by Laura Powell
“Uh, that’s really cool,” said Toby at last. “But … er … we do need the actual cards. Can’t you give them to us?”
“Aces are not common cards. Even the Game Masters cannot control them, for they are dispersed and renewed within the Arcanum itself. A player who finds one is fortunate indeed.
“So no, I cannot deal you the cards. But I can gather the elements they unleashed the last time they were each played and save them for you in this new form. That will be power enough, I think.”
Four blank faces stared back at him.
“Tsk! Do you still not understand? The objects you saw just now were only the image of what you seek. I have shown you their shadow; you must capture the substance. Just as the tree you saw in the Hanged Man’s crypt was only the shadow of a greater tree—as above, so below. Remember.”
“But … where …?” stammered Flora.
“Ah yes, that is one more service I can offer you. In order to play my card, you had to roll a die, did you not? I would like to see it.”
After a slight hesitation, Blaine passed it over. “I don’t think it works anymore. The little symbols vanished once the threshold showed.”
“Hmm.” The Magician took off his top hat, put the die inside, and placed the handkerchief over the brim. He then passed the hat to Cat. “Click for luck.”
Feeling like a kid at a birthday party, Cat snapped her fingers over the red silk.
“Expertly done.” With a wink and a smirk, he brought out the die again. “Ta-da!” All four sides were once more etched with a silver zero.
“Now then,” he said briskly, “I have loaded this die so that each throw will take you to the time and place where an ace’s power can be found. And four aces to gather means four moves to play. The fifth and final roll of the die will take you out of the Arcanum.”
“What do we do once we’ve found them?” Flora asked.
“Why, then you will return to Yggdrasil and plant each root.” The Magician smiled. “I have shortened the odds for you, my friends. Now you must throw your die and take your chances.
“Since you do not belong to a court, the kings and queens may only oppose you through the rules of forfeiture. So have a care that your task does not interfere with the progress of any other players who you meet. Other than that, your path is clear. Follow the aces, ladies and gentlemen! Follow the aces!”
Blaine glanced at the other three, shrugged, and bent to roll the die for a second time. As soon as its strange circular tumbling was over, a threshold wheel flickered into life on the door behind him. This time, however, the corresponding symbols on the die didn’t disappear. “No point hanging around,” he said.
“Indeed not.” The Magician’s gaze had drifted back to the ruins all around. “So many fair cities, and their endings all the same,” he murmured. “Players too, and yet … Tu vero volventis rotae impetum retinere conaris? The show is over, and my part is done.”
THE OTHER SIDE OF the Magician’s threshold was a park. This wasn’t much like the orderly lawns behind Flora’s house, however. They had come from ruin, and here was wreckage of a different kind. Fallen trees were tumbled on every side. A baby carriage had been caught in one of the toppled giants’ branches; the flotsam and jetsam of trash cans and abandoned picnics were strewn like grubby confetti across the grass. Swollen black clouds glowered overhead, though here and there a frail blue was beginning to peep through.
“It looks like the Ace of Swords has done its worst,” Flora observed. “Which means the Magician’s bird must be around here somewhere.”
“I can’t hear any birdsong,” said Cat. “The place seems dead.”
“Maybe we should try over there,” said Blaine.
As usual, he was standing a little apart from the other three. Now he pointed toward a hill about half a mile ahead. Something was glinting on its top: a greenhouse or conservatory. Its ornate structure looked out of place in the middle of a wasteland, but the Arcanum was full of things far stranger, and by unspoken agreement they set off in its direction.
Before they got there, however, there was another hill and what looked like the remains of another greenhouse. Smashed windowpanes glittered in the watery afternoon light; the hothouse plants trampled in the mud were already smelling of rot. A cracked cherub statuette pouted in a puddle.
Toby surveyed the wreckage, unimpressed. “I still think the Magician could’ve given us the aces if he’d wanted to,” he grumbled.
Flora raised her brows. “That wouldn’t have been very epic-worthy. I thought you were a fan of impossible quests.”
“Bird catching isn’t epic,” Toby retorted.
“Wait till we see the aces in action,” said Cat. “I’ll never forget my brush with the Ace of Wands. The knight tore the card in half and—kaboom. A towering inferno in seconds.”
“Well, I hope he put it to good use,” said Flora. “You’d only play something as powerful as an ace if you were in serious trouble.”
Blaine grunted. “So why was this one used?”
Nobody had an answer for this. And as they resumed their walk, Cat found she was hanging back again. It wasn’t just because of Flora’s remark about trouble. Their destination—an octagonal conservatory crowned with a cupola—appeared to have weathered the storm unscathed. Glossy leaves and flowers bloomed within; its floor-to-ceiling arched windows were gilded by the emerging sun. The flowers, the sunshine, the shining glass … it reminded her of the Six of Cups, and not in a good way.
As with many places in the Arcanum, the conservatory’s interior was bigger than it had looked from the outside. A black-and-white mosaic path wound its way through the beds and bowers; classical music was playing somewhere, and mingled with the tinkling of a fountain. The air was warm and deliciously perfumed. There could be no greater contrast with the bedlam of Hecate’s, or the desolation they had walked through before and after.
Flora, Toby, Blaine and Cat filed along the path, under branches swathed with pink blossoms. By the time they had reached a circular space below the cupola, they all had a scattering of petals in their hair.
“My dears! I am so very pleased that you could come!”
An elderly lady was smiling up at them from a wicker armchair. She had an elegantly faded face and a great quantity of silver hair, held up in a chignon. It looked as if she had been doing some gardening, for a pair of pruning shears and a basket of cuttings were next to her slippered feet.
Cat eyed the teapot and four cups on the table beside her. “You were expecting us?”
“Of course. After all these years, I like to be the first to welcome visitors. Offering a little refreshment is the least I can do.”
“It might be poisoned,” Toby muttered.
The old lady’s laugh tinkled as merrily as the hidden fountain. “Poisoned! Whyever would I want to poison you? It’s not often that I receive guests, you know—and when they do arrive, it’s always such a treat. Now, do stop fussing and sit yourselves down.”
In the end, they each accepted a cup of tea, though nobody intended to risk drinking it. Flora perched gingerly on the other wicker chair, the others hunkered down on the little wall winding around the flowerbeds. Blaine looked especially awkward with a dainty china cup balanced on his knees.
“Please,” Flora tried, “we’re looking for a bird. A white one. Have you seen it?”
“Dear me … let me think. Well, the only birdie I’ve seen round here is the one on our card.”
“Our card?” Toby repeated.
“To be sure. We’re all in the same move, aren’t we?”
He frowned. “So you are—were—a knight? A knight playing for a triumph?”
“I suppose I must have been. What a bother and aggravation it all was! Really, I’m much better off as I am. It took me a while to settle in, of course, but there are my plants to keep me busy, and the occasional guest for entertainment. You’ll see.” She nodded and smiled. “But you were asking about my card. Now, where did I p
ut it …? Here we are. The Nine of Pentacles. Isn’t it pretty?”
It was, indeed, a pretty picture. A richly dressed lady was enclosed in a luxuriant garden, with a bird on her arm.
“How time flies,” their hostess said with a chuckle. “It’s hard to believe I was only a few years older than you when I was dealt it.”
“And speaking of time …,” Cat muttered.
Flora took the hint. “Thank you for the tea. We’d love to stay and chat, but I’m afraid we really must get on with finding our bird.”
“Young folk these days, forever dashing about!” The old lady tutted. “It was the same with my last guest. Ah well. If it’s really so important, I’d best put you in the right direction. People do tend to lose their way among the paths.”
They got to their feet, Toby taking the opportunity to tip his tea into a potted lily. Their guide led the way, somewhat stiffly, to the foot of a miniature wrought-iron bridge. The little pool below was sequined with darting fish; the path on the other side led to a brick wall and a white door, similar to the one they had come in by. “That’s where all my visitors go. Are you quite sure you won’t stay for another cup?”
“I’m afraid we can’t,” said Flora. “But thank you very much.”
“Goodbye, my dears.” She stood on the other side of the stream, waving at them fondly. “So lovely to have you!”
The door led to another conservatory. There was the same faint melody of violins and splashing water, and the same mosaic path meandered around a profusion of leaf and blossom.
Pleasant as it all was, Cat was beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic. The interconnecting wall between the two buildings was the only section of the octagon not made of glass, but from where they were standing, the windows to either side were half obscured with foliage, half misted up by the moisture in the air. She pushed her way through the greenery, toward the view of open skies and rolling heath. Except the view had changed.
“Uh, guys … I think we have a problem.”
Their conservatory was no longer connected to the old lady’s. It was on its own little hill. One hill, among many. One conservatory, among many. At least a hundred self-contained bubbles of glass, glinting and winking in the sun.
At once, Blaine hurtled back to the door they had just come through, closely followed by the other three. It was nothing more than a painted panel nailed to the brick. A marble nymph peeped out from the shrubs nearby. Blaine seized the statue and, staggering slightly, flung it against the nearest window.
The glass wasn’t even scratched.
They were trapped.
At first they refused to accept it. They went round each of the conservatory’s eight sides, inch by inch, like flies buzzing against a windowpane. But by the time they ended up where they had started, they hadn’t found so much as a chink or chip in the glass.
“That evil witch!” Toby fumed. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted her! A sweet old Arcanum granny—of course it’d be a trap!”
“She said that she’d been dealt the Nine of Pentacles when she was only a few years older than us,” said Cat weakly.
Flora’s eyes darted among the three others in horrified disbelief. Cat knew what she was thinking. These same people in this same place. For the rest of my life.
“Oh God.” Toby had had the same thought. His face went blotchy. And in spite of everything, in spite of the claustrophobia, and the bewilderment, and the surging fear, Cat felt a tiny stab of satisfaction. It was about time Toby realized the Game wasn’t such a glorious romp.
Blaine was silently, and ferociously, stripping the petals off an azalea.
“Ugh!” Flora suddenly smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “We’re being idiots. It’s fine. I mean, we’re not fine exactly, but we have the die, remember? We can create a threshold to the next move whenever we want to.”
Of course! How could she have forgotten? Cat felt almost faint with relief; from the looks on the others’ faces, they felt the same.
“But,” Flora went on, “this move here is our only chance to get the Ace of Swords. If we don’t find it before we leave, we might as well give up on the whole thing.”
Toby nodded, though he was still looking a little green. “At least we know what its powers were used for—the knight in play here must have used the ace to blow down his greenhouse.” Then his face brightened. “Hey, is that what I think it is?”
He pointed to an orange tree behind Cat. A small gilded cage hung from one of its branches. The latch was open, and a single white feather clung to the bars.
As if on cue, a bird trilled from within the undergrowth. It seemed to Cat that the sound had a faintly taunting note.
“Time to go catch us an ace.” Blaine got to his feet.
“Wait—where are you going?” Cat asked. “The sound came from that way.”
“No, it didn’t, it came from behind us,” said Toby.
“I’m sure it was in those bushes over there,” said Flora.
They stopped still, listening.
Silence.
“You know,” Cat said reluctantly, “splitting up is probably a bad idea but …”
“It’s not like we have much of an option,” finished Toby. “OK. Last one back to the birdcage is a loser!”
But before he could charge off, Flora took hold of his arm. “Just a minute. Before we all disappear in different directions, perhaps we should take a moment to consider—well, to consider our various responsibilities.”
“How do you mean?” he asked impatiently.
“Oh, well, only that it might be a good idea to check exactly who’s looking after what. In case anything goes wrong, you know.” She smoothed down her hair, keeping her voice carefully casual. “For example, Blaine’s still got the die.…”
Blaine gave a bark of laughter. “What, you think I’m going to run off with it into the bushes and never come back? Sneak ahead to grab all the aces, then sell them half-price down Temple House?”
“Of course not; I only thought we should—”
“Fine. I get it.” He felt in the pocket of his sweatshirt, and threw something at Cat. “Catch.”
It was the die. “Hey, I don’t want it.”
“Tough. Her Ladyship seems to think it belongs in more trustworthy hands.”
“For goodness’ sake! You’re deliberately misunder—”
But he had already sauntered into the flowerbed behind them, whistling, “Here, birdie birdie …”
Flora pursed her lips before heading up the path in the opposite direction. Toby and Cat were left looking at each other.
“You want to take the left or the right?” he asked. “Whichever.”
She ended up going right, and at first made good progress. She could hear cooing only a little way ahead, and once or twice she was sure she glimpsed a flutter of white feathers. The sounds of the others blundering about faded as she went farther into the greenery. The plants in the beds grew denser than she would have thought possible; in fact, the glass dome of the conservatory was almost completely obscured by the mesh of branches overhead.
Maddeningly, the piped music was playing a melody with flutes in it, whose ripples were very close to birdsong. She couldn’t hear the fountain anymore and the black-and-white check of the path had also disappeared from view. The air grew more humid, its sweetness darkened by the scent of compost and decay. Her feet squelched over fallen fruit. Bugs squirmed, flies buzzed.
Soon she was sticky with sap and sweat; her hands were torn from when she’d had to struggle past a tangle of crimson roses. The wretched flute music had stopped, at least, but now she was aware of all sorts of uncanny noises—little rustles and scuffles and creaks in the undergrowth. She called out, hoping to hear Toby, or Flora, or even Blaine, but nobody answered.
At last, she came to a thicket that seemed impenetrably matted. She hunkered down in a small hollow among a clump of ornamental ferns. The earth here was dry, and very soft. If she could just get he
r breath back, have a little rest … she would worry about finding the others later … she would worry about everything later.… Cat curled up and closed her eyes.
Twoo-tweet …
It was her ears playing tricks again. An echo of something that wasn’t there.
Twoo-tweet, twoo-tweet …
Tweet, tweet …
Her eyes snapped open. Preening itself on a branch just the other side of the ferns was a small white bird.
Hardly daring to breathe, making her movements as slow as possible, she sat up. Cat and bird regarded each other. Its feathers were snowy, its eyes beads of red. An albino.
Twoo-tweet …
Her quarry half hopped, half flew to the ground. Now it was less than three feet away. Oh God. Any sudden movement or noise and it would fly off, out of sight and out of reach. What she really needed was a net. Perhaps she could lure it to her with something. But with all these seeds and berries, it wasn’t likely to be hungry.
And yet … the way the bird was cocking its head, the tentative little hops as it sidled along. It seemed almost as interested in her as she was in it.
A thin shaft of sun had filtered through the canopy, making something on her shirt sparkle. The pendant from Bel’s Secret Santa! She’d forgotten she was wearing it; up until now, it had been hidden by her collar. It was just a bit of plastic: a four-leaf clover on a chain, coated in gold glitter. Glitter that twinkled in the sun.
The bird hopped closer.
Weren’t magpies supposed to be attracted to shiny things? This wasn’t a magpie; it wasn’t any kind of ordinary bird. But it was worth a try.
With agonizing slowness, Cat inched her hand up and around her neck to undo the clasp of the chain. Very slowly, very gently, she lowered the pendant into her hand. “Like the bling, don’t you?” she crooned, soft and coaxing. “Come and get it then, you little horror. Because I’m going to take you down; yes, you and your mad king and all his loony court.”
