The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making (Fairyland 1)

“No! Please don’t! I’ll go! I’ll go. Just so long as you promise it’s not for hurting anyone.”

The Marquess’s hair flushed with pleasure, turning a deep pumpkiny orange, just September’s favorite shade. She pressed September’s hand to her lips—but still she squeezed it, painfully. “I just knew we would be friends!” she crooned. “Now that you’ve stopped being stubborn, let’s get that bedraggled old shoe off of you!”

Numbly, automatically, September let the Marquess toss away her loyal, honest mary jane and slipped the black, beribboned shoes onto her feet. They fit perfectly. Of course, they fit perfectly.

Patting her arm, the Marquess led her to the door of the Briary. September suddenly realized that she had seen nothing at all of the house, knew nothing of the Marquess’s powers, knew little more than when she had arrived. She had been handled—and with ease.

“Still,” she whispered, her one small defiance. “I’ll take the Spoon now.”

“Of course. I can be so reasonable, when I am obeyed.” The Marquess stroked Iago again. The Panther arched his back, relishing her hand. She drew up a long wooden spoon, much stained, its handle wrapped in leather. September took it and stuck it through the sash of the green smoking jacket.

The Marquess stood on her toes and kissed September’s forehead. Her lips alone were cold. When she pulled away, her hair was a deep, dark green.

“Iago will show you out. When we meet again, things between us will have progressed very far, I think.”

Iago took September’s mashed hand gently in his mouth and tugged her toward the flower-door.

“Safe travels, September,” called the Marquess brightly. She smiled again, from the bottom of the heart-shaped stair, the sweetest smile September had ever seen on a child. “And if you do not bring my sword in seven nights’ time, I shall have that Spoon back—and your head on a thorn in my garden.”

CHAPTER IX

SATURDAY’S STORY

In Which a Wyverary Makes a Sacrifice While September Engages in Wanton Destruction of Lobster Cages and Meets a New Friend

Dazed, trembling, September stumbled out of the Briary, led by the jaws of the Panther. The flower door rustled closed behind her. A-Through-L was gone—he hadn’t waited for her. Of course, he hadn’t waited. He had known she was weak, that she would give in as soon as the Marquess behaved kindly toward her. He had known her for a rotten, cowardly child. She cursed herself, that she was not braver, not more clever. What is a child brought to Fairyland for if not to thwart wicked rulers? Ell had known she wasn’t good enough. September yanked her hand from the cat’s mouth and knelt in the grass, staring through growing tears.

“Good grief,” sighed Iago. “You oughtn’t waste time feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I should have said no. A braver girl would have said no. An ill-tempered one.”

“Temperament, you’ll find, is highly dependent on time of day, weather, frequency of naps, and whether one has had enough to eat. The Marquess gets what she wants, little girl. There’s no shame in being unable to defy her.” The Panther sniffed and scratched at his nose with a black paw. “And precious little satisfaction in denying her, well do I know.”

“Oh, ho! September!” called a deep, familiar, rolling voice. September leapt up and ran toward it, wheeling around the bramble-wall of the Briary with Iago close behind. The Wyverary stood by the moat bank in a kind of pen, his tail waving back and forth like a dog who has found a stash of bones. A high fence of kimono-silk posts came up to his knee. A-Through-L waved with one foot and then bent to peer into a cage.

The cage was wooden, shabby—a lobster cage, September recognized. The kind lobstermen from far east where Aunt Margaret lived used to drag the creatures off the sea floor. A great many of them lay about, empty, some shattered and broken. Only in one of them, a boy crouched, shivering, his eyes downcast. A boy with dark blue skin and black swirling patterns on his back, curling like waves. He looked up at her, his face drawn and thin, greasy hair tied in a knot on the top of his head. His eyes were huge and black and full of tears.

“Don’t let me out,” he whispered. “I know you’ll want to. All good souls want to. But she’ll never forgive you.”

Oh, September. Such lonely, lost things you find on your way. It would be easier, if you were the only one lost. But lost children always find each other, in the dark, in the cold. It is as though they are magnetized and can only attract their like. How I would like to lead you to brave, stalwart friends who would protect you and play games with dice and teach you delightful songs that have no sad endings. If you would only leave cages locked and turn away from unloved Wyverns, you could stay Heartless. But you are stubborn and do not listen to your elders.

September fell to her knees before the lobster cage. “Oh! But you must be miserable in there!”

“I am,” answered the blue child, “but you mustn’t let me out. I belong to her.”

“Too right he does,” warned the Panther Iago, batting at a little cotton beetle skittering through the dusty pen. “I wouldn’t even consider it if I were you. But then if I were you, I would not be me, and if I were not me, I would not be able to advise you, and if I were unable to advise you, you’d do as you like, so you might as well do as you like and have done with it.”

“Well,” September said slowly, burning to defy the Marquess in something, anything, and make up for her weakness in the Briary. “This Spoon belonged to her, too, until a few minutes ago.”

“I’m different. I’m a Marid.”

September looked blank. The boy sighed, his tattooed shoulders slumping as if he always suspected the world would be a disappointment.

“Do you know what djinni are?” sighed Iago dramatically, as if he could not begin to hear her ignorance.

September shook her head.

“Like genies,” piped up the Wyverary, delighted that he could be helpful, as djinni began with D. “They grant wishes. And wreck things, but mostly grant wishes.”