“Do you think we’ll see any trolls today?” Evie asked. “Or nymphs? Cole told me you know one who can tell the future.”
“Kallra? She’s more of a water spirit,” said Fable. “And mostly she just swims around and turns into frogs and stuff.”
“Is that a spriggan?” Evie peeked into the underbrush. “Hello, there!”
“It’s probably not a spriggan,” said Fable. “You almost never see spriggans unless they want to be seen. I don’t think anybody’s spotted them around since the big battle at the Grandmother Tree.”
“We have been attending to our own concerns,” rasped a voice from the bushes.
Fable nearly tumbled out of the hammock. “Whoa. You are a spriggan.”
“We are,” said the voice. The figure who emerged from the brush barely came up to Evie’s ankle, and its whole body was armored in something that looked like rough tree bark with a dusting of lichen. The girls both knew well enough not to let its appearance deceive them—spriggans were one of the most notoriously dangerous factions in the whole forest. “And you are correct. You are seeing us now because we wish to be seen. Scouts informed us of your location in the wood, and we were sent directly from the Oddmire Burrow to request an audience.”
“Oh, jeez,” said Fable. “I know a lot of forest folk have been calling me Little Queen, but my mom’s still the one you want to talk to about official stuff.”
“We do not wish to speak to your mother. We do not wish to speak to you, either,” rasped the spriggan. “But you may remain, if you like, while we discuss matters with the human emissary.”
Fable turned to Evie.
Evie’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“You were the first to broker peace on behalf of your people,” the spriggan said. “When the forest folk and humans clashed, you demonstrated courage on the battlefield and aided our nest in the retrieval of irreplaceable, sacred artifacts—all in spite of great disrespect shown to you by our kind.”
“You did try to kill her,” Fable added, helpfully.
“As I said—disrespect,” answered the spriggan.
“I was just trying to put things right,” said Evie. “I’m nobody special. I’m not an emissary.”
“By the traditions of the nest—you are,” said the spriggan. “The merits of your deeds have been weighed and considered. A ruling has been made. We are most displeased to find ourselves indebted to you. This is unacceptable. You are therefore to receive a requital immediately.”
“I . . . don’t even know what that is,” said Evie.
“I think you’re getting a reward,” said Fable. “How come I didn’t get a reward? I’m the one who caught the bad guy.”
“The merits of your deeds were measured and found . . . balanced.” The spriggan glared at Fable. “Barely. The nest does not currently wish you harm—but we have not forgotten the pudding incident at the Western Burrow.”
“Pssh. Fine.” Fable crossed her arms. “So what does Evie get?”
“I really don’t need any reward,” said Evie.
“You refuse our offering?” the spriggan said. “Such a blunt discourtesy will be met as a declaration of contempt and treated as an act of war.”
“No, no! I would very much like to accept your gift.”
“Good.”
The spriggan chirruped and made a motion with one hand, and three more spriggans materialized from the bushes. The one in the middle was holding a bottle no bigger than one of Evie’s fingernails. Within it swirled a purple liquid.
“What is it?” asked Evie.
“It has been observed,” said the spriggan, “that the emissary wishes to learn about the many creatures who dwell in the Wild Wood. It has also been observed that, unlike most humans, she is possessed of a rare integrity to do so without intent to do harm.”
“Yeah,” said Evie. “That’s true.”
“We also value knowledge. We watch. We learn. We speak the tongues of over a thousand beings. On the rare occasion when we encounter a beast with whom we cannot communicate, we employ the Elixir of Melampus. One drop on the tongue grants the drinker the temporary ability to use and understand the language of any sentient being or savage beast. It will not give you power over them—you will not command them to follow your will—it will merely grant you a few moments of communication so that you might learn from each other.”
“Y-you’re giving me . . . my very own magic ability to talk to animals?” Evie stammered. “You mean it? For real?”
“You are being allotted a single draft—enough to employ its power one time and one time only. In my lifetime, the Elixir of Melampus has never been shared outside the nest. Do not take this offering for granted.”
“I won’t! I promise! I’ll keep it super safe.”
Satisfied, the spriggan nodded, and the other three trotted forward and held up the tiny bottle. Evie took the elixir as if it were a precious snowflake that might melt away at any moment.
“Thank you,” she whispered, but by the time she looked up, the spriggans had already vanished into the trees.
“Well, that’s neat!” said Fable, coming to peek at the bottle. “Too bad it’s just one dose.”
Evie looked like she might cry. “Is it real, do you think? It’s real magic?”
“Duh. Spriggans can be jerks, but they never lie,” said Fable. “What do you think you’ll use it on? I’d ask a dog why they like to sleep with their noses in their butts.”
Evie just stared at the swirling purple liquid. “I . . . I don’t know. I’ll have to save it. It has to be for something really special. What does it feel like?” She tore her eyes off of the bottle long enough to turn them, sparkling with wonder, to Fable. “When you do magic?”
“What kind of magic?” Fable said.
“Any magic. Do different magics feel different? I bet it feels awesome.”
“I guess.” Fable had never given it much thought. She had been doing magic of one sort or another her whole life. Her mother was the Witch of the Wood, so magic lessons had been delivered with no more pomp than math or reading. “I don’t really think about how magic feels. I just do it.” She considered for a moment. “Slappy sparks feels kinda hot. Oh, and when I compel vines I get a sort of lifty-uppy feeling behind my ears.”
“That’s so neat.”
“Isn’t it?” Fable smiled broadly and swung a little wider in her vine hammock. It was a good vine hammock. Probably her best one yet.
“Can you speak any other languages?” said Evie. “Like Pixie or Gnomish or anything?”
“Just the common tongue, but everyone speaks a little of that,” said Fable. “Plus I can do people words. And bear. Being able to understand any animal would be pretty handy, though. You’ve got yourself an honest-to-goodness magic power that even I can’t do. There was a while when my mama tried teaching me how to say I’m sorry in as many dialects as possible, but it never seemed to stick. Gnomes mostly talk human words anyway, so they’re easy.”
“Are they good guys?”
“The gnomes?”
“Yeah. Uncle Jim says gnomes are mischievous and like to cause trouble—but he says that about pretty much everything that lives in the Wild Wood. And about most kids. And a few adults. Mrs. Grouse says gnomes are good, actually. She says they do things for people sometimes, like fixing fences and stuff.”
“I don’t know what all gnomes are like—but I’ve met Bram Hobblebrooke a buncha times. He’s a gnome. He gave my mom rare flowers once.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Yeah. They were poison flowers.”
“Wait. What?”
“Poison flowers. You know. The kind that moms like to smoosh up and keep in little black jars. So Mr. Hobblebrooke is okay, I guess. If you were drowning in the mire he probably wouldn’t jump in to save you, but he wouldn’t throw rocks at you e
ither. He might poke a stick at you.”
“To rescue you?” Evie asked. “Or just to poke you?”
“Definitely one of those reasons,” said Fable. She shrugged. “Gnomes do get treated kinda crummy sometimes by the other forest folk. I don’t know why.”
“Maybe because they’re small?” suggested Evie. At twelve years old, Evie was still just under four feet tall, even when she wore her thickest boots and stood up her straightest. She knew better than most how many people liked to pick on someone just for being little.
“Maybe,” said Fable. “But there’s lots of forest folk much smaller than gnomes. Sometimes I think folks just pick on other folks because they want to feel like they’re better than somebody.”
“Being a worse person is a pretty stupid way to make yourself feel like you’re a better person,” said Evie.
The ground beneath Evie’s feet suddenly shuddered, and a cloud of finches took flight from the bushes behind her. Fable sat up as her hammock rocked. Evie’s lips moved silently as she counted the seconds. Slowly, the rumbling eased and died away.
“Almost thirty seconds that time,” Evie said when the earth was still again.
Fable scowled. “Mama says not to worry about the quakes,” she said.
A frightened screech pierced the calm of the forest. Evie spun around, and Fable flipped out of her hammock and landed beside her in a tense crouch.
“What is that?” Evie whispered, but Fable was already racing into the brush toward the source of the noise.
The Wild Wood bent to Fable’s will as she ran, branches bending out of the way and knotty roots flattening to form an even path. Evie took a deep breath and hurried after her. She kept up as best she could, but found the forest much less hospitable to her.
When she emerged from a patch of ferns into a slim clearing, Evie froze. The landscape was all wrong. A broad maple had tipped nearly sideways ahead of her and was slipping by slow degrees into a great gaping hole in the forest floor. Evie blinked. A thick clump of grassy sod broke free and tumbled into a widening gap. All around it, the earth sloped down toward the rift, like the dip in a sink before the drain. Evie took an involuntary step backward as she caught her breath.
Fable stood at the edge of the sinkhole. Her fists were clenched and her arms were shaking with effort. Evie watched in awe as, ever so slowly, the maple began to right itself. One thick, curly root rose up out of the chasm, and there—clinging to it for dear life—was a terrified opossum. The creature squealed pitifully as it slipped.
Fable only had one chance to get the timing right. She released her mental hold on the tree and put all of her energy into whipping a bright green vine across the gap. She could do this. She could catch the terrified creature out of the air and pull it back to safety. The opossum fell. The vine whipped.
Fable missed.
The opossum’s squeal of fear hit Fable’s stomach like a lump of ice. And then, abruptly, the squeal became a squeak of surprise. The ground beneath Fable slithered as every plant around the gaping hole came to life.
For just a moment, Fable had the giddy, nervous thought that this was her, that she was controlling things without even realizing it. It would not be the first time. But then she raised her eyes and saw her mother, her bearskin hood thrown back and her hands outstretched.
A much sturdier root than the one Fable had grabbed was now sliding upward, lifting the petrified opossum out of the pit. The queen’s arm bent gently to the left, and the root echoed her motion, depositing the shaking creature safely on solid ground. It squeaked once more and then scampered away, vanishing into the brush. Raina did not break concentration. More glistening roots stretched across the yawning gap, darting with liquid grace like long snakes, coiling and uncoiling as they moved under her silent instruction. On either side of the hole, they pierced the earth like tent spikes, knitting a crude web over the opening.
Fable shook out her hands and joined the effort, lacing fine grasses and thick moss over the patch of vines to fortify the bond as they slowed and stiffened. When, at last, her mother let her arms fall to her sides, Fable flopped down onto her back in the moss to catch her breath.
Raina, Queen of the Deep Dark, stepped into her line of vision, looming over Fable’s head.
“Hi, Mom.”
“What did you learn?” Raina asked.
Fable took several slow breaths before answering. “The earthquakes are getting worse,” she said. “The forest is breaking.”
“Why did you stop?”
“What?”
“Why did you cease your efforts when the animal fell?”
“I—I couldn’t do it.”
“Wrong.”
“I missed. I failed.”
“Wrong. What do they call you, all across the forest?”
“Little Queen?” Fable mumbled.
“Correct. You are a queen.” Her mother’s voice was unyielding. “And there is no such thing as too late for a queen. There is only now, and now belongs to a queen. Fail, Little Queen. Fail a thousand times, but remember that as soon as you have failed, that failure belongs to the past. It is no longer your concern. A queen learns from the past and makes her next move swiftly and decisively.”
Fable nodded meekly.
“So. Tell me what you learned.”
“No such thing as too late for a queen,” Fable grumbled.
Raina gave a curt nod of approval and turned to go. “You still have chores to finish. Don’t forget to detangle the witching knots before sundown.”
After the queen had gone, Evie finally crept forward. Fable was still lying on her back staring up at the treetops.
“Are you okay?” Evie asked.
“Yeah.” Fable pushed herself up. “Come on. It’s your big day out. Let’s go poke the Oddmire with sticks or something.” She shot Evie a smile, but underneath she looked as if the whole forest was slowly coming to rest on her shoulders.
Evie nodded and followed as Fable led the way.
“I could’ve talked to that opossum,” said Evie, quietly, just to herself, “if I wanted to.”
Three
“Winston,” the man said as Cole and Tinn followed him out of the darkness and up to the mouth of the tunnel. “Winston Bell.”
“I’m Tinn,” said Tinn. “And he’s Cole.”
“Tinn and Cole.” Bell nodded, smiling. “Of course you are.”
“So, you worked with our dad?” asked Cole.
“I did.” The man ducked under the weathered boards that blocked entry to the unstable shaft and stepped out into the open air. “Showed Joseph the ropes during his first weeks.” He pulled off his helmet and snuffed out the lantern attached to the front of it. His hair was peppery gray and thinner on the top than the sides. “He and your mama had only just moved in. Sweet young couple. Annie was still pregnant with you.” He hesitated. “Well, one of you, I suppose.”
Tinn’s eyes watched the ground. “With Cole,” he said, quietly. “I came later.”
“Sure did, didn’t you,” said Winston. “Caused quite the stir. Came to see for myself a few days after you showed up. Half the town paraded through your poor folks’ cottage at some point that week. Word gets around quick in a town like this. Don’t expect you remember any of that, though.”
Cole shook his head. Their mother never liked to talk about those messy, hectic days right before Joseph had gone missing.
Tinn said nothing.
Mr. Bell slowed, eyeing Tinn’s expression. “People didn’t know what to think, back then. Didn’t know who you were gonna turn out to be.”
They crossed the dusty field toward the Echo Point base, a humble, weathered building with a tin roof and dirty windows. The air was still crisp, but the sun felt warm on their cheeks as they walked. The boys could hear the slosh of water and the murmur of voices. A hundred paces away
, a handful of men shuffled around a long wooden sluice. A water wheel turned lazily beside it.
“It’s funny,” said Bell. “When he first started, Joseph was the last person to believe any of our old stories about goblins and the like. Miners can be superstitious folks. More than a few of us swear we’ve seen a blue-cap at the end of a tunnel or spotted the Lady of the Mountain out of the corner of one eye. Joseph thought that was all a bunch of nonsense. Well . . . until you came around. Took a pretty keen interest in stories then. He swore he heard voices in the old tunnels and asked me what I knew about kobolds and witches.”
Mr. Bell slipped inside the base and emerged with a dented metal lunch box. It was bright red and had the initials W.B. inscribed on the lid. He sat down on the steps and patted the wood for the boys to join him.
“Did he talk to you about it?” Cole said. “About us? About what he was feeling before he . . . before he left?”
Bell shrugged. He plucked an apple from the lunch box and began slicing it with his penknife. “Yes and no. Didn’t talk about feelings much, but you could tell he was all sorts of distracted. I remember I gave him grief more than once on that last day for getting in the way of the wagoners.”
He passed a slice of apple to Cole.
“Think fast,” said Cole and tossed the slice to Tinn.
Tinn wasn’t looking, and the apple landed in the dirt. “He was trying to figure out how to get rid of me,” Tinn said. “That’s what was on his mind.”
Bell sighed and frowned. “He didn’t know any better, kid.”
The three of them sat in silence for a long moment while the water burbled gently in the background. One of the other miners out by the sluice said something too quiet to overhear, and another chuckled.
“He would be right proud of you today, though,” Bell said. “You’re his spittin’ image, you know.”
Tinn shook his head, scowling into the dirt. “I don’t look like him.”
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