by Dawn Metcalf
“Yes, sir.”
The aristocratic amphibian cut an impressive figure as he trudged into the hallway with a dignified air. Joy stood next to Kurt by the ironwood doors, close enough to smell the starch on his shirt. She felt helpless, hopeless and horribly to blame.
“They won’t remember, Graus Claude,” Kurt said.
The Bailiwick paused. Joy had never heard Kurt use his employer’s proper name before. “More than that,” the butler continued, “they cannot remember. They will not understand your crime because they are unable to recall that there ever was a King and Queen or that the rest of their kin are locked away behind a door,” he continued. “They cannot be reminded or remember even after you tell them—the spell is well forged and can only be broken by the one who cast it,” he said. “Or when the door is opened.”
Graus Claude didn’t turn back, but his voice filled the hall. “I cannot open the door because I do not know where it is,” he said patiently. “I know only that I hold it inside me, in the Bailiwick, as well as our lost princess.” His voice lifted. “The courier would know—but I do not know who that is, either.” He sighed with a great swell of his back. “They could be dead, they could be lost, I do not know—but the courier most certainly cannot remember their post, let alone their charge,” he said. “I only know that that person is not me.” He faced the door once more. “I am sorry that I cannot help you.”
Kurt’s voice was hard as stone. “You must break the spell before you can ask for forgiveness.”
Joy stared at him in disbelief.
The Bailiwick lingered on the threshold, his hunched shoulders drooping even further under his cloak. “I cannot,” he said, lifting one finger from his cane. “Not that I fear the repercussions, mind, but because I do not know the true nature of the spell.” His voice slithered to a whisper. “Only its maker could untie such a knot.”
“Aniseed,” Joy said.
Kurt raised his chin. “Aniseed is dead.”
Graus Claude said nothing—Kurt spoke the truth, keen and sharp as any Folk. He might have been mortal, but he wasn’t quite human, having lived and worked among them for so long. Joy knew Kurt was many things, but she hadn’t realized that he could be cruel.
“But you aren’t to blame,” Joy said desperately. “Aniseed tricked you! She must have tampered with the spell—she had to have known what she was doing! She could have been planning this all along, having you cast the spell instead of her—it fits! If the spell was discovered, all evidence would lead back to you and not her.” Joy crossed the long hall and placed a hand on his cloak. “You said the Folk can’t disobey the rules—the rules were made by the King and Queen, who wanted humans and Folk to live together. Your loyalty, everyone’s loyalty, must be absolute. You can’t act against the King and Queen—it’s unthinkable! How could there have been a coup?” Joy tugged at the light wool of his cloak. “The only way to disobey them would be to forget that they ever existed. You can’t be loyal to someone you don’t remember. Loyalty is a choice.” Joy’s thoughts were tripping over themselves in their hurry to make him understand. “Don’t you see? It’s a loophole! The ultimate loophole! With the King and Queen out of the way, Aniseed could go against their wishes and bring about her crazy Golden Age!” Joy’s voice was shaking. “She’s the one who did this! She’s the traitor!”
“Yes,” the Bailiwick said sharply. The word banged like a gavel. “But she is dead, Miss Malone, and the secret to the spell’s undoing died with her.”
Shame colored his words black with scorn, and he continued his exit. Joy dropped her hold on him. Her fingers wrapped themselves in knots.
“But...then there is no reason for you to turn yourself in,” Joy said, her face wet and hot. This is wrong! This isn’t happening! “Graus Claude, please, it wasn’t your fault!” Her voice pitched high in alarm. “They’ll kill you!”
“Nonsense,” he said with false gaiety. “The Council do not sentence one another to death.” He tugged on his lapel. “Trust me, it creates far too much paperwork. Although, for a crime of this magnitude—it is quite an exceptional offense.” He paused, resting his claw on the handle of the front door. “And I have never been known to be anything other than exceptional.” He lumbered sideways and gifted Joy with a rare smile. “Even if they kill me, they will name another Bailiwick, and the young Majesty will remain safe inside, never fear. As for me,” he said, straightening his back. “My Lady Fortune oft smiles upon the brave. But when you see the princess, please, tell her—” He paused again, his gaze lost and faraway. “Tell her that I am truly sorry, and I leave her in the most trusted and capable hands I have known.”
He threw the doors open. The Bentley idled at the curb.
“Your confession will be meaningless,” Kurt called after him.
The Bailiwick glanced back, both proud and sad.
“It will not be meaningless to me.”
TWELVE
KURT SHUT THE door and locked it. Pressing a series of buttons behind a gilt frame, he hit Enter. A ward shimmered into place.
“We have to go after him,” Joy said.
Kurt marched down the hall, eyes forward, face grim.
“I have my instructions.”
Joy ran to keep up as Kurt summoned the elevator. “I know, but we can’t let him go to the Council. That won’t work—” She stumbled after him. “They won’t believe him because they can’t! They can’t remember anything!”
Kurt stepped into the small brass space, and Joy hurried in next to him. He clicked the lever to the second notch, and the doors slipped closed.
“What do you think will happen to him?” she said.
Kurt kept his expression impassive. “I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
Kurt sighed, his eyes inspecting the mirrors. “I imagine that they will either dismiss him, convict him or condemn him.”
Joy gaped. “We can’t let that happen!”
The elevator door slid open, and Kurt entered a long hallway with striped wallpaper. Joy followed close behind.
“The Bailiwick is honorable and wishes to seek justice in the company of his peers,” Kurt said. “There are few opportunities for the Folk to exercise their free will, far be it for me to deny him his as he denied me mine.”
Kurt walked into the next room, swiftly crossing the rose-colored carpet to a four-poster bed by the window. The bedroom was tall and airy with a tapestry loom, a painted screen and a large, marble hearth. Inq sat in a Queen Anne’s chaise with a book on her lap. Ink lay pillowed in the bed, eyes closed. Kurt plucked another chair from beside the fireplace and set it next to the nightstand. Joy sat down.
“Should they sentence Graus Claude to be stripped of his title or life, it will be his choice whether to abide by their decision or refute his Name, as Hasp did,” Kurt said as he checked the window’s ward. “In any case, my service to the Bailiwick will have ended.” He paused, hand loose on the curtain pull. “Then I will be free.”
Inq glared at him with hooded eyes.
Joy turned to Ink. His eyes were gently closed, his chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. She brushed his long bangs away from his face, which looked even more boyish and innocent in sleep. She’d never seen Ink asleep—he claimed he never slept—and Graus Claude claimed that he’d never shut Ink off before. The Bailiwick’s betrayal left a hot lump of guilt and anger and confusion roiling in her gut, but it was hard to think about it while watching Ink’s eyelashes twitch.
How long would he be like this? Would he be okay? Was he dreaming? Did the Folk dream? Did Ink? Joy stroked his cheek and brushed the side of his neck, laying a hand against his chest—the spot on his left breast felt as solid as ever, hiding the Bailiwick’s secret fail-safe somewhere beneath her fingers. Joy could feel the dull beat of his heart through the comforter. Thump-thump. Thump-t
hump. She tugged the blankets a little higher and wished he’d wake up. Soon. Now.
She badly needed a number sixteen.
Inq was reading her book with all the signs of barely contained fury. Her face was a calm mask, serene as porcelain, yet she turned the pages with a sharp snap! She straightened in her seat, calm and aloof, deliberately not looking at Joy. Great.
Joy knew, intellectually, that Ink would be all right and that the princess would be safe inside the Bailiwick, no matter who the Bailiwick might be. She knew that it would be easiest to sit here quietly, to stay and wait for Ink to wake. She wanted to be here for him. She wanted to see him open his eyes. She wanted to tell him everything and ask him what to do.
But she needed to save Graus Claude.
Soon. Now.
Joy pressed a kiss to Ink’s forehead. Kurt adjusted a baroque clock on the mantel. Inq turned another page in her book. Snap!
“Will you take me to the Bailiwick?” Joy asked.
Inq closed the book. “Where did he go?”
“He went to turn himself in to the Council,” Joy said. “I think he’s gone to the Council Hall.”
Inq chuckled under her breath. “May he have better luck than most when begging them for mercy.”
“Luck is his auspice,” Kurt said.
Inq nodded. “True. That’s probably the only way he managed to beat Ink in close combat,” she said, glancing at her brother. “I swear I taught him better than that.” She opened her book again. “Fortunately, it doesn’t matter to me who is the Bailiwick as long as I can access the gate. If Graus Claude is stripped of his title or executed, that makes things simple. It’s only a problem if he is incarcerated while maintaining his status. Then things get tricky,” she said, glaring conspiratorially at Joy. “But we can always deal with that.”
Kill Graus Claude? Joy balked. Never!
“But he didn’t—” Joy hesitated. Inq doesn’t know! She didn’t know what had happened in Graus Claude’s office. The Bailiwick didn’t beat Ink, he shut him off. Inq didn’t know about the snooze button, the secret fail-safe, the safety switch. It was a secret Joy had over her. “He...didn’t stand a chance,” Joy said, switching gears. “I mean, how long has Graus Claude been on the Council? He’s probably had assassins attacking him for years. Why else have a butler bodyguard?”
Inq and Kurt exchanged a wordless glance, like an old married couple.
“Ink will be all right, won’t he?” Joy asked.
Kurt examined Ink again, pressing firmly on his wrist, checking his new pulse. “He’s unconscious,” he said. “But otherwise unharmed. I am not sure how he managed it since I did not think the Scribes had anything to concuss, but Ink has evidently been shaping himself to emulate humans far more than we’d realized.”
Inq pursed her lips at Joy. “I blame you.”
“Fine,” Joy said. “Blame me. Blame me all you want. But we need Graus Claude. We can’t let him get arrested or banished because of something Aniseed did.” Joy tried appealing to Kurt. “She wanted him to take the blame. She wanted the spell to get traced back to him. She tricked him into casting the wrong spell, and we can’t let her get away with it! Then she’s won!”
Inq hissed under her breath, curling her lip. “Manipulative snake.”
Joy leaned forward. “So, will you take me to Graus Claude?”
Inq licked her thumb and turned a page.
“Nope.”
Joy gave a wordless snarl and launched out of her chair, stalking across the room in mute frustration. Ink might be fine in a couple of hours, but she didn’t know if Graus Claude had a couple of hours. How long before the Council would be called together in session? What would happen when he tried to confess? What would the Council understand other than he was guilty of casting a blanket spell upon the entire Twixt? That was obviously a major crime. The Folk had invented the entire system of signaturae to avoid being manipulated and turned into slaves. Joy remembered the chaos in the Council Hall when she’d accepted her True Name, the wave of outrage, threats and noise. What would happen to Graus Claude?
She turned in tighter circles, her distress hemmed in by the fireplace and the loom. How could she get there? What good would it do? She wouldn’t be able to convince them of anything, especially not those like Sol Leander. He’d love the excuse to have her dismissed, thrown out of the Hall, discredited before the gala. The gala! She’d never survive it without Graus Claude. He was her sponsor. And her friend. He was the Bailiwick, keeper of the door between worlds and the last, loyal subject to the missing royal family. She couldn’t let it happen! Ink had never bothered with Folk politics, and Joy had only the vaguest idea from Graus Claude’s notes—there was so much that she didn’t know, that she didn’t have to work with: status, influence, contacts, magic...
Joy stopped. She squeezed her purse strap. She had a lot of magic.
And she knew how to get Under the Hill.
Fishing out the glow stick with the black electric tape, Joy snapped it in half and shook it quickly. Both Inq and Kurt looked up at the growing neon-colored globe, yawning open, engulfing her in purple light. The bubble expanded, blurring at the edges, outlining the furniture and the side of Ink’s face. Kurt moved deftly between her and Inq. Inq stood up, frowning.
“You are being foolish, Joy,” she said. “You cannot save him from his fate.”
Joy’s hair billowed out in static waves.
“I can try.”
And she stepped onto the packed-dirt floor under a ring of dark fairy lights.
* * *
Joy glanced around the Carousel club, trying to get her bearings. She wasn’t used to the place being empty—it was eerie without the music and noise. It was like an entirely different place, an old museum or an abandoned theme park. The black walls and dull mirrors made the Carousel feel spooky and surreal. She walked around the perimeter of the massive merry-go-round, her every motion reflected in the mirrored panels, mocking her, chasing her, slipping along the undercarriage and bouncing off walls, leaving her wondering if she was alone or not.
She half ran to the office trailer and tried the doorknob. Locked. She knocked on the hollow wood. No answer. Joy crossed the aisle and hopped onto the circular floor. It tipped ever so slightly and gave a tired, rusty groan. The sound skittered up her spine. How had she never noticed that while dancing? The music must have drowned it out. The crowd must hold the dance floor steady. She walked toward the center pillar, her footsteps creaking off the fun-house mirrors and clanking against the metal mounts where the poles used to be. As she moved, her shifting weight pressed uneasy moans out of the gears. Joy ducked into the hollow DJ booth and poked around the tables, feeling around the walls, her fingers sliding over the edges of bumper stickers and band posters and buried staples. There had to be a way in!
“Hello?” she called out. “Anyone here?” As hard as it was to imagine the Carousel silent and empty, it was impossible to imagine the Folk abandoning their post. This was the Glen’s entrance Under the Hill. Joy knew it was guarded against encroachment by humans—the very thing she was here to do—and she hadn’t much time. Shouldn’t someone be here to arrest her already? Joy knocked her knuckles against the table. “Dmitri?” she tried. “You here?”
Silence. Nothing but dust and the faint smell of beer.
Joy slid her hands under the table and over the console. She found a baggie taped to the underside full of rolling papers and dried leaves. Joy remembered the lady DJ and lifted the keyboard, finding her discarded matchbox. She rattled the matches inside and tucked it into her pouch. If she couldn’t find her own way in, maybe Filly could bring her? She wanted to get to the Council Hall as quickly and with as little noise as possible, and while the blond warrior might be able to help with the former, she’d be abysmal at the latter.
Inq had escorted her to th
e Hall from here. Joy knew there was a way inside.
Quickly crossing the carousel, the creaks and moans chasing her footsteps like ghosts, Joy dropped to the ground and got down on her hands and knees, peering under the rotating floor at the exposed machinery. If there were any doors or wards or glyphs, she couldn’t see them with her Sight. She sat up and wiped the dirt off her hands and then stared at the ground. She flipped over one of the sticky black indoor-outdoor mats, exposing the bare packed earth. She banged the flat of her hand against the ground.
“Hey!” she shouted near the surface of dirt. “Let me in!” She knocked and dug at the ground, trying to feel her way to a trapdoor or marked stone, but there was nothing. She slapped her hand against the soil and pushed herself standing, brushing her palms against her capris. She kicked the mat flap over and walked out the nearest exit, looking for a break in the security fence that surrounded the club.
The entry gate was chained and padlocked. The old town green stretched past the chain link and down the hill. Joy remembered approaching the Carousel with Stef when she’d gone to meet Inq to stand trial. Maybe the entrance was farther downhill? Joy looked up at the fence. Was it easier to go over or under? She took the scalpel out of her purse pocket and picked up the padlock, then poked the blade into the keyhole and drew it slowly around, feeling the tumblers click and clunk into place. The padlock popped open.
Easier to go through.
Joy slid past the door and relocked the padlock through the chain link, letting it fall heavily back into place. She let gravity pull her down the incline, pacing the circumference of the hill, trying to use her Sight. She kept a hold of her scalpel and, curious, kicked off her shoes, wondering if she could feel anything through the soles of her feet. The grass was thick and cool, the earth pebbly and warm—the two sensations made her feel like a little kid again, running through the backyard and doing cartwheels in Abbot’s Field, but it did nothing to indicate an entrance Under the Hill.
Joy sighed, disappointed, and wondered what she was going to do now.