Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Prue swallowed hard. She looked out into the room at the loitering hordes of humans and animals. The attaché had exited the chamber again, and the creatures had resumed their prior activities as they waited for him to return.

“What about them?” she asked the mouse. He was wiping the corners of his mouth with the kerchief.

“Them?” he asked.

“Yeah—if there’s a waiting list and the governor’s office contacts you to schedule an appointment, why are they all trying to get the attention of the secretary?”

The mouse stuffed the kerchief into his vest pocket and wiped his hands together. “Well, it’s an imperfect system. Sometimes it works if you just yell loud enough to be noticed. Who knows?” He shrugged, gave a little salute, and walked off into the foyer.

Prue waited for a moment and studied the crowd in the room thoughtfully. She wondered where the best vantage point might be; where she might get the harried secretary’s attention the easiest. While she didn’t mind crowds—the anonymity they granted gave her a kind of weird confidence—this one was awfully intimidating. Finally gathering her courage, she walked over to the spot where the stairway began and stood, her hand resting on the ivory banister. A middle-aged man and a badger who were standing next to her engaged in a hushed discussion glanced over when she arrived and nodded, then did a double take. Prue smiled and waved faintly.

The man who had been talking to the badger turned to Prue and said, “Excuse me, miss. My friend and I were just talking—and we were wondering if you weren’t from the Outside.” He had a long, gray-flecked beard and, from his outfit, appeared to be a naval officer of some sort.

“Yes,” responded Prue. “Yes, I am.”

“Incredible,” said the officer. “And you have an audience with the Governor-Regent?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Prue. “I don’t have an appointment or anything. But I really need to see him, and so I figured maybe they’d just slip me in somewhere.”

The officer frowned and shook his head. “Good luck. I’ve had an appointment scheduled for weeks now, and I still haven’t been able to get in to see the Governor. My ship is in dockside with an impatient crew, and all I need is these blasted papers stamped and I’m on my way.” He angrily shook a sheaf of paper in his hand. “I tell you . . .” Here the officer looked around the room conspiratorially. “This country still hasn’t recovered from the coup, all those years ago. These fools don’t know how to run a government, not by a long sight.” He straightened and ironed the front of his jacket with a palm and looked at Prue. “Is this how things are run on the Outside? Do you have to deal with this madness?”

Prue thought for a moment. Her only struggle with bureaucracy was when she’d been on the waiting list for a particularly popular book at the library. “I guess so,” said Prue. “But I don’t really know. I’m only twelve.”

The officer had barely time to respond with a dissatisfied “Hrrrm” before the double doors at the other end of the foyer were thrown open and the attaché blazed into the room, a long line of assistants and hangers-on trailing in his wake. The room again descended into cacophony, with all the various parties who had been waiting in the room jumping into action, fighting to get to the attaché before he disappeared again. The officer and the badger next to Prue sprang away from the staircase and began shouting their pleas to the frazzled secretary. Prue, caught off guard, gained her bearings and dove into the fray, pushing aside a red-tailed fox who was hopping up and down, trying to see above the scrum of people. “Sorry!” she cried as she was practically picked up off her feet and whisked along the marble floor by the rush of the pack. “Mr. Secretary!” she shouted, waving an arm above her head. Most of the creatures in the crowd were much larger than Prue, and it was all she could do to keep her eye on the center of the storm, where the embattled attaché could be seen with his pile of papers, doing his best to ignore the pleading cries of the mob that beset him. A brightly colored halo of birds circled his head, squawking for attention. “Mr. Secretary!” she repeated, a little louder. She could feel the sharp jab of elbows in her ribs as others joined in and competed for ground.

“Mr. Secretary!” she hollered as loudly as she could muster. “I need to talk to the Governor! My brother was kidnapped! Mr. Secret—oof!” Her plea was cut short when a squat flailing beaver, shoved back from the center, head-butted her directly in the stomach and all the air blew out of her lungs. She and the beaver went flying headlong out of the throng and spilled in a tumbling mass to the floor. Prue swore, pushing herself to her feet. She stared determinedly at the attaché and his teeming horde, who had by now reached the double doors. She suddenly remembered the emergency air horn she’d put in her bag. She quickly whipped the bag over her shoulder and, ripping the flap open, pulled out the can.

“MR. SECRETARY!!!” she screamed one last time before she squeezed the handle of the horn.

The room filled with sound. Ear-shaking, hair-rattling sound. The burst lasted a few seconds.

Everyone froze.

Someone’s pen clattered to the floor.

A black bear in a gabardine waistcoat panicked and ran out the front door.

The entire crowd, silenced by the immense volume of the horn, turned slowly to look at its source. Prue stood alone in the middle of the foyer floor, momentarily stunned by the horn’s power. She cleared her throat. “Um,” she intoned q

uietly, “Mr. Secretary. I . . . um . . . need to speak with the Governor.” The swarm surrounding the attaché stood transfixed, and Prue found it eerily unsettling to have the attention of the entire room. Finally, the mass of people began to move as a figure forced its way through the bodies. It was the attaché. His brow deeply furrowed, he was looking down his nose through his bifocals at Prue as he hobbled clear of the crowd. Pausing, he studied her intently, alternately over and through his glasses.

“Are you . . . ,” he began. “Are you . . . an Outsider?”

“Yes, sir,” responded Prue. She slipped the air horn back into her bag.

“I mean—I mean—” stammered the attaché. “From the Outside?”

“Yes, sir,” said Prue. “And the reason I’ve come is because—”

She was interrupted by the attaché. “How did you get here?”

Prue smiled uncomfortably, suddenly struck shy by her rapt audience. “I walked, sir,” she replied.

“You walked?” asked the attaché, in disbelief. “But—but—you can’t do that!”

Prue, at a loss for words, stood silently.

The attaché, evidently deeply flustered, shook his head and rubbed his brow with his free hand. “I mean—I mean—it’s absolutely impossible! Or it should be absolutely impossible, unless—unless—” He stopped and stared at Prue and then, changing his mind, he shook his head and continued, “There must be a rift somewhere or a break in the Bind. A lesion in the spell. Those confounded Northerners. Backwoods idiots!” He snapped his brittle fingers, and an assistant scurried to his side. Speaking out of the side of his mouth, the attaché began dictating his directions: “Get me a form 45 slash C—they should have them down in accounting—and let the Secretary of the Exterior know that I’ll be needing it signed immediately. Better yet: Contact the Office of North Wood Relations and let him know that—”