by Kim Wilkins
“When?” Gerda asked.
Jude turned to Christine, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Soon,” she said.
“You don’t want to wait until Mandy gets back and give him a chance to apologize?” Pete asked.
“We’ll wait until Mandy gets back, but only to see if Mayfridh’s okay,” Christine said.
“Can we have a big send-off party?” Pete asked.
“Of course we will,” Gerda said. “And we all respect your decision to go. But Mandy’s not a psycho. I’d bet all the money I had on it.”
“I’m with Gerda,” Pete said.
“You don’t have any money,” Jude replied, laughing.
Pete smiled. “Then it’s a safe bet.”
Hexebart likes the Real World.
Oh, what smells! Oh, what sounds! Oh, what shapes and colors! Hexebart is swamped by them.
Oops! Hexebart avoids a shiny metal speeding object (“car” is the word . . . it was all in the potion made with Immanuel’s pretty hair) and sees, for the first time, Hotel Mandy-Z. This is Immanuel’s house. He shares it with others, but he has a room at the top of the stairs. Hexebart hopes it’s a big room. Hexebart hopes it’s warm.
Big and warm, warm and big,
Room enough to dance a jig;
So much for the preening pig!
Hexebart could laugh until she cries thinking about the changeling princess and her featherbrained friend left behind in Immanuel’s clutches. A fitting end for them both. Perhaps now they’ll understand how Liesebet and Jasper felt. Mind, that Immanuel fellow is not to be trusted. Oh, no. Hexebart is not a fool.
She approaches the front door. No key. Never mind. Hexebart has magic fingers from years of weaving spells. See, she can make them long and narrow and her pointiest finger fits right in the lock and—snap!—it pops open.
Shhh, now. Hexebart steps inside and listens the house. Nobody home, not even a mouse. Hee hee! It’s warm in here. Much cozier than dungeons and wells and other places Hexebart has lived lately. She creeps up the stairs, one foot in front of the other. The stairs creak once. She runs her hand along the banister; so smooth. Real World smooth. She lowers her nose and sniffs the wood. Pretty smells. Everything so pretty. Hexebart could grow intoxicated with Immanuel’s house.
Here, a door. Hexebart can see many more stairs in front of her. This door isn’t Immanuel’s. She touches it and tries to imagine inside it. A boy lives here. Another door. A girl lives in this one. Hexebart will learn all their names. She will listen the house carefully until all the secrets come thrumming up the beams and shivering into her ears. More stairs. Another door. A man lives here. And across the hall . . .
Ah, Christine lives here. Jude lives here. Hexebart feels she already knows them from the time their secrets were in the pea shell, all the way in the bottom of the well. Their essence is so familiar. She breathes it in and her eyelids flutter. Oh, it will be so much fun to meet them. Won’t they be surprised when they find out she knows their secrets! Hexebart can taste the fun upon her tongue.
Top of the stairs. Immanuel’s door. The lock pops open around her elongated finger, and then she is inside a room so warm and big and sweet-smelling that she almost cries for joy. The door closes behind her. A large, colorful, soft thing makes her eyes grow round with wonder. A “sofa.” Oh, the joy of a sofa! Hexebart sits on it, reclines on it, lies down on it, hugs it. So soft. So warm. Hexebart closes her eyes. She hasn’t slept in more than twenty years. Weariness paralyzes her bones. Hexebart sighs.
Come, sleep. Come, sleep.
Christine woke from dark dreams that fled from consciousness as soon as she tried to catch them. What had disturbed her so much? The sticky web of disquiet clung to her. The bedroom was still dark, but morning was not far away. The streetlight outside flickered off. The curtain let in a soft gray light. Streetcars and buses and trains moved in the distance. Christine closed her eyes, trying to recapture the last shreds of her dreams.
Something about Mandy. Something about the door with the three deadlocks and the room with the black windows. Not surprising that she should weave them into a nightmare. He had become so sinister and dangerous in her imagination. Why hadn’t Mayfridh returned? Sleep backed away. Christine opened her eyes and watched the curtains grow paler as dawn seeped into the room. Her head ached faintly, a low coarse hum of insufficient sleep and excess beer. She listened to the city waking up around her.
Jude stirred. She cuddled up against his smooth warm back and dropped a soft kiss on his shoulder.
“Christine?” he said groggily.
“Don’t wake up,” she replied.
He turned onto his back and his eyes opened, two bleary cracks. “God, we drank too much.”
“We always drink too much. It’ll have to stop when we go home.”
“What time is it?”
“Too early to be awake. Go back to sleep.”
“Why are you awake? Is your back hurting?”
She snuggled under his arm. “No. Just a bad dream.”
He stroked her hair and silence settled in the room again. Then he said, “What did you dream about?”
“Mandy, I think. I can’t quite remember.”
“He’s really got to you, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. You could say that.”
Jude kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry. I’m here to protect you.”
“Who’s going to protect Mayfridh?”
“You’re worried about Mayfridh?”
“Desperately. It’s been two days. I haven’t heard a thing.”
Jude wriggled into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. “Didn’t you say time passes differently over there?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . perhaps it hasn’t been two days over there. Perhaps it’s only been a few hours.”
“I suppose.”
“She can look after herself. And she has Eisengrimm.”
“Yes,” she said, wondering if the unsettling dreams had made the situation seem worse than it was, “but I wish that I knew if—”
“Shh!” Jude said sharply, his head cocked to the side. “Did you hear that?”
Christine shook her head and listened.
He pointed up toward the ceiling. “Upstairs. Listen.”
Unmistakably, faint footsteps on the floorboards, from Mandy’s apartment. He was pacing.
“He’s back,” Christine said, at once relieved and troubled. “When did he get back?”
“He’s probably been there all night and we just didn’t know,” Jude said, then yawned broadly. “You want some coffee?”
“Mmm, yes, please.”
He rose, found a shirt on the ground next to the bed, and pulled it on.
“Can I have toast and peanut butter too? I didn’t eat last night.”
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Sure.”
Christine lay still, listening for the light footsteps above. Pacing and pacing. If Mandy was back, why hadn’t Mayfridh called? Christine buried icy fingers under the bedclothes. The nights were growing colder. Winter was a few bare weeks away.
Jude returned shortly with a tray and climbed back into bed with her.
“Breakfast in bed. My hero,” she said, reaching for the coffee. She warmed her hands on the side of the cup. “Is it going to be like this every morning when we’re married?”
“Better,” he replied, sipping his coffee.
“Why do you think Mayfridh hasn’t called me to say everything’s okay?” she asked. “She must know I’m worried.”
“Since when has she been the queen of good manners?” he snapped.
Christine looked at him sharply. “I’m just wondering aloud. No need to get snippy with me.”
“I’m not snippy.”
“You sounded snippy.”
Jude opened his mouth to say something, then laughed instead. “You’re right. I did sound snippy.” He brushed his fingers gently over her forehead. “I’m sorry. Of course yo
u’re concerned about her. Look, she’s probably at Diana’s.”
“Why wouldn’t she come back here? Why wouldn’t she call?”
Jude shook his head. “That’s probably my fault.”
“Your fault?” Christine grabbed a piece of toast and took a bite.
“Yeah. The last time I saw Mayfridh, we didn’t part on good terms.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We argued. Gerda walked in on us in the middle of it. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you. She’s such a gossip.”
So that was what Gerda had seen. Mayfridh had looked guilty because she had fought with Jude. “What did you argue about?”
“About you.” Jude brushed crumbs from his fingers and sat back. “I was angry with her for convincing you to go to faeryland. She took offense. She thought I was casting doubt on her judgment, and on the wolf’s ability to take care of you.” He looked sheepish. “I was pretty hard on her.”
“You scared her off?”
“I think so. I know I should have held my tongue, but you know how worried I get about you, and you know what she’s like. She never really stops being a queen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Okay, so she might not have a throne and a crown here in our world, but one way or another she likes throwing her weight around. She’s manipulative. She uses people.”
Christine was surprised at this judgment. “I can’t say I’d noticed.”
“Because you always see the best in everybody.” He dropped a kiss on her shoulder. “That’s why I love you.”
Christine leaned back into her pillow and yawned. Sleepiness was catching up with her. “Well, I’ll wait until a decent hour and then I’ll call Diana’s. But if Mayfridh’s not there, one of us has to go up and ask Mandy about her.” She smiled at Jude. “Mandy’s someone I’ve never been able to ‘see the best’ in.”
“I’d noticed.”
“Last night I got the feeling that you don’t agree with me about Mandy. Or about leaving.”
“I was drunk last night.”
“Are you sure that’s all? I mean, I’d want you to tell me if you’d prefer to stay. I don’t want you to be resentful.”
Jude sighed and turned over on his side to face her. “Christine, I’m happy to take you home because I care about your feelings and I know you’re not comfortable here anymore. But, yes, there is part of me that would like to stay.”
“Why?”
“It’s not about Mandy. It’s about independence. You know that when we go home I’m going to have to live off you for a while if I want to keep painting. If I get this Australian fellowship, it doesn’t start until July next year. I don’t like being a leech.”
“Oh, Jude, you’re not a leech. I’ve always said that when I get married I’ll access the money. We have so much.”
“No, you have so much.”
“But it’s enough that you won’t be depriving me of anything.”
He nodded, resigned. “I know, I know. And, as I said, I’m happy to take you home. But if you sense any reluctance, that’s why.”
She reached out and tangled her fingers in his hair. “You’ll earn your keep,” she said playfully. “In housework and sexual favors.”
He closed his eyes, a soft smile on his lips.
She wriggled closer and pressed her body against him. “You can start practicing now if you like,” she whispered.
“Sorry, not in the mood,” he mumbled.
Never in the mood anymore. She returned to her side of the bed. Her eyes felt heavy and raw from lack of sleep. She let them close. As she drifted off, she could hear footsteps again from above. They seemed far too close; she almost couldn’t bear to hear them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mandy was surprised by how peaceful this faery world was. He had imagined a land of chaos, of noisy preening faeries, of endless chatter and tantrums. Instead, the rural quiet pervaded his senses, filling him with a dreamy warmth and contentment. In many ways, it was so much better this way. It meant his hunting and killing and boning could take place in serenity.
He had watched the village from high on the slope above, studying its layout carefully. All the houses on the main street were too close together; hunting in one of them would alert the whole street. A low profile was imperative; he still wasn’t sure where the hag from the dungeons had gone, and eventually somebody would notice the queen and her counselor missing and raise the alarm. The wheel of roads leading away from the main street were marginally more promising for hunting, with trees and spacious gardens between them. But there were cottages farther out on dusty roads, leading into the forest and farmland, which caught his eye. The faeries living inside would be easy prey. So he pulled his hat firmly upon his head, hoisted his hunting bag over his shoulder—the kitchen maid’s bones were stored in Mayfridh’s bedroom—and headed down through the forest.
It was cold today, but rural cold was somehow different from the urban cold back in Berlin. No tall, cool buildings to block the sunlight, and the peaty smell of smoke seemed to warm the air. Or perhaps his blood was just a few degrees warmer here, full of satisfaction and anticipation. Dried leaves crunched under his feet. He was most pleased with himself and felt compelled to whistle a little tune. Normally he was too embarrassed to whistle or sing, even when he was alone. An ear for music was not one of his gifts, and he could hear that there was something wrong with the melody, though he didn’t know what.
A few hundred feet ahead the trees parted onto the back of a little garden and he paused a moment to survey it. Overgrown with thornbushes, with a sagging wooden gate. Sitting in a sunbeam on her back step was an old woman, her white hair untidily escaping a loose bun. She threw bread crumbs out in front of her and watched, smiling, as gray birds gathered to eat them.
Mandy considered. She was old; old bones were porous and snapped too easily. He slid down to the forest floor among the leaves and sat, his back against a tree, to think. In his own world, he wouldn’t hesitate to catch her and kill her, but in a place like this, where he had such a wide selection to draw from, he should conserve his energy for only the best kills. Mayfridh he was saving until the very last, but not because of some misguided infatuation that allowed him unconsciously to want her to escape (oh, no, she and the crow were far too securely guaranteed against that). The decision was purely practical. He couldn’t carry corpses back and forth to Berlin from here, so he had to bone in the river. Boning by hand was an inexact science, especially the volume he intended to do. He knew he could easily chip or scrape or splinter a bone. Mayfridh’s bones, imbued with royal magic, were too precious to damage. She had to be scalped and dunked in the vat, simple as that. He plucked a long blade of grass absently and chewed on it. The sun was mild, but far away, and a breeze high up carried its warmth into the distance. He shivered and pulled his hat down harder.
Voices drew his attention and he glanced back toward the old woman’s garden. A young, dark-haired man leaned in the doorway, talking to the woman and helping her up. Mandy smiled, pulled himself to his feet, and headed toward the cottage. By the time he had made his way through the sagging gate, they were inside.
“Good morning!” he called as he approached the door. He peered into the dark room. The two of them sat at a rough wooden table.
“Good morning,” the old woman called sweetly.
The young man was more cautious. “Good morning,” he said. “Can we help you?”
Mandy knew his uneven grasp of their language might draw suspicion. “I am a stranger in this land,” he said, “a special guest of Counselor Eisengrimm.”
The old woman beckoned him inside. “Are you lost?” she said, smiling a toothless smile at him. “I often get lost.”
“Yes, I am lost,” he said, moving inside the door and waiting politely near the end of the table. “The counselor sent me out for a morning walk and I’ve strayed too far from the town. Could you show me how to get back?”
“A frien
d of Counselor Eisengrimm,” the old woman said, staring at him with shining eyes. “Sit down and join us and tell us of life at the castle. Have you met the queen?”
“Yes, I have,” he said, concentrating hard to keep up with the conversation. Next time, he was going to have to murder someone in their sleep; this was too difficult. He avoided the seat offered—their smell was too strong—and leaned on a cutting board under a mullioned window, planning in his head. The woman would scream if he attacked the young man, but perhaps didn’t have it in her to run for help. She was very frail.
“I’ve met the queen four times,” she boasted. “Haven’t I, Sig?”
Sig smiled fondly at her. “If you say so, Oma.”
“Is Liesebet not beautiful?” the old woman said to Mandy. “So much more beautiful than her mother.”
Sig patted Oma’s hand and winked at Mandy. “My great- grandmother gets confused. She forgets that Liesebet is gone and Mayfridh is now our queen.”
“Is that so?” Mandy smiled to himself. Liesebet was Mayfridh’s mother. How clever he had been to kill her, and how much prouder he would be when Mayfridh was dead at his hand too. Immanuel Zweigler: slayer of royal dynasties.
“The queen is very beautiful,” Mandy said, “and so was her mother.”
Oma popped out of her seat and came to the sideboard. She was more agile than Mandy had given her credit for. Would he have to kill her too? Her smell was strong now, almost acrid.
“Here,” she said, “have some cake before you head on your way.” With a rusted cake knife she hacked some uneven chunks of food onto a plate and offered it to him.
“No, thank you.” The thought of eating here repelled him.
“Ah, well. I shall give it to the birds, then.” She shuffled out of the room and through the back door into the garden. Birds sat on the gate waiting for her.
Sig smiled at him. “She’s a dear old lady. Three hundred and thirty next week.”
“Good lord,” Mandy said, suddenly slipping into modern German. He had had no idea that faeries lived that long.
Sig joined him at the window and together they watched Oma through the tiny, thick panes. Her body was distorted by them, oddly dislocated and misshapen. Mandy felt at his belt for the kitchen implements he had stolen from the castle. Cleaver, knife, mallet. He slipped one into his hand and while Sig was still gazing lovingly at his great-grandmother, pulled it out and raised it.
