyes were ink. Lin tried to smile, to think of something to say, but Rufus took a deep breath and opened one of the pockets in his scarf. Nestled inside it was an old, blackened key, as large as his hand and fashioned in the shape of a rose. The Twistrose Key.
“You have the key?” Teodor’s growl looked more like a grin. “You never lost it at all, did you?”
But Rufus kept his gaze on Lin. “I wasn’t going to keep it. I just wanted to make sure no one could force you to leave against your wishes. The gate won’t let you through without it.” He put the key gently in the palm of Lin’s hand. “Clariselyn,” he said, “if you don’t mind making that Wandersnow, I think Lin would like to go home now.”
CHAPTER FORTY
In the great reception hall under the belfry, Isvan sat wrapped in blankets by the fire. Lin crossed the marble floor and cleared her throat. “They said I had a minute. I just wanted to say good-bye.”
He looked up at her with his peppernut eyes. “I wish you didn’t have to leave so soon. I always dreamed of a sister. Of you, actually.”
“You’re not coming outside?”
Isvan shook his head. “I wanted to see everything from the belfry, but Mother and Teodor need me to gather my strength.” He stretched his hands toward the leaping flames. “I never knew a fire could be so soothing.”
The red glass globe flickered in his lap, and Lin couldn’t help but wonder. What could it do? Was it even safe?
“Teodor wants me to help make a new guard rune for Sylver,” Isvan said. “He thinks we won’t need more than one. He thinks my magic is as strong as a Starfalcon’s now.”
“That’s good,” Lin said, trying to make her voice light. “Nightmares wouldn’t do well in mead houses and shops. Does it feel very different? Your snow globe?”
“It’s not a snow globe anymore.” Isvan’s fingers twitched against the glass. “I’m not sure what to call it. Red globe? Blood globe?”
“How about heart globe?” Lin said. “Sounds less . . . grisly.”
He nodded. “And yes. It does feel different.” He drew a shaky breath, and laughed it off. “Wild.”
A strand of music came drifting down from the belfry. As soon as Clariselyn’s song began in earnest, Lin would need to be in position. “I have to go now,” she said. “I’m sorry we broke your globe. I’m sorry you can’t be near your mother or live in the Hall of Winter.”
He smiled at that, his crooked tug that Lin already liked so much. “For as long as I can remember, my mother has been trapped in the farthest corner of my dreams. What’s a yard or two compared to that? And I won’t miss that house. I just need my drawings and my telescope.”
“The thing about telescopes,” Lin said. “They only show things that are far away.”
“True.” Isvan’s brown eyes glinted. “But you don’t have to worry. I can’t wait to try Pomeroy’s waffles warm. Besides, the same can be said about maps.”
Lin laughed. “True.”
On the Great Square outside, a sigh swept the crowd. Clariselyn must be ready. Lin put her hand forward. “I really wish you could come troll hunting someday.”
Isvan shook her hand solemnly, and his skin felt warm and dry. “Who says I won’t?”
• • •
Lin waited at the edge of the Great Square, at the bottom of the first hill, as she had been instructed. Rufus was off doing some important errand for his new teacher, but he would meet her here. Lin craned her neck to find him in the crowd, but all she saw was silhouetted ears and hats and restless shuffling. The eerie silence had broken, and she heard laughter and talk and even the band had begun to play again. All that remained of the Wanderer was the edge of its iridescent disc and the wavering tail of white and green. Under the arches of the belfry danced Clariselyn Winterfyrst, and the clock below showed five minutes past midnight.
Rufus had wanted to bring Lin out on the House steps so the Sylverings could meet her and know what she had done for them tonight. But Teodor had told them there was no time for speeches and explanations and the usual feast in her name. Lin would have to leave as quietly as she had arrived.
“Do not worry, Twistrose,” a voice said. Lin whipped around to see Teodor stepping from the shadows of the pavilion with a white bundle in his arms. His eyes shifted from mirrors to gold as he took up position next to her, gazing out over the Square. “You will not be forgotten.”
“I’m not worried,” Lin said, annoyed that he had caught her by surprise again. But at least she would be able to ask him something that had bothered her since his reappearance. “Teodor, why did you leave us at the Palisade?”
“I guessed the identity of the Margrave. And though I failed to find the guard rune in the end, I judged my strength would be better spent defending it.” Teodor straightened his sleeves. “It was Corvelie, you see. Few outside the Brotherhood know her by that name. The legend calls her the burning bird. But she was once the Wilder of a Twistrose.”
“Edvard Uriarte,” Lin said. “The boy with the crow at his feet. You knew he had a way to get past the Palisade?”
“I knew he could control Nightmares. For his task all those years ago, young master Uriarte stopped a brood of red sleepwalkers that kept attacking caravans. He made them obey him. It seems he has enhanced that skill since 1919. And I knew that without the guard rune, Nightmares led by a clever, bitter mind would find their way into Sylver one way or another.”
The dial on the belfry clock jerked. Six minutes past the hour. “How did he turn into the Margrave?” Lin asked. “Why is he bitter?”
“Not all Twistrose stories are of the pretty sort. On Earth, Edvard Uriarte’s family were all gone, dead in a flu epidemic. He lived on the streets, he starved. So when the time came for him to go back through the Wandergate, he did not want to.”
“Oh.” Lin’s voice came out very small. Her own hardships in Oldtown didn’t sound quite so bad all of a sudden.
“In those days, the Sylver Flamewatcher was a peacock who enjoyed a good spectacle. She had made a set of rune-carved wings and a beak for Edvard, so he could fly up to the Wandergate looking like a Starfalcon. But instead Corvelie powdered her wings and painted her beak silver, and she took his place in the ceremony. Perhaps they figured the gate wouldn’t work for her, that she could go through unharmed, as if it were any stretch of sky, shake the powder from her wings, and slip away. It was a daring plan, and it might have worked, except for one thing. Only two can pass through the gate, the Twistrose and the Key. Everything else burns.”
Lin swallowed. “She caught fire?”
“She died before she hit the ground. Edvard tried to hide, but he was seized before the Wanderer set and sent home. Or so the records say. It appears they were wrong.” He sighed. “The Brotherhood decided the truth would be too cruel for the Sylverings, and tried to keep the fate of Edvard and Corvelie out of the mead houses. But their story has, as stories will, found a way to trickle through. It became a scary tale. A legend of horror.”
“But what about Edvard’s statue? Why don’t people wonder about it?”
“They do not see it.” Teodor smiled sadly. “Like you, Edvard Uriarte was here in secret. He had completed his task, and the Brotherhood felt he could not be denied a statue. But they placed it in the shadows and carved it with a cloak rune. It is visible now only to the Brotherhood, and in rare cases, others with very powerful magical otopathy. We let it stand so the horror will not be forgotten by those who are tasked to remember.”
“I understand why he wanted to stay. Rufus and I . . .” Lin corrected herself. She didn’t want to get Rufus in trouble. “I wanted to stay, too.”
“Of course you did. All Twistroses do, at first, when they are drunk on the joy of reunion. But you all change your mind in the end.”
“At least there is the Memory balcony,” Lin said. “I feel a little better knowing that Rufus will be watching me.”
“So Rufus didn’t tell you. Well. For that I cannot say I blame him.” Teodor shook his head in pity. “The Observatory allows us to see our human children, but only for a time. One day, their index cards stop working. The projector simply cannot read them anymore. And from that moment our children are lost to us for good.”
“You mean because they died?”
“No. Because they aren’t children anymore.”
Lin lifted her hands to her mouth. What did Sofie say? One moment, everything is as it used to be, and the next . . . She must have known her girl was about to change. And Rufus . . . No. Lin refused to cry in front of Teodor.
“It is the way of things,” Teodor said, not unkindly. “In time, Rufocanus will be just fine, too.” He shoved the white bundle into Lin’s arms. “You must put these on. Since you were wearing them when you crossed the threshold, they will make it through the gate.”
It was her pajamas, dry and mended. Reluctantly, Lin shed the chaperon, the tunic, and the warm pants, and put the pajamas on. “Where will the gate open?”
“In the sky. You won’t have a pair of rune-carved wings, but you will have someone to take you.”
Teodor pointed: a drifting commotion in the crowd. Rufus. The vole was making his way toward them, and the Sylverings parted wide around him. From the way he struggled, Lin could tell he hauled something big with him across the Square, and then she caught a glimpse of cast-iron spirals. “The caravan sled.”
“Just so,” Teodor said. “It is a noble creature. When I explained the situation, it volunteered. And who knows? It might be fast enough to turn aside at just the right moment.”
“What if it isn’t?” Lin pulled her cardigan tight. “It has a spare part that hampers it. I can’t let it risk itself like that!”
“You cannot stay here. I would think the case of Edvard Uriarte illustrates the point perfectly.” Teodor cleared his throat. “You must return to your own world. The caravan sled knows. It is allowed this choice.”
Rufus cleared the throng and came toward them, limping heavily. He tugged the sled to a stop, looped the reins neatly, and placed them on the seat. “For you.”
A murmur washed over the Square. A white light had appeared under the arches of the belfry. Clariselyn Winterfyrst’s dress billowed over the edge, and her snow globe shone in her hands. The clock showed seven past twelve.
“It has begun,” Teodor said. “And in time, I do believe. Farewell, Lindelin Rosenquist.” With a smug expression, he buttoned his tweed coat. But right before he left, as if it were an afterthought and mattered not at all, he added, “And Twistrose? If you ever meet a boy—or rather, a very old man—by the name of Balthasar Lucke, you could perhaps do me the favor of giving him my regards.”
He walked away, stiff-legged and hunched, and the last Lin saw before the crowd swallowed him was the white tip of his fox’s tail. She turned to Rufus. “Watch your back with that one.”
Rufus snorted. “Finally you’re beginning to talk sense. But don’t worry. If all else fails, I can always steal his keys.” He moved aside so Lin could climb onto the sled. “You should get ready.”
“No.” Lin struggled with the lump in her throat. “I don’t want to.”
“Yes,” Rufus said. “You do.”
She flung her arms around him and hugged him tight. He patted her back. “You know they’re already discussing who gets to make your statue?”
Lin stepped back, blinking through her tears. “But I thought we agreed not to . . .”
“Marvin and Nit are spreading the word to any and all who will listen. You’ll be a huge hit at the Burning Bird tonight.” Rufus smiled. “I refuse to bring you flowers, though. Maybe some peppernuts or something, if I see in the Memory mirror that you’ve caught a troll.”
He bent down to straighten the already perfect coil of reins.
“Oh, Rufus.” Lin couldn’t stop a single, lost sob. “I know about the index card. It will go blank soon. Were you going to send me off without telling me?”
When Rufus lifted his head, the fur on his face was slicked down. “I didn’t want you to feel this sad, that’s all.”
“What if I just didn’t change,” Lin said, burying her fingers in his fur. “We can arrange a time. I can’t hear you, but I can tell you things. Who knows, when you’re a Flamewatcher, maybe you’ll find a way to reach me back.”
Rufus didn’t answer, but he leaned against her hand.
“Please,” Lin whispered. “I can’t bear to say good-bye. Not for good.”
He made that strange sound in the back of his throat, and as he hugged her again, he held on to her cardigan as if it could keep her there. “All right. Saturdays at seven.”
“Good-bye, Rufocanus, Petling and Wilder of great talent.”
“Good-bye, Lindelin, quizzy face and hero of your own song.”
The sled turned its runners and began crawling up the slope. Lin held the Twistrose Key in one hand, carefully so the thorns didn’t pierce her skin. With the other hand, she gripped the reins so hard her knuckles hurt. Every moment, she wanted to jump off and run back down the hill. Once, she turned and called, “I won’t change! I promise!”
In the belfry, Clariselyn still sang, a whole choir of voices that swept from harmony to discord and back. Light spilled out through the seams of her dress and her mouth and fingertips. The Winterfyrst shook her snow globe lightly, and Lin found herself wondering where the snowstorm would begin. She had forgotten to ask.
Behind the Sylver Fang, the heavens kindled as the sliver of star flared up and its halo swirled faster. A single ray of light shot out from the Wanderer and struck the dome of the Observatory, which lit up in gold. Fine strands of silver and blue and green peeled off the beam, snowing down on the upturned faces of the Sylverings, winking out before they hit the ground, like fireworks.
The clock showed nine minutes past twelve, and the Twistrose Key thrummed against Lin’s skin. She kicked off her boots and pulled at the reins to the caravan sled. “It’s time,” she whispered.
The cast-iron runners curled into spirals. Images flashed through her, cobalt mountains and black loam and dark faces, and seasons and years that grew and withered until they were a blurred stream, and Lin didn’t think the sled was afraid. “Thank you,” she said, patting the burnished wood. “And if you do make it back, take care of Rufus for me. He likes adventures best of all.”
They raced down the hill, and before they reached the solitary figure at the bottom, the ground dropped away beneath them.
Rufus watched the sled grow smaller and smaller until it was only a speck in the sky. Already the beam was narrowing, thinning out as the Wanderer was lost from sight. As the light winked out, and the black of night filled in, he said softly, “Everyone changes sooner or later. Even you, my little one.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
When she woke, Lin Rosenquist heard a voice whisper in her ear, and at first she thought it was tellin
g her secrets that she absolutely must not pass on.
But then she opened her eyes and saw the floorboards under her cheek and the ashen light that seeped up through the cracks, and she knew it was the river brushing past the poles beneath Mrs. Ichalar’s house. Dawn had broken.
She stood up. In her hand she held not a key, but a twig of rosebush with three sharp, curved thorns. The rose roots still trailed down the back wall, but they seemed more frail now, brown and dry, and though Lin stepped close and whispered “Rosa torquata,” the roots did not stir and the twig did not change. The wall had mended, and of the cracks and the strange keyhole and the unnatural frost, there was no sign.
She lifted her finger. There was a puncture wound where the Twistrose Key had pricked her yesterday, but all the other cuts that she had suffered had left no mark on her skin. Shivering, she pulled her cardigan close.
The taxidermied animals looked weary in the milky dredges of the night. At the banister, she ran her fingers along the sleek line of the animal skull with its yellowed teeth and tilted sockets. She thought she knew it for a fox now.
The cellar key dangled from the hole where she had left it, and the wind still poked restlessly at the mail slot. Lin slipped up the stairs, treading lightly on the icy steps and skipping the ones that creaked.
On the attic landing waited a bowl of rice pudding and raspberry sauce. She wolfed it down before she opened the door to her room.
Someone had been in there, because the curtains, Grandma Alma’s old cotton ones from Morello House, were drawn against the morning. She could see no sign of panic, though, no emptied-out drawers or riffled-through papers on her desk. No one had touched the closet, and her map of Oldtown lay undisturbed in the windowsill. Instead her bed was made with fresh sheets.
She pulled off her cardigan, hung it on her bedpost, and crawled under the thick down comforter, not sure if she should be relieved or disappointed that they hadn’t worried about her. As she sank back into her pillow, sleep was already blunting her thoughts. Frozen woods and dagger thorns and wandering stars faded into silver around a familiar silhouette. He was standing with his back turned and whiskers spread wide, tall and fierce with bristling neck fur she knew to be soft underneath, and he was waiting.
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