The Boy Who Lost Fairyland (Fairyland 4)

It looked like nothing so much as a dressing room in back of a theatre. Mirrors ringed with big lightbulbs dotted the walls, bright rags and feathers and coats and dresses and half-patchworked hats lay on tables and chairs everywhere. Nothing matched, furniture came from wherever it was found, a red carousel bench here, a polka-dotted fainting couch with one leg missing there, a striped writing desk in one corner, a glass sewing table in another. All over the walls were concert programs and menus and train schedules and angry, snippy notes in fine handwriting. Anna, if you let the fire go out before dawn one more time I shall turn you into a musk ox! Bernard, you cow, can’t you remember a simple thing like sparrow hearts at market? Report to the parlor at teatime for punishment! Delia, Master Bluebell demands that you dance for company this evening. Do try not to be awful at it.

And sprawled on every bench and couch and stool and chair and scrap of floor were twenty or so human children, some, like Penny, older than Tom and Tam, almost grown, some much younger, laughing and whispering. Some even smoked odd little cherry-red cigarettes and drank green and shimmery things from square bottles.

Everyone fell silent when they saw the newcomers. One little boy, hardly old enough to dress himself, squealed in panic and hid under the fainting couch.

“Oh, Herbert, silly, don’t be afraid!” Penny hushed the boy. “They’re like us! Changelings! I know they look like Fairy folk, but the King himself brought them to Bessie for their shoe fitting. They’re one of ours. They won’t bite or tell on us.”

“I bite,” the scrap-yarn wombat said helpfully. “But only when I really want to.”

At the sound of Blunderbuss’s fuzzy voice, Herbert peeked out from under the couch. He took in her pea-green and tangerine ear, her blue-and-green striped belly, her mismatched eyes and squealed again. He barreled out into the open again and fell onto the wombat in joy, squeezing her and hugging her. Tom watched with some satisfaction, as she’d done much the same to him when they met—and a little sadness, for he’d been too busy trying his teeth on magic to give her the hugging he ought to have done. He would, when he got a moment to breathe, he promised himself.

“Easy on the squishables, little monkey!” the wombat huffed. “In the Land of Wom it’s considered polite to challenge a wombat to a duel before you throttle them like that!” But she seemed pleased anyway.

“Welcome to the Changeling Room,” Penny Farthing said, with not a little bit of pride. “We made it, it’s ours. Of course Changelings made a lot of things in Pandemonium, but this one is our favorite because it only loves us. Fairylanders aren’t allowed. Bayleaf—the tall chap there? Remembered some old nonsense from before he was taken and made us great beefy passwords that Fairies could never guess. This is where we come when we’re not…occupied.”

“But they are Fairylanders,” said Bayleaf. “That one’s a troll. And the other’s a…matchstick girl or something. But they’re not Changelings. Did you hit your head?”

Penny squared her feet. “They are! Come on, don’t be thick. Can’t you guess?” But he could not. Penny Farthing, by great feat of will, kept herself from bouncing up and down and gloating out loud. “They’re the other ones. Goods exchanged! Born here, dropped off in our cradles like the Tuesday post. We always thought they existed! Now we know! And they know how to get back where they came from! It’s only the best thing that’s ever happened, you know.”

But the rest of the Changelings did not cheer. They stared at Tom and Tam—and it was not a very nice stare. It was the stare an urchin gives to a child with a fur hat in a sweet shop who has gotten to pick out a whole cake for herself every week of her life.

“Hullo,” Tom Thorn said. No one answered. A little child not much bigger than Herbert reached up and poked Tom’s arm as if to see whether he was real. He cleared his throat. “Where are we, actually?” Tom asked. “Can’t Fairies go anywhere? It’s their city, after all.”

“That’s the clever bit,” Bayleaf piped up. He had a shock of dark hair that stuck up every which way and wore at least three waistcoats. “This is like…a hidden pocket in a suit jacket, or a hollow cane. It’s in Pandemonium, but it isn’t Pandemonium.”

Scratch wound his crank and the room jumped at the sound of his scratchy, sweet voice:

I gave my love a cherry

That had no stone

I gave my love a chicken

That had no bone

I gave my love a story

That had no end…

“Yes, yes!” Penny laughed. “We took out the stone and squirreled into the empty space in the big cherry of Pandemonium. It’s all on account of the hotel, see. The Grand Cookscomb Hotel—a thousand and one rooms, no two alike, and no one the same night after night! The lavish Marie Asphodel Suite becomes the chic, modern Antonia Hyssop Room at midnight! The Cat’s Eye Ballroom becomes the kitchen! The kitchen becomes the telegraph office! But hotels, you know, even regular hotels, are not natural places. A hotel is one house with a thousand other houses inside it. The rooms are little bubbles of Hotel Physicks, boxes of time where folk live a miniature version of their whole lives and then dash as quick as they came. A hotel room has to learn how to be home for anyone—and in all that learning they wake up a little. In fact, the best way to build a hotel is to round up a few rooms where secret things have happened. A hotel will bloom up around it like a dandelion. So when Old Lady Cookscomb was sprouting, we just…popped one of the bubbles free and coaxed it into a sympathetic horse. We fed it with all the things hotel rooms like to eat: tears and jumping on the bed and mints and empty room service trays and secret meetings and ugly mismatched furniture and individually wrapped soap and too many guests crammed in at once. So we’re really in the Hotel, but not inside it. When the big hotel closed down, our bit stayed, and no one would even think to come looking for it. Hotel Physicks is complicated! But here we are.”

“And you were all human. Born human. And brought here when you were babies,” Tom Thorn said softly.

One of the others nodded, a girl nearly grown, with a big thick auburn braid and a long velvet dressing gown on, who was called Sadie. “All of us. Some ages ago, some yesterday. You’ll remember—we all chose. We all took one look at Fairyland and said, ‘Yes, please!’ And when I came, I did whatever I liked! I ate so much splutterscotch grass I got drunk as a goblin and I slept under puffball parasols in the Darkest Fungal Fathoms. I befriended the great Hagfish who lives in Milkboil Lake, and she taught me to hold my breath for a year. I rode with the Mushroom Hunters of Brittlegill upon a Giant Jackal of my very own—and with my comrades I slew the Ancient and Carnivorous Crumblecap when I was but eight years old! I rescued four maidens from towers, beat twelve were-salamanders at riddling, and turned six separate reptiles back into minor aristocracy—one of which was a small dinosaur named Spearmint. I was Sour Girl Sadie Spleenwort, terror of the swamps! That was a Changeling’s life! Adventures would just find you. You couldn’t get away. I fell asleep in a pistachio grove when I was ten, and when I woke up I’d been given a cutlass called Hush, a ship made of jester’s caps, and command of twenty levitating hyenas who couldn’t say the word yes as they’d been cursed by the Khan of Zebras. Was that better than school and bedtime at eight and learning arithmetic so I could grow up and teach arithmetic? It was, it was!”

Tom’s eyes shone. His heart banged a happy beat. He glanced at Tamburlaine, and thought his face must look much the same as hers. She grinned and held her hands to her chest. Yes, this, this! Giant Jackals and Zebra Khans and Mushroom Hunters with colors flying! That is Fairyland! That’s what they’d come for!

“Even after the Marquess, it wasn’t so bad,” Bayleaf sighed. “We all had to come into the city from the country, even if we were quite busy planning an aerial raid on the Roc of Gristlethatch Manor.” He coughed. “For example. But she had a school built for us. We learned music and poetry and geometry and conversational Pookish. We got weekends free for Exercise.”

A girl with round che

eks and several earrings in each ear, who was called Virginia, clapped her hands. “Oh, I miss Exercise! As much mischief as you could fit into—”

“The Grimnasium!” shouted several of the other Changelings all together.

“It was a secret. In Seresong District,” Bayleaf went on. “Not so far from the Briary itself. She was a funny old thing, the Marquess. She put chains on us, but she seemed to feel bad about it every third or fourth Thursday. She made the Grimnasium for us. Blew it all in one go, out of a glassblower’s punty as long as a whale rib: a great curved building as big as a roller-skating rink, as big as a circus, all of smoky glass and green lanterns and emerald trimming and a jade roof. The Marquess would unload every horned or scaled or winged or tailed creature she could catch in her nets into the back of the place. She dumped baskets of spindles and mirrors and straw and masks and stones and crowns and armor and knives and anything you like all over the staircases. Sometimes you’d go in and it would be a desert with ice-elephants marauding everywhere. Sometimes it’d be a huge stormy ocean with water like melon punch. We took our Exercise there, stretched our legs.” His voice turned bitter. “You know, displayed our native behaviors in our natural habitat. Just like pet seals on a papier-mâché ice floe.”

“It was so nice, though,” sighed Virginia.