Except the Queen

by Jane Yolen

  Studying the napping children, I wondered whose darlings they had once been? When had they become exiles from their mothers’ arms? What names did they carry then? And why had it never occurred to me before that such a taking might be as cruel for them as my own forcible exile? But what had been done to them was permanent now. They had been changed too much to ever be fully human again.

  And why, oh why are they tracking me?

  Awxes sat up, yawned widely and gave me a little scowl. “What are you thinking? I can hear the scritching of your thoughts from here.”

  “Do you remember your parents?” I realized with a shock that it was a question I would never have even considered asking in the Greenwood.

  A shadow crossed his face. “Not much. Sometimes I think I hear my mother’s voice calling me, but it has been so long, I can’t be certain. She’s dead by now anyway.” Awxes shrugged it off. “Don’t fret about us. When this is over we’ll all be back in our beds again.”

  “What is this?” I asked, hoping for an answer.

  “If we speak of it, we’ll never get home,” he replied, his brow pinched.

  “Where is home?”

  Awxes looked up and silently pointed into the dense, green canopy of trees. The Greenwood he meant, but would not speak the word for fear of losing it.

  “But you are human,” I argued.

  “And you are fey,” Awxes said. “And yet look how fat and happy you are here. You make money now instead of magic.”

  Well, up to a point, he was right. I had made a nest here and in my deepest heart I knew that here would I remain for as long as the Queen willed it. And by the time she changed her mind, this mortal body would surely be dead.

  But did I really care? The bustle of the Co-op had brought me unexpected friends, a community of sorts to which I could contribute, if not confide. I had learned how to order a decent cup of tea at the coffee shop and now, they never asked me what I wanted, but brought it to me with a smile. At the Farmer’s Market I had become friends with Leila, a woman of middle years and dirt under her nails who grew the finest herbs and kept bees that produced a dark, flowery honey as potent as liquor.

  “You are right,” I said, “perhaps I have changed in these weeks as you have changed. And though I have no power to return you to that home you seek, let me give you a token to remind you of it.” I reached my hand into the front of my blouse—one of Baba Yaga’s bizarre flowery affairs—and dug around in my bra.

  The girls giggled at the sight of me rooting in my blouse until I pulled out the folded wad of white silk. At once the air was filled with the aroma of lavender, hyssop, bay, and the pungent sap that comes only from the budding tips of the needled pines deep in the Greenwood. To me it smelled of my dam; to them, it smelled of Faerie.

  I unrolled the fabric and tore it into small pieces, one for each of them. They took the pieces eagerly and held them over their faces, inhaling deeply.

  “Thank you,” the oldest girl whispered, tucking the scrap beneath her furred cap.

  The smaller girl quickly undid a braid and then entwined the fabric as she rewove her hair.

  Then in turn, the girls leaned forward to give me a kiss of thanks on each cheek before plunging headfirst into the bushes.

  Only Awxes remained, still staring at the small white square of fabric.

  “I will tell you this,” he said. “You may think yourself hidden among humans, but you are not. Whether fair or dark, they are coming, drawn by the blood that sings in your veins. Be watchful.”

  “But why me?”

  “It may not be you they seek, but you they will find.”

  Then he stood and followed the others into the shelter of the brush. A moment later three crows burst from the thicket of green leaves and rose quickly above the trees. But not before I noticed that each now wore a white patch of feathers on their wings.

  * * *

  AS I WALKED HOME, I pondered over what Awxes had revealed—which was little enough. None of this made sense, unless perhaps Serana and I were meant to serve as the bait for a larger prize. It was not unknown for Seelie and UnSeelie to use worthless fey in their contentious battles for power.

  So who might be using us now? And for what purpose? I shook my head, unused to such hard thinking. I tallied up the fey encounters I had experienced since my banishment, searching for answers. There were the changelings waiting for me in the forest the night I fled who followed me still. Baba Yaga, whose hands reached down to pull me into the dragon train. Should I count these in my favor? I thought I must until I remembered it was not I who mattered if I was bait. Bait is supposed to sit quietly in the snare. Had I not encountered Baba Yaga, I might well have kept running instead of roosting innocent as a hen on her nest.

  Had the merchant sold the girl a mandrake, knowing it would come to me? Had Red Cap been looking for me on that street so near to the Co-op?

  No, I decided on the last. He would have sent a slave to check the traps, but never come himself. And yet . . . and yet I had seen him, here. The prize must certainly be worth the trouble, I thought, growing ever more concerned for my safety and Serana’s.

  And what about the Jack? The girl? The downstairs trolls?

  Of course, that still left the most important question: Who am I supposed to attract? Who or what was so important that the Queen should toss Serana and me into the air like lures to the hawk? My bile-faced girl? Serana’s wretched boy? Hardly likely. They were nothing more than a pair of lost birds themselves. Yet both were clearly marked by very dark and powerful forces.

  Reaching home, I hesitated on the sidewalk, staring up into the tangle of pine boughs that concealed the house. My skin prickled at the thought of sharp eyes following my every movement, waiting for the moment the prey stepped unknowing into the snare with me. Burying my face in my hands, I gave a little moan, for I finally remembered what usually happens to bait.

  I was alone with this. Baba Yaga’s house was not a fortress but a wayfarers’ station for troubled children, and they could not be counted on in a time of trouble. The trolls, the misery-girl and her dog, the young woman who smelled of pressed sheets and expensive soaps—none were a match for what would be coming. How could I defend them, I who could hardly defend myself?

  What if I left? A new wave of hope surged through my body. I could pack my few belongings and leave at once, before anyone knew I was gone. The urge to flee goaded me up the stairs, but in my haste, I stumbled on the last step. A hand grabbed my arm, preventing me from crashing headfirst onto the porch.

  “Hey, Sophia, you okay?” Jack pulled me upright into his arms and clasped me tightly. My heart pounded and only the steadiness of his body and the strength of his arms caused it to gradually slow its reckless beating. Standing in his embrace, I noticed the fine sprinkle of freckles across his nose, the silver gray hair curling around his temples, the cobalt blue eyes flecked with bronze. I was also keenly aware of his hands warming my back.

  “Yes, thanks to you.”

  “Not at all.” His lopsided smile lifted one side of his mouth.

  A flush of embarrassment prickled my cheeks as I disengaged from his reassuring arms. With a cold dash of reason, I remembered that I was bait. For all I knew, this Jack too was here precisely to see that I did not slip the snare.

  “I was coming to see you. Found a few things for your garden, around back. I was thinking I might be able to set them into the ground if you like.”

  “That would be nice,” I said a little stiffly.

  “Do you need any help getting these bags upstairs?” He picked up my two almost empty shopping bags.

  My skin still hummed with the warmth of his arms, and his expression seemed just a friendly invitation. I wanted to say no and turn him away. But then, my inability to do so is exactly what made me such useful bait. Silently I cursed my weakness, but it was too late in any case, for I had already given him my hand.

  “I have hauled them home a long way,” I replied. “I hope you do
n’t mind?” Was I being coy? I scolded myself. How very ridiculous.

  “Be happy to help,” he said and started toward the door.

  Before I went in, my eyes darted to the mailbox and I saw the green envelope waiting for me. My fingers itched to take it out, but I decided to retrieve it later, when I was alone. No sense in tipping any more of my hand to the Jack. I was risking enough just bringing him into the house.

  I had never noticed how small the kitchen was until I found myself standing there with Jack, unpacking the cheese, eggs, butter, salads, packets of tea, the little white bag of brownies that had become my guilty pleasure, two remaining Bosc pears, a handful of red grapes, a package of blackberries, and three emerald-colored squashes. We kept bumping elbows and hips, mumbling “excuse me” and “sorry” though I know that neither of us was in the least bit sorry for the fleeting contact. When it was done, he lingered a moment longer and I realized I owed him something for his act of kindness. If kindness it was.

  “Would you like a wee dram?”

  “Sounds about right.” He smiled broadly.

  My hands trembled with excitement as I poured a bit of peat-flavored whiskey into two small glasses. Once again, I chided myself for being so silly, but could not slow the cheerful gallop of my heart.

  He raised his glass in my direction. “Here’s to the bridge that carries us over.”

  “Indeed,” I murmured, wondering what that old blessing might mean to a Jack. I raised my glass and drank quickly, the whiskey a pleasant fire on my tongue. Jack drank his more slowly, the bright eyes staring at me over the rim of his glass. When he was done, he looked around, boldly taking in the view of my furnishings, the rugs, and Baba Yaga’s flowered scarves hanging in a riot of colors on the wall. The bedroom door, alas, was wide open, revealing an impudent tousle of sheets and blankets, and an apricot-colored slip draped over the unmade bed. He turned back to me with that maddening grin.

  “Nice place.”

  “I wasn’t expecting visitors.” I dodged past him to close the door to the bedroom, my face a cherry red.

  He busied himself finishing his drink, and then set the glass down on the table. “Well, thanks for the dram. Like I said, I just stopped by to tell you I picked up some bulbs and perennials I thought you might like for the garden. I’d be happy to help you put them in. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I would like that very much.” And then I, who have ever been known to burble and warble, became tongue-tied.

  Jack gave me a tip of his head and another long glance from those dangerously blue eyes. Then he squeezed past me out of the kitchen, his fingertips lingering on my arm long enough to leave their warmth before heading toward my door.

  “G’night, Sophia,” he called as he slipped out.

  And still I stood gawky and flustered, all thoughts of fleeing from the house banished.

  * * *

  LATER THAT NIGHT I REMEMBERED Serana’s green letter waiting for me in the mailbox. I tiptoed down the stairs, listening to the unusual quiet around me. The trolls were gone, which meant there was no booming music, no cacophony of drunken voices. At the mailbox I discovered why. There were new names on the boxes. A couple now lived in the house. I recognized the one name as the second girl who lived upstairs with the misery-girl—someone I saw rarely but recognized by the lavish scent of her perfume on the stairs. How it had happened that the boys had left was a mystery. But one I was willing to let lie, being grateful that they were gone.

  On the second landing, Serana’s letter firmly in my hand, I heard the dog’s snuffling near the door. I waited until she had my scent, and smiled as I heard the clip of clawed feet padding away from the edge of the door.

  “Good dog,” I whispered after her, grateful for her vigilance. With the other girl moved downstairs, the misery-girl was alone and in need of companionship. As I edged away I caught the sound of low moaning. I turned back, raised my hand to knock on the door, and then stopped. Who am I to intrude on her unhappiness? If she came to me, I would welcome her. And I sketched the old sign of consolation on her door. Let it serve as an invitation.

  Once in my rooms, I lit the candles beneath a string of crystals that their light would sparkle across the ceiling. I put the kettle on, salvaged a few of the cookies from my shopping bag that the changelings had not eaten, and finally sat down to read Serana’s letter. It was short, but I was beginning to wonder about her scare-bird boy; human enough to eat one out of house and home, sly enough to offer false names, and yet full of the sort of poison that comes only from meddling with the wrong sort of folk. I considered, too, her warning about the Jack while wondering that she had been so quick to bring into her hidey-hole a creature even more questionable.

  The kettle whistled and I got up to make the tea. Pausing, I heard again the faint sounds of moaning. Something crashed against the floor below me and I tensed, waiting. Then the house went silent once more. The cat slept at the bottom of my bed, and even the dog below had not raised a barking alarm. So, what am I worried about?

  I finished making the tea, but as I lifted the cup to my lips I heard scuffled footsteps on the landing, followed by a soft knock.

  “Who’s there?” I gripped the teacup fiercely.

  “It’s me. From downstairs.”

  I opened the door and was startled to see my misery-girl standing there. But then I had invited her. I tried to recall her name but could remember only the slanderous insults of the trolls.

  “I know it’s late. But can I come in?” Her voice sounded wounded.

  “Yes, of course, come in,” I answered. “What do you call yourself?” I asked, opening wide the door.

  “Sparrow’s good,” she said, her eyes nervously sweeping the room before settling on the hanging crystals twirling in the heat of candle flame, casting diamonds of light on the walls. And although I may do no more magic with them, the pull of their power is irresistible. Sparrow went and stood in their light. She was dressed all in black, but even the baggy long-sleeved shirt could not hide how painfully thin she was, burning like a wick in a candle. Her arms hugged her body, one hand cupped around her elbow, while the other reached across her chest and pressed against the trouble-tattoo on her neck.

  “I’ll make more tea,” I said to fill the silence. Let her decide in her own time what she has to say. How desperate must she be to come here to a stranger’s door late at night?

  While I waited for the kettle to boil again, I gathered a tea to loosen the tongue: a mixture of heartsease and sage, chamomile and strife-not. It was fragrant and strong enough that even I would have spilled my secrets if prodded. As I poured her a cup, I heard her speaking softly behind me.

  “I am having trouble sleeping. I heard your footsteps and thought perhaps . . .”

  I turned, mug in hand, shocked to find her already seated at the table as though she belonged there. It was unsettling for at this private table were the few precious things that I had brought hidden beneath my cloak when I was banished. Sparrow absently thumbed the carved acorns and then rattled the amber beads in their dish. She picked up the silver dove, weighed it in her palm, held it briefly to the light, and then set it down on top of Serana’s letter.

  I slid the mug over to her.

  She looked up, astonished I think to find me so close—and that’s when I saw above the smeared black liner, her eyes were brilliant green, faint gold sparks illuminating the dark, troubled yolks.

  She looked away, ducking her head to sip the tea. Then she grimaced. “Got any sugar?”

  I pushed myself to turn away, toward the cupboard, still distracted by those eyes, perplexed by the way they commanded despite the mask of black smudges and her white pallor, despite the cruel tattoo on her neck that was surely the source of her anguish.

  “Are you sure you want sugar?” I asked, rattling an empty canister as I searched for where the serving hands had stored it. “I have a good wildflower honey that is much nicer—”

  A whuff of air
and a hard click caused me to turn back to the table.

  Sparrow was gone, her abandoned mug of tea steaming on the table. As I stood there holding the empty canister, I saw, too, that my silver dove was also gone.

  How is that possible? I stood like a dolt blinking at the empty chair. Serana’s letter was on the floor, the crystals clinked softly, and the cat slept undisturbed on the bed. How had she managed to slip away so quietly?

  “Mouse not Sparrow,” I grumbled angrily.

  Picking up Serana’s letter, I sat down at the table again, though my head was urging me to go downstairs and confront her. But at the same time, I wondered what desperate need could have caused her to behave in such a fashion? The longer I wavered between outrage and concern, the more I realized that I would do nothing about the theft even though it pained me terribly.

  Instead, I reread Serana’s letter, irritated that in addition to exile, it seemed we were both to be burdened by difficult children. But try as I might I could not hold my anger against them. Only a mild disappointment and a sharp concern for my sister’s well-being filled me as I began my reply.

  My dearest Serana,

  I send you these green bills to aid you in the task of caring for a child clearly used to life in the courts. Who else but a Highborn thinks nothing of being served by a woman, and demanding food as though it is easily conjured from air? Unless of course, he is not a Highborn, but a stolen child petted and played with until returned to this now-foreign world? Remember how the Queen favors such, raising boys like pups at her knee, wrapped in ribbons and kissed until they grew too old as boys will, even in Faerie, and the melody of their voices change.

  Sister, can you imagine how we should feel if we had been cast away as children, banished to this dark world having known only the bright? What poisons might we have swallowed, what desperate acts might we have committed if it promised to return us even to the gates of that far-off place?

  Press your scare-bird gently. He comes to you following the fading scent of your magic. We are never so old that we do not seek the comfort of our sweetest childhood memories.