The Crooked Castle

by Sarah Jean Horwitz

Grit nodded. “So what’s an antsy Unseelie king to do without openly acting against his own kind?”

  Carmer leaned back against his pillow. “They want to break up the Wonder Show. If the circus disbands because Tinkerton’s losing too much money, they’ve separated the faeries and eliminated the threat.”

  “Or who they think is a threat,” corrected Grit. “I don’t think Beamsprout has any plans for world domination in that silly onion-shaped head of hers.”

  Carmer smiled, just a little, but his amusement was quickly replaced with worry. “We have to warn them.”

  “We do. Tomorrow,” Grit insisted. “You should get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

  “What? No, you don’t have to—”

  “Someone has to make sure the giants don’t use your bones for soup,” she said practically. “I can just imagine them ordering that maid of theirs: ‘One small boy, lightly defrosted, please.’ And I only count one of us who doesn’t require sleep.”

  Carmer sighed, but it turned into a yawn.

  Grit snorted.

  “I did almost die today,” he allowed sleepily, pulling the covers closer.

  Grit sprawled out on the pillow next to his face and looked at him, her expression searching. He didn’t mind that she saw the few tears that dropped down onto the pillow. At least, not very much.

  “We’ll find Bell,” Grit said softly. “He’ll be fine.”

  “And I’m the greatest magician in the world,” Carmer said, finally turning his face into the pillow.

  Grit flew up into the mantle of the bedroom lamp, already doused for the night, and sat inside. It wasn’t comfortable, but if the lamplighters in her kingdom could sit in their globes all night long, then so could she. She turned on her light, just enough to keep total darkness from swallowing the room, and began her watch.

  Outside, around and around the Blythes’ house, ghostly wheels churned through the snow until it frothed like waves on the sea.

  13.

  DEVIL FISH

  Which came first—the jellyfish or the ship? This was the kind of question Bell Daisimer found himself asking. This was the kind of question he let himself ask, because if he wasn’t careful, if he let himself ask the kinds of questions he really wanted to—Where was he? How did he get here? Was it real? Was he . . . dead, and this place his punishment for his sins, for abandoning his passengers?—well, that made the gears in his mind turn pretty sticky, pretty fast. And now, more than ever, he needed his mind. He needed something to hold on to.

  The storm was a blur in Bell’s memory, nothing left but flashes of bright, cold white. Losing Carmer in the snow. Skinny, clammy hands at the back of his neck and wrapped around his middle, cold enough to turn his heart into an icy lump in his chest. The caress of black silk against his skin. And flying—flying like he’d never experienced it before, because he wasn’t just flying in the storm. He was the storm. He was as vast as the clouds and as small as a single snowflake and as fast—no, faster—than the wind itself.

  And after that? Well, he drowned. But just a little bit, his captor assured him.

  She didn’t tie his hands, or his feet, or even put bars on his door. She didn’t need to. He had the whole ship to himself—the whole ship that had probably sunk well over fifty years ago, if the corpses and the cargo were anything to go by, and was now very firmly at the bottom of the sea.

  Only her magic, she said, kept the water from rushing in and crushing him to death in an instant—her magic, he supposed, and the jellyfish. The great, gelatinous dome of the creature encased the entire ship, just one of the countless wrecks around it. It ebbed and flowed with the tides and currents and the sparse marine life that dared traverse these waters. It expanded and contracted at her command.

  Had the jellyfish been born this big, a magical underwater monster, and simply eaten the ship whole? Had the ship and everything in it (including him) been shrunk somehow, and the jellyfish was really no bigger than the palm of his hand?

  Which came first—the jellyfish or the ship? In a world with no rules, the possibilities were endless.

  Bell had tried to run, at first, and she’d let him get as far as the deck. The fleshy ceiling jiggled overhead, distorting any view he might have had of the sea around them. It was not lost on him that this part of the jellyfish was called, of all things, the bell. By the way the girl giggled, he didn’t think it was lost on her, either.

  But monsters had been waiting for him there. His brain tried in vain to supply names for the pale, bony creatures with bared teeth—basilisks, dragons, faeries?—before the answer came to him. The ivory-and-gray soldiers with wings and webbed talons and wide, sneering faces were as tall as he was now, but he’d seen them before. The sailors in the city called them “Jenny Hanivers”—skeletons of rays and skates carved and manipulated to look like mythical creatures. Except these creatures were anything but mythical.

  Bell’s mother—crickets, how long had it been since he’d thought about her?—had been a superstitious woman, and a devout one. She didn’t think it was natural, humans trying to fly. The good Lord hadn’t given them wings for a reason.

  Needless to say, they’d had a bit of a falling-out over the subject.

  But memories of her flooded back to him, down there in the wet and the dark. Bell’s mother had another name for those skeletal creatures, the Jenny Hanivers, that only made him more certain he’d left the earthly plane for good.

  She’d called them devil fish.

  14.

  A TRAITOR IN OUR MIDST

  Carmer awoke to a world utterly transformed. The Driftside Metals graveyard was an unrecognizable landscape of lumpy white masses and frozen towers of scrap metal. It had been messy before, to be sure, but now . . . now it looked like someone had placed it in a snow globe and given the whole thing a good shake before they decided to glue the scenery to the bottom. Scraps of tarp flew about like strange birds in the wind. Frames that had been intact on arrival were now bent in impossible angles, or splayed open down the middle like gutted fish. Occasionally, a solitary tire would roll past, a rubber tumbleweed across the deserted landscape.

  And deserted it seemed to be. Robert and Isla’s dogs came back with nothing, snow glittering off their shaggy backs, frothing at the mouths with exertion. They jumped around excitedly, yelping and leaping in the snow, until Robert had to kennel them to calm them down.

  “They haven’t actually seen much snow,” Robert admitted rather sheepishly. “Must be excitin’.” He clapped Carmer on the shoulder, hard enough to nearly make Carmer’s knees buckle. “We’ll get you back into town as soon as we can. Maybe you’ll find your friend there. Don’t, uh, don’t stay out in the cold too long, all right?” Robert trudged back into the house.

  Carmer absently flapped the arms of his borrowed jacket. It fell nearly to his ankles. “How much do you want to bet there’s nothing left of the Jasconius?” he asked. “Who will believe us when we tell them we found an engine full of mushrooms?”

  “Blurgh.” Grit surfaced from his pocket, spitting out lint. “The Wonder Show faeries will, if they know what’s good for them.”

  Robert Blythe offered to drive Carmer to the police station to start his search for Bell, but Carmer politely declined. Though no longer convinced of the Blythes’ involvement, he wanted them as far away from his investigation—and any further encounters with the Unseelie fae—as possible. Instead, he let the large man accompany him to the nearest airbus station. The skies, unlike the roads, were already clear, and the no-frills passenger ships that made regular trips from end to end of the city were packed with the few commuters daring (or desperate) enough to try to get to work that day.

  Carmer was back in his own clothes, which had dried so stiffly they hung on his skinny frame like chunks of cardboard rather than fabric. The inside of his shirt was stuffed with letters between the Blythes and “Tinkerton” that Grit had stolen. He would make time to study them later.

  He’d straightened out hi
s top hat as best he could, wondering if the Blythes had been interested enough to see the squashed faerie balcony on the inside, but it looked more than a little worse for wear. Grit spent most of the trip inside it, sitting on top of Carmer’s head with her fingers wrapped in his hair to keep her balance and sighing loudly whenever Carmer took a particularly ungainly step. It wasn’t their favorite arrangement, but it would have to do.

  It was a cold and tough walk to the camp at Elysian Field from the air-bus stop—snowbanks pushed up along the sides of the road took up most of the sidewalks in their path—but it gave Carmer time to think. The storm had been rough here, that was certain, but the snow reached only eight, maybe ten inches high. It was nowhere near the utter devastation that had been wreaked on the graveyard.

  Carmer didn’t even bother to go to the police. “My friend was abducted by evil faeries in a magically enhanced snowstorm while we were trespassing in an airship graveyard” did not seem like the kind of thing he could write down on a missing person’s report.

  “AND SO,” GRIT finished. “That’s why we think the Unseelies have been sabotaging Tinka’s ships. They don’t like seeing so many Free Folk working together. They think you’re a threat to their authority, so they’re trying to break up the show.”

  The Free Folk assembled in their hidden corner of the Whale of Tales did not look very convinced.

  “The accidents were just to lure Tinka here,” explained Carmer. At a sour look from the pearly-skinned Beamsprout, he added, “Um, that is, we think.”

  “You think?” asked Yarlo, crossing his arms. “Just like you think they kidnapped Mikhail and—what did you say—‘scrambled his brains’ as a warning?”

  “I said that if the Unseelies got him under their thrall, they could have easily manipulated him with faerie knots,” said Grit. “He didn’t exactly sound like the sharpest thorn on the rosebush to begin with.”

  Grit wondered what they would do to Bell—someone who had actually witnessed their crimes—if she and Carmer were right.

  “Mikhail supposedly warned Tinka about ‘using power that wasn’t his’ before he jumped,” Carmer said.

  “And yeah, we think,” Grit added with a pointed look at Yarlo, “that he meant you! And now they’ve taken a friend of ours, too. But it’s not like we can just march up to the Unseelie palace and ask, ‘Hey, are you by any chance kidnapping humans because some flying circus is giving you a run for your money?’”

  But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Grit knew that one of them could do exactly that—and it just so happened to be her. She was faerie royalty, and had every right to call a meeting with the Unseelie king. And her visit to declare her presence in his domain—an overdue visit, by now—would be the excuse that got her in the door.

  “Are we really making those stuffy Fair Folk nervous?” asked Canippy, a long-limbed faerie with green arms and legs like string beans.

  Yarlo flicked a vine at her, and she jumped back, scowling.

  “I wouldn’t be pleased, if I were you,” warned Grit. “The Seelie and Unseelie courts have ruled Faerie for thousands of years. If they see the Free Folk as a threat to their power . . .”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” said Beamsprout, and a few of the other faeries nodded. A trio of pixies in the corner made chittering noises of approval. “The Wonder Show is our home, and we’re not subject to any court’s laws. Unseelie or Seelie.” Beamsprout narrowed her eyes at Grit.

  “Innocent humans have been killed because the Unseelies think you should be,” Grit said. “They haven’t attacked you directly—yet. Enough distance and maybe, just maybe, enough respect for fae life has kept them from that. But what happens when they change their minds? What happens when they decide enough is enough?”

  Yarlo’s rope came out of nowhere, slashing through the air and cracking the ground like a whip. Even the Free Folk jumped.

  “Enough is enough,” he said, stalking toward Grit.

  Carmer rushed forward, but she waved him off. This was a matter between fae.

  “I’ve had enough of you scarin’ my people,” Yarlo said roughly. “You come into our territory unannounced, and we let you stick your nose in our business.”

  “Tinkerton asked us to—” Carmer started, but Yarlo kept on.

  “You threatened us, and we let you pass unharmed. We didn’t ask questions. We never even balked at that abomination you call a wing.” He spat on the floor.

  Grit fought the instinct to fold up her wings, a flush rising up her neck, and extended them instead. So this was what Yarlo really thought of her?

  “Now you come in here with your crazy claims to try and scatter us like a bunch of scared rabbits.” He stepped so close they were almost touching. “Well, we won’t be intimidated by anyone, least of all a nosy little Seelie with ten summers to her name.”

  Twelve! Twelve summers! Grit bristled, but she knew he was expecting her to play the brat. He knew exactly what she was, she was sure of it.

  Fortunately, Grit had a good guess about what he was as well.

  “How about an Unseelie?” she asked calmly.

  Yarlo blinked. “Excuse me?” he said. “Didn’t I just say—”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Grit said, stepping around him with more confidence than she felt. It helped—though she would never admit it—that Carmer stood close by, with his abominably large human feet, ready if things got ugly. There weren’t many situations where he could be considered the muscle of their operation, but this was one of them. “I was talking to the rest of you. Beamsprout. Canippy. Thundrumble.”

  They did not look pleased.

  “All of you. Would you let an Unseelie scare you, or manipulate you?” she asked them. “Because Yarlo here is doing exactly that. And he is an Unseelie.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Yarlo laughed. And laughed, and laughed.

  “Do you expect them to believe that pile of horse dung?” he asked. “I’ve been traveling with this show for months and never harmed a soul in the fleet. If I was an Unseelie, why would I do that?”

  “To . . . to be their faerie on the inside,” Grit said, suddenly less sure of herself. All she had was her gut feeling and a couple of offhand comments.

  The only difference between the Wonder Show faeries and you is you live under somebody’s thumb, and they don’t.

  “To lead the Wonder Show here,” Grit continued, “and help destroy them when the time came.” It was more than her gut telling her. It was her heart, the deepest magical part of her, that knew Yarlo had not forsaken his court of birth. But to these faeries, the word of her heart was nothing. Some of them were already retreating into the shadows of the ship. She needed proof.

  Yarlo was still smiling.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Carmer said, clearing his throat. “But, um, how does that work, exactly? I’ve been wondering what happens, you know, when a faerie leaves their court. Am I still their Friend? Do they have to tell their king or queen?”

  Grit could have kissed him.

  Carmer shrugged. “I’m pretty new to all of this.”

  Yarlo’s smile twitched.

  “And it ain’t none of your business, human,” Yarlo said. “When a faerie cuts off ties with his court, that’s his business alone. Ain’t nobody but him and the wind at his back forever.” He smiled smugly, and Grit nearly groaned. She’d never convince them.

  But to her surprise, the other faeries looked wary. Thundrumble took a tentative step forward, her round cheeks blushing chestnut. “Um, that’s not how it was for me,” she offered quietly. (Which was actually quite loudly, as Thundrumble had been aptly named for both thundering and rumbling.) “I had to go up in front of my queen and everyone and there were songs and official banishments and things.”

  Canippy nodded, as did the fire faerie with bright red wings sitting next to her. Beamsprout was glowing so brightly she looked white-hot.

  “Aw, you know what I meant, old girl!” sai
d Yarlo, clapping Thundrumble on the shoulder. He yelped and snatched back his hand; one of her spines had poked him. “And it ain’t wise to divulge such know-how to the humans!”

  “What were the words?” Beamsprout spoke sharply. “What were the words you had to say to break your oath to the Unseelies?”

  Vines started curling and uncurling around Yarlo’s arms. He laughed uneasily now.

  “I—I don’t remember exactly, pretty moonbeam,” he said, edging backward until he hit the toes of Carmer’s boots.

  “Don’t ‘pretty moonbeam’ me!” cried Beamsprout, a milky tear streaming down her face. “You lied to us, Yarlo, this whole time!”

  Yarlo must have seen his time was up. Fast enough to be nothing but a brown blur, he skittered around and in between Carmer’s boots, his ropes and vines flying.

  “Grit, what is he—” Carmer took a panicked step forward, but his boots had been tied together in Yarlo’s impossibly complicated knots. He tripped and pitched forward, falling down hard. The other faeries dashed out of the way just in time; their little hammocks and nests in the quarters they’d built in this corner of the ship were ground to bits under Carmer’s human-sized elbows and knees.

  “Carmer!” Grit hovered over him.

  “Yarlo’s getting away!” someone called.

  “So go get him!” Grit snapped. “Carmer, are you all right?”

  Her friend sat up gingerly, poking at Yarlo’s knots, and surveyed the damage he’d done.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Just clumsy as a ton of bricks. I . . . I’m sorry about your things.”

  Canippy, who had soared all the way up to the ceiling to hide, looked at him like he was one of the gigantic, warmongering Titans engraved on the Whale of Tales’ walls. Only her red-winged friend, glaring daggers at Carmer all the while, was able to coax her down. Thundrumble, on the other hand, gave him a clumsy (and blessedly spike-free) pat on the shoulder.

  Beamsprout flitted back into view. “He’s gone,” she said, wringing her hands. “I lost him in the Hall of Stories. He knows the ins and outs of this ship better than anyone. He’ll probably be halfway to the Unseelie king by morning.”