But she couldn’t sleep. There was a smell.
She tried to ignore it. Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it in the morning, she thought, and put the sheet over her nose. But the smell easily filtered through the fine linen. She covered her head with the pillow and still couldn’t escape it.
At last, with an exasperated groan, she dragged herself out of bed and sniffed around until she found the source—not the drains, as she’d suspected, but under the bed.
“Oh, of course, the Bake-Neko present. I guess the wrapping is rotting nicely.” She got on her hands and knees and pulled the box from under the bed. A wave of bluebottles rose and settled irritably against the window, and blackbeetles fled in rustling scurries.
“Ugh,” she said. “Whatever’s in here can wait.” She took it to the window and was about to balance it on the outside sill, not really caring if it fell to the rosebushes below, when the desiccated and mostly consumed remains fell open, revealing what looked like a small nut inside. She crouched down on her knees and held the box to the moonlight.
It was a walnut, carved like an ivory puzzle ball with intricate layers of dragons and chrysanthemums in miniature. Inside she could just see something moving. She pressed one eye to the nut. It was a pale, translucent maggot.
“Ew,” she said, though she didn’t really mind maggots. She tried to shake it out onto the carcass. “Go back and finish eating.”
“The maggot is your present, ignorant infant,” purred a voice from across the room. The Bake-Neko strolled out of her closet, his twin tails swishing.
Meg stood quickly and pulled a sheet off her bed.
“The protuberances and declivities of your species don’t interest me. Or perhaps you hide your ungainly hairless body in natural shame, for beside lovely me, what an unsightly creature you are. Still, as there must be admirers and admirees, I do not begrudge you your existence.”
“I thought you were going back to Japan … I mean, Nippon.”
“I was, but a fit of weariness overcame me and I settled down for a nap in your antechamber.” He yawned, covering his mouth with a velvet paw. “That treasure you hold so carelessly, barbarian, is a grub of Izanami, our lady of the underworld.”
“What does he do?”
“Do? Must a gift of the gods do anything? That’s like asking if precious I do anything. I exist. It is sufficient.”
Meg peered at her grub again suspiciously.
“Well, I suppose it does something, though why anyone would want to talk to the dead is beyond me. Still, to each his tastes. Farewell, oh, blissfully ignorant child. When you compose songs and sagas in my honor, please try to mention my otherworldly beauty. And my softness. And the piquant curl of my whiskers.” He sauntered out the door, popping his head back in once to add, “And of course the luxurious symphony of my purr.”
As soon as he left, Meg ran to Phyllida’s room. She pounded on the door until Phyllida emerged in a white wrapper and pink cashmere shawl with curling papers in her hair.
“Here,” Meg said, placing nut and grub into her hand.
“What is it?”
“Put it to your ear. His voice is very low.”
Puzzled, Phyllida listened, while Meg watched her expectantly, almost dancing on her tiptoes.
“Hello, my love,” Lysander’s voice said through the grub’s mouth.
“Oh!” was all Phyllida could say, and she gently closed the door on Meg.
* * *
Now, of course, Meg still couldn’t sleep. There was one thing left to do, the hardest of them all. Mommy, I’m not coming back. Mommy, I’ve released things into the world, terrible, wonderful things, and I’m responsible for them, and for the fairies too. Mommy, I’m scared. I need your help. Mommy … Mommy …
She took out an ivory sheet of parchment and an old-fashioned fountain pen from the escritoire at her bedside.
Dear Mommy, she wrote, but the rest was all inkblots and teardrops.
Acknowledgments
All of my thanks to my first editor, the gracious, supportive, fiendishly clever Reka Simonsen, and to my second marvelous editor, Noa Wheeler, who fearlessly stepped into the breach. Like most writers it took me a while to warm up to the idea of editing, but these pros made it a pleasure. Thanks also to publisher Laura Godwin, who read the Omnibus and survived, and to Sarah Dotts Barley for all her help and good cheer.
Since you do judge a book by its cover, I would like to express my admiration for the two artists who have contributed to the Green Hill books. David Wyatt did the cover of Under the Green Hill, and line illustrations for both books, and Jon Foster did the incredible cover you now hold in your hand. Some people think storytellers are magicians; well, artists are just as magical, and I’m pretty sure the fairies have whispered a few secrets to these two gentlemen.
Thanks to Babaloo for being my first reader and best friend, and to Marla for being my second reader and other best friend. And deepest appreciation to The Boy With Many Names for taking long naps, without which this book would not have been possible.
Love and respect to E.N., G.M.F., A.T., J.A., M.W., and the gang. I couldn’t have done it without you.
But most of all, thank you. I wrote this for you. I hope you enjoy it.
Henry Holt and Company, LLC
Publishers since 1866
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, New York 10010
mackids.com
Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
Text copyright © 2011 by Laura L. Sullivan
Interior illustrations copyright © 2011 by David Wyatt
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sullivan, Laura L.
Guardian of the Green Hill / Laura L. Sullivan ; [illustrations by David Wyatt].—1st ed.
p. cm.
Sequel to: Under the Green Hill.
ISBN 978-0-8050-8985-1
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Fairies—Fiction. 3. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 4. Superstition—Fiction. 5. England—Fiction.] I. Wyatt, David, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.S9527Gu 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2010029231
First Edition—2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-7565-0
Guardian of the Green Hill Page 25
