Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)
She scarcely had time to ponder the presence of a manhole (its face was minted with the words PROPERTY OF SOUTH WOOD, DRAINAGE RESOURCES COUNCIL) in this remote clearing when she heard a strange, woody clattering behind her. She turned to see a bright yellow rickshaw making its way toward her. It was being pulled by a badger.
“Hello,” said the badger when he arrived at Prue. He slowed to stop.
“Hi.”
The badger blinked and looked down at the manhole. “Did you just climb out of there?” he asked, puzzled.
Prue looked back at the hole. “Yes.”
“Oh,” said the badger, and then added, as if suddenly remembering his trade, “Need a ride?”
“I do, actually,” Prue said, pulling the owl’s note from her pocket. “I need to get to Rue Thurmond. Number Eighty-six. Is that far?”
“Nah, not far at all,” he said. “Just up the road.” He jerked his head, gesturing to the rickshaw. “Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.”
“I don’t have any money,” said Prue.
The rickshaw driver paused for a moment before responding. “Don’t worry about it. Last fare of the night. You’re on my way home.”
Prue thanked him kindly and hopped into the rickshaw’s cushioned chair. The carriage’s garish coat of yellow paint was accented with bright red designs and little knitted baubles dangled from the roof. With a quick word of warning (“It might be bumpy”) from the badger, the rickshaw burst into movement, and in no time they were bumping along the forest floor at a quick clip. Taking a few quick turns, the rickshaw began following a well-trod path, and little ramshackle hovels started appearing in the woods. After a time, the dirt of the path gave way to cobbled streets, and the woods were upstaged by an impressive row of posh town houses, their mullioned bay windows refracting the light of candelabras down onto the pavement.
“Fancy place, this,” commented the driver wryly. “Your friend is doin’ all right for himself.”
The street began inclining gradually, and the badger put his head down in concentration as the rickshaw climbed the hill. When they had arrived at the top, the carriage came to a stop in front of the grandest house on the block—it was a three-story behemoth of alabaster-white stone, and twin cherubs carrying trumpets met in a relief carved into the ground floor window’s ornate molding. A warm light bathed the drawn curtains in front of the window, and the number 86 was written on a placard over the front door.
“Here ya go,” said the badger, catching his breath. “Eighty-six Rue Thurmond.”
Prue climbed down from the carriage. “Thank you so much,” she said. The badger nodded and drove off.
She climbed the marble stairs to the front door and took a moment to admire the knocker that hung there: a brass eagle’s head with a heavy golden ring in its beak. With more than a little trepidation, she lifted the ring and let it fall onto the oak of the door. It gave a resounding bang and she stood back, waiting. There was no answer. She tried the knocker again and still no one came to the door. Stepping back, she looked up at the placard a second time, reaffirming that this was, in fact, house number 86. She let the great golden ring fall a few more times before she started to get worried.
Suddenly, the door creaked open a few inches and stopped. She was about to step forward when the door slammed closed, only to inch a little farther open than it had before. Puzzled, Prue peered into the space between the door and the jamb and called, “Hello?”
The sound of feathers fluttering in a desperate manner answered her greeting, and she could see that two sparrows were trying, fairly unsuccessfully, to turn the doorknob.
“Sorry! Sorry!” one of them said, his talon striking at the polished brass.
“Oh!” said Prue. “Let me help you!” She carefully pushed the door wide and walked into the entryway.
“Thank you!” said one of the sparrows, hovering before Prue. “We’re not used to these sorts of bipedal contraptions.”
“You must be the Outsider girl, McKeel,” said the other sparrow. “The Prince is expecting you.”
The sparrows, after effortlessly taking her coat and flying it up to hang on a hook by the door, led Prue through one, down a short hallway, and into an enormous sitting room.
An open fire roared in the hearth below an ornate wooden mantel at the far end of the room, and its light projected whirling shadows against the towering ceiling. The furniture was, for the most part, draped in white cloth, save for two tall-backed wing chairs that were angled facing the fireplace. The walls were lined with high bookcases, the thousands of book spines lining their shelves giving the illusion of a multicolored tapestry. The draping on a framed portrait above the mantel had fallen to the side a little, revealing the figure of a blue jay in an austere robe, and it struck Prue that the room exuded a kind of cozy melancholy.
“Good evening,” said a wizened voice from behind one of the chairs. “I hope you found your way here safely. Please, sit.”
A giant wing appeared from behind the chair, its innumerable brown and white feathers articulating open to gesture to the chair opposite.
Prue whispered a thank-you and walked across the room toward the chair. The warmth of the fire greeted her as she reached it, and she found herself sitting, her jeans absorbing the heat of the flames, staring into the eyes of Owl Rex.
He was even more impressive in person, the hornlike feathers extending from the gossamer feathers of his head, and his brown speckled body easily filled the cushions of the chair. He wore a soft velvet waistcoat, and a tasseled cap was perched on his crown between the two feathered tufts. His gnarled talons were resting on an ottoman, and his piercing yellow eyes stared intently at Prue.
“I apologize for the state of the rooms,” he continued. “We’ve scarcely found the time to make ourselves at home here. More pressing things demand our attention. But I should be offering you some refreshment. You must be parched from your travels. Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, sure,” responded Prue, still getting over her amazement. “I mean, herbal tea. If you have it. Peppermint or something.”