Seasons Turning

by Donaya Haymond

  “The messenger returned. Shall I let her in?”

  “Of course.” She opened her planner to the appropriate day and wrote, “Messenger returned, message received, found lodgings for messenger, sent next message.” If the other Seasons could master a goddamn telephone, or even a telegraph, all this would be unnecessary. She did realize the infrastructure would cost a lot and have no clear profit. The bizarre climates in this dimension probably wouldn’t be kind to phones anyway.

  The only reason they had Internet in the castle was because of the portal in the dungeon. It was the very same dungeon she had unknowingly rolled through some five years before.

  Ezekiel fidgeted. “She’s dripping wet.”

  Amber laughed. “How appropriate. Give her some towels, and if necessary a robe. I’ll spread a drop cloth on the floor. If she keeps away from the books it’ll be fine.”

  Lynne used a stateroom–really a snazzy conference room with an extra-plushy chair for her–for all government business. When Amber was in charge she had people come into her library. Lynne made it for her shortly after Amber became a permanent resident. It resembled the one in Beauty and the Beast, Amber’s favorite Disney movie as a child. It had vaulted ceilings of blue and silver with wide velvet curtains on six-foot-tall windows set four feet off the ground. The eight bookcases arranged around the walls were ten feet tall. Amber didn’t use the ladders, but she kept a few around for the telekinetically impaired. The ceiling was painted to look like a mountain sunrise. Before the accident happened, Amber loved hiking.

  On the bad nights, Lynne rubbed away the ghost of a bullet Amber occasionally felt in her back. Surgeons extracted it years ago. But it never really went away.

  The library wasn’t all one huge room. Not anymore. Over time Lynne remodeled the space to be more cozy and friendly. Nooks and arches of books clustered around couches and recliners, themselves grouped before fireplaces. The capital of Spring’s domain was in the province of March, so they had many chilly nights and rainy days. When the world got too damp and gray, Amber and Lynne would cuddle under blankets together, watching silly YouTube videos before a crackling fire. The thought warmed her. Amber also instituted library sleepover parties for students a few times a year. She kept the book collection on rotation with the nation’s first public library.

  “I’m here now,” the messenger said, in typical blunt fashion. The Fae were often like that. They understood hurt honor but didn’t really grasp hurt feelings. Over the centuries Faerie had dwindled to a small independent monarchy in the wild woods of April. They still acted as if they merely deigned to pay taxes and ally themselves with Spring, and then only because Lynne’s father was of the Fae. Once she figured out the different way they thought, thanks to Lynne, Amber came to understand them, and eventually like them.

  “Welcome, Rain. Would you like to warm yourself? I can turn the gas on.” Amber mentally clutched at a nearby chair, a stuffed one she knew was far heavier than her, and pulled as hard as she could. This allowed her to push her wheelchair to within two feet of the messenger and briefly stand up to offer her a hand. The effort made sweat bead up on her forehead, but it was never a bad idea to stroke a Fae’s ego.

  Rain shook her proffered hand with limp awkwardness. The towel she was wrapped in nearly fell off, revealing bare skin, but she caught it before it slipped entirely. She was an icily beautiful woman of youthful but indeterminate age. Water plastered her long black hair to her neck and back. The only things she was wearing, other than the towel, was a dagger around her neck, and a waterproofed leather pouch tightly strapped across her minimal chest, to reduce drag. The dagger’s handle was carved from a holly branch, which protects against curses, and the blade was a slice of blue diamond. Such an expensive item would have likely come from Queen Mab herself.

  Rain was a valuable messenger, in part because of the rare, immense raven-feathered wings sprouting from her shoulder blades. They hung three feet behind her even when folded. Most Fae wings were decorative, while others could slow a fall. When unfolded, Rain’s wings were almost as wide as a hang glider, providing them more function than most.

  “May I spread out?” she asked.

  Amber sank back down into her chair and maneuvered the cloth underfoot so even shaking the wings would not damage the carpet. “Do you want a hairdryer or something? And why are you naked? Don’t you get cold?”

  Rain looked at her, puzzled, and Amber cringed inwardly. “You don’t know what a hairdryer is, do you?”

  “No, I do. I could use one. I was staring at you because you’re the first person who’s asked about that, and I was trying to figure out why.”

  “Florentine, could you come here please?” Amber called through the doorway. She returned to Rain. “I don’t know as much about the Fae as the natives here do. I fuss over guests. It’s a thing. More importantly, how do you know what a hairdryer is? I have the only working one in Spring.”

  “I was born Next Door. I’m a changeling.”

  “No way!”

  Rain shrugged, dropped the towel, and spread her wings to their full expansion. “I’m from Georgia –the American state, not the Eastern European nation.”

  “You’re of the Fae! Nobody has wings Next Door!”

  “Nobody has telekinesis Next Door who isn’t a bullshitting mountebank. I’m not totally like you, though. I’m a changeling. My real parents, whoever they were, stole a human child and swapped me in as a replacement. I didn’t find out until recently.” She gestured at her wings. “These broke the rules of reality Next Door, so they couldn’t become real until I crossed over.”

  Florentine, Amber’s tiny but devoted personal attendant, popped her head in. “Yes, Amber?” She saw Rain and squeaked. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “I don’t much care for clothes, and Amber tolerates this fact,” Rain said, coolly.

  “Could you fetch my hairdryer and place it in Rain’s accommodations, please? If Rain is not already in one of the rooms with an electrical outlet, please make that happen. Also get someone to start a fire, please. Thank you.”

  “Of course, dearie,” Florentine said and scuttled off.

  Amber chuckled despite herself and shut the door with a rippling motion of her fingers. “Now, Rain, the message?”

  After wiping her hands on a fleece blanket draped over a couch, Rain extracted a piece of paper from her pouch and unfolded it.

  “I’ll cut the heraldry crap. Neither of us is interested. It’s Lynne who insists on the song and dance. Okay. Gwen of Autumn says she would love to confer with Lynne of Spring about the immediate crisis re: gender imbalance of the Seasons. However, she is not present at her own castle either. She’s gone off to pick up the new Summer for the dual purpose of explaining things to the poor child and getting her consort’s tuberculosis cured.

  She had asked Timmy to cure it before but he was true to his douchebaggery ways and refused. Before all this happened she was thinking of raiding a pharmacy Next Door and smuggling the necessary medicines back to Radcliff, since he isn’t a Commuter.

  “She also says ‘Hail!’ to you, Amber, and would love to get together sometime and have you explain all the functions on a TI-83 calculator. She just got a whole bunch to assist with the next tax season.”

  Amber smiled, touched by Gwen’s continued efforts to try new things to help her people. “Thank you, Rain. I will write a response for you to take back to her. In the meantime, why don’t you dry off and get some rest or have something to eat? Um, please wear clothes when you’re getting food, because the staff is excitable enough as it is.”

  Rain inclined her head slightly, her version of a nod, and left.

  Amber summoned a piece of stationary, watermarked with her distinctive logo of a kitten playing with a skull, and wrote the following:

  To Lady Gwen of Autumn, Queen of the Crimson Leaves, Undisputed Ruler of All-Hallows Eve, Bountiful Giver of Plenty, Maharani of Deciduousness, and Protector of the Weak,


  Also to Lord Radcliff, Harvest Consort, His Serenity the Ninja-Pirate-Detective-Knight, Champion of Awesome, Undefeated Jouster Sixty Years Running,

  Lynne just ran off in an attempt to enter your realm. En route she accidentally went through a newly opened barrier. It was some innocent young man’s basement the day before. Now that path to Autumn has been lost, at least for the time being. A pirate hoping to assassinate her wounded Lynne, and the young man in question helped her. She said his name is Jared. He is assisting her journey through Next Door territory to the nearest known border with Autumn. I will let you know more as soon as more details arise.

  How bad could this get? How much danger is Lynne in? How much danger are the worlds in? I anxiously await your reply.

  With utmost sincerity,

  Doctor Amber Clay, M.A., PhD.

  Four

  Spring Training

  In the very heart of January, Vincent, the Lord Winter, sat on a raised, black marble dais. A beam of white light shone upon him. Diamonds bordered his loose-fitting black robe, as well as his slender, platinum crown. The only decoration on the onyx walls were whorls and arches of flawless pear-cut diamonds.

  Vincent sat in a lotus position, meditating. His breath was visible in the frigid air, a chill he did not feel. After more than three hundred years, he required more and more time by himself to shuffle through his memories. Being a once-mortal Season with a mind originally meant for a human lifespan meant he needed to categorize his memories, to shelve the regrets, joys, sorrows, and loves so they didn’t trouble him when he worked.

  Also, he really enjoyed brooding and freaking people out.

  A door creaked open, and by the particular timbre of its creak he knew it was the petitioner’s entrance. A tapping noise echoed from the far side of the room, like the staccato rhythm of a cane against the ground. Vincent didn’t have to open his eyes to know this petitioner was blind.

  He continued to meditate, humming with a slight smile.

  The blind petitioners were less amusing than the others. They were not intimidated by the vast space. They didn’t take in the darkness with only a faintly glowing trail to guide them. They were unimpressed by wealth and his imposing musculature and perfection. They did not quake when they saw his gleaming silver skin, his eyes of solid snowstorm, and his hair spiked and glistening pale as icicles. When he blessed them with the gift of sight, they still weren’t impressed. It was too early for them to realize how different this room, and he himself, looked from the norm.

  In the end it didn’t really matter. An important part of being a ruler was giving the people under his rule just enough favor to buy their goodwill. Winter, after all, had the smallest population of all the Season realms.

  Hidden beneath the snows were great reserves of coal, oil, and gold. Enough to rival Summer’s coffers, if one could live long enough to dig them out. Most of the miners came for only a few months at a time, in shifts. The permanent residents lived on the fringes of December and February. It was bearable there for those who knew how to cope with the climate. These permanent residents were hardy, ingenious survivors, who would pose a serious threat to his rule if they ever decided to band together with the temporary residents. The late Lord Timothy (burn in hell) won his people’s indulgence by giving them good weather. Vincent needed to be a benevolent, if ultimately unknowable, god.

  The woman was close now, wrapped in furs, her eyes clouded.

  “You’re shivering,” he said, and his smile broadened when he saw her jump. “Forgive me. I forget the frailty of mortals.”

  That was the trick. They would never notice if he made it comfortable for humans to begin with. This way he gained their gratitude for being kind enough to adjust for their sake.

  The room grew warmer by several degrees. “Is that sufficient?” he asked.

  She let out a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you, Sire.”

  “It is no trouble. Come closer, child. You must take my hand.”

  “I have traveled very far.”

  “How far? What is your name?”

  Vincent rose to his feet but remained on his platform. It was a good psychological tactic to appear taller than a supplicant. With the newly sighted it made little difference, but it was habit by now.

  “I have come from Literaria of the Temperate Zone. My name is Prudence.”

  “Have you come to be made whole?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  He grasped her outstretched hand. “Close your eyes.”

  She bit her lip. “Yes, Sire.”

  “Prudence, you now must look upon my face, see and know what you see.”

  She opened her eyes, tears quickly welling up and running down her cheeks. He slowly increased the light around them, so she would soon behold the shimmering walls. She gasped, “You are…you are…beautiful…”

  He smiled gently and squeezed her hand. “Live a new life, child. A servant will take your cane at the exit, and you may stay for up to a week in one of the guest rooms.”

  She knelt and kissed his diamond ring. “Thank you!” Then she ran out, cheering.

  He had made another convert, another person who would fight to the death for him. Excellent. Vincent was about to dim the lights and return to his meditation when his PDA went off. He pulled it out and looked at it. “Shit, I’ve got a criminal case to try in ten minutes. They’re always such a pain in the ass.”

  Outside, a blizzard started howling, the weather instantly matching his mood.

  ****

  Amber didn’t like sleeping alone in the room she shared with Lynne. It felt too big and empty. Instead she used the room where she stored all her Next Door trappings. She tried to recreate her apartment before everything went wrong in that dimension. She had Lord of the Rings posters and a tiny TV with a rickety old DVD player. A little shelf held boxsets of the Monty Python, Firefly, and Doctor Who episodes that so confused her lover. Her spelling bee awards were there, her yearbooks, and her prized leather-bound Calvin and Hobbes collection. Buried somewhere deep in the closet was a picture of her family and another one of Candace. She looked at them two or three times a year.

  Amber carefully climbed out of the wheelchair and into bed, using telekinesis to compensate for her paralyzed legs. She thought about reading for a while but decided she was too tired. She left her cell phone on the bedside table, charging but on, in case Lynne called unexpectedly.

  She was just about to fall asleep when her door opened. Rain came in and shut the door behind her. Rain was wearing flannel pajamas now, ones that must have been made especially for her, with strategic openings for her wings. Amber wasn’t sure how putting them on and taking them off worked, but many buttons must be involved. By the glow of her nightlight Rain’s hair, now dry, fell in sleek, dark waves.

  “Uh, need something?” Amber asked.

  Rain stood at the foot of the bed. “You have softly golden brown hair, gentle brown eyes, and a rounded, full figure that is soothing to view. I have been considering the matter for the past few hours, and I have decided I would like to have sex with you.”

  After blinking for a few seconds, Amber replied, “As romantic as that is, no.”

  Rain tilted her head. “Why not? You are attractive and pansexual. As am I. Me being Faerie makes me immune to venereal disease. Female-to-female sex has no chance of pregnancy. I do not see the problem.”

  She suppressed her laughter because it was obvious Rain was trying hard to understand. “First off, I’m in a monogamous relationship with someone who loves me.”

  “You know Lynne has had sex with me in the past, an experience which she enjoyed. If she loves you, why would she want to deprive you? Also, I asked her permission. Check the note she left in your locked far-right desk drawer for proof.”

  Amber rolled her eyes. She willed the hidden key out of her shoe, unlocked the aforementioned drawer, and pulled the scrap of paper to her. It said, in Lynne’s handwriting and with her signature: “It’s not cheating if it’s wi
th Rain, since she’ll never love you and you’ll never run off with her. Be sure to take sexy pictures.”

  “So as you can see, that objection is makes no sense,” Rain said, playing with one of her fallen black feathers.

  “That wasn’t the only objection, sweetheart. As Lynne pointed out, you’ll never love me. I want to have sex only with people who love me. ‘Pansexual’ means that gender is not a deciding factor in attraction, not that I’ll eagerly hump everything in sight.”

  Rain frowned. “Please?”

  “Go sleep with Ezekiel or one of the other underlings. They’d consider it an honor.

  “All right then.” She turned and left. Amber slid back under the covers.

  The door opened wide enough for Rain to stick her head through. “Amber?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Even though you brushed me off, I have the vague feeling it wasn’t a waste of my time to come here.”

  Amber waved sleepily, but not without some satisfaction at the admission. “Goodnight, mixed-up fairy girl.”

  “‘Night, homegirl.”

  ****

  Goodwife Ash cleared her throat. “Have…have you...?”

  Kira waited for the rest of the question with a wince. Usually the witch’s home was a peaceful refuge. Kira loved its little courtyard of moss-grown stone, with its wicker furniture upholstered with clean, sage-colored cushions. The three cats liked sunning themselves there.

  The goodwife was a plump, kindly woman with gray hair in a long braid, gold-rimmed spectacles, and a fondness for berets. Her beret collection featured all the colors and a few patterns. She preferred wearing comfortable, plain black dresses until they were threadbare, and accented them with jewelry made from carved wooden beads and smooth river pebbles. This woman delivered Kira, gave her a ring of confidence, and cared for her in sickness. A few years ago, Goodwife Ash decreed the punishment for a man who struck mother and called her a whore. They were arguing over the fee he wanted for waterproofing their thatched roof. He had to give Mother an apology and a sixty percent discount on his asking price, on pain of having his own home burned down.