So much for a ferocious Fenoderee lopping off heads.
“If that will be all, miss,” Smythe said, trying to slip backward into the crowd.
“That will not be all,” Meg said. “You owe Fenoderee some compensation.”
“He doesn’t want anything. Look how happy he is.” Then Smythe pushed his luck. “Besides, he lost, and whatever the reason, rules is rules and he has to mow my field.”
Meg took a step toward him, and he backed down. She looked like a girl who could fight a Midsummer War, strong and sure. “Very well, he will mow your field,” she said. “Who am I to break with custom? But he will keep all the hay he mows.”
There was scattered applause from people who either sympathized with Fenoderee or disliked Smythe.
“D’you want to beggar me, girl? I’ve put all my profits into the hay. I’ve borrowed against this year’s gains.”
Meg thought a moment, almost weakened, then steeled herself. If she was to be Guardian—no, not she, not Guardian. Where had that thought come from? She was leaving, forever, as soon as Phyllida got James back. But she just couldn’t let Smythe get away with it. And in any case, he looked prosperous enough to survive a bad year.
“Very well,” she said. “You may keep one half of your crop. The rest goes to Fenoderee after he has mowed it.” She kept her voice sweet and reasonable. “That’s only fair.”
Smythe looked as if he’d like to grumble, but he held out his hand. “Deal,” he said.
She didn’t take it right away. “But we decide now which half Fenoderee’s to have. Deal?”
The odds were decent, Smythe thought. They didn’t know which fields he’d planted, so they might pick the drier ones, or the ones interspersed with too much milkweed. He took her hand. “Deal.”
Meg gave him her most charming smile. “Fenoderee will take the top half.”
That year, Fenoderee carried thirteen wagonloads of hay to market.
Smythe had a bountiful harvest of roots and stubble.
Who Must Do the Hard Things?
IT’S LIKE OLD TIMES, Meg thought as they ambled home. Old times of a scant few weeks ago when they were all safe in Arcadia, traipsing through its quads, dodging college students intent on Frisbee playing or love affairs or anything but their studies, trudging up the steep hills only for the joy of running breakneck down them again. With the excitement behind them (how little Meg knew!), she felt the preternatural calm that follows unexpected action and unexpected success.
Only a pebble in her pocket remained of her adventure. Was that me, she wondered? Was it Meg Morgan to whom a monster paid homage before all those amazed eyes? She, who hated to be before a crowd, had suddenly known the power of leadership. No, she told herself, I will not be the next Guardian. But the power was intoxicating, not so much for itself but for the things she could do with it. That one distinction separates the tyrants from the good kings.
Why, she had saved her sister, and apparently a baby fairy (which she still had to get to the bottom of) and Dickie. That man turned tail when he saw her with the bunyip, and she knew it was not just the monster but her own ease with the monster that made him run. It was true: she hadn’t been frightened of it, really. And Fenoderee, poor simple Fenoderee, had been saved from base trickery, his tormenter justly punished. She had done all this in a few minutes. What could she do to heal the world, or Gladysmere at least, as the Guardian? There were people and fairies who needed her help and protection.
“Where’s Rowan?” Meg asked. “I hope he’s not in trouble too. How is it that every single one of us had an adult who wanted to hurt us? Why was Gwidion chasing you, Finn?”
He glanced up at Silly and Dickie. Silly, as usual, was too restless to walk slowly and skipped and capered ahead. Dickie, who wanted to talk to her about the little green fairy, struggled to keep up.
“Well, after Gwidion hit me I—”
“He hit you?” Meg asked, aghast. “When? Why?”
He looked at her oddly. “Don’t you remember? Didn’t you see? When we were having our first art lesson?”
“There was … something. You got mad and left. He hit you? Really?”
Finn described the incident.
“And I was there? I swear I don’t remember any of it. Gwidion kind of gives me the creeps, though, and I don’t think he likes me, but I don’t know why. I guess it’s because I don’t have any talent. Rowan does, though. They took to each other right off.”
“Figures,” Finn began, and was going to say some unpleasant things about Rowan until he remembered that Meg might have some soft feelings for her brother. “Anyway, after you left me in the wagon, Gwidion and his goat showed up and…” He told her what he’d seen, “And that’s no ordinary goat. I think I heard him talk. There’s something wrong about them both.”
“And those pictures he drew … tell me about them again.” Meg was getting a faint inkling.
Meg was silent and thoughtful as she listened. It seemed like a silly idea, but not any sillier than weatherstones and bunyips. “Do you think his pictures make things happen? That what he draws comes true?”
Finn chewed his lip as he thought about it. “I suppose … though it sounds a little far-fetched to me.” Then he remembered his ten-pound note and skeleton key.
“Do you know, I remember something … I think I remember it anyway. Right when you ran away cry—I mean when you ran off yesterday, Gwidion drew a picture for us. I can’t remember what it was of, but I believe I was angry with him before and I wasn’t angry with him after I saw the picture. Do you suppose he did something to me, to us? Did he make us forget?”
“That would be a neat trick,” Finn said. “I just wish I could draw. I’d do a doozy of Gwidion and his dirty goat at the bottom of a pit trap.”
“Finn!”
“Well, I would. Don’t look at me like that. I know you’re all soft and kind and that nonsense, but I’m still going to get even with him.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.” But he had an idea.
“Don’t get in trouble,” she said anxiously, and he snorted. “And don’t hurt anyone. Please?”
“I’m not making any promises,” Finn said grimly. “He hit me, and he’s up to something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But why was he so upset when he found out I wasn’t related to you guys? And why is he so chummy with Rowan?”
“And why,” Meg added, “did Phyllida let a stranger move in? Onto the grounds anyway. You’re right, it is peculiar. Ugh, let’s hurry. I need to find out if Phyllida’s close to getting James back. Then I swear I’m going home, even if I have to walk … and swim.” She quickened her pace.
It was a hot and heavy midafternoon, and the air was sharp with the carrying scent of fresh-cut hay. As they approached the Rookery, they saw a quaint figure before them dressed in an odd assortment of riding breeches, gaiters, and tweeds. It carried a short walking stick and twirled it on every third step.
“Rowan?” Silly asked. She skipped up to him, lost to hilarity. “You—what in the world? You look like a…” He looked like an Edwardian squire, but she filled in the blank with weirdo instead, which was almost as accurate.
Rowan, garbed in the mismatched togs he’d found in assorted closets, scanned them over coolly. “Just surveying the estate,” he said, grinding the tip of his cane into the gravel and swinging the brass knob in an arc with his palm. He looked older, more careworn, with an anxiety in his eyes that was still part greed but more a concern about business matters that wouldn’t be of interest to such children. There were some drains at Gladys Gap that needed tending to. The Bungys’ roof was in need of repairs. They’d been good tenants for generations and should be looked after. There were rumors that Ajax, who kept chickens, was harassing a vixen. And that foal by Fetlock out of Silversides … should he keep him or sell him?
Gwidion’s spell had had an unexpected effect on Rowan. While the artist hoped to make him a nu
isance and a thorn in his relatives’ sides, someone else to harry poor Phyllida, he had instead created a conscientious lordling who took a keen and highly personal interest in the affairs of his estate. At first Rowan coveted each step of the many staircases, each worn and moldering rug, each portrait of distant ancestors on the walls. But as the hours passed, the spell evolved, keeping the core of its original intent but shaping itself to Rowan’s nature. He wasn’t a bad sort—quite the contrary. He had all the makings of a hero. It was just his bad luck the world kept interfering. Gwidion meant mischief, but he had accidentally created a young man who took his duties as heir very seriously.
Meg could tell from Wooster’s dolorous face as he met her at the door that there wasn’t any good news, but she passed him by hopefully and went to the source. She found Phyllida in her sitting room.
“Where’s James?” she asked breathlessly. If she phrased it like that, as if he was just in another room, it might all be okay. If she had faith that he was safe, he would be.
“We haven’t found a way to get him back yet,” Phyllida said, carefully avoiding the fact that they hadn’t been trying.
Meg’s heart sank, but she laid a hand on Phyllida’s arm. “Don’t worry, you’ll be able to do it. I believe in you.”
It was all Phyllida could do to keep from breaking down. If only she could tell Meg, encourage her to start looking for James herself. But no—by tradition, it must come entirely from Meg, unprompted. Phyllida managed to control herself just long enough to say, “Go wait for me in the garden kitchen, there’s a dear. I want to look up one more thing.” Only when Meg was safely gone did the tears fall.
I’m a horrible old woman, she thought bitterly. I deserve to die alone, with no heir. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong! She trusts me. She loves me. James is imprisoned under the Green Hill, waiting for us to rescue him, and because I keep to the old ways and stay mum and fool Meg, no help is coming. Can’t I at least encourage Meg to look for him herself?
The whispered voice of Angharad, the first Guardian, came to her. That is not the way. You must test her as I was tested, as you were tested. The life of a Guardian is not easy.
Phyllida scowled at the voice in her head. Bloody right it’s not easy, she thought. But because I love her, I want to smooth the way for her. Most of all, I want to keep her trust. I was lucky. I didn’t find out the truth until my mother was gone. I never knew that she was forbidden to seek Bran, my father, her husband. And yes, I hated her at first for deceiving me … but I couldn’t hate her long. She had to pretend to seek him, waiting all the while for me to realize the test was mine. She died without her love. What would I be without my Lysander? I would lay myself down and never rise again.
With heavy steps, she followed Meg downstairs.
Everyone but Rowan was gathered in the garden kitchen, that bright, cheery place where the line between growing food and eating food was blurred. Silly, with the green fairy still wrapped around her throat and refusing to look at anyone, was animatedly telling Lysander about their adventures.
“And he tried to kill me, but I got away, and then when he almost caught me again, Meg saved me. Oh, you should have seen her!”
She summarized for Phyllida’s benefit, then told them both about the bunyip. “And he smelled just horrible, like rotten meat and swamp gas, but he was so polite. He even offered to eat someone for Meg.”
“I didn’t let him, though,” Meg said hastily. She pulled the pebble out of her pocket. “He gave me this and said he had been in the Dreamtime, though I didn’t wake him up exactly. Did I bring the bunyip back into the world from wherever he was? I didn’t mean to do that. If he eats people, I think he should go back to the Dreamtime.”
“I still don’t know what it’s all about,” Phyllida said. “Bran said the currents run all through the world, like the Cherokee spirit, so maybe … I just don’t know.” Her head was starting to ache, and she had other, more pressing worries. The things that sought Meg out didn’t want to hurt her, quite the contrary, so they could be set aside for the time being. “I’ll have to ask Bran when he’s feeling better.”
“Where is he?” Meg asked, guilty that in the day’s excitement she’d forgotten about him as well as James for a while.
“Oh, Dr. Homunculus came and gave him a sleeping draught. He wouldn’t take it, of course. We had to sneak it into his drink. You know him. He said he had wood to chop and tried to get up with blood running down his chest.”
“It’s my fault,” Meg tried to say, but Lysander hushed her.
“It’s no one’s fault but his own, child. If he’d be sensible and rest—”
“Sounds like someone I know,” Phyllida said wryly, looking at her husband with eyes full of worry and love. “You’ve been working too hard of late. I should slip you something.”
Lysander chuckled. “That’s why I make my own drinks, woman! I’ve long suspected you of trying to drug me.”
Meg saw him take Phyllida’s hand under the table. It was true, he had been working too hard. Her fault as well, no doubt. She could see his other hand tremble as it brought a spoonful of mutton and barley soup to his mouth, and he looked pale and tired. They were so old, she realized, wondering why she’d never seen it before. Phyllida’s skin looked paper-thin, and for all she was vigorous now, there would come a time one day when she was not. She seemed distracted, almost flighty, depressed and nervous.
They gossiped for a while about events at the festival, and Meg won high praise from the Ashes for saving Fenoderee from another year of servitude. “I should have done something about it myself,” Phyllida admitted. Another failing, she thought. If I cannot pass on my responsibilities to another soon …
Then Meg remembered what had happened the night before, forgotten in her concern for James. “Just before we saw James at the Green Hill last night, we saw something else. It was a woman. I thought it was Moll at first, but now I’m sure it wasn’t. She wore a hooded cloak, and she knelt by a stream. Oh, she made the most terrible sounds, like wolves and wildcats and weeping. She had bright red eyes and nothing else on her face. Nothing, no nose, no mouth. And she was washing—” She heard Phyllida gasp, and Lysander went limp against his chair. “What? What’s wrong? Who is she?”
Weakly, Phyllida asked, “What was she washing? Could you see?”
Meg was alarmed now. Phyllida looked terrified, Lysander like he was about to faint. “That was the strangest thing. I’m pretty sure she was washing the shirt you gave me, the pretty white one with the silver stitching. It looked like it anyway, only it had blood on it. I decided I didn’t want to paint, so I gave it to Rowan. He was wearing it earlier today. I saw him in it before we went to the festival, so it couldn’t be the same shirt.”
Phyllida and Lysander exchanged looks and made an obvious effort to pull themselves together. But Meg could see from the tension in Phyllida’s arm that her grip on her husband’s hand under the table was painfully tight.
“What does it mean?” Meg asked.
“Oh, oh, nothing really,” Phyllida choked out. “Just a washerwoman fairy. Not very common.”
“That’s it,” Lysander said with the most ghastly attempt at laughter Meg had ever heard. “She probably saw all the paint splashed on it and tried to wash it off. Nothing a fairy hates more than a mess. Well, you young uns can fend for yourselves for the rest of supper, eh? My lady and I have work to do.” He pushed himself up on his gnarled cane and all but dragged Phyllida to her feet.
“Come on, dear girl,” he said softly. “Let’s leave youth to its pleasures.”
The children looked at each other, confused. All except for Dickie, who looked almost as frightened and shocked as the Ashes.
“You saw a banshee,” he said when they left.
They’d all heard the term but didn’t know exactly what it meant.
“They’re connected to a particular family, like a brownie,” Dickie went on, speaking evenly like he was giving a lesson. “Banshees are mourne
rs. They foretell when a member of that family is going to die. They wash the clothes of the doomed. Whose shirt did you say she was washing?”
“Well, Phyllida’s, I guess. She gave it to me, though, and I gave it to Rowan.” Her eyes widened in understanding. “Do you mean one of us is going to die?”
Dickie nodded.
Silly gasped, and even the little fairy peeked his head out. Finn didn’t know where to look. It seemed like a private family moment, and he wasn’t needed. All the same, he had to be there. Meg could die? It wasn’t possible.
Meg swallowed hard. “Which one of us, then? It could be any one of us three, right?” Please, not me, she thought, then realized that the alternatives were only slightly less terrible. Still, not me, not me, her instinct cried out.
“Well…,” Dickie began, then faltered. He felt like he was pronouncing a death sentence himself, as if he personally were condemning one of them. Meg, Silly, and Finn all leaned toward him anxiously. “I think … I’m not sure, but I think that it means whoever actually owns the shirt. Phyllida gave you the shirt to use, but it’s still her shirt, right? You were borrowing it and would have returned it to her when you went back to Arcadia. I think the banshee means that Phyllida is going to die.” Feeling like an executioner, he put his head down on his folded arms.
Silly, who shunned tears, burst into them now, and even Finn felt his eyes get heavy and warm in a way that didn’t shame him like yesterday’s tears had. Only Meg remained stone-faced. She rose and said, “If you’ll excuse me,” and slipped out of the room.
She had to be alone; she had to think. She headed for the wardrobe in the spare room with the secret door in the back—a passage not to Narnia but to a narrow stone staircase leading to the Rookery roof. The young birds, who hadn’t seen her for a while, fluttered their sleek ebony wings when she walked out, but the wise old rooks with gray in their feathers merely eyed her cannily and turned their beaks back toward the declining sun. She perched on the parapet and let her legs dangle off the edge. She’d never been brave enough to do that before, but having just cheated death, as it were, she felt no fear in her lofty perch.
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