Under Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 2)

Brendan’s hand fell away from his saber, and he walked proudly up to the approaching bird. “Dear Owl,” he said, giving a slight bow, “it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“And you, King,” said the Owl, inclining his head. He threw his massive wings around the two bandits’ shoulders. “I did not know when we three would be reunited.”

Septimus cleared his throat.

“We four,” corrected the owl, winking at the rat. He then frowned as he spoke again: “And to answer the question of my bandit friend Curtis, I did not relish the idea of leaving my home province so soon after my time of incarceration. The Avian Principality is quite beautiful this time of year, all the nests gilded with snow.” He sighed and continued, “But the fate of the Wood seems to be in the balance; a new threat faces us all.” He looked at Maude and the egret, who were still picking debris from the undersides of their wings. “I trust you were not followed,” he said.

Maude shook her head. “No, my prince,” she said, bowing. “We’ve come alone.”

“Very good. Now”—Owl Rex turned about and began guiding Brendan and Curtis toward the Great Hall—“the meeting must commence.”

“Mehlberg,” said Elsie’s father. “I called earlier this week?”

The light from the ancient-looking computer monitor cast a strange glow across the garish features of the woman at the cluttered desk. It made the layers-thick smear of makeup on her face appear all the more ghoulish.

“Mehlverg?” the woman drawled.

“No,” corrected David. “Mehlberg. With a B.”

The woman turned her attention from the computer screen to give Elsie’s father a withering glare. “It is what I said,” she intoned, icily, “Mehlverg.” English was clearly the woman’s second language. To Elsie, crowded against her father’s pant leg with her Intrepid Tina doll embraced closely to her chest, the woman’s voice carried the echoes of a far-off kingdom, one populated by onion-domed palaces and kick-dancing Cossacks.

David, chastened, smiled politely. “Oh,” he

said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear your accent.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, Mehlberg. Lydia and David. We’re here to drop off our daughters? Elsie and Rachel?” Getting no reply, David squirmed uncomfortably in his loafers and, looking down at the name placard on the desk, attempted to pronounce the name written there. “Miss … Miss Mudrak?”

The woman still did not respond. Her composure was lazy, languid. She studied the Mehlberg family for a time before setting her long-nailed fingers against the edge of the desk and pushing her chair back. She unfurled the great length of her body and stood, suddenly towering over the family before her. David, who Elsie always thought to be incredibly tall, only came up to the woman’s collarbone. The woman wore a shimmering, slender gown, and her fingers were studded with a rainbow spectrum of gemmed rings. She reached out one hand blithely to David, those long fingers splayed in the dramatic fashion of a countess receiving a suitor.

“Please,” she said, the words issuing from her ruby-red mouth like a slurry of molasses, “call me Desdemona.” The flicker of a smile appeared on her lips.

David’s words of greeting came in a rush of sputtering, blather and nonsense. He began to reach his hand to meet Desdemona’s, but Lydia’s hand beat him to it. Glaring, Elsie’s mother shook the woman’s hand firmly.

“How do you do, Miss Mudrak,” said Lydia, loudly. “We’re here to board our children. We’ll be back for them in two weeks’ time.”

Whatever lightness had appeared on Desdemona’s face in that moment fell away as she turned her attention to Mrs. Mehlberg. She pulled her hand from Lydia’s and slowly eased herself back into her chair. “I see,” she said. “Let me find wot is on computer.” Her face was again illuminated by the screen’s glow as she slowly began tapping on one of the arrow keys of the keyboard. “Ah yes,” she said finally. “I see it here. Two girls. Elsie and Rachel.” She turned her head slightly and made sharp eye contact with Elsie, who froze.

“And you are …?” asked the woman.

“I—I’m Elsie.”

“Very nice to meet.” Without moving her head, she looked at Rachel. “And this?”

Rachel only glared at the woman from beneath her hair, saying nothing. She held her arms across her chest defiantly. The mohawked skull on her shirt was all scrunched up.

Lydia interjected. “This is Rachel,” she said, frowning at her daughter. “She can sometimes be very rude.”

Miss Mudrak smiled, and a long row of teeth appeared between her lipsticked lips. They were nearly perfect, Elsie observed, save for a single golden tooth, third from the center, which glinted in the light of the computer monitor. “This is no a problem,” said Desdemona. “We are accustomed to such things.”

Elsie swallowed loudly.

“Well, famille Mehlverg,” said Desdemona Mudrak, turning back to the computer and stabbing her fingers at the keys. “Let me be the first to welcome you to Joffrey Unthank Home for Wayward Youth.” (Here she thrust a single polished fingernail at a framed picture on the desk; a toothy man with a goatee and greasy hair smiled out from inside a loud argyle sweater—Mr. Unthank, Elsie presumed.) “Founded 1985. We are full-service orphanage and reformatory academy, boasting a population of one hundred fine children in the various unfortunate circumstances.” The woman droned this recited speech with all the enthusiasm of a veteran flight attendant talking about seat cushion flotation devices.

As Desdemona continued on about the administrative details of the business, her eyelids lazing at half-mast all the while, Elsie’s attention was drawn to the decorations on the office’s walls. She had always assumed that dust could only collect on a horizontal surface, but the Unthank Home’s drab green walls proved otherwise—a thin sheen of gray dust seemed to nearly act as a second coat of paint. The grime covered a sprawling collection of what looked like old movie posters, though Elsie couldn’t make out the titles—they were all written in what looked like an alien language. Handsome leading men in tuxedos, smoking cigarettes, lounged against white balustrades on these posters, sharing meaningful glances with tall, striking women. In one faded broadside, the lips of a man and a woman were poised inches apart, their eyes smoldering. Above the photo, in tall, eye-catching text, was written the following Martian glyph: Looking closer, Elsie was shocked to recognize the woman on the poster as none other than Miss Mudrak herself, just a little younger. Aghast, Elsie looked down at the woman behind the desk, still talking, and back to the poster. The resemblance was there, but the spirit was missing from the woman’s eyes. Elsie couldn’t help but spout out, “Is that you?”

Jolted from her monologue, Desdemona looked to where Elsie was pointing and smiled weakly. “Yes,” she said, “it is me. Old movie, A Night in Havana. Do you know it?”

No one spoke.

Desdemona frowned and dismissed the silence with a wave of her hand. “It is old movie from Ukraine. No in English. That is Sergei Goncharenko, great Ukrainian actor. He is cab driver now in San Francisco.” She blew a snort of air through her lips. “It is way it is. We come to America. It is better, no?” She pushed back the chair and stood again from the desk. “Come, I give you tour of facility.”