Except the Queen (31 page)

Then as the scare-bird snored his stuttering snore, I sewed rowan leaf crumbles into his trouser waistband as
proof against witches, adding a sprig of the thistle sewn into the lining of his jacket to protect him from the worst. Whatever that worst might turn out to be. Though should he take off jacket or trews, he would be without protection indeed.

*   *   *

M
ORNING CAME AND
R
OBIN ROSE
half-reluctant from his bed. I gave him another meal, which bound him even further to me by rules of human conduct, if not enchantment. Then I bade him get dressed.

“I have something for you to do,” I said. “A letter to deliver.”

He smiled the vague smile of one slightly addled, for I’d given him another dose of the blueberry-blessed tea.

The letter I handed him was not the one I’d written to Meteora. I am not such a fool. That other was already safely put into the eagle mailbox as Robin slept his last bit of night away. This note was another I had prepared simply for him, with Meteora’s address on the envelope. He could rip it open and read if he liked. All it said was, “A present for you, dear sister.”

Then we went to the bus station, a place we were sent to by a man outside of the bodega. I had asked for someone to carry my “grandson” to Wisconsin. We had a momentary kerfuffle with plane (in the air), train (on a rail) and bus. When they were explained to me, and the prices as well, I chose bus. The scare-bird said nothing, still quite bespelled.

We could not walk all the way to the place of buses, but took one of their own to the great corral. The iron surround quite undid me and I swore to walk all the way home. But at the place of buses waited the huge traveling carts, ready to take travelers to far places. The money Meteora had sent just covered the fare, with a bit left over for Robin’s food and drink. It would take—so I was told—two days. I asked three people and each said the same.
Three times, the charm’s wound up.

Before he got onto the bus, I handed Robin a cup of
the now-cold blueberry blessed tea and he drank it eagerly enough. I thought it should keep him safely on the bus till time to get off.

Then I spoke to the driver who waited by the door for all his passengers to settle down.

“You will make sure the boy gets off in Milwaukee?” I stuttered over the name of the city since I had spoken it only once before.

“I will be sure he is transferred properly.”

“My sister awaits him. He is a bit . . . addled.”

The driver smiled. “We say differently abled now.”

Oh,
I thought,
the boy is differently abled all right.
More than the driver would ever know. The trick had been to get him
inabled
enough for the trip, but I did not say so aloud.

I waved at Robin as the bus pulled out, remembering what I had written at the bottom of my eagle mail.

As soon as the bus had lumbered out of sight, I walked home, a long trip but good enough to clear my mind. And there I made myself a cup of tea untainted by blessings, sorrow, hope, or fear.

F
or the better part of a week I worked in the garden with Jack by my side. There was much to be done, and we had little time for it as the cold nights and the sudden downpour of chilly rains proclaimed the advance of autumn. But Jack told me not to worry. There was always one more chance at late summer that would come after the first frost bit the tips of the leaves. It would warm up again for a brief time and flowers would give forth one last burst of blossoms.

As for Sparrow, she avoided me after our encounter in my kitchen, but I was determined not to let it build a wall between us. I waited for her one morning on the porch and caught her as she was about to walk the dog, a charming creature, all mouth and tail. This time Sparrow could not swerve past me because the dog, having decided that I was someone worthy of knowing, sat down and would not budge until I had thoroughly caressed her ears.

“What a lovely dog,” I said, looking at Sparrow, who was avoiding my eyes. “What’s her name?”

“Lily,” she mumbled, tugging at the leash. I caught her eyes and I saw neither shame nor guilt in them, but defiance, which I must admit surprised me.

“Come and see me again,” I offered. “Your visit was much too short the other night and I would be pleased to welcome you.”

“I might do that. I’m a little busy just now. But soon, maybe I’ll stop by for some of that tea.” Her face was haggard, bluish circles under her eyes. I guessed that she had chosen not to sleep rather than ride the dark mare that caused her to moan so fitfully in the night. But there was also something else going on for her expression was calm, almost devious, and I noticed with a slight shock that she was appraising me even as I was studying her.

Tugging Lily by the leash, she opened the door to let in a cold blast of morning air, and was gone, leaving me to wonder.

She is planning something
, I thought,
she
is
part of the game
. But which part and what side I did not know.

*   *   *

I
WENT STRAIGHT INTO THE
garden and saw three crows swinging idly on Jack’s scarecrow. It wasn’t hard to recognize Awxes and the girls by the white patches on their wings. I clambered over the turned-up soil and stood before them as they teetered on the jingling copper arms.

“I’m not the one needs watching,” I said. “It’s the girl. I saw it in her eyes, which are as fey as any Highborn woman. Fair or foul, it’s coming for her and she is preparing to meet it. Follow her if you would find your way home again.”

The crows stopped pressing down on the arms and the scarecrow came slowly to a standstill. They gazed at me with black-bead eyes that showed only my own reflection. Awxes sidled along the arm of the scarecrow until he came close to my cheek. Ever so gently—which is rare, for a crow’s bill is a fair match for a dagger—he stroked my cheek with the side of his beak. Then he nipped my ear and flew off, the girls close behind him. High in the trees, the other crows, roused by their flight, woke from their arboreal perches with raucous cries, and followed the trio out of the garden.

I watched them wheel in the air.
I am not bait,
I told myself, certain at last of why Baba Yaga had brought me here,
but a guide, a glowworm, as Serana had called us, to
push back the dark for this girl. And whose lost child is she? I thought I knew the answer, but would not speak it aloud for fear of making it known. Not even to my sister could I reveal my suspicions.

*   *   *

S
ERANA
’
S SCARE-BIRD ARRIVED WITHOUT WARNING
on the second day of a drenching rain that turned the garden into muck and stripped the last roses from their stems. He bounded up the stairs and announced himself with a loud, imperious knock. I opened the door to a young man, sodden as old driftwood, wet elf knots in his dark hair, clothing weighted down by water and mud.

“Auntie Em said I was supposed to stay here,” he announced and thrust an envelope into my hand.

“I don’t know any Auntie Em,” I protested. And then asked, “Wait, are you Vanilla Blue?”

“Yeah, but Auntie Em preferred the name Robin. Thought it suited me better.”

He smiled at me, through those tangled curls, his skin pale from the chill, but his eyes dark and gleaming. Without a leave, he came into my house, trailing water, set down two bags and asked, “Do you have anything to eat? I’m pretty hungry. Is that the kitchen?” And pointing out the way for himself, he entered my kitchen and opened the cupboards. I stood there speechless, envelope in hand, as he found my bread, my butter, the two ripe tomatoes, and the cheese. And he talked the whole time about nothing, his mouth working around both words and food simultaneously.

I tore open the envelope and read the note: “A present for you.” My first thought was Serana had clearly lost her mind. For what reason could she imagine that I would enjoy her scare-bird, who seemed much more hound than bird to me. And then I had a second thought. Leaving the boy to his food, I trundled down the stairs to the mailbox.

In the box, tucked up like a bird in its nest, waiting for me was a second letter, this one sent so the boy could not
read it. Clearly Serana expected it to reach me before he did. But I had forgotten to check the mailbox yesterday, content to remain inside, away from the damp and cold of the storms. I pulled it out—noting the smeared ink on the front and the envelope’s seal loosened from what I hoped was the rain—and read it in a single glance.

Then I read it again, growing more concerned as I walked back up the stairs. Once in my sitting room, I glanced at the boy who was now wolfing down a hunk of cheese. Had he guessed there was another letter? Or was he still addled by a berry in a tisane?

Well,
I thought,
I still had a way out if I so chose.

“Show me the return ticket.”

He grabbed a pear and took a bite. “I don’t have one.”

“Yes, you do. My sister bought you one. It says so here in her letter.”

“I exchanged it.”

“For what?”

He inclined his head toward his bags slumped against my red chair. Next to the duffel bag stood a battered violin case.
A fiddler!
My face grew hot and my hair crackled.

“I wanted a pennywhistle,” he said, “but a man on the bus sold me this fiddle instead.”

I groaned. Can there be any more unreliable creature in the mortal world than a fiddler? He spells with music and then he is gone. Even the fey have been held captive by a good fiddler.

Chaffed, I refused to prepare food for him but it scarcely mattered for he helped himself to whatever he could lay his hands on. He ate like a boy who had not eaten in days, and perhaps he had not. When he was sated at last, he rose from the table and dragged himself to one of the embroidered chairs, and dropped—wet clothing and all—into its embrace.

I waited. But not a finger did Robin lift to tidy the mess he had made of my kitchen. Dishes, rinds, peelings, and sticky knives all lay on the counters. But from this Queen’s pet or Red Cap’s hammer not so much as a
word of thanks. He took off his shoes, set the wet and filthy socks on Baba Yaga’s carved oaken side table. He drew the second chair in front of him, rested his naked feet on the seat, and promptly fell asleep. They were aristocratic feet, the second toe reaching above the big one, the arch high and delicate.

*   *   *

I
WENT TO BED, ONLY
to be awoken much later in the wee hours of the night by the sound of his fiddle. It was coarse and husky, the wood of poor quality, but he played it well. I knew that it could seduce me, and I had little desire to be enthralled to such a callow, ill-mannered young man.

“Stop that!” I demanded. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, and the house grew quiet again.

But it was impossible to sleep, for denied his fiddle, he rose from the chair, and paced in a circle.

At last I shouted from under my covers, “Play the rude thing then if it brings you peace. But make it soft.”

And then I heard the reason Serana sent him to me. Sad indeed was the air he played, a boy lost and grieving in the throat of a tune. No true demon born, no UnSeelie knows how to keen so quietly into a set of strings. I might dislike his ill manners and voracious appetite, but I could not deny the sorrowful beauty of the music he played.

The rain had stopped; the moon was just peeking out of the tumble of clouds and casting shadows of leaves on the ceiling of my room. For a moment it was like looking back from a great distance at the world I once knew, hearing the undeniable ache in the tune. And even though I was certain he meant me to feel such longing, even though I tried to resist it, I still wept into the pillow for the loss of home.

*   *   *

A
FEW HOURS LATER, WHEN
he had fallen asleep, I wrote to tell Serana how much I appreciated her present.