The Cracks in the Kingdom

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  ONCE I POST THIS, I’M TEARING OUT THIS TV SCULPTURE AND DESTROYING IT, SO MAYBE THERE WON’T BE A CRACK ANYMORE TO WRITE THROUGH. MORE LIKELY, THOUGH, THE CRACK WILL STILL BE THERE, JUST NO “POST BOX” SCULPTURE TO CATCH IT, SO IF YOU DO WRITE, YOUR LETTER WILL END UP FLOATING AROUND IN THE BONFIRE HIGH SCHOOL GROUNDS FOR ANYONE WHO LIKES TO FIND.

  SO KINDLY CEASE AND DESIST, ELSE I’LL FIND MY OWN WAY THROUGH AND WRING YOUR NECK.

  APOLOGIES FOR THE SCRIBBLE, WRITING FAST.

  JIMMY HAWTHORN, DEPUTY SHERIFF

  A thread of fire ran through her.

  That Elliot was being chased by choppers was one thing. That seemed so surreal and unlikely that it didn’t really bother her much.

  It was the idea that this Deputy Sheriff was about to rip away the TV sculpture. He seemed to think that the crack would still be there, but what if he was wrong? What if he had ripped away the only route between them?

  She looked at the letter again. Wednesday, 2 P.M. That was days ago. What had happened to Elliot since then?

  The flames twisted. Was he actually in danger? Choppers chasing him. A capital offence. Was that real?

  She walked home through the darkening streets, her backpack thumping slowly against her shoulders, Jimmy’s note folded in her hands.

  * * *

  When she arrived, Denny was sitting on the front step of their building, Sulky-Anne by his feet. He was holding a small, tattered notebook.

  He looked up, and his eyes seemed almost to have vanished, they were so squinty and red.

  “Sit a moment?” he said to her. “Strangest thing happened today, and I’d kinda like to tell you about it.”

  The storm of Colors poured across Cello until late into the night. Meanwhile, teams of WSU officers swooped on all the crossover points, reinforcing the bindings on the cracks, erecting barriers, installing guards.

  In the penthouse suite of the Lillian Hotel, the Princess stood at the window looking down at the empty streets and flickering lights of Ducale. Her hair was loose. She wore a white bathrobe, tied at the waist, and when she turned away from the window, the scent of spearmint bath products washed across the room.

  “I know you are all sleepy,” she said. “I will keep this brief, and then you may retire to your beds. The tour of the Kingdom has been officially canceled on account of the Color storm. In the morning, you will all be taken by shuttered vehicle to the aerodrome and flown to your respective homes.”

  The members of the Royal Youth Alliance sat about the room in their pajamas: Sergio on the desk chair, Keira up on the leather-covered desk itself, and Samuel on the edge of the bed. Agents Nettles and Ramsay leaned against the wall, alongside the minibar.

  “As you will have heard, our plans have been thwarted. It appears that the Hostiles must have learned of our success bringing Prince Tippett back through, and, ingeniously and drastically, have leaked the crossover points to the WSU. As we speak, they are resealing the crack at the Harrington Hotel just a block away. Meanwhile, my mother, sister, and brother Chyba remain trapped in the World.”

  Samuel moaned gently.

  “Quite,” agreed the Princess. “Moreover, in losing Elliot Baranski, we have lost our source in the World.”

  There was a sharp tapping sound. Keira had picked up the hotel pen from the desk and was clicking the end with her thumb repeatedly.

  “Thank you, Keira,” the Princess sang. “You make a good point. The loss of Elliot himself is a severe blow too. He was a fine, brave young man — a hero — and he gave his life for his Kingdom. His memory will be honored forevermore.”

  “Except,” said Keira, “that this whole thing is a total secret, so I’m not sure I see how it can be honored —”

  “And there is still no news of Elliot?” Sergio interrupted, dragging his chair across the carpet a short distance as he spoke. “Has his body been recovered?”

  “Eeeow,” murmured Samuel, tilting slightly.

  “Not yet,” the Princess replied. “And the search may be abandoned as too dangerous — apparently, the ravine into which he fell is sheer and brutal. It has been confirmed, however, that he could certainly not have survived the fall.”

  Samuel made another mewing sound.

  “I have also heard,” the Princess continued, “that a high-school physics teacher named Isabella Tamborlaine packed her bags and ran away from the town of Bonfire the day that Elliot was killed. It seems clear that she is the one who reported him.”

  “She is a terravixtiol!” cried Sergio.

  “A serpenttooth,” agreed Keira, narrowing her eyes.

  “Oh!” said Samuel.

  “All right,” the Princess sighed listlessly. “No curse words. Even Maneeshian and Jagged-Edgian curse words. You’re upsetting Samuel’s sensibilities.” She shook herself. “The town of Bonfire is in mourning, I understand. Elliot was a favorite, and Isabella, although new to town, was also popular. She was dating the Deputy Sheriff, Jimmy Hawthorn, apparently, and I understand that he is taking this turn of events very hard, which — Samuel, what is the matter with you?”

  Samuel had pulled his legs up onto the bed, curled his arms around his knees, and was making low humming noises.

  “Oh,” he said. “As to a — call yourself my — I apologize — but it is …”

  The Princess took a step across the room. Sergio and Keira both stood and moved too.

  “He is like a horse with the tetanus infection,” declared Sergio.

  “His skin is a disaster,” said Keira.

  “His skin looks like a horse with the rain rot,” Sergio agreed.

  “He’s sick,” said Princess Ko. “What is this illness, Samuel? Is it something from Olde Quainte? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Hope it’s not contagious,” Keira observed.

  There was another low moan from Samuel.

  “He reminds me of the drug addicts I’ve seen while touring hospitals,” Princess Ko said. “It’s a little like withdrawal from —” She breathed in sharply. “Wait,” she said. “Oh, Samuel, no. Is this a Turquoise Rain thing? Have you been chasing Turquoise Rain around the Kingdom since that night? Are you an addict?”

  Samuel turned a slow circle on the bed, winding himself around like clock hands, his own hands pressed to his stomach.

  “It’s not that,” Keira said, and her voice had an odd, slow lilt to it, so the others turned to look at her. “Turquoise Rain doesn’t do this. But when we were in Olde Quainte, I remember seeing an old man on a street corner. His limbs were wound together like plaited bread. His eyes were leaking pus. His skin, I remember now — his skin was exactly like this. Somebody told me he’d be dead within a week. They said it was caused by —”

  She stopped, then started again.

  “Somebody told me the guy had used Olde Quainte magic.”

  There was a loud exhalation from the Princess, and she stamped her foot.

  “Oh, do not tell me,” she half shouted at Samuel. “Do not tell me that you’ve used Olde Quainte magic.”

  Samuel whimpered again.

  “Call yourself my — but, Princess, I had to use just a little —”

  “I told you not to tell me that!” the Princess screamed.

  “… to get access,” Samuel continued, “to the archives for you — and a deal more — to try to see through the blocked parts … of those reports — although that came to naught — and then more to steal … the originals — so you see …”

  His body arched oddly, then fell back onto the bed.

  “It has ailed me for some time — the symptoms, I mean — that Turquoise Rain gave me — some beautiful relief — but now, I see not what …”

  The Princess raised her hand as if she was about to slap him, but stopped herself.

  “Get an ambulance,” she barked at the agents, who had both stepped forward from the wall. “He will need a blood transfusion, but it won’t save him. Do you hear me, Samuel? A blood transfusion will keep you alive a little longer,
but nothing can save you now. You ridiculous boy. You stupid, utterly ridiculous boy. Nothing can cure an infection of Olde Quainte magic.”

  Samuel began to sob quietly. “It was only for you,” he sobbed. “I did it for —”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” the Princess snapped, and she retreated to the window, and stood with her back to the room while calls were made, Samuel writhed, Sergio murmured soothing words, Keira swore, paramedics knocked, and Samuel was hooked up to oxygen and lifted onto a stretcher.

  “Princess,” he called thinly as the paramedics navigated the stretcher through the hotel room door. “Call me your forgiveness! I know I was foolish as to a candied orange peel in whale brine, but my — but my heart was in the right place.”

  The Princess swung around from the window.

  “It won’t be for long,” she shot back, and then Samuel was gone, the door closed.

  There were faint noises from both Sergio and Keira.

  “Well, it’s true,” the Princess countered, her eyes flashing. “An infection of OQ magic contorts your limbs, peels off your skin, and tangles your internal organs. His heart won’t be in the right place soon. Shall we continue our meeting?”

  A resigned, gloomy, appalled shrug seemed to blow across the room. Sergio returned to the chair. Keira leaned up against the desk, her arms folded, breathing loudly through her nose.

  The Princess waited.

  “The news is not all bad,” she said. “We have successfully rescued my little brother. I understand that he has already skated on the moat and snowboarded the steep hill behind the Palace. We have also rescued my father. I understand that he has arrived safely in the Kingdom of Aldhibah, and is already delighting the dignitaries there with his high good humor. The relations between our Kingdoms have been saved. War has been averted. The Hostiles, presumably, have gone back underground. For this, you all deserve the Kingdom’s gratitude and recognition. Keira, your vision found the cracks for us. Without that, we —”

  “Yeah, about that,” Keira unfolded her arms. “I don’t get it — I mean, I’d been in your brother’s bedroom before and it wasn’t there that time, so what, the crack was new, or what?”

  The Princess shook her head.

  “No. The crack was always there. It is only now that you can see cracks because your vision has sharpened. Have you not noticed any other improvements? Those exercises I have been giving you these last months —”

  “Exercises?” Keira frowned, then opened her mouth. “You don’t mean those piles of documents? You don’t! They were exercises? I thought you were just giving them to me to punish me — for my mother — I thought they were meant to hurt my eyes.”

  The Princess hesitated.

  “I found an obscure study,” she said, “that suggested that Jagged-Edgian vision could be dramatically improved in this way. Of course,” she scratched her cheek and frowned a little. “Of course, there were also studies showing that some had been permanently blinded by the exercises, but the risk of that seemed …”

  “Worth taking,” Keira supplied dryly.

  “So, for risking your vision — albeit unknowingly — and completing the exercises to triumphant effect, Keira, I hereby thank you.”

  Keira shook her head.

  The Princess pressed her lips together, and turned to the agents.

  “Agents Nettles and Ramsay,” she said. “I must also thank you. You have been loyal, patient, and brave. You have stood by us —”

  Here, Agent Nettles cleared her throat. “I guess we should say —” she began, but the Princess interrupted.

  “Yes,” she said. “Quite. You should say that you owe me an unreserved apology. You doubted me. You were wrong. You doubted all of us. You were utterly wrong. You failed to show respect. In particular,” she hesitated, her eyes narrowing, “you failed to show respect to Sergio.”

  Both agents readied to speak, and the Princess raised a hand.

  “Let me finish. You owe him an abject, pleading, desperate apology,” she said, her voice strengthening. “He is an Occasional Pilot. He saved all of our lives. You do know, I take it, that Occasional Pilots must, of necessity, be courageous? And I suppose you two have been asking yourselves how it is that a slight, dancing stable boy from Maneesh could possibly have courage enough? Let me tell you something you do not know about Sergio!”

  “Princess,” murmured Sergio.

  The Princess ignored him. “This is Sergio’s life to date: When he was eight years old, his entire family was wiped out by the Maneeshian plague. Before they had been buried, the Maneeshian civil war broke out, and the eastern forces rode into town — did you hear me? Rode into town. The horsemen of the eastern army took Sergio prisoner — he escaped, found his way onto a ship bound for Cello — arrived in our Kingdom suffering from a profound terror of horses. And do you know what he did?” She paused. The room waited. “He found a job as a stable boy — working with horses! — do you know why? Stop shaking your heads like children! Of course you don’t know. He did it because his father had always said that one must take one’s greatest fears and hold them close to one’s chest. One must embrace those fears like a lover! That’s what his father always said! And now he does love horses! And he embraced them so strongly that he ended up working his way north until he was in the finest stables in the land, the stables of the White Palace of the Magical North! Because he had enough courage to devour a Kingdom!”

  She flung her final words across the room like a whip.

  “We didn’t know,” the agents murmured.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have had to know! Even if Sergio hadn’t demonstrated such courage — even if he wasn’t an Occasional Pilot — what are you thinking disrespecting a person just because he’s slight or feminine or comes from Maneesh? Where did you find those absurd, narrow, comic-books ideas of yours about what a hero looks like?! And where do you get off disrespecting my best friend?!”

  The agents blinked.

  “Now you look like a pair of horses who are deeply ashamed about the fact that they have worms,” the Princess added.

  “I am not sure that horses feel shame about such —” began Sergio thoughtfully, but the Princess was swinging around to face Keira, picking up her tirade again. “As for you, Keira, if you think I liked risking Sergio’s life by asking him to go undercover at the WSU — if you think I like the fact that Elliot is dead because I instructed him to communicate with the World — if you think I enjoyed risking your vision, and threatening you with your mother’s execution — and if you think I relish the fact that my demands have caused Samuel to destroy himself with Olde Quainte magic — that stupid child, that …”

  Keira was watching her skeptically; Sergio’s face was profoundly sad.

  The Princess, seeing their reactions, stopped abruptly and resumed her calm.

  “In any case, once my father returns from Aldhibah,” she said, “he will assume responsibility for the Kingdom and for the rescue of my family. Perhaps he will call on your help again? Likely not. Either way, I will invite him to reward you all generously for your efforts to date. For now,” she sighed, and her eyelids lowered slightly. “For now, you may sleep, and, in the morning, you may return to your lives.”

  She sank down onto the bed, and continued, almost chattily: “As for me, I’m going to fly home to the Magical North, hang out with my little brother, read novels in a hammock, take long bubble baths, and go for many, many horse rides across the wide snowy fields with you, Sergio.”

  There was a pause in the room.

  “Did you not hear me?” The Princess threw herself onto the bed, bouncing once, and propping a pillow beneath her head. “Return to your lives!”

  Shafts of evening sunlight caught patterns of dust and dog hairs.

  There was the usual rubble of toolboxes and motherboards covering the floor, the two workbenches rising majestically above this, remnants of steam misting from the open bathroom door, that soapy, heady smell of aftershave or antiper
spirant or whatever it was that boys used when they showered, and, across the room, dim in shadows, the shape of a boy beneath the blankets of the bed.

  Madeleine stood by the window, watching him.

  Elliot lay on his side, an arm reaching beneath the pillow, dark blond hair, eyelashes. He was perfectly still, deeply asleep. If she caught her own breath and concentrated, she could hear him breathing.

  * * *

  Half an hour earlier, just off the train from Norwich, Madeleine had sat beside Denny on the front doorstep.

  “Here’s the news,” he’d said. “My son, Elliot Baranski, is sleeping upstairs. Says he’s been writing to you awhile. Seems he’s walked here from Harrogate.”

  “Walked here?” she’d said. “From Harrogate?”

  “I know. For seventeen quid or so he could have got the National Express Coach and got here in an afternoon.”

  “A long afternoon,” Madeleine said. “I think it’s about six hours by coach. But still. Walked! It must have taken him days!”

  Denny leaned down and rubbed Sulky-Anne’s belly.

  “Our focus might be a little displaced here,” he said.

  “We could be straying from the point,” she agreed. “You’re not seriously Elliot’s father.”

  Denny lifted the notebook he was holding in his left hand.

  “I surely am,” he said. “Came through myself more than a year ago now, at the exact same place my boy came through. I wrote these notes in the first couple of days I was here, knowing I’d be losing my memory. Might be best if you read them yourself — if you can — my handwriting’s not great at the best of times, and I was in a bad state then.”

  Madeleine had turned the notebook over, then handed it back to him.

  “I should tell Mum that I’m home first,” she said. “Just wait a moment.”

  When she returned, he was sitting in the exact same position, Sulky-Anne lying beside him, her chin on her paws.