Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

She smoothed the front of her peacoat. “Thank you,” she said. In her peripheral vision, she saw the double doors to the Interim Governor-Regent’s office thrown open; several figures emerged. They stopped on the threshold and watched as the speaker addressed the crowd.

“People of South Wood,” said Prue. It was as good a way to start as any, she decided. It seemed like the sort of thing returning heroes always said to their slavish army of followers—“people of such-and-such.” Now that she had that out of the way, she tried to divine exactly what would come next. She stalled for time by scanning the room with the gravitas of a Roman emperor surveying his people. She felt the surge of something inside her, similar to what she’d felt when the badger rickshaw driver had prostrated himself in front of her.

“I have . . . returned,” she said, drawing out each word in a slow, deep-voiced cadence. Too cheesy? she wondered. Too much?

The room erupted in cheers. She looked over to her right, to where the attaché stood with someone who she guessed to be the Interim Governor-Regent. To her surprise, he was a possum with a bleach-white face and a long, sinewy tail. He wore a tousled suit coat, and his fur was all disheveled. The air in the foyer and the staircase and the balcony was ripe with unbridled excitement; they waited for her next words.

“First off,” she said, “I don’t appreciate people treating other people badly, like, if they were for this revolution or not. That’s not cool.” She found that the Roman-emperor mode, which was great for making grandiose, crowd-silencing announcements, was not very sustainable when one got into the nitty-gritty. It fell away from her very twelve-year-old voice like the protective covering of some sad, dumpy Buick, when one expected a Porsche to be beneath.

The crowd became very quiet; whether they were internalizing what she’d said or casting silent judgment, she couldn’t say.

“Seriously,” continued Prue, “what’s with the thing out front? The guillotine.”

The crowd now seemed genuinely confused.

“Why,” offered a shrew with a surprisingly deep and loud voice, some ways down the staircase, “that’s for chopping people’s heads off.” The crowd around him nodded as he qualified the explanation by saying, “Those that aren’t patriotic, anyway.”

“Chopping people’s . . . ,” Prue hiccuped, echoing the words back in disbelief. “That’s not what this was all about! I mean, when we came and freed the birds from the prison.”

“But weren’t they the enemies, the Svikists?”

A Svikist—someone who supported the old regime, she figured. “No,” she said. “And yes. I mean, I didn’t think they’d be treated that way.”

“What were we supposed to do with them?” shouted someone.

“How did we know they weren’t going to just come and oppress us all over again?” shouted another.

“How about we just cut off their hands?” suggested another voice, and his neighbors nodded, as if understanding the wisdom of such a proposal.

“Or maybe just their little toes? The pinkie ones?”

“NO!” shouted Prue. “Don’t cut off anything!” She took a deep breath, commanding all her inner strength. “As Bicycle Maiden, I order that you—”

“Oh, order, huh?” said one of the onlookers. He was human, but he did not wear the uniform of the Spokes—the bicycle cap and knickers. “What are you, an empress now?”

“Careful!” shouted one of his neighbors, a Spoke. “That’s the Bicycle Maiden you’re talking to!” He gestured to some of his pals, who were dressed in the requisite riding gear, and they began to sidle toward the naysayer.

“No, I’m not a queen or an empress or anything,” said Prue. “And I don’t really mean to order you to do anything. No one should order you around. But I’m just saying, I mean, the spirit of the, you know, time that we, like, did all that stuff. Last fall. I just don’t think . . .” She found she was losing her audience. Indeed, she felt like she was losing herself.

Meanwhile, the immediate neighbors of the man who’d made the snide comment were now pointing frantically at the perpetrator while the Spokes made their way to his position. “That’s him,” said one of the Spokes. “He’s not even wearing a sprocket.”

“Svikist!” someone shouted, and suddenly the man was tackled and hauled away toward the door.

“Please!” Prue yelled, her voice now growing hoarse. “Just listen for a second. I’ve got something really important to tell everyone.”

The room hushed again; the Spokes halted their movement toward the door, their captive squirming in their arms.

Prue took a deep breath. “I’ve been instructed. By the Council Tree. To bring together the two makers who made Alexei, the heir apparent. The tree wants Alexei brought back to life.”

A great pause followed as the members of Prue’s audience looked at one another, perplexed. Prue heard someone clear their throat; it was the possum, to her right. She shifted her feet a little and continued in the quiet:

“I’ll need your help,” she said, “in finding one of his makers. The man’s name is Carol Grod. He’s a blind man, an old man.”

One of the older members of the crowd spoke up. “Alexei. You mean Alexandra and Grigor’s son, the young Svik? The one that the Governess brought back with the black magic?”

“I do,” said Prue.

They all stood and stared at her, and the air in the building began to collect and build upon itself like the air in a balloon stretched to its very limits. The following shout, coming from a man in the back of the room, acted as the pin for this balloon: