What I Wore to Save the World

by Maryrose Wood

I followed, but I couldn’t help glancing into the shadows underneath the bushes. If the gargoyles weren’t on their perches, where were they? Would we soon see them skittering around the boardwalk like stray cats?

  And if we did, what kind of scientific explanation would Colin come up with for that?

  “careful, mor—see, i told ye to keep yer hands in yer pockets!”

  I snatched my hand back from some creepy-looking flower that was visibly salivating at my presence.

  Colin moved methodically through the conservatory, examining the walls, the floors, and—very carefully—the containers that housed the bloodthirsty vegetation. “It’s a fascinatin’ notion, innit? Shrubbery that eats meat. See any graffiti yet?”

  “No,” I said, preoccupied. I was still thinking about the gargoyles. And the dragon. And these fekkin’ Rules of Succession that I needed to locate, pronto.

  I tickled the mouth of a Venus flytrap with a twig I’d found lying on the floor, and watched in fascination as it closed. “I guess photosynthesis just isn’t enough for some plants,” I remarked.

  “It turns the whole food chain concept on its arse, if ye ask me. Imagine if all the green grass of Ireland developed a taste for bangers and mash! There’d be a general panic, not to mention a run on the pubs. What’s this, then?” Colin’s voice had suddenly dropped half an octave. I moved to join him, but he gestured at me to stay back.

  “Did you find something?”

  Colin stood staring at the door that led out of the conservatory. Using his foot, he slowly pushed it open. He looked, and then stepped through. “Bloody hell,” I heard him mutter. Then he started to chuckle.

  “What is it?” I pleaded.

  “Yer man’s losin’ it. See fer yerself.”

  Stenciled on the door in bright silver paint was the unmistakable silhouette of a unicorn.

  “It’s not graffiti. It’s just a sign,” Colin explained, dragging me to the arrow-shaped marker in the center of the tiny courtyard. “Leadin’ visitors from one exhibit to the next. See? Go ahead, read it.”

  This way to the Unicorn Tapestry Garden

  I vaguely recalled what the unicorn tapestries were; I’d seen them in a museum in New York on a middle-school field trip. They were enormous wall hangings, woven many centuries ago when people had time to do stuff like that. And they told a story—a bloody, violent story about humans hunting a unicorn.

  I remembered that the museum had looked exactly like a castle, and that, once our class arrived, Sarah and I made a pact to talk in English accents for the rest of the day. The task absorbed all of our concentration. As a result, I didn’t retain too much information about the tapestries—like why someone would plant a garden because of them.

  Or whether the unicorn was killed in the end.

  Colin squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. “Just goes to show: If ye keep yer wits about ye, there’s always a rational, scientific explanation. Shall we have a look?”

  i followed colin in the direction indicated by the sign. We passed through a curtain of vines and into a larger, square garden. In the center was a gnarled tree laden with strange-looking red fruit. Every remaining square inch of ground was planted with flowers, all in full bloom. The effect was dizzying.

  A tour guide stood at the far end of the garden with her back to us, chatting happily into a wireless lavalier microphone that fit snugly over her head. The mike seemed like overkill to me. The garden wasn’t that big, and there were only a half dozen visitors standing around listening to her spiel to begin with.

  “More than a hundred different plants are depicted in the unicorn tapestries! A hundred, can you imagine? Honestly, I didn’t even know there were that many types of plants!”

  What made the microphone even more out of place was that the tour guide was dressed in medieval style, in a floor-length, high-waisted dress. Her hair was piled high on her head, with a flowy, princess-style train pinned to the back.

  “Let me see: We have wild orchids, and some thistle, and this skah-rumptious pomegranate tree, and ooh, just so many others! Great care has been taken to reproduce the plants shown in the tapestries exactly! Though I couldn’t for the life of me tell you why someone would bother. I mean, who cares, really? I’d much rather be out clubbing. But wait, we have some new arrivals.”

  The tour guide wheeled and faced the newcomers—meaning, Colin and me. “Better late than never, I suppose! You just missed the part where I explained how this garden strives to reproduce the unicorn tapestries exactly, down to the last stitch. And of course, that includes the one-horned star of the show—that mysterious, mythical creature herself. Let’s hear it for . . . the unicorn!”

  She clapped loudly and whistled right into her mike. The sound was so piercing I had to cover my ears. My eyes were wide open, though, and as I looked at the all-too-familiar face of Queen Titania, with that ridiculous microphone curved around her gaunt cheek, just like Madonna, I got angry. So angry that I could barely tear my eyes away from her mocking gaze to see the blinking, terrified creature that now stumbled reluctantly into the garden.

  I heard Colin gasp.

  “Holy moly!” one of the tourists exclaimed, reaching for her camera. “That is so realistic-looking!”

  “Ringling Brothers used to have a unicorn,” her companion scoffed. “They do it by grafting a goat’s horn onto the middle of its head. I saw it on Mythbusters.”

  The woman with the camera hesitated. “You mean—it’s a goat?”

  “They shave it so it has a mane and tail. But, yeah, it’s a goat.”

  We all stared at the graceful, silver-hued creature trembling before us. The ridiculous rhinestone-studded collar around its neck was attached to a long, sturdy-looking tether. Electric sparks zapped frantically along the spiraled edge of its horn, as if the animal were short-circuiting with fear.

  “No way that’s a goat,” someone finally said.

  “Well, what is it then?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s not a goat.”

  “I know what it is.” I found my voice and pushed to the front. “It’s a living creature that’s being mistreated. May I have a word with you privately, Titan—Tour Guide?”

  “And you are?” she said haughtily. “If we’ve met before I apologize profusely for blocking it out. Obviously the experience was much too unpleasant to remember.”

  “I am Special Admissions Candidate Rawlinson,” I declared, improvising like mad for the benefit of the tourists. “A representative of the newly formed Society for the Prevention of Meanness to Things That Are Alive.”

  Titania yanked the mike off her head and hissed at me. “Morgan, honestly. SPMTTAA? What a perfectly appalling acronym; you’ll never get anywhere with a name like that.” Then she held the microphone to her mouth. “All right, tour’s over. Everybody have fun looking around the garden. And don’t make eye contact with the unicorn! It’s vicious and easily provoked.” She stared laser beams of rage at me as she spat out the words.

  Obediently, the crowd scattered. I could sense Colin close behind me, but I didn’t dare turn to look at him. I had a sinking feeling that whatever was about to happen might be impossible to write off with one of those rational, scientific explanations he liked so much.

  “Well, look who’s here.” Titania sounded just as nasty as I remembered. “Aren’t you on the wrong continent, dear?”

  The unicorn nickered nervously.

  “Let the unicorn go,” I said, glancing its way. “Now.”

  “Unicorn?” Titania sneered. “Why, I thought it was a goat! Or are you implying that unicorns are real, Special Candidate Rawlinson?” She glanced at Colin. “Surely you wouldn’t want your all-too-human boyfriend here to think you believed in something as ridiculous as unicorns? What a humiliating revelation that would be!”

  Colin stepped next to me. “Do ye know this woman, Mor?”

  Titania exploded in icy laughter. “Does she know me, he says! That is high-larious. How I would love to dawdle long
enough to hear you answer that fascinating question, my dear! But right now I have to run-run-run; I have a previous sporting engagement.” Then she turned to Colin. “What’s your name again, champ?”

  “Colin.”

  “Colin! Of course—but we’ve met before too, how could I forget? Be a love and go get my tennis bag. I left it behind the tree. Just thataway, tiger, that’s right, can’t miss it.”

  Throwing me a concerned look, Colin went to get the bag.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, I got right in Titania’s grill.

  “The veil is slipping, Titania.”

  She cackled. “Like I didn’t know that.”

  “Are you making it happen?”

  “What if I am?”

  This was like arguing with Tammy. “The veil is slipping.” No, your face is slipping! “Are you making it happen?” No, your face is making it happen!

  “Undoing the veil is a huge mistake,” I said. “It’s not too late to stop it.”

  “Stop it? I’ve barely started. I am sick and tired of this ‘reality is off-limits,’ ‘don’t spill the beans to the humans’ crap. Anyone who believes that is nothing more than a party pooper!” She leaned down and snarled right in my face. “And if some deluded four-legged pep squad has given you the impression that you can somehow stand in my way, trust me: They are dead—and I mean dead—wrong.”

  Colin returned with the bag. “Found yer bag, ma’am,” he said gruffly. “But your racquet’s in no shape to play tennis. It needs to be strung.”

  A slow, evil smile spread across Titania’s face. “What a literal-minded person you are! Strings are only necessary if you believe they are. And please don’t call me ‘ma’am’—I much prefer ‘Your Majesty.’ ”

  Then, in a foul-smelling puff of smoke like something out of a bad magic act, she disappeared.

  sixteen

  i stood there like an idiot. the lavalier mike lay on the ground at our feet.

  “Where’d she go?” Colin coughed and waved away the smoke.

  Don’t be such a party pooper, a voice inside me urged. Tell him tell him tell him—

  The unicorn let out a pathetic, practically goatlike bleat. Without thinking I moved to unsnap the hideous collar from its neck. Colin stopped me.

  “Careful, there. Don’t ye think we ought to call a vet? This unigoat, or goaticorn, or whatever it is—it might need medical attention.”

  The unicorn looked at me in horror, but I didn’t know if it was because of the vet idea or because Colin had called it a unigoat.

  “It looks perfectly healthy to me.” I petted the unicorn’s neck, and it stamped one hoof in agreement. Using my mother’s patented o-ver-ar-tic-u-la-ted vocal technique to get my message across, I added, “I bet it can easily find-its-way-home .” Then I pointed the unicorn’s nose in the direction of the forest with one hand and undid its collar with the other.

  The collar slipped to the ground, and the tether with it. The freed unicorn gave itself a relieved shake, from muzzle to tail. It briefly dipped its horn in my direction.

  You’re welcome, I thought.

  Taking only a few steps to gain speed, the unicorn leapt over the rear hedge of the garden in a high, graceful jump, then galloped away so quickly we lost sight of it within seconds. Only a trail of sparks from its horn remained. Then those faded as well.

  That was one problem solved—but now I had to deal with Colin. What could he possibly be thinking, after seeing what he’d just seen? Feeling more scared than the unicorn had looked, I turned to face him.

  “Must be a mountain goat to jump like that.” Colin was pale and his voice quivered slightly, but he kept bravely spinning the facts to fit his view of reality. “And that woman—I bet she’s done time in the carnivals too. Of course I’ve seen magicians perform the same tricks dozens o’ times. Guessin’ people’s names, disappearing into thin air. Bit o’ smoke and mirrors is all it takes.” Now he sounded somewhat less sure of himself. “Funny—did ye notice how she looked a bit like that hideous painting in yer room back at the cottage? Let’s be on our way, then.”

  Dear, logical, high-tech Colin. Was there any impossible occurrence sufficiently freaky to make him believe in magic, once and for all?

  And if there wasn’t, I thought, fighting back a sudden rush of tears, how would he ever be able to believe in me?

  the rest of our walk to the hotel revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The topiary shrubs looked firmly rooted in their planters. The boardwalk seemed steady underfoot.

  Look at all the happy humans, I thought miserably. Budget-minded couples on second honeymoons. Rock stars on ironically low-brow vacations. Would they be able to get along peacefully with faeryland run amok? Or was some kind of horrible human-faery bloodbath the only possible result of Titania’s need for fun-fun-fun, reality style?

  We were on the piazza now, near the reflecting pool. Colin unpacked his messenger bag of pencils and graph paper. He used his stride to measure off the length of the pool so he could mark the precise locations of any “evidence” he found.

  Meanwhile, I stared into the water. Everything was reflected there: me, the hotel, all the nice, normal, family-onvacay-type people wandering around the piazza, snapping photos, perusing their maps of the grounds—

  “Hey, do you have one of those maps?” I asked Colin as he marched by me.

  “Twelve, thirteen fourteen—not with me, no. Might be one back at the cottage. Why?”

  “I was wondering where the tennis courts might be.” Mr. McAlister had said he had a tennis game scheduled with some collector of antiquities, then Titania claimed to have a “sporting engagement” and had tennis gear in her bag. What were the odds, I thought, that they’re planning to play each other? I made a mental note to check in on Mr. McAlister later, just in case.

  Colin kept marching and measuring, and I kept staring. The water in the pool was spookily clear. It was like looking through air. In fact, when a stream of tiny bubbles rose to the surface of the pool it came as a shock. I peered deeper into the water to find the bubbles’ source—were there fish swimming around? Or did the pool have a filter pump, like in an aquarium?

  More and bigger bubbles came to the surface. Then, caught by a sudden gust of wind, one of the bubbles broke free of the water and rose slowly into the air.

  Another bubble did the same thing. Then another. I watched, amazed. These were not slimy toxic waste bubbles; they were nice, clean, soapy bubbles.

  As the bubbles floated past my face, I inhaled.

  They smelled like Mr. Bubble.

  Colin had finished his measuring walk around the pool and was now standing behind me again.

  “Colin?” I tried to sound calm as I batted aside the dense cloud of bubbles that now surrounded me. “Would you go inside the hotel and ask for one of those maps?”

  “Sure.” He stared at me. “What’s up with the bubbles?”

  “I’m not sure.” I blew some away from my face. “They’re coming from the pool.”

  Colin looked at the pool, which was now covered with sweet-smelling soapy froth. It looked like a giant bubble bath. He frowned. “Must be some reflux from the laundry drains. Let me go notify building services; they can send the plumbers to check.”

  “Awesome,” I said, spitting soap out of my mouth. “I’ll wait here.”

  Filled with purpose, Colin headed for the hotel.

  As the breeze from the ocean picked up, the bubbles floated everywhere, much to the delight of the younger tourists on the piazza. The kids chased after them, squealing and trying to catch the bubbles on their fingertips.

  I leaned over the side of the pool and scooped away the surface foam with my hands so I could see what was going on. Deep beneath the surface of the water, standing in the reflection of the piazza, were two figures. They held drippy wet bubble wands and were happily blowing away.

  One was a guy about my age, fair-haired, dark eyes, chis eled features, boy-band handsome in a completely oth
er-worldly way. In other words, Finnbar.

  The other was my sister, Tammy.

  As I watched, Finnbar tapped Tammy on the shoulder and pointed in my direction. At first she looked puzzled. Then she saw me. A big smile broke over her face, and she waved.

  I didn’t stop to think. I just dove in.

  ow. ow.

  Soap in my eyes, ow ow ow—

  Owwwwwwww—

  I was on my feet, on solid ground, slap-fighting my way out of a blinding swarm of bubbles. Finally I opened my eyes.

  On my left was a picturesque, winding river, bordered by a sloped meadow. Medieval church spires rose above the trees. The setting seemed weirdly familiar.

  Finnbar sat cross-legged on a felled log at the river’s edge. Tammy stood next to him, still blowing bubbles. They were both dressed in Ye Olde Timey costumes, but the bubble wands were ordinary modern plastic. When she saw me, Tammy squealed and hurled herself in my direction, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist.

  “Hey hey hey, Tamster—are you all right?”

  Tammy gazed up at me. Then she stuck out her tongue. Oh yeah, she was fine.

  “Took you long enough, Morganne!” Finnbar stood up, bubble wand still in hand. “We have been waiting and waiting and waiting for you! Put away the soap, Tammy. Your sister’s here, and we have an appointment.”

  “Look, Morgan!” Tammy said proudly, waving a plastic bottle of dishwashing soap in my face. “Faery soap! It makes the bestest bubbles.”

  “I can see that,” I said, extricating myself from her boa constrictor grip. “Tam, what are you doing here?”

  Finnbar leaned over and whispered to me. “Remember, it’s still rather early in the morning in that unspellable place where your family lives.”

  “Connecticut?”

  He made a face. “Precisely. The child’s asleep, but don’t tell her. If she wakes up it spoils the fun.”

  “Finnbar, I need some of this super-awesome bubble soap!” Tammy jumped up and down. “Where can I get some?”