Caley Cross and the Hadeon Drop

by Jeff Rosen

  “So, what do I do now?” said Caley. “Do I write him back? Or send a bee? Or do I have to say something to him in person? I don’t think I could do that—say something to him in person. I mean, I guess I’d have to say something to him at some point … like … at the ball. Would I?”

  “The first thing we have to figure out is clothes.” Neive began looking through the box of Caley’s clothes-roses and closed the lid with a frown. “You’re not going to the ball in any of these. Your gown has to be amazing.”

  “Maybe Kip’s mom can make me one!” Caley smiled.

  •

  THE first class of the afternoon was waltz lessons. The girls discussed who was going with whom to the ball. It seemed most of Caley’s classmates now had dates. Taran O’Toole was going with Monty Ottley and her sister Tessa with Hudson Shotwell, a fourth-year boy. That created a mild scandal and a permanent grin on Tessa’s face.

  “At least we can tell them apart now,” pointed out Amalia Tweedy.

  Lidia Vowell (half-elk) was going with Ben Bruin (half-bear), which gave everyone a thrill because it was practically a mixed-species couple.

  “Good morning, students.”

  Duchess Odeli appeared (suddenly and surprisingly, as usual) in the middle of the gym and nodded to the wooden cherubs on the walls, who began to play their instruments.

  “Everyone choose a partner, and we shall begin.”

  The boys and girls moved slowly toward each other in the middle of the gym with mildly mortified looks, like they were being forced to duel instead of dance.

  There was a tap on Caley’s shoulder. She turned. It was Kip.

  “Dance?”

  Before Caley could answer, Kip grabbed her hand and began casting her around the room like she was a fishing lure.

  “I was going to ask you … about the ball—” Kip started to say.

  “I was going to ask you—” blurted out Caley.

  “If no one’s asked you yet—” Kip talked over Caley.

  “If your mom can grow me a dress—” Caley talked over Kip.

  “OK, sure. We may as well go together.” Kip nodded.

  “Remember, gentlemen, your partner is a flower, not a fire-sword,” the duchess announced. “Do not hold her in a death grip.”

  “Wait … what?” Caley and Kip said together.

  WHEN Caley woke up the next morning, she lazed in bed recalling a dream from the night before. She was a perfect princess with perfectly unproblematic hair who was dating the hottest boy in the kingdom and totally didn’t have a monster living inside her. She gazed at her flowers. The blue buds had opened in the night and, as Neive predicted, were very pretty. Their fuzzy black centers gave off the most interesting aroma: sweet and sour at the same time. It reminded Caley of Chinese soup. And something else, too. She thought she’d seen flowers like that somewhere before but couldn’t remember where.

  Neive arrived and began helping her get ready for breakfast. It was Saturday, and they were going to the Gorsebrookes’ so Kip’s mom could get started on a ball gown for Caley.

  “You’ll probably want the heavy jumper,” said Neive, fetching the box of clothes-roses. “It’s cold.”

  Caley climbed out of bed—then held her head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Caley replied. “My head hurts. Maybe I’m coming down with encephalitis. Oh, and Kip asked me to the ball.”

  “Kip? Kipley Gorsebrooke?” Neive set the box of roses down. “But what about Ferren?”

  “I hate to say no to people.”

  “You have to tell Kip, as soon as possible, or his feelings will be hurt. He’s kind of sensitive.”

  Caley regarded Neive. “‘Kind of sensitive.’ That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about him.”

  Caley was about to choose plain brown slacks and a sweater, but then she picked a flashy silver skirt and top because if she was going to be an actual princess, she decided she may as well start looking the part.

  “That’s pretty fancy for the Gorsebrookes,” said Neive. “Remember, they shed.”

  “I’m hungry,” Caley said absently. “Do they have Chinese food in Erinath?”

  IN the dining hall, Caley was headed to her usual table with Kip and Lucas when Ithica Blight swooped over and led her off by the elbow.

  “Princess Caley, can we chat about the Princess Pen?”

  “Princess Pen?”

  “It’s what we call our VIP section at the ball. It’s frightfully stuffy, but it does keep out the riffraff. I thought we might discuss who you’d like to invite.”

  Ithica steered Caley toward the tiara twits table at the front of the hall before she could say anything. To her surprise, there was a little throne at the head of the table with the Cross coat of arms. More surprising, everyone smiled at her through their braces. The effect of all that exposed metal—and their twinkly tiaras—was nearly blinding and made her dizzy, so she plopped herself in the throne.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I had a proper seat put here for you,” said Ithica. “With your investiture, people will be expecting more formality. It isn’t appropriate for the aristocracy to dine with the lower classes.”

  Ithica limp-fish waved over in the direction of Kip and Lucas, who were staring back at Caley. Kip was so surprised to see Caley at Ithica’s table, he stopped eating (which was even more surprising).

  “Love your dress by the way,” said Ithica. “Posh.”

  “That’s a kind of chicken pox,” said Pansy Pingintee.

  “No, it’s a small potty,” said Petunia Pingintee.

  Caley was eyeing some cantaloupe wedges on the table. They seemed to be smiling at her too. Ithica thrust a leaf-card in front of her. It was a seating chart for the Princess Pen.

  “I have you here, front and center,” Ithica told Caley, “beside me.”

  “Where’s my seat?” asked Pansy, squinting at the chart with her piggy little eyes.

  “And mine?” asked Petunia.

  “You’re in the ‘special’ section … over here …” Ithica pointed to a spot that was about as far away as you could get from the Princess Pen.

  The Pingintees beamed at each other like they’d just won the lottery.

  “Our dates will join us in the Pen,” said Ithica.

  “That reminds me, I need to send Ferren a note,” said Caley.

  “Prince Ferren,” corrected Ithica. “It’s best to use proper titles.”

  “He asked me to the ball … but I already told Kip I’d go with him.”

  Ithica wiped a nearly invisible speck of food from her nearly invisible lips.

  “You mean Kipley Gorsebrooke? Whose father lost his title because he was a traitor? So, you intend to go to the royal ball with a … commoner?”

  Everyone gasped. Princess Addled Puffdaddy (or whatever) looked like she was about to pass out.

  “It’s entirely up to you, of course,” Ithica sniffed, “but we can’t have non-royals running around the Princess Pen. Perhaps you would prefer not to sit with us.” She began to cross Caley’s name off the seating chart.

  “But I want to be in the Princess Pen!” cried Caley (which had to be the weirdest thing she’d ever said).

  “I’ll inform Prince Ferren you will be attending the ball with him,” said Ithica. “Everything is perfect.”

  “Perfect …” Caley repeated blearily; then she plonked a cantaloupe wedge on her head, like a tiara.

  NEIVE and Kip were waiting for Caley outside the castle to go to the Gorsebrookes’. Caley appeared with the mailbox-men trailing after her (very closely this time).

  Caley glanced around. It had been a while since she had been outside the castle, and it was not looking good. The tiled roof and turrets were shedding like an old snakeskin, and you could see right through some of the main roots. One of the gargoyles tumbled off a tower and did a swan dive into a fountain.

  “We need a plan in case the castle doesn’t make it to the ball,” Kip said as
they made their way to the worm station. “If Olpheist gets in, we have to get out of here. Fast.” He turned to Caley. “Do you think we should ask Master Pim what to do?”

  “I think …” Caley drawled, “we need to keep the riffraff out of the Princess Pen.”

  Kip and Neive regarded her as if she were about to tell them the punch line to some joke, but Caley wasn’t smiling.

  “Why is there cantaloupe on your head?” asked Neive.

  •

  CALEY and Neive watched Mrs. Gorsebrooke pick through a wicker basket in her rose-filled greenhouse while Kip helped himself to a second breakfast in the kitchen.

  “I’ve gathered a few things, and if we can’t find what you like, I will scour the kingdom until we do.” Mrs. Gorsebrooke removed a tin of downy buds from her basket. “These are Robin’s Wings, which should be the base for the gown. Soft as a feather but also very resilient, for dancing.”

  Neive nodded encouragingly at Caley. “She’ll be doing loads of that, right?”

  “Perfect …” Caley said absently, staring moonily at Mrs. Gorsebrooke’s basket.

  Mrs. Gorsebrooke rummaged through her basket and pulled out a green rose with multi-colored petal tips. “And for the gown itself, I think Field-of-Dreams. It’s like a green meadow full of wildflowers.”

  “Green is your favorite color, isn’t it?” Neive prompted Caley.

  “Posh …” Caley nodded robotically without taking her eyes off the basket. Her head felt like a field of dreams, each one knocking against the next in the breeze.

  “It’s settled then,” said Mrs. Gorsebrooke. “I’ll start working on it right away, and it will be ready in time for the ball. Now, Miss Olander, what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “What would you like to wear to the ball?”

  “I can’t go.” Neive shook her head. “It’s only for nobles.”

  “You are Princess Caley’s lady-in-waiting, which means you have every right to attend a royal ball.”

  Neive’s face lit up; then she noticed Caley putting the wicker basket upside down on her head like a crown, its contents emptying out all over her.

  “Princess Caley has to go now,” Neive said urgently, snatching the basket off Caley’s head and pulling her out the door. “She has a lot of things on her head—I mean, mind—with the ball coming up!”

  “Chicken pox …” Caley limp-fish waved back at Mrs. Gorsebrooke, who was staring after her with a perplexed expression.

  “Caley, are you OK? You’re acting funny,” Neive said as she hustled Caley from the Gorsebrookes’ with Kip.

  “Potty,” mumbled Caley.

  AFTER the best sleep ever, Caley woke up feeling great. No dreams … or even any thoughts, come to think of it—or not to think of it. In fact, her head felt like a chalkboard wiped clean. She took a deep breath of Ferren Quik’s flowers, which were still blooming and filling the bedroom with their intoxicating Chinese soup smell.

  Weekends were normally a time when Caley rode Fearfew, but even the Equidium was falling apart, making the orocs too jittery to ride. Caley and Neive settled into one of the big overstuffed couches in the common room. Bazkûl-breath gems in the fireplace were attempting unsuccessfully to fend off the deep late-autumn chill that had settled into the castle, thanks to all the holes now riddling it.

  Lidia Vowell nodded toward the doorway. Everyone turned to see Ithica Blight standing there.

  “What does she want?” Kip scowled. “She never comes in here. The common room is too common for her.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Caley said casually, “I told Princess Ithica I’d help with the guest list for the after-after-after party for the ball. It’s so exclusive, it’s just her and me. Still, we have to keep out the riffraff.”

  “Princess Ithica?” repeated Kip. “You mean … ‘A Bit Glitchhi?’”

  “It’s best to use proper titles, Mr. Gorsebrooke.”

  Kip looked at her and burst out laughing. Then he saw Caley wasn’t laughing, and his face went flat.

  “Who even are you?”

  “A blank canvas,” Caley replied crisply. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an after-after-after party to organize.”

  Caley headed toward Ithica, who sneered at Kip with a smile so thin it could cut glass.

  “Something fishy’s going on around here,” said Kip, staring at Ithica.

  “That’s speciest,” replied Lidia. “Many fish are often quite adept at camouflage, giving them an undeserved reputation for being deceitful or dishonest.”

  “Something adeptly camouflaged is going on here,” said Kip.

  Neive stared steadily at Caley as Ithica led her off.

  “WELCOME to the Royal Roost.”

  Ithica gestured around her private common room. Everything was blindingly gold, of course. The tiara twits and the Pingintees were sprawled on gilded armchairs gazing glassy-eyed out the windows while ancient servants shuffled around like tuxedoed turtles, bearing tea trays. Everyone looked bored and angry at the same time, like they were in prison, but with better clothes.

  “We should put little bazkûl-breath gems in our tiaras for the ball,” said a tiara twit.

  “Are we wearing tiaras or coronets?” said another twit.

  “Parures, perhaps?” said another.

  “Diadems, definitely,” said another.

  “Whatever’s poshest, obviously,” declared Ithica. “Princesses are always on the cutting edge of fashion. By the way, Princess Caley, have you got an outfit picked out?”

  “Kip’s mom is growing me a gown.”

  Ithica put down her golden teacup so loudly it cracked in half. Her perma-puke-faced smile looked a bit cracked too.

  “And will Mrs. Gorsebrooke be creating some sort of … peasant costume for you? Combined with that hairdo of yours, you will look quite bohemian.”

  “Boloney,” said Pansy.

  “Beluga,” said Petunia.

  Caley glanced around at the tiara twits and their perfectly straight, blond, sideswept bangs and picked at her curls self-consciously.

  “Perhaps you don’t understand, but it is a royal ball,” Ithica went on frostily. “The people will be expecting something befitting your station. If you’re not us, you’re them. Are you them, Princess Caley?”

  The Pingintees slowly stood, staring intensely back and forth between Caley and Ithica like pit bulls waiting for the “attack” signal.

  “No … I’m you. I mean … us,” stammered Caley.

  “It’s settled then,” said Ithica. “I’ll have my tailors grow you a gown. It’s important you have the most perfect posh princess gown for the ball. Everyone must be entirely focused on you.”

  “Entirely focused …” Caley repeated, feeling entirely unfocused.

  “… AND following the arrival of the guests, you will dance the first dance.”

  Duchess Odeli was going over the details of the ball with Caley in her rooms while Caley picked at her hair in the mirror. She decided it had to be straight with sideswept bangs for the big day, which was tomorrow. She had spent the better part of the week ironing, boiling, and oiling it—which only seemed to antagonize the hair into even curlier configurations, like when you try to pick up a worm. Caley had also attempted to dye it “Princess Pen Blond,” but everything she used on it only seemed to make it redder. It was like scratching a scab.

  There was a knock on the door, and the duchess let in Major Fogg. He was carrying a contraption that resembled a cross between a pasta maker and a miniature goat. Caley had ordered him to come up with something to fix her hair.

  “This is designed to straighten and color it,” said the major, patting his goat gizmo.

  He began feeding clumps of Caley’s hair into the mouth of it while it made an ominous sputtering sound, like a lawnmower running over a rake.

  “Princess Caley …” the duchess had to shout over the roar of the gizmo, “Miss Olander informed me you have been acting strangely lately! Is everything all
right?”

  “Everything is perfect … except …”

  “Yes?” said the duchess. “What is it? You can tell me.”

  “How big will my tiara be?”

  “Your tiara? I imagine it will be a suitable dimension. May I inquire why?”

  “So long as it’s the biggest in the kingdom. And can it be lit up with bazkûl-breath gems?”

  “Why in heaven’s name would you want—Major Fogg, would you please turn off that thing!”

  “Right-e-o.” The major smiled, turning off the gizmo. “I must say, it’s done a cracking job.”

  “Gracious, her head looks like it is encased in concrete!” sputtered the duchess.

  Caley turned to the mirror. Her hair was straight, for the first time in her life, with sideswept bangs, and it was blond (in a cement-y sort of way).

  “Perfect …” she smiled vaguely.

  Major Fogg headed off as the duchess stared steadily at Caley as if attempting to read a street sign from far away.

  “You are not yourself. Perhaps we should cancel the ball.”

  “NO!” Caley stood up and stomped her foot. Which was a mistake, because the weight of her cement-head sent her toppling across the room. She grabbed the curtains and hung on, attempting to steady herself.

  “Very well,” the duchess said stiffly. She curtsied and swiftly left.

  Caley noticed a crow perched on a tree outside her window, staring intently at her.

  “Pretty bird.” Caley limp-fish waved at it and opened the window wide. The crow hopped along the branch, closer to the window, without taking its eyes off her. Caley noticed it had a shiny wing. It reminded her of something. But what? It was hard to think when you had no thoughts.

  There was another knock on the door, and Neive entered with Kip, who was holding a wooden box tied with a green ribbon. He did a double take when he saw Caley.

  “Why is your head covered in cat litter? And what’s that smell?”

  “It’s those.” Neive pointed at the flowers Ferren had given Caley. They were rotting to bits, and a stinking black cloud was hanging over them. Neive started to pick them up. “I’ll throw them out.”