by Kim Wilkins
Mayfridh wondered what Jude was doing at this moment. And Christine too. And Diana. The Real World continued without her. Did they think about her at all?
She sighed, but the silent glamour ensured that no sound emerged. Of course they thought about her. Jude was in love with her, she knew that. Diana would be grieving, having lost her again. Christine would be worried . . . But then, if she was worried, why not come through to Ewigkreis to check on her? Mayfridh suspected that Christine was frightened to do so.
Perhaps it was better if Mayfridh didn’t see Christine again. She felt tears prick at her eyes. To lose such a dear friend twice was careless. But how could Mayfridh look at Christine knowing that Jude’s heart was errant? Mayfridh closed her eyes. Come, winter. Come, forgetfulness. Life would be bearable and sane again, soon. All of these people would slip from her mind, and things would be as they always had been, and Mayfridh would be oblivious to the emptiness that created inside her.
A shriek, deep in the woods. Mayfridh sat up with a start, her eyes flying open. Was it Hexebart? Had he found her already?
Far away, coming back to her on the breeze, she heard a stream of broken abuse. “Dog-chops . . . boil you alive . . . Princess Putrid . . .” Oh yes, he had caught Hexebart.
Mayfridh stood, heart thumping. Not simply because Hexebart had been caught and the royal magic was safe, but because once that dungeon door shut behind her, Hexebart had to tell.
Thumping and crashing through the woods they came, closer and closer, until Eisengrimm emerged, his Bear arms clamped around Hexebart, who hung upside down and wriggled and squirmed and shrieked.
“Let me go, pig’s breath,” she screamed, her white hair flying as she struggled against him. Then when she saw Mayfridh waiting, she began to spit and curse all the more, her face turning deep red. “Changeling! Cuckoo! Nothing but a turd with a crown.”
“Well done, Eisengrimm,” Mayfridh said.
“Let us get her to the dungeon quickly,” Eisengrimm replied. His voice was strained, betraying the effort of maintaining Bear so long.
“Gladly.” Mayfridh hurried along behind him as he loped unevenly through trees, skirting the village. He leaned left, then right, clutching Hexebart soundly around the thighs. Hexebart screamed and cried the whole way, but ran out of steam as they approached the slope to the castle. Mayfridh knew Eisengrimm must be growing tired and sore, but he kept his steps quick, bringing Hexebart to the dungeon only ten minutes after dragging her out of the forest.
“There,” he cried, throwing Hexebart to the floor and slamming the door behind her. Mayfridh pressed in with the key, only breathing freely when she heard the lock clunk into place. When she turned around, Eisengrimm huddled, a fox, against the wall behind her.
“Eisengrimm?”
“I’m so very sore, Mayfridh.” He hunched his shoulders up and shivered.
Mayfridh’s heart clutched. “Come, you poor fellow. I’ll take you to my bedroom and feed you treats until you feel better.” She glanced over her shoulder at Hexebart, whose dark eyes gleamed deep in the dungeon. The witch was under oath; Mayfridh could ask her right this instant for Jude’s secret and she had to give it. Yet how could she when Eisengrimm was so ill and needed her attention?
And how could she when Eisengrimm was well again? After this last disaster, he would never leave her alone with Hexebart again.
Something soft brushed against her ankle. She looked down. Eisengrimm sat on the edge of her foot.
“I’ve got you,” she said, scooping him up in her arms.
He winced. “Mayfridh, be—”
“I’ll be gentle.”
She cradled him carefully against her chest and left Hexebart behind.
“Will you be back?” Hexebart called. “I have something to tell you.”
Mayfridh steeled herself and didn’t answer. In a few days, Eisengrimm would be feeling better. He would be well enough to make a trip to the Real World for her, long enough to check on those she had left behind.
Long enough to leave her a few hours alone with Hexebart.
Work had been hellishly busy, the train hellishly crowded, and Christine ached all over by the time she turned into Vogelwald-Allee. She hoped that Jude hadn’t drunk all the beer in the house already. He was struggling with some immense creative issue that she knew she couldn’t hope to understand. He spent hours in his studio painting savage slashes of dark color as though he hoped to damage the canvas with them, as though art were physical instead of mental. Four afternoons in a row he had been back upstairs by four, drinking and chain-smoking and clicking his tongue and tapping his fingers. She hadn’t probed him. He went through this periodically, and preferred it if she let him sink into it for a few weeks. He always resurfaced eventually.
Christine had her keys in her hand, ready to try the lock, when a flash of red caught the corner of her eye. She glanced to her right. Something moved among the long grass growing around the storm drain. A dog or a cat or . . .
A small fox-shaped head peered out.
“Eisengrimm?”
He ducked into cover again. She hurried over. It must be Eisengrimm; surely foxes weren’t running loose in the city. She crouched next to the gutter inlet and looked inside.
“Eisengrimm, is that you? Come out.”
He slunk forward. “Hello, Christine.”
“You didn’t come all the way down from the Tiergarten like that?”
“I flew down as Crow. But I’m a bit sore for such a small shape so—”
“Sore? Here, follow me into the trees.” She indicated the overgrown parkland that tangled around the end of the street.
“Can you carry me?”
Christine was surprised, but picked Eisengrimm up without questioning him. She carried him several yards into the trees and placed him carefully in the grass, sitting cross-legged next to him. He winced as he sat.
“You’re in pain.”
“I became a bear not two days past. It bruises every inch of me.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Mayfridh sent me.”
“Even though you’re in pain?”
“She insisted. She’s worried about you.”
“More than she’s worried about you?”
Eisengrimm sighed and leaned his snout on his paws. “I don’t mind. She was very agitated.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No. Only time can help. I’ll be fine in a week or so.”
She stroked his nose gently. “I’m glad Mayfridh’s been worried about me. I’ve been worried about her.”
“She wanted me to let you know she’s well. She wanted to know if you were also well.”
“I’m fine. Why did she go so suddenly?”
“Urgent matters at home.”
“Really? None of us said or did anything to offend her or upset her? Or frighten her?” She was thinking about Mandy now; Mandy with his strange habits and locked attic.
“No, no. She is the queen, and she has duties.”
“I get it. I’m glad she’s okay.”
“She wanted me to ask, too, about her other friends.”
“They’re all fine.”
“And Jude?”
“He’s okay, but he’s having some artistic dilemma. Keeps muttering about how nobody understands him.” She laughed. “He’s like a teenager sometimes.”
“And her mother?”
“Diana’s frantic, but I can phone her and tell her that Mayfridh’s okay. Is she coming back?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “She hasn’t decided. Are you coming back to Ewigkreis?”
Christine glanced into the trees. She could hear a train speed past in the distance. “I don’t know either.”
“She would love to see you again. Before . . .”
“Before winter? Before she forgets about me forever?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see her too.” She met Eisengrimm’s eyes again. “Will you forget me
too?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
Christine shrugged. “I won’t disappear, you know. Just because you don’t remember me doesn’t mean I won’t be here living my life.” She knew that Eisengrimm already understood that, but some nameless fear made her say it anyway, as though saying it made her more concrete, less likely to disappear into a crack.
Eisengrimm didn’t answer. He stood and gingerly shook himself. “I must return. I’ve grown very tired.”
“Tell her I miss her.”
“I will.”
“And I miss you too,” she said, rubbing his ears. She uncrossed her legs and stood.
Eisengrimm transformed to Crow, and fluttered up to perch on her shoulder. She made her way out of the park and back onto the street.
“I hope you’re feeling better quickly,” she said, gently touching his feathered chest.
“Come and see us again, soon,” he said. “Mayfridh would love you to visit.”
“It’s safe?”
“Perfectly. For at least a few more weeks.”
“I’ll think about it, then.”
He spread his wings and took to the sky. She watched him wheel above her, then disappear from sight. When she turned her attention back to the hotel, she saw Mandy standing on the front step staring at her.
“Hi, Mandy,” she said, trying to sound casual. Had he seen her talking to the crow?
“Good afternoon, Christine.” He hurried inside without another word, and Christine felt her ribs contract. He seemed agitated, but then, he was often agitated. Usually more talkative, always wanting to chat with her about her day, about whether or not “Miranda” was coming back.
She glanced up at the sky again, but Eisengrimm was long gone. Hopefully he was nearly back at the Tiergarten, nearly home where he could rest his aching body. She locked the front door of the building behind her.
Upstairs, she heard Mandy’s hasty footsteps and the squeak-thump of his apartment door. Almost as though he were running away.
Hexebart will kill someone. Hexebart will kill them all.
At least her hands are free now. At least she’s warm again.
But, oh! the Real World still beckons Hexebart. She smooths the blue fabric between her fingers. A tiny, tiny scrap of Real World from the bottom of Princess Putrid’s skirt. Hexebart found it hanging in the doorframe. Hexebart has sharp eyes and never misses a clue.
Hexebart is supposed to be weaving the winter blessings, but takes a moment to enjoy the blue scrap. Pulls a thread, weaves a spell. The ugly changeling bought this in a shop. Bright lights and warm air. Hexebart screws her eyes tight and thinks tight. Hmm. The ugly changeling didn’t buy this at all, someone bought it for her. Somebody she loves in the Real World. Think tighter, think tighter.
Her mother!
Hexebart is confused a moment, and tears prick her eyes. Hope swells and falls. But no, not Liesebet. Liesebet is gone. This mother isn’t a faery mother, this is a stupid skinny sad human mother. Hexebart flings the spell into a corner of the dungeon. Stupid skinny sad human mother. Liesebet is gone.
If Hexebart ever makes it to the Real World, Hexebart will find this human mother and feed her burning coals. Hexebart will find every one of Mayfridh’s human friends and hurt them all.
Hexebart’s heart is clutched by sadness. The dungeon is locked up tight; she knows she will never leave.
She weaves more spells, her fingers splitting and bleeding. The changeling princess will come soon to hear the awful secret. Hexebart knows this because she can smell that dog-chops is not at the Autumn Castle. Mayfridh is afraid of the dog’s opinion. Ha! Some queen! Hexebart can’t understand why the ugly queen cares so much about those Real World people, but Hexebart shines with warm happiness inside that the secret will hurt her. Even if she weren’t under magical oath, Hexebart would tell. Hexebart relishes hurting her.
What’s that? What’s that?
Footsteps, footsteps. Here she comes.
—from the Memoirs of Mandy Z.
My hands are almost shaking too much to write. Did I really see what I think I saw? Hear what I think I heard?
Imagine if you will, dear reader, the pale sky of twilight, streaked with gray clouds. The outlines of the trees, their few last sad sick leaves clinging in a November breeze. A pale, thin woman of indeterminate attractiveness in a coat and scarf, with a black crow perched on her shoulder.
Then imagine that, made curious by this sight, you shuffle a few paces past your front door to ensure you’re really seeing it. A crow? I’d seen Christine Starlight concerning herself with a crow once before, only that time she had been unnerved, complaining of it following her home. Nothing had excited me on that occasion. She had seemed just a girl with a silly neurosis about birds.
But today, as I shuffled a few paces past my front door to ensure I was really seeing it, voices came softly to me on the breeze. One, Christine Starlight. Asking after his health. I had nearly laughed. Christine talking to a crow.
But then. Another voice. The crow’s voice. “Come and see us again . . . Mayfridh would love you to visit.” The rest of the conversation was, for me, inaudible for the rushing of excited blood in my head.
First, crows don’t speak. Unless they’re animated by some magic. And the only magic I know truly exists is faery magic.
Second, his invitation to visit means one searing, indisputable truth. Christine has a passage. “Come and see us again.” Come to faeryland again as you have in the past. It explains the odd faery smell that I thought I had mistakenly detected on her. It also means that she knows precisely where Miranda—or Mayfridh as is her real name—has gone, and that’s why she hasn’t displayed the slightest furrow of concern in all the long exchanges where I’ve questioned her.
A passage. I apologize for all the emphasis, but I don’t believe I have ever been more excited in my life. Let me spell it out. Faeries in unlimited supply. Faery bones in unlimited supply. All waiting for me, unsuspecting, on the other side of the passage.
And then, my heart trembles like the heart of a man who has seen there is only one place in the lifeboat and the rest of the crowds on the Titanic block his way. It might slip beyond my reach. I need to find Christine’s method of passage, and if I can’t, then this brilliant imagining will remain forever an imagining. There is no point in searching her apartment. She could be conjuring the passage with a button or a pin, or any number of ordinary-looking objects. Instead, I will follow and watch her closely. Her exchange with the crow leads me to believe she may attempt a passage soon.
Please let it be soon. This ship is sinking.
Mayfridh made her way down the dimly lit corridors of the dungeon. Only two or three lanterns burned between each gate, the flames’ reflections sucked up by the black walls. Her heart was a frightened bird. Or an excited bird. Or both. She would soon be alone with Hexebart, and the magical oath would be collected.
She fumbled with the gate; it squeaked open. In the distance, she could hear Hexebart laughing.
“What are you laughing about, hag?” Mayfridh called.
“I know something you don’t know,” Hexebart replied, her voice faint and far away.
Yes, but not for long. Not for long.
She advanced up through the other gates, watching her step on the sloping, uneven ground. She didn’t have much time. Eisengrimm would return soon. He had been in so much pain when she sent him through that she’d almost cried with guilt; but his errand was quick and simple, and when he returned she would be upstairs waiting with soothing balms to rub into his joints and magic spells to ease his pain.
Mayfridh rounded the last bend and stood in front of Hexebart’s cell.
“Well, witch,” she said, “you are under an oath to tell me Jude’s secret.”
Hexebart moved close to the bars in the window of the door. “I’ll gladly tell,” she said, her eyes gleaming dimly in the dark. “Gladly.”
Mayfridh’s pulse thudded in her ears. She steel
ed herself in case it was bad news. “Go on then.”
“Put your ear close to the bars, my Queen,” Hexebart whispered. “Such a secret should only be told in a hush.”
Mayfridh warily moved close to the door and leaned her ear against the window. She could feel Hexebart’s breath close to her hair. The witch inhaled, and then shrieked loudly, directly into Mayfridh’s ear.
Mayfridh jumped back, clapping her hand to the side of her head. Hexebart was cackling and her ear was ringing, and she burned with anger. Before she could protest or lash out, Hexebart said something utterly shocking and Mayfridh was stunned into silence. The words were so astonishing that, for a moment, Mayfridh could barely make sense of them.
“What?” she gasped. “What did you say?”
Hexebart smiled her crooked smile. “You heard me,” she said. “Jude killed Christine’s parents.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There’s someone out front to see you.” Christine looked up. Natalie, the afternoon casual, stood in the door to the storeroom, indicating over her shoulder to the front counter.
“It’s not that South African guy again, is it?” Christine asked, placing aside the pile of books on her lap. The one who had first come in back in September and probed her about the car accident. He’d returned today to pick up a book, asking after her. She’d avoided him so far, and now, ten minutes before knock-off time, she had no intention of answering to his ghoulish curiosity. Not today; two bad nights of sleep in a row, a dull throbbing growing sharper by the hour, the growing cold easing wicked fingers into her back. She predicted the blue tablets by the end of the week. Just getting through the day was an ordeal. And the aching had no knock-off time; it would come home with her.
“No, it’s a girl. A woman. Really amazing hair.”
Christine rose gingerly and a second later spotted her friend browsing between two bookshelves. “Mayfridh!”