by Carrie Jones
“Your mother will be down shortly. Shall I get you anything to take off the chill? Tea? Brandy?” Bentley offers, still standing up as Astley and I settle into a plush velvet couch. My feet can’t quite touch the ground when I sit all the way back, so I scoot up and perch on the edge. I won’t get the couch as wet that way anyway, right?
“No, thank you,” Astley answers for both of us. He’s probably noticed my horrified face over the whole brandy offer. I wonder if pixies can get drunk. I should ask that sometime, maybe when things mellow out … if things ever mellow out.
“As you wish,” Bentley says, and does this quiet, gentlemanly bow, bending stiffly from his waist.
I try to imagine Astley growing up here. I bet he had a nanny and a tutor. I bet he wasn’t allowed to slide down that big mahogany banister or spill his milk (or should I say brandy?) or leave his wet towels in a pile on the bedroom floor.
“Was it hard?” I ask him as Bentley leaves the room.
“Was what hard?” His eyes are distracted.
“Growing up here? Wait. Do you live here now?” I ask. “You know … when you aren’t trying to stop a rogue pixie king in Bedford, Maine.”
He shudders. “No, I have my own home.”
Wow. His own home? That’s crazy. Then I remember that I’m actually his queen, which is even weirder. He doesn’t answer my original question, which probably means that it was terribly difficult to grow up here. Sympathy fills me. We sit there in a companionable sort of silence.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
I nod.
“She promised to help,” he says, taking my hand. “We shall find your wolf, Zara.”
Once again, I wonder why he cares so much, but I don’t have time to ask, because there is motion on the stairs and the distinct smell of roses. I look up just as a small blond woman flutters into the room. I check for feet because it seems as if she is gliding instead of walking. Feet are definitely there. They are ensconced in glittery silver designer heels.
As she enters, Astley instantly lets go of my hand and leaps up from the couch. He walks toward her and I hang back as he opens his arms. “Mother.”
She floats over to him, reminding me of Glinda the Good Witch in The Wiz and Wicked and The Wizard of Oz, and lifts her arms open in a super-melodramatic way.
“Astley.” She almost jingles when she says his name. “How good to see you again, my dear, dear son.”
The air bristles as they hug. She lets go first and looks around him toward me. Her gold hair ripples in waves. As she smiles her face transforms from something regular into something almost shockingly beautiful. Her nose is a bit long but straight. Her mouth takes up most of the bottom half of her face. She appraises me quickly, bluish silver eyes roaming up and down my body before fixing on my face.
She opens her arms again. “You must be Zara. Our newest queen.”
She glides over to me in those shiny heels and her arms quickly wrap around me in a hug. She’s thin and soft. I hug her back. I let go first.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. I don’t know what to call her.
It’s like she has read my thoughts. “Isla. Call me Isla, sweet girl.”
“Isla,” I repeat, looking up at Astley. His eyes narrow, watching us. Tension oozes off him and I don’t quite understand why. His mother seems so very nice, actually. She’s pretty. Her voice is a little high, but that’s okay, right? I mean, it’s silly to feel put off by someone’s voice. It’s silly to be put off by something as small and inconsequential as a voice or a smell, and, seriously, who am I to be put off by someone at all? She is so beautiful and lovely and short, and I am sure that she would never, ever do anything even remotely wrong—ever—and she’s going to help me find my perfect, amazing Nick, which is a perfect and amazing thing for her to do and I love her for it, and I love how beautiful her eyes are, and they are coming closer to me—those eyes—and they are switching back and forth from blue to silver to blue to silver to blue to—
“Mother!” Astley’s voice cuts through the air.
Her voice is sweet, sweet innocence. “What, dear?”
“Let her free,” he orders.
She giggles. It is the light, sweet tinkling of bells. It is music to my sad, sad ears. It is a promise of beauty and butterflies and warm Charleston days and—
“Mother! I mean it. As your king I command you!”
She pouts. “Very well then.”
The world suddenly shifts and my vision is clearer somehow. I must be staring or something, because her cold hand reaches up and gently pushes on the bottom of my chin.
“Dear girl,” she simpers. “Your mouth is hanging open.”
Right then, even though I know that she is our best hope for finding Nick, and even though I know she is a pixie queen and Astley’s mom, right when she touches my face I want to haul off and smack her. That’s not very pacifist of me. I used to be a pacifist. I used to be human. I used to be a lot of things.
I clamp my mouth shut and glare at Astley, who looks aghast.
“Did you do some sort of glamour on me, ma’am?” I ask. My voice drips with Southern charm. I make it that way on purpose. I am accusing her of something, which is totally un-nice, but I will be polite about it.
She bats her eyelashes. “Who, me?”
It starts again. Stars seem to zigzag into my eyes through to my brain. She is suddenly so beautiful and so kind. I want to touch her cheek. I want to … I shake my head.
“Mother!” Astley warns and comes to stand in front of me, blocking me from her.
She giggles. Old women should not giggle. “She fought it this time.”
“You gave her no warning. It was abominable of you,” he counters.
I try to gather my wits. My head still seems foggy. I focus and scoot around Astley so I can face his mother. “What did you do to me?”
“It is called a mystique, not a glamour, little princess,” she says. She coos it, really, and then turns to Astley. “Have you taught her anything?”
“He taught me the glamour,” I say, bristling. Seriously, I know she’s his mother and everything, but that doesn’t give her the right to be such a bitch.
“She defends you!” Isla throws up her hands in triumph, making little fists. “How adorable.”
“Adorable?” I repeat. Does she mean “adorable” like a kitten or a baby? Does she mean “adorable” as in harmless?
Astley smiles. He actually smiles and says, “Now you have done it, Mother. You have incurred the wrath of Zara.”
Isla’s petite shoulders move slightly up and down in a tiny shrug. “Oh, she will forgive me. She knows that I only want to ensure that she can deal with the trials that await her if she is to venture on the journey to the gods.”
A clock rings in the background. Another sounds a moment after. The entire building seems to vibrate with the sounds as more and more clocks chime. I scan the walls. There are three hanging in this room alone, plus a grandfather clock that stands in the corner. Isla closes her eyes and seems to sway with the noise. It’s like dancing, but more primal. Astley meets my gaze and rolls his eyes as if his mother is way too embarrassing for words. He also shifts a little bit closer to me.
The chimes stop. Isla opens her eyes, which have gone black. She blinks hard. They are silvery blue again. The change is so quick that I almost think I imagined it.
“Do you like clocks, Zara?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. I do,” I answer as she motions for us to sit again. The last thing I want to do is rest on a couch. I feel like pacing, running, screaming, and begging her to tell me where Nick is.
Once again I perch on the end of the velvety couch, trying not to look uncomfortable or show my pain, which isn’t the easiest of tasks at the moment. I flinch as my wound stretches. Astley sits in the middle, crossing his legs at his ankles. He gives me a look of concern, but I don’t respond, because there are more important things than my personal health right now.
“So, ma’am, I’d really like to know how we can get to Valhalla,” I begin.
She raises a hand to stop me. “Are you sure you truly want to retrieve your wolf, Zara? It will complicate your relationship with my son, and wolves are so”—she sniffs her nose disdainfully—“furry.”
I want to scream out, “What relationship?” but I know that would hurt Astley’s feelings. And wolves are messy? What a bigot. Instead of going ballistic on her, I will my fingers to unclench out of super-tight fists and take a deep breath. My lungs burn, angry and still hurt, before I manage to say, “I am sure.”
She harrumphs. Her hands smooth down her hair. They are constantly moving. Once she is done with her hair, she fidgets with her hands in her lap. She seems like she’d rather be pacing or running, doing something frantic.
“Mother …” Astley uncrosses his legs. He seems to have inherited her impatience. I wonder what else he has inherited from her.
“Please desist from that incessant ‘mothering.’ Mother this … Mother that …” She flops down in a Queen Anne chair. “Must you always remind me that I am your mother?”
The change in Astley is almost imperceptible, but I can still feel it, because I am his queen, I guess. There’s a ripple of sorrow and hurt running through him. I reach out and take his hand in mine. It is strong, but there’s a tremble in it. Anger arches through me. If I didn’t need her help so badly, I’d yank Astley right out of here. But I do need her help.
“Please tell me how to get to Valhalla,” I begin again.
“First let me hear about you.” She arranges her tulle skirt prettily around her legs, smoothing it down. “It isn’t every day Astley comes home with a new queen. Did he tell you what happened to the first one?”
Astley stands up. “Enough.”
It’s like all the clocks on the wall have suddenly stopped, or maybe my heart has just stopped beating. I’m not sure.
“First one?” I manage to whisper.
Astley turns to stare at me. His face is horror stricken. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. His eyes look away, to the side, like facing me is too much.
“He killed that one,” she says matter-of-factly.
Something gray and simple settles into my lungs and kidneys, squeezing them into peas. I think it’s dread. I think that’s what it is, this feeling. Her words echo in my head as I stare up at Astley. He killed that one—not just that she died. He killed her?
Astley makes a choking noise. His hands reach up into the air like he wants to hit someone, something. All his emotions seem to swirl in the air around us, volatile, visible like the gold dust trail he leaves. He’s about to snap and I’m not exactly sure why, but I know I’m about to snap too.
“You’ve been lying to me?” I ask in a voice so quiet I can’t believe he hears it, but I can tell by how he’s flinching that he does hear it. “What else haven’t you told me, Astley?”
I’m not sure if I’m trembling from rage or sorrow or what, but I’m trembling.
His mouth opens. No words come out.
“Were you going to ever tell me?” I ask.
He stumbles backward. He looks so wounded. “It is not … It is not … I didn’t … I did … But I … Oh, Zara … I cannot stand you looking at me like that.”
His eyes clench shut and he whirls around, staggering out of the room.
“Astley!” I yell after him, leaping off the couch. A small and terribly strong hand grabs at my wrist.
“Do not go,” Isla says. “Let him be.”
“You’re a monster and a liar,” I say. “I don’t know what Astley did, but he would never kill anyone.”
She raises an eyebrow and keeps hold of my wrist. “You are truly innocent, Miss Zara White. You even smell innocent. No …” Her words trail off as she thinks. “You smell of innocence and power, unused power.”
“And you smell of roses and mean.” I rip my wrist away from her, desperate to find Astley and even more desperate to learn about Nick.
“ ‘Roses and mean.’ ” She laughs and falls backward into her chair, clutching her stomach. “You talk like the innocent child that you are, Zara White. ‘Roses and mean.’ ”
She reminds me of a nasty girl I used to play with back in first grade. Her name was Stephanie and she’d repeat everything you said like it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. I knew the names of all the phobias before I knew the alphabet. They fascinated me, and sometimes I’d chant them under my breath at recess. Stephanie tormented me about that, called me Freaky Freak Zara, until I kidnapped her American Girl doll and threatened to throw it into a manhole.
Astley’s mother reminds me of that girl. She reminds me of all the bullies and evil people who hurt others around the world. I have had it with those bullies, so I do the best thing I can think of, which is leap toward the wall and rip a clock off the side table. She shrieks.
“Don’t hurt it!”
I stare at the device in my hands. Somehow I know that it’s worth more to her than her own son, and that just rips through me even if Astley is some sort of weird, murdering liar face. Aren’t parents supposed to love their children unconditionally? The clock is French cast with gilt angels on top of a white marble base. It stands about a foot wide and sixteen inches tall. Gilded bronze angels dance on the jug handles.
“That is by Nicolas M. Thorpe,” she pants out. Her hand is on her heart and she’s flopped back in her chair like some ancient Victorian woman in a Brontë novel.
“It could be by Michel-freaking-angelo,” I growl at her. “I could care less. It is a thing. It is a possession, and I am going to destroy it if you keep playing games with me.”
She sits up straight, all little-girl pretenses gone. She is predator and queen. “I could tear you apart.”
“I doubt it, and even if you could, I’ll destroy this first.” I raise it above my head, which feels a little bit melodramatic, but the pixies really seem to be into drama. Anyway, the position shows her that I’ll smash it to the ground in a second. It works too, because she cringes. I pause and then say calmly, like threatening pixie queens is an everyday thing for me, “Now tell me how to get to Valhalla.”
“Then you will hand me my clock?” She simpers and slinks forward another step.
I think about it. “Maybe.”
She purses her lips. Her fingers drum against the arms of the chair. The fingernails click against the old wood, once, twice, again. I bet she’d like to use those fingernails on me.
“To get to Valhalla you must find the BiForst Bridge.”
“Everyone knows that,” I say.
“Yes, but BiForst is not a thing. He is a being, part pixie. He is the bridge to the land. His body acts as a portal, for lack of a better word. There is a ceremony you must perform.” She slowly heads to a table.
“You better not be getting a weapon,” I say as I try to compute her knowledge. We already have BiForst. We already have the bridge. Hope starts swooshing up toward my heart.
She moves very slowly, like criminals on cop shows trying to prove they aren’t about to pull a weapon. “I am getting a book. It is an ancient book. It has details of the ceremony that must be performed. It is chapter twelve, actually.”
She pulls open a drawer and takes out a small red leather-bound book. She holds it toward me.
“Not yet,” I say. “Tell me how Astley killed her, killed his—”
I can’t say the word.
“His wife? His queen?” she finishes for me. “I do not think you are prepared to know that yet, new one. And why does it concern you? I thought you care only for your wolf.”
“I do …,” I sputter. “I really do, but Astley is my friend and I thought that—”
“What?” She takes a step closer. She slinks like a cat. “What, new queen? You thought that he was honest with you? That you knew him? Let me give you some advice: trust no one.”
I don’t say anything and she snorts out a short barklike guffaw. It is very unladylike
and very unlike all the cooing, simpering noises she’s made so far tonight.
She slips another step closer. I wonder if she thinks I don’t notice her moving. She must be underestimating me. People are always underestimating me. It helps me out usually. Although right now I’m not exactly at my strongest. My wound sears like fire, pain spreading through me. It’s from holding up the clock, I think. It must be aggravating it somehow. I can feel tiny dots of sweat on my forehead. Great.
“You cannot hold that clock above your head forever.” A little smirk plays about her face.
“Of course I can.” I am such a total liar. “Now tell me about Astley’s queen, the one before me.”
She slinks ahead again, just a little closer to me. “Are you aware of the fact that just a moment ago you referred to my son as your friend? Zara, darling, pixies cannot be friends. We are not trustworthy. We do not look out for others’ best interests. It is all about us. That is why Astley killed his last queen, and that is why you will likely suffer the same fate. You should not be so wary of me, Zara. I am no more your enemy than he is.”
She nods and someone behind me grabs the clock out of my arms. I whirl around to see Bentley. His ghoulish face smiles as he hands the clock to Isla, who has pushed past me. She clutches the gaudy thing to her chest and coos to it. “Oh, my poor, poor baby. Were you scared? I would never let anything hurt you. Oh, no, of course I would not.”
“Madame,” Bentley interrupts. “What should I do with her?”
She flicks her wrist. “Her? Nothing. Let her go. She is no threat. She has what she wants.”
He takes me by the arm. I twist away and grab the red leather book. As he lurches after me I brush him off, heading out into the main hallway area myself. “I’m going, I’m going.”
He follows me out and hands me the umbrella. “King Astley left this.”