Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

“Yes,” answered Owl. “His death had been kept secret from the people of South Wood, explained away as a period of convalescence as the young prince recovered from injuries sustained in the accident. Much fanfare greeted his return to public life. Alexandra, for her part, did everything in her power to conceal the fact that he was an automaton—she even went so far as to exile the two toy makers responsible for his creation to the Outside. Even the boy Alexei was unaware that he was mechanical. As for the period of his death, he merely thought he had been unconscious from the fall. He was naturally in despair over the unexplained demise of his father, but the grief eventually passed and he took on the governorship with enthusiasm and aplomb. Until one day, while he was working in the Mansion’s garden (a particular passion of his), he chanced to knock open a plate in his chest that exposed the inner workings of his, well, chassis. Bowled over by this revelation, he confronted his mother, who revealed the truth behind his death. He was horrified. He retired to his rooms in the Mansion and, opening the door in his chest, removed an indispensable piece—a little brass cog—from the clockwork of his body and destroyed it. The machine seized up, and the boy was again rendered lifeless.

“Her enterprise was laid bare. The Governess was dragged before a high court and, in a protracted trial, all was revealed. She was sentenced to exile in Wildwood for criminal use of black magic. The prosecution even suggested that she’d been responsible for the death of her husband, Grigor. It was expected that she would not survive her banishment; she would be torn apart by coyotes or killed by roving bandits.” Owl locked eyes with Prue and raised a feathery eyebrow. “It appears that neither of those fates befell her.”

Prue nodded in agreement.

Looking back to the fire, Owl continued, “In the vacuum that followed the Governess’s deposition, Lars Svik, then a young peon in administrative affairs, was propped up by the military as the rightful heir to the governorship. Many opposed him. However, rather than risk a civil war, the progressives abdicated, and Svik and his cronies assumed the office of Governor-Regent.”

A wind was steadily picking up outside, and a branch whipped against the windowpane of one of the room’s windows. Owl Rex started at the sound before turning back to Prue and saying, “Since then, fifteen years on, the political climate of South Wood has steadily changed. Dissenters are no longer suffered. Vocal opponents to Lars’s ham-handed rule have been demoted, imprisoned, or, in some cases, have simply disappeared. Their blatant disrespect toward the sovereignty of the independent countries of the Wood is clear. Their intolerance of others, plain. Which brings me to why I’ve called you here. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve become a bit of a windbag in my dotage, but I urge you to listen closely to what I say now.”

Prue leaned in, listening intently. The owl began speaking in a hushed, conspiratorial tone.

“There are people in South Wood who can help you. There are people who are trustworthy, who are trying to change the rule of law from the inside out. But they are the minority. As for the Governor and his aides, they are not to be trusted. If it is in their interest, Prue, and you are a problem to them, they will make that problem go away. Is that clear?”

Dazed by the insistence of the owl’s question, Prue looked on.

“I said: Is that clear?”

“Yes,” said Prue quickly. “Totally clear.”

“And after speaking with them today,” continued Owl, “I fear that your presence here has the potential of becoming problematic.”

Prue’s mind flashed to the mastiff sentry she’d locked in her bathroom.

Owl Rex leaned back into his chair and stared into the fire’s trembling flames, their light reflected in the shine of his eyes. “I can’t tell you how hard it is for me to witness all this; the slow and certain despoiling of everything that Grigor had built. I fear it has broken my heart.” He held the tip of his wing to his chest and heaved a great sigh. He looked back at Prue with a sidelong glance. “I hope I haven’t frightened you too much—and you strike me as a very bright girl. I have no doubt that you will be able to navigate these issues with courage and wisdom. I just felt it imperative that you understand what kind of people you are dealing with.”

“What should I do?” asked Prue, feeling desperate. “I don’t know who else to turn to.”

The owl was silent for a moment. The ticking of the mantel clock filled the quiet room. “I suppose,” began Owl, “if all else failed, you could visit the Mystics.”

“The Mystics?”

“Of North Wood,” explained the owl. “They have little dealing with the South—they are a reclusive people. But they may have an insight into your problem. They are responsible for the Periphery Bind—the protective spell woven into the trees on the edge of the Wood that protects and separates us from the Outside—that thing that you managed to disregard when you just walked in here.” Here, the owl smirked a little at Prue.

“Sorry,” whispered Prue sheepishly.

He went on, “The North Wood Mystics share a connection with the woods that no one else has. The great Council Tree, whose roots reach us even here in the South, registers every footstep in the Wood. It is around this tree that the Mystics meet; it is how they derive their power. It’s a long shot, but if you’ve no other choice, they may have clues to the whereabouts of your brother. And perhaps your friend as well.” He shook his head gently. “But it’s a long journey; one that is rife with danger. And you are not necessarily guaranteed to receive a gracious welcome—the Mystics are protective of their seclusion. However, even if you were able to convince them to help you, they do not have a military to speak of—it’s inconceivable that they would have the ability or manpower to forcibly recover your brother or your friend.” The owl’s chest rose in a deep sigh. “You are truly at an impasse, Prue. I wish I could be of more ass

istance.”

A sudden frantic explosion of squawking violently disrupted the calm of the room, and the air was alive with the flapping of wings. The two attendant sparrows swooped around the sides of their chairs and made a hasty landing on the lip of the mantel in front of Prue and Owl Rex, a small flurry of lost feathers floating to the ground in their wake.

“Sir!” shouted one. “Sir! You must hide yourself! You must—”

“What he’s trying to say, sir,” sputtered the other, “is that they are—the street is—we don’t think we’ll be able—”

The other interjected, “It is vital that you hide yourself because—”

This last sentence was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the front door of the house being kicked open.

“THE SWORD!” shouted one of the sparrows. “THEY’RE HERE!”

Prue shot a panicked look at Owl Rex. “The what?” she asked.

“The Mansion’s secret police,” Owl said, desperately searching the room. “The South Wood Office of Rehabilitation and Detention. They’ve acted faster than I suspected. Quickly! We must hide you.”

Owl Rex lifted his wings and carried himself out of his chair. Prue leapt up and followed him as he flew in a quick, frantic arc around the room. He stopped at a large wicker hamper by one of the bookcases and, knocking the lid open with his talons, urged Prue to climb inside. The racket from the entryway was now spilling over into the dining room—a staccato of boot heels against floorboards and the overturning of chairs polluted the air, while the sparrows desperately tried to waylay the intruders with squawked objections. Prue dove into the hamper and nestled into a pile of musty old newspapers, while Owl Rex threw the lid closed and she was in darkness, her hand at her chest in an effort to stay her agitated heartbeat.

Just as the lid snapped shut and Owl Rex had flown to a safe distance from the hamper, the double doors at the end of the room were savagely kicked open and the room was filled with the sound of hammering jackboots.