“Spirits and zits,” she gasped, glancing at the human above her, a dapper young man in a straw hat. He continued pedaling as if nothing had changed.
Grit climbed up as high as she could on the bicycle’s frame without getting too close to the cyclist and looked to the left, then the right, then left again, waiting for a break in the line—and launched herself toward the greenway with all her might.
She twisted in the air, falling back toward oncoming traffic, and it was only with a panicked and painful flapping of her wings that she was able to gain any upward momentum at all. She tumbled into the landing—narrowly dodging the deadly grind of another bicycle wheel—and ended up a tangled pile of limbs in a bed of cobwebby dead leaves.
“Urgh,” Grit said, gingerly getting to her knees and shaking as much sandy dirt out of her wings as she could. Her left side throbbed—so much for following Carmer’s advice to “take it easy”—and she felt like the world would never stop spinning.
“Yarlo?” Grit called. She removed a dead beetle from her hair and kicked away the last of the leaves tickling her legs. The few seconds between their departures from the bike could have put a considerable distance between Grit and the cowboy faerie, as fast as they’d been riding. She tried to tune out the whizzing of the bicycles and rumbling velocycle engines to listen for any sign of him—or whatever else might be living in the shadow of these miraculously green trees.
The faint sound of wind chimes carried from just up ahead. Grit squinted into the maze of intertwining branches around her, and her eyes quickly found a flash of white—Beamsprout, perhaps? But no, the object fluttering in the wind wasn’t a faerie, or even magical at all; it looked like a strip of some sort of fabric, or the silly ribbons the human girls sometimes wore in their hair. Grit took a few steps forward and saw more ribbons tied from the trees in shades of blue and green, gold, and purple. Perhaps she’d stumbled upon some sort of wishing tree? Grit had heard of such things before; they were often tributes to the fae. Her Arboretum back home had its own landmark—an old, crumbling wall where humans would whisper their secrets in exchange for the hope of a magical favor.
She walked on. But soon the softness of the wind chimes and fluttering ribbons was overpowered by a strange buzzing sound. Grit whipped around and looked overhead just in time to see a miniature windup glider, exactly like the kind that had crashed into Bell’s balloon, fly over the trees—and straight toward the decorated branches.
Grit picked up her pace and followed. Carmer would say it was probably just a coincidence, but Carmer was not a faerie, and definitely not a faerie princess. Something on this Driftside Trailway was calling to her, just as the insides of the glider guided it to its destination. She ducked under low, snaking branches and dodged the pointed edges of ferns dusted with frost—and then stopped.
There, under another archway of oak branches, fitting so perfectly it might have been made with the trees in mind, was a small, docked airship—and a very peculiar one at that. It took Grit a moment to realize she was looking at a tower . . . on its side. The nose of the ship was a pointed turret, like the top of the Moto-Manse, but much bigger. The envelope was painted to look like stonework, with thorny roses and vines growing along the sides. Grit tilted her head to see the full effect: standing up, it would have been fit for a storybook princess.
The mechanical glider soared toward an open window, and—so quickly Grit almost thought she imagined it—a small brown hand reached out to pluck it from the air. Grit blinked, and the hand was gone. She flew toward the Crooked Castle—she could think of no other name for it—only to be cut off by a scowling and literally prickly faerie.
Grit recognized her as one of her captors on the Whale of Tales.
“If you’re looking for your friend,” said the round-faced faerie with hair like a porcupine, hovering in front of Grit and blocking her view of the ship, “he’s back in Tinka’s office, in the Whale.”
“‘In the whale’? Oh, right!” That name was going to take some getting used to. Grit pointed to the docked ship. “Hey, is that one of the Wonder Show’s?” It seemed unlikely this faerie—Grit thought her name might have been Thundrumble—would be so comfortable out in the open if that wasn’t the case. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before—”
“That jump weren’t half bad, for your first time,” came Yarlo’s drawling voice from behind her. “Though I’d have preferred if you hadn’t strayed quite so far from the path.”
Grit looked from Thundrumble, whose fingertips had now sprouted spikes as well, to Yarlo’s steely gaze. She took the hint. The Crooked Castle and its mysterious occupant were, for whatever reason, off-limits . . . for now.
Yarlo jerked his head, a motion for Grit to follow him, and turned back the way she had come. She stuck her tongue out at Thundrumble and touched down beside Yarlo, brushing one of the hanging wind chimes in the trees with her fingers on the way down.
“What exactly are we doing here, anyway?” asked Grit, her good mood significantly diminished since the bicycle ride. No one would dare stick a spike in her face back home.
“The Trailway’s one of the few bits o’ nature in the city limits,” said Yarlo. “It’s where we prefer to stay whenever we’re in Driff City. Reminds some of us of home.”
Grit must have looked puzzled at that, because Yarlo laughed.
“Just because Free Folk live closer to humans than most don’t mean we’re not fae,” said Yarlo. “’Smatter of fact, there’re some’d say the only difference between the Wonder Show faeries and you is you live under somebody’s thumb, and they don’t.”
Grit noticed he did not say “we.”
“Speaking of that thumb I live under,” said Grit, “if this is the only solid stretch of trees for miles, where are the other faeries? Where are the Seelies?”
“Oh, I think you know the answer to that, little miss,” said Yarlo, stringing his thumbs through the ropes at his hips. “Don’t tell me you haven’t felt the icy chill of their big stinkin’ palace under the Driff City docks, even from leagues away.”
Grit didn’t answer.
“This here is Unseelie territory, darlin’,” said Yarlo. “Has been for over a century. Probably since the last faerie war, I should think.”
The last faerie war that your court lost was his implication. He was trying to get a rise out of her. But Grit, young as she was, had never known faerie war firsthand, which made keeping the past in the past a little easier. She shrugged, but she had to admit she did feel . . . outnumbered.
“You mean there aren’t any other Seelies here?” Grit asked.
It was Yarlo’s turn to shrug. “Oh, I’m sure there’re some. But no one’s holding any territory, as far as I know,” he said. “Rumor used to be there was an old Seelie holed up on Wetherwren Light—used to be a king in the old country, they said. Maybe he thought he’d build a nice reputation here, helping the old lighthouse keepers bring the ships in safe—in exchange for a tithe, of course.” Yarlo tipped his hat and winked. “Maybe even wanted to rebuild his own kingdom.”
“But?” asked Grit.
“But he weren’t countin’ on there already bein’ a sheriff in town, as the humans say,” said Yarlo, chuckling. “And I bet you can guess what happened then.”
Grit frowned. The unnaturally green trees suddenly seemed even stranger—their dark, intertwining limbs an endless maze on all sides.
“They say there’s nothing but his heart left,” said Yarlo, his voice almost a growl. “Ripped out by the Unseelie king himself. And sometimes, on a stormy night, you can still see it glowing, right from the top of the lighthouse, like that old Seelie king’s still trying to guide one last ship home.”
Grit shivered and bit back a retort. Yarlo had no idea that she had actually seen a faerie heart without a body—several of them, in fact—in the diabolical hands of the Mechanist, the same man who had taken Yarlo’s wings. She doubted the cowboy would get as much enjoyment out of his ghost story if he did.
“Of course, that was years ago,” continued Yarlo lightly, obviously pleased that he’d unnerved her. “Doesn’t matter much, for your purposes, anyway.”
“My purposes?”
“Pokin’ around in our business and such,” said Yarlo bluntly, and Grit had to laugh.
“You know Tinka asked us to look into the Jasconius crash,” she said.
“I know he asked that Friend of yours.”
“Which means he asked us.”
Yarlo smirked. “We’re happy to help in any way we can,” he said. “The Wonder Show is our home, too. But back to—”
“Why should we tell her anything?” interrupted the high-pitched voice of Beamsprout. She touched down beside them in a blur of white and crossed her pearly arms. “She tried to burn down our ship!”
“I did not!” countered Grit. “I threatened to burn down your ship. There’s a difference.”
“Settle down, ladies, settle down,” said Yarlo with a chuckle.
Beamsprout sniffed and sat in a hole in a fallen log, daintily crossing her light green–clad legs. She made it look like sitting on a throne.
“Grit’s Friend’s been tasked with investigatin’ the Jasconius crash,” Yarlo explained.
“That’s what I was coming to tell you,” said Beamsprout, looking put out that Grit had beaten her to what was sure to have been a dramatic announcement. “And I think it’s a terrible idea. Whoever is messing with Tinka’s ships has nothing to do with us. And ri—”
“And regardless of what you might think, dear heart, it’s happenin’ anyway, as things tend to do,” said Yarlo. “So Grit here will be spendin’ some time in Driff City.”
A smile of smug realization came over Beamsprout’s face at the same time Grit’s stomach settled somewhere around her toes.
“And that means, as a Seelie”—Beamsprout scrunched up her nose at Yarlo’s mention of the court—“she needs to declare her presence to the Unseelie king.”
A shiver ran down the back of Grit’s neck at the name. If anyone would be able to spot her for a Seelie princess, it would be the king. And he would most likely not be thrilled about her “pokin’ around” in his kingdom.
“You should probably bring that Friend of yours along, too,” suggested Yarlo. “Just to be safe.”
9.
TWO HEADS ARE BETTER THAN ONE
Tinkerton and Carmer walked back to the airfield proper. White and gold criers’ balloons circled the Wonder Show’s camp like Edison lightbulbs at the foot of a stage.
“It’s only a matter of time before someone else figures out the pattern,” said Tinkerton. “Supposedly, the fire destroyed any evidence there was to be found on the Jasconius, but if they do trace the problem to the condenser, and the condenser back to me—which I’m confident someone will, as you have—they’ll soon find the others.”
Tinkerton looked out onto the camp, now bustling with morning activity. A few acrobats stretched in line while they waited for a hot breakfast from the cookhouse; a balloon shaped like a bumblebee was being checked for holes; painters hung from every height of the hundred-foot model of Jacob’s ladder, touching up scrapes with blinding white paint that really did make it look like a stairway to heaven. Someone was waving a broomstick in the air from deep within the mirror maze; Carmer heard one of the balloonists affectionately grumble about “the girls” always getting stuck in there while they swept.
“Unless I can find who’s really behind the crash,” said Tinkerton, “I’ll be ruined. And Rinka Tinka’s Roving Wonder Show will be no more.”
Carmer, more than anyone, understood the seriousness of Tinkerton’s predicament. For all of these people—Tinkerton included—the Wonder Show was their job, yes, but it was also their home. He’d traveled for enough years with Antoine the Amazifier and Kitty to know that. For traveling entertainers, many of whom had left all traces of their old lives behind, your coworkers became your family. To lose the Wonder Show would be to lose everything.
But first, Carmer had to know if Tinkerton’s family included only those strictly defined as humans.
“Have you noticed anything . . . odd, about the Wonder Show itself, Mr. Tinkerton?” Carmer asked. “Has anything suspicious happened during a performance? Anything no one could explain?”
“Nothing,” said Tinkerton, shaking his head. “In fact, we get bigger and more successful every year.”
Carmer, of course, had an idea about why that was the case. But if Tinkerton wasn’t going to admit he knew about the faeries in his show—or if, quite possibly, he didn’t really know—Carmer wasn’t going to spill the beans just yet. Not if he could help it.
“And all of the accidents have happened in or around Driff City,” explained Tinkerton, “where the saboteur would have plenty of access to any number of ships or planes. The Wonder Show company tours all over the world—ten cities a year, sometimes more. Unless one of my pilots has discovered the secret to instantaneous travel, they simply wouldn’t have the time to get to Driff City and back without anyone noticing.”
“Does anyone in the show know about your side business?” Carmer asked. “Especially, um, anyone you might’ve let go, or something?”
Tinkerton laughed. “Your estimation of the human condition is rather low for someone so young, isn’t it?”
Carmer shrugged and looked away.
“That wasn’t an insult,” Tinkerton said, more gently. “Merely an observation. And it’s a fair question to ask. While everyone knows that I’m an active member of the aeronautical community, only a trusted few know the details of my business operations—and they all have financial stakes in my success.”
Carmer ran a hand through his hair. “Sir, I’m sorry to ask this, but do you think I could take a look at the designs? And your models. The ones that have been involved in the accidents, I mean.”
If Tinkerton was getting faerie help with his inventions at the show and not realizing it, then it was entirely plausible the same inventions would fail to work without such help.
“Carmer,” said Tinkerton, “I’m the one who asked you to look into the Jasconius. You needn’t feel badly about doing what any investigator worth his salt would do. And besides, a second set of eyes could only be a good thing, especially from one of the ‘great minds of Skemantis.’” Tinkerton tapped his glasses in a little salute.
Carmer was getting the impression that Tinkerton rather enjoyed teasing him. Perhaps Grit was rubbing off on him, because it only made him more determined to do the job well.
“Feel free to look through anything in my office that might be of use,” Tinkerton explained. “I’ve kept detailed reports of every accident, as far back as I could connect them to myself.”
To his surprise, Tinkerton led them to the docked Whale of Tales, through the whale’s mouth and past the hall of myths, and into a small but well-furnished office near the back of the ship.
“Who do you think listens to all the stories?” asked Tinkerton with a raised eyebrow. “They serve as wonderful inspiration. Someday, you’ll have to tell me how you defeated that evil mastermind.”
Carmer paled, but Tinkerton was already turning to leave.
“Shut the door on your way out, mind,” said Tinkerton. He rapped his fingers on the ornately carved dark wood. “But not too hard. It’s hollow on the inside, you know!”
To save weight in the air, Carmer realized with a laugh. Of course.
“Oh, and Carmer?” called Tinkerton from down the hall. “You can tell your friend he’s got a job!”
GRIT WASN’T SURE her new wing would appreciate—or, if she was being honest, hold up for—the whole flight back to Elysian Field, so she hitched a ride on the gondola of a cargo ship for part of the way. Only a month ago, the mile across her Arboretum would have seemed a great distance to travel on her own. Now, she could cross whole cities in a few hours, even without using her wings. It was incredible how most faeries wouldn’t come within feet of an airship, never mind ride one.
They were really missing out.
She glided over the Wonder Show’s camp, gritting her teeth against the pain in her shoulder until it faded into a dull ache, and headed for the open mouth of the Whale of Tales. She wasn’t surprised when the door shut behind her and the silver curtains in front remained closed. There was enough magic floating around in this place that some of it was bound to rub off on the show itself. That magic didn’t seem to care if she was in a hurry—and it would always be hungry for more stories.
“Oh, come on,” Grit groaned. “I shouldn’t count as a passenger! My feet don’t even touch the ground.”
But the song came drifting along the hall:
One who seeks
A hint of mystique
Must also be willing to pay
The sum of a story
The tax of a tall tale—
“All right, I get it.” She sighed, thinking. “Many years ago, a young knight rode through the woods on his way to meet his bride.”
Almost without realizing it, her voice began to slow, slipping into the lilting cadence she’d listened to for hours as a young sprout on her mother’s knee.
“A faerie king’s daughter saw him riding by. Charmed by his handsomeness and grace, she revealed herself to him and asked him to dance.” Grit paused. She couldn’t say why she’d picked this story, but now that she’d started, it seemed there was no choice but to finish. “The knight thanked her for her offer, but insisted he must ride on to be married to his true intended. The princess offered him gold and riches beyond his wildest dreams, if he would only come away with her, but he spurned her, and remained loyal to his human bride.
“Incensed by his rejection, the princess cast a curse upon his heart and sent him on his way. By the next morning, he was dead, discovered by none other than his pretty young bride. Consumed by grief, she followed soon after. They are buried side by side, in the same hills where the faerie princess dances still.”
Grit’s words hung in the air. If she listened closely, she could hear the faint turning of the gramophone’s cylinder, hidden somewhere nearby. She wondered if her voice even registered on its recording. She hoped that it did not.
The Crooked Castle Page 8