Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

Prue, regaining her footing, interjected, “Sir, I have a serious problem.”

The attaché, looking away from his assistant, laughed nervously at Prue. “Mademoiselle, you are a serious problem.”

Prue continued, undaunted, “Sir, my brother, Mac, was taken yesterday by crows. I saw them take him into the woods. Into Wildwood.” The congregation in the foyer listened spellbound. “And I’d really just like to get him back.” She could feel tears of desperation welling up in her eyes. “And I promise, I cross my heart, that if I can just get him home, I’ll never ever come here again.” She weakly traced an X across her chest with her finger. “Promise.”

The room remained stalled in silence as the attaché stared in disbelief. Finally, the assistant at the attaché’s side leaned in and whispered something in his ear. The attaché nodded silently, never taking his eyes off Prue. “Very well,” said the secretary, after what seemed to Prue an eternity. “Since you are in a unique position, we’ll see if we can fit you in. Follow me.”

The crowd surrounding the attaché fell away, and he led Prue up the alabaster staircase.

Though there were no clocks hung in the Governess’s cavernous hall, Curtis could tell that the morning was nearly gone by the time he had finished sashaying around the room in his new garb, thrusting and parrying his saber in the sort of grand and dramatic fashion of the swashbuckling dragoons he had seen in movies and read about in books. The decorations on his chest jingled deliciously with his every move, and the sword made a terrific whish every time he swung it through the air. The coyote attendant, apparently accustomed to attending to eccentric masters, waited patiently by the throne, moving only to flinch at one of Curtis’s wild ripostes.

“Very nice, sir,” said the attendant after Curtis’s energy had flagged. “You are a gifted swordsman. For a pacifist.”

Curtis stood in the center of the room and kicked his feet in the dirt. “Well, I would never, you know, fight anyone.” He was panting slightly from the exertion. “But . . . ,” he continued. “You think so?”

“Oh, certainly,” said the coyote.

“It kind of wears you down, doesn’t it?” Curtis asked. He managed a final thrust before he let the sword fall to his side. He massaged his arm with his free hand.

“You’ll get used to it, sir,” said the coyote.

Curtis eyed the coyote suspiciously. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Maksim, sir,” said the coyote.

“Maksim, huh?” said Curtis, turning the sword in his grip. “You guys sure have funny names.”

Maksim merely raised an eyebrow.

“So what do you do around here, Maksim?” asked Curtis.

“I am the Governess’s aide-de-camp. I have been assigned to oversee your orientation.”

“My orientation.”

“Yes,” the coyote replied. “The Governess would seem to have auspicious plans for you.”

Curtis, trying to divine the meaning of the word auspicious (was it like suspicious?), chewed on this information for a moment before replying, “Where is the Governess?”

“In the field, sir,” said Maksim. “Awaiting your company.”

“The field?” asked Curtis. “What’s the field?”

Maksim ignored the question. “I was instructed to wake you, fit you, and send you to her as soon as you were ready.” He paused. “Are you ready?”

Curtis cleared his throat and nodded. “I suppose so,” he said, and then, in a voice as adult as he could conjure, “Lead the way, Maksim.” He slid his sword into the sheath at his belt.

Exiting the room, Curtis noticed the warren was strangely devoid of the previous day’s hubbub: Absent was the throng of coyotes that had huddled around the central cauldron and whose military drills had tattooed the dirt floor. A few soldiers milled about, patching crumbling walls and hauling firewood, but compared to the day before, the warren felt practically uninhabited. Curtis felt the clawed fingers of Maksim adjust the shoulders of his uniform, which had slid off to one side.

“You’ll grow into it,” said Maksim finally, apparently unsatisfied with the fit. He then began leading Curtis through one of the many tunnels leading from the main room. “This way.”

Back above ground, Curtis winced at the brightness of the air. The low early morning clouds had burned away and the light was crisp in the grove, and the brilliance washed a second wave of nausea down his spine from brain to belly. Maksim led the way through the open glade and into the thick of the trees that surrounded the clearing. A small group of soldiers at the tree line, laboring over a stake that refused to be hammered into the ground, abruptly stopped their activity when Maksim and Curtis approached, and snapped to attention, their hands locked in salute. As they got closer, Curtis realized that the soldiers were saluting him, not Maksim. Curtis awkwardly saluted back as they passed, and the coyotes returned to their work.

“What was that about?” whispered Curtis when they were out of earshot of the soldiers.

“Showing proper respect to rank. You’re an officer, after all,” said Maksim. He stopped and pointed to one of the brooches that were pinned to Curtis’s chest. It was simple: a taut weave of blackberry brambles topped by the broad petal of a trillium flower, cast in a dark bronze. Curtis pushed at it curiously with his finger, adjusting its place on his jacket. “An officer,” he repeated quietly. Maksim continued walking into the woods.

“Whoa. Wait a second,” said Curtis. “An off-officer? What did I do to deserve that?”