Except the Queen (13 page)

“Poor thing, poor thing,” I cooed, wrapping the dove
in my blue silk scarf. I mixed some water and honey together in a glass, and then drizzled it into his opened beak from the end of a tiny silver salt spoon. There were spots of blood on his wing, and two of his tail feathers had been torn out. But though he panted, I thought his injuries not serious. Only fear could kill him now. So I sat in one of the big chairs, and held him on my lap while I sang a lulling song to infuse his body with a sense of peace and security.

Serana is alive
,
Serana is alive,
I thought as I continued to pour out my healing song. And I willed the dove to live that he might return to her with a message from me.

*   *   *

I
T WAS ONLY AFTER THE
quarter moon had risen that I felt the dove stirring in my hands. I fed him once more, and he called me again by my Finding Name.

Sister, I cried from the sheer joy of knowing that you are in the world somewhere with me and that this, our messenger, will return to you from me.

Opening the window, I plucked a new green frond from the ancient ash, thanking it for the gift. After stripping the leaves from the stem, I tied the supple stalk into a secret knot and tucked it high on the dove’s leg as a message. I offered the dove a chance to sleep safely under my eaves, but now roused, he seemed in a hurry to complete his journey as much as to be away from the devil cat. I opened the window and watched him lift high into the sky on white wings, until he became a speck of moonlight.

It was then I remembered the other goods in my bag. I quickly opened it, fearing the state of the flowers, but was delighted to discover that Julia had thoughtfully wrapped them in wet paper and they were as fresh now as when I had left the store. I filled a glass and placed in it the small bouquet of stately blue iris for friendship and sunbursts of zinnias for goodness. I set the box of cigarettes down beside the flowers.

As I put the milk, the eggs, cheese and fruit into the cold storage, I noticed a bottle of clear spirits in the back. Thinking Baba Yaga would not mind, I pulled it out and poured out a small dram in a little crystal glass from one of the cupboards. I swallowed it quickly, in one gulp. My lips burned as I inhaled the pungent flavor, and the soothing finish warmed my throat so parched from singing to the dove.

Only then did I stumble to bed, feeling relief at knowing my sister’s messenger had searched and found me, thanks to the little flag of silk on my window.

I dreamed that night that I was flying over fields of ripening wheat and corn, across sparkling rivers and softly pleated mountain ranges, returning to Serana to tell her the news, “I am here, Sister, I am here.”

W
hen the doves left, I went down to the Man of Flowers’ shop and bought milk. Imagine! It comes in a cold package, not still steaming from the cow. And I bought as well honey, and two loaves of bread with the last of my coins. Once I was home, I did not go outside again for fear of missing the doves. Keeping the front window open for them, I sat by the window in the single soft chair and watched the sky.

The sky.
How different it looked from the window of a house than that which peeks through the green woods. Different from the great swath of sky that hangs over the meadows. This sky seemed squeezed between tall buildings, fitted and cut down and seamed together like one of the Queen’s formal dresses. It was neither a comfortable nor comforting sky, being an unhappy human color as gray as the buildings.

*   *   *

B
Y THE THIRD DAY
, I had eaten through the green leaves and the fruit and had but one cheese left, plus a full container of cold milk that I sweetened with the honey. I kept the loaves untouched, in case the birds returned.

The two females came back that night but with no news, the young male—Puff Boy—on the fifth day. He was severely dehydrated and I gave him water from my
mouth, spitting it into his beak in little drips until he was able to drink on his own. At least the water from the taps was inexhaustible, though my food was not. But this dove likewise had nothing to report. I fed the three of them one of the loaves, crumbling it on the sill and they were grateful for my offering.

Old Man of the Tree had not returned in seven days, and I was at a loss. With no more money, I could buy nothing. I had maybe a single day of cheese and honey left, plus a tiny bit of milk only slightly soured. And water, of course. But seven days—I was in despair.

The local birds came and went in those seven days, hoping for bread. A small gray mouseling played around my feet. None of them had much conversation. If only Jamie Oldcourse had appeared, she would have been company of a sort, though wishing did not make it so. I had no more power with wishes than I had with the greater magicks. I even hoped that the wheat-colored flower man might come. But then, he did not know where I was staying. And besides those two, what humans did I really know in this great village?

I was about to lie down on my bed and weep, cursing this place, my condition, the Queen, when there was a fluttering at the sill. My heart fluttered in answer. Turning, I saw the old dove, and ran to help him in. He had lost some tail feathers and it was this that had made him so late in returning.

“Tell me. Coo-coo-rico,” I said, in a soft voice, “have you found my sister?”

“She lives far away,” he cooed back.

Could I believe him? Seven days away from here? Well, three-and-a-half there and three-and-a-half back. Crows are notorious liars, but doves have not the imagination for it. Still . . .

“She sends you this token.” His voice was low and throbbing and he lifted his right leg.

How had I not seen it at once! On his foot, shoved up onto the leg, was a twisted stem from an ash leaf, in the
knot that Meteora and I used for a code, meaning
It is I; all is well.

“Oh, you lovely, lovely bird,” I whispered and held him tight.

“Can’t . . . breathe,” he said, and I let him go.

“When you have taken a day to rest, and a day to fatten up on my crumbs, I will have a note for thee to take back to her.”

He nodded in that way that doves have, bobbing his head so vigorously that his breast moved up and down. It is often amusing, and many times Meteora and I had imitated the movement, laughing. But now my laughter was pure joy. He had found her! He had found Meteora!

“Is she well? Is she safe? Is she happy?”

He shook himself all over. “She is fat,” he cooed.

For a moment, I thought he meant she was beautiful. Doves like their females plump. But even before my head told me that was not what he meant, my heart knew. Meteora had been changed even as I had.

“And old?” I whispered.

His head went up and down.

I did not weep in front of him. That would come later.

“Pray tell your sisters and brothers, too, where she lives, so that if aught happens to thee . . .”

He nodded again. Doves have little fear of death for it is always their close companion.

Then I brought him the first of the second loaf, crumbling it into tiny pieces, and soaking half in milk and honey. All the while I was thinking:
Oh Meteora, dear sister, only friend, soon enough we shall be together again
before I remembered the curse of the iron rain. But I would chance that, truly I would, to be with her again.

*   *   *

C
OO-COO-RICO CAME BACK TO ME
refreshed the next day, and I wrapped a tiny letter to Meteora in half of the rosy silk patch, tying it to his leg with a basil knot. If I had had
any magic left, I would have used a word of binding. As it was, I had to trust my fingers, no longer as agile as they once were but surely as competent as Meteora’s had been with the ash leaf. She would know the silk at once. And then she would come to me if she could. I had not told her of the iron rain. I could not think why. And then I knew: I did not have the courage to go to her, nor could I without the help of Jamie Oldcourse. Or—perhaps the Man of Flowers would give me aid if I asked. It was such a potheration. I would leave it up to Meteora. Because curses work only on those who hear them. She would be safe. I would not. But I did not care what would happen to me, only that I see my sister again.

I
PATTED THE DOVE
’
S HEAD
and gave what blessings I could still manage. Small comfort where once I could have covered him with fairy armor against beak and talons. And claws—for he had cooed to me of his near death from Meteora’s cat. She has a house among flourishing trees and a cat! How astonishing that my little sister, who has never fended for herself in any way, has managed such a thing!
Perhaps
, I thought,
she is more in tune with this world than I will ever be.

And then the dove was off, flying past the spindly tree, past the line of gray buildings, past the corner light now green, before banking upward into the blue sky. I watched as long as I could, but even after he had flown out of sight, I kept watching as if there were actually something to see but a trick of the light that looked—now here, now there—like the beating of wings.

Y
ou are in the forest that is not your own, and you know from the rough, ridged bark of the ash trees that once were smooth saplings that much time has passed here in your absence. You had not wanted to come, it is too painful to recall. But they watch you all the time, beneath the Hill and in the Greenwood, pairs of eyes gleaming with hatred and mistrust. Highborn fey whisper in angry knots at court. Even your waiting women strip the gossamer sheets of your bedchambers as though to find hidden secrets. Once you discovered a bananach’s feather teeming with lice left behind in your wardrobe. You ignore these signs, your solitary coldness mistaken for arrogance. It is all you have to make them cautious of challenging you.

You have come here on this dying day of summer to be alone, at least for a little while before they sense your absence beneath the Hill. They will not follow you here for they think it a place of no consequence, of too much sun, too close to the stink of mortal kind. They hear the sounds of the builder’s hammer and they shudder, knowing it will mean the loss of more faerie land.

You have come out of an unexpected tenderness and shame. You stand in the greening shadow of the ash trees and see the lawn of wildflowers and choking grass leading up to the wall that was not there before. You can hear
the man, shouting, grunting like a gored animal, but you do not need words to understand the anguish and rage that feeds such madness. This was your doing, you remind yourself, but it could be no other way. You touch the old scar beneath your breast, the small circle of ruched skin reminding you that all three of you paid the price, though none was asked. Such is the call of power that it levels all to its demands.