“Yes…”
“Well! What is the use of ruling Fairyland if one cannot make little children happy? There is a place, September, oh, very far from Pandemonium. A place where it is always autumn, where there is always cider and pumpkin pie, where leaves are always orange and fresh-cut wood is always burning, and it is always, just always Halloween. Doesn’t that sound splendid, September?”
“Yes…”
“And in that place is a thing I need, closed up in a glass casket in the heart of the Worsted Wood.”
“But the Green Wind said the Worsted Wood was forbidden—”
“Government has its little privileges.”
“He said it was dangerous—”
“Posh! What does he know? He is not allowed here. And never will be, whatever he told you. The Worsted Wood is just wood. No more or less dangerous than any other wood. If there are ravening beasts, well, they have every right to live and eat, don’t they? If there are spells, they have a right to weave. All you must do is go there and eat candy and have a wonderful time with the spriggans and jump in leaf piles and dance in the moonlight—and before you leave, with a full belly and the first whisper of snow blowing through your hair, open the casket and bring me whatever it is you find there. Even if it is ridiculous, even if it seems useless and small. That isn’t so much to ask, is it? In exchange for a Spoon that tells the future?”
“What … what is in the casket?”
“That’s none of your worry, beautiful child. Your pretty head needn’t trouble itself with that.”
September bit the inside of her cheek, but the Marquess was so close. She tried to think of the Green Wind, of his pleasant green smell and the clouds whisking by as they flew over Westerly. She felt calmer—a little calmer. Not terribly much calmer.
“Why can’t you get it yourself? You can go anywhere…”
The Marquess rolled her bright blue eyes. “If you must know, it’s a cranky casket, and if I were to go … well, let us say, it would not give me the same gift it would give you, who are innocent and sweet and gentle of spirit.”
“I’m not … I’m ill-tempered and irascible…”
“Now, who told you that?” The Marquess caressed September’s face softly. Her hand was hot, like fire. September flinched beneath her blazing touch. “How rude of them. You are quite the sweetest child I’ve ever met.”
“I can’t. I just can’t do what you want unless I know what it is. Everyone is afraid of you, and when folk are afraid of a person, it usually means the person is cruel in some way, and I think you are cruel, Miss Marquess, but please don’t punish me for saying it. I think you know you’re cruel. I think you like being cruel. I think calling you cruel is the same as calling someone else kind. And I don’t want to run errands for someone cruel.”
“I will never be cruel to you, September. You remind me so much of myself.”
“I don’t know why you would say something like that when you are a Marquess and I am a nobody, an
d no one anywhere is afraid of me,” September said, and really, it was quite brave of her. “Still, I can’t.” September blinked several times, trying to clear her head. In her pocket, she clutched the glass ball the Green Wind had given her. “Unless you tell me the truth,” she said as firmly as she could. “And give me the Spoon now, not later, when I’ve returned.”
The Marquess looked at September appraisingly. Her blood-colored hair was slowly lightening to a gentle pink, like candy floss.
“How strong you are, child. You must have eaten your spinach and brussel sprouts all up and drunk all your milk, once upon a time. Now, let us think! What would a beautiful monarch send you for? Oh, I know! The glass casket contains a magical sword. It is so powerful that it doesn’t have a name. It is no spoiled, painted dilettante like Excalibur or Durendal. Naming a sword like this one would only cheapen it and make it tawdry. But the casket is also old, and also opinionated, and were I to stand in the forest and cut its fastenings … well, it would not give me the true sword.”
“But you would use it … to kill more witches’ brothers, I think…”
“September, I swear to you, here and now, in the presence of Iago, Queen Mallow, and your single, solitary shoe, that I will never use that sword to harm a soul. Little unpleasantries are necessary when one rules wicked, trickstery folk. But I would not soil such a sword by using it for simple, everyday murdering. I intend something much grander.”
September wanted to ask. She burned to ask.
“Ah, but that I will not tell you, little one. You are not ready to know. And loose lips sink glorious new worlds. Fairyland is still so beautiful for you. You would not believe me if I told you how sour it can go. Suffice it to say that I shall find the source of this sourness, and with the blade of the sword you bring me, I will cut it out. Will you get it for me? Will you take Goodbye’s Spoon and go to the Autumn Provinces in my name?”
September thought of the poor, angry, lost witches, peering into their cauldron while the sea pounded away. She thought of the wairwulf and his kindness to her. She thought of her Wyverary and his chafed, locked wings.
“No,” she squeaked. Blood beat against her brow. She felt dizzy. “I will do nothing in your name.”
The Marquess shrugged. She bent and kissed the Panther’s ears. “Well, then I shall have your deluded, ridiculous cut-rate dragon rendered into glue and perfume.”
“No!”
Iago growled softly. The Marquess seized September’s hand and crushed her fingers in her burning grip. “I think that’s just about enough nos out of you, young lady,” she hissed. “Whom do you think you’re talking to? Some country witch? I do not ask favors. I do not beg indulgences from spoiled brats. Only occasionally do I make bargains. I offered you a good one, a fair one! If you do not want to play fair, you cannot expect me to. Iago, go and fetch the Wyvern.”