Wednesdays in the Tower

by Jessica Day George

  “I’ve been helping Bran,” Pogue muttered.

  “He’s been invaluable,” Bran said, shuffling through some notes. “He remembers everything. And from the way that sewing room is situated, and the way the corridor shifted around it, he’s right.” Bran made some marks on one of Celie’s maps with a charcoal pencil and held it up to show them where they could expect the new rooms. “Pogue thinks they’ll be here and here, and I agree.”

  Pogue turned even pinker under his tan.

  “And you’ve looked in my father’s journals?” Queen Celina asked. Her father had been the Royal Wizard before Bran. She looked from Bran to Pogue, as though she valued both their opinions equally, to Celie’s surprise.

  “Many times. He comes the closest to recording the Castle’s history,” Bran said. “That’s why I say we can go back fifty years: Grandfather’s journal is our main source of information. But even so, he only makes casual mention of new rooms, though he does note the date.” He made a face. “But I still find it very strange that a wizard, living in this Castle, didn’t think to make clearer notes.”

  Celie blurted out what had been worrying her about the holiday feasting hall.

  “Are there other people living in the other rooms of the Castle? What do they do when the Castle gives those rooms to us?” she asked. She could tell by the shock on her father’s face that he had never considered this before.

  Bran nodded, but not to say yes: more to say that her question was a good one. “The extra kitchen, the extra stables, and the sewing room haven’t been touched in years. So far as we know, none of these things have appeared in the last fifty years. Which would indicate that there aren’t other people living in them, worrying about where their kitchen or feasting hall has gone.”

  Celie relaxed slightly. A more pressing question rose in her mind: If there weren’t people living there, then who put away the decorations? And who had they all belonged to to begin with? But before she could ask, Lilah spoke.

  “The fabric hasn’t been touched in at least two hundred years,” she put in.

  “It hasn’t? How can you tell?”

  Lilah shrugged. “There were sketches for new gowns on the table, covered in dust. The fashions were at least two hundred years old. Though it’s odd that the only fabric that got spoiled was that stored by the open window.”

  “How is that odd?” Bran had his pencil poised above his notebook.

  “Fabric rots,” Queen Celina answered him. “It gets faded or worn or … well, rotten, even if it isn’t being worn. But that is in the nature of the Castle, as you know. Sometimes there’s even food on the tables, but it’s not moldy, just dried out and dusty. That fabric could very well be five hundred years old, but it’s still usable. Anywhere else in the world it wouldn’t be.”

  “Interesting.” Bran hastily wrote that in his notes. “I may have to do more tests on it.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Lilah warned. “You said the fabric wasn’t enchanted, and I’m having several gowns made out of it right now. If you ruin any of my new gowns, Bran, then so help me—” She shook a finger at him.

  “But we are having the answer to it all right here!” Lulath patted the table lightly and beamed. Everyone turned abruptly to stare at him. “Why are we not asking the Celie to ask the Castle what it means?” He looked at Celie eagerly. “It will surely be having the telling of her!”

  Now everyone was looking expectantly at Celie, who stared back. Did they really think the Castle could talk to her? Judging by their expressions, they did.

  “I, er, I don’t always know what it wants,” Celie began, feeling the color rise in her own cheeks.

  “Of course not, darling,” Queen Celina said. “But perhaps there’s some way you could talk to it?”

  King Glower was nodding. “There must be some way it could signal to you what it wants,” he said. “We must think of something; this is all becoming extremely odd. The fabric might have been a lovely gift from the Castle, but the holiday feasting hall? There’s no reason for that to be here now, is there? And empty linen closets serve no purpose, nor does the extra kitchen or the new stables! The stalls aren’t even a good size for horses. I don’t know what they used to keep in there … large goats, maybe?”

  “I, er, haven’t looked at them,” Celie said, feeling a little sweat bead on her upper lip.

  “Don’t let it worry you, dear,” Queen Celina said. “It’s not your job to interpret everything the Castle does! We’ll figure something out.”

  But before they could, Ma’am Housekeeper came to the door and cleared her throat. The king stood and waved her in, inviting her to sit down.

  “No, Your Majesty, I’m afraid there’s quite a to-do in the bedrooms,” she said, looking sour. “The maids doing the turndown tonight claim there’s a wild animal loose in the Castle. Most likely it’s another case of the sheep getting in, but—”

  Bran and Celie were already past the housekeeper and headed down the corridor toward the family’s bedchambers, which the Castle had conveniently put in a row.

  Barely five minutes later Celie and Bran were standing in Bran’s rooms, surveying the wreckage of his private study. They’d found Rufus before anyone else saw him, but they’d also found the horrible mess he’d made. A mess that, unfortunately, extended all the way down the corridor.

  “How did he even get in my rooms?” Bran wanted to know. “The door was locked—it’s always locked!”

  Like the other rooms they had passed, Bran’s was covered in feathers from shredded pillows. Occasional tables had been overturned, books lay on the floor with covers chewed and pages ripped out, and the leg of Bran’s large worktable had been thoroughly gnawed.

  Rufus was in the corner, looking subdued but not at all contrite. He was utterly filthy, his fur and feathers ruffled, pillow feathers stuck to him with clumps of what looked like Lilah’s expensive Grathian hair pomade. He’d gotten into some of Bran’s potions as well, and there was something blue and gooey all down his one side.

  “That won’t hurt him, will it?” Celie pointed to the blue goo.

  “No, but it was expensive.” Bran sighed. “You little brat,” he said to Rufus. “How did you get in here?”

  “Do you think the Castle let him in?” Celie looked around. There was no other way but the door, and that, as Bran said, had been locked.

  “Why?” The single word held all Bran’s frustration and irritation.

  “Maybe to protect him?” Celie shrugged. “So that he wouldn’t be discovered by Lilah or one of the maids?”

  “If all of my orchid tears are gone, he’ll need to be protected from me,” Bran said.

  Bran’s jaw was jutting out, and Celie half believed him. She went over to Rufus and tried to pull him away from the bottles on the floor, wondering if there was some way to have a collar made without specifying what type of animal it was for, when she heard voices in the corridor. She started to throw her hands up in despair at getting Rufus to her room undetected, but she stopped herself, not wanting to lose her tenuous grip on the matted and sticky fur of his shoulders.

  “This is ridiculous,” Bran said, surveying the mess of his room. “I’m sorry, Celie, but I’m going to tell Father.” They could hear their father in the corridor, calling out orders to the servants. “Hiding Rufus is just going to get more complicated, and it honestly makes no sense.”

  “All right,” Celie agreed in a small voice. “I’ll tell him. If I can.”

  “I’ll support you,” Bran said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “If both of us insist on telling him …” Bran trailed off.

  Celie felt a funny twist in her head. They turned to the door, Celie still trying to get Rufus under control. But the door had no latch. It had no hinges. It was a solid construction of wood, bound with iron, that blended seamlessly into the stone wall and was completely without a way of being opened.

  “Are you joking?” Bran took his hand off Celie’s shoulder to rub his face in frustration.<
br />
  “There’s clearly some reason the Castle wants us to keep Rufus a secret,” Celie said. “I mean, I’d love to let Mummy and Daddy take over, and not have to worry about him all alone in my room, chewing up my shoes every day. But this happens whenever I think about telling someone.”

  She gave a little hiccup. She had wondered if she was just imagining that the Castle wanted her to keep Rufus secret because she didn’t want him to be taken away from her, but here was proof. She felt a twinge of relief: Rufus was still all hers.

  “I don’t understand,” Bran said slowly. “What does the Castle have to lose if Rufus is seen by our parents? Mother has a great deal of experience with magic, and both she and Father are supporters of all the Castle does … of course.”

  Rufus shook himself, and blue goo and feathers went flying. Bran’s mouth tightened into a line. They could still hear their father and others in the corridor, calling out instructions and searching for whatever had done all the damage to the bedrooms.

  Celie’s mouth also settled into a straight line. She marched over to the wall beside the door and laid one hand on the stones with a flourish.

  “What are you—” Bran began.

  “Shh!” Celie silenced him. She held up one finger on her free hand. “Listen.”

  “I am!” Bran said.

  “Not you! I’m talking to the Castle,” Celie explained. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore her oldest brother.

  “I’m trying to take care of Rufus, really I am,” she told the Castle, making her voice firm. “And I’m trying to be mindful of your wishes and not tell anyone but Bran about him. But you have got to work with me. I need help. If I don’t get it from you, then I will climb out this window and get it from my parents. Do you understand?”

  Celie was engulfed in a whirlwind. There was a funny twist in her head again. It seemed familiar, but she couldn’t remember when she’d felt it before. When both the feeling and the whirlwind passed, she staggered up against a table to catch her balance, her hair hanging in her eyes. She blinked around. She was in her own bedchamber now.

  The room was sparkling clean. There was fresh water and food for Rufus. The rug had not only been swept, but the snags from Rufus’s claws had been repaired. There were fat, silk-covered pillows lying atop the fat, silk-covered new featherbed, and a velvet coverlet was folded across it.

  Rufus, sitting in the middle of the rug, looked alarmed. He, too, had been cleaned. His fur was fluffy, his feathers gleamed, and the tassel at the end of his tail had been combed and curled. He sneezed, and a few soap bubbles came out of his nostrils.

  Celie walked over to Rufus and stroked his sleek head to reassure him. When she straightened up she saw the door next to her wardrobe.

  It was tall, and bound with iron, and Celie had never seen it before in her life.

  She opened it with caution, and found a spiraling flight of stairs that led to a large tower room. The new room was empty except for tightly woven straw floor mats and assorted toys. It had broad, tightly shuttered windows on all sides, and a high, peaked roof. There was even a second water dish and box of sawdust.

  “Oh, Rufus!” Celie called down the stairs to where the little griffin was doing his best to follow, but his freshly shined claws were slipping on the stone steps. “Come and see your new exercise room!”

  Chapter

  11

  Lulath picked up JouJou and plopped her down atop the table in the schoolroom. “My own Lilah, say that you will see JouJou as the very queen of the Grath,” he instructed. “Now say to greet her majesty!” He rattled off a complicated Grathian greeting that included praising both the queen’s wardrobe and her many children, and ended with a comment on the weather that, to Celie’s ears, made it sound as though the queen controlled the weather.

  Lilah began dutifully repeating, and Rolf nudged Celie.

  “What’s going on with you and the griffins?” Rolf said in a loud whisper.

  The hair on the back of Celie’s neck stood on end, and her palms slicked with sweat. “What?” she choked out. Seeing Master Humphries looking at her, she managed to lower her voice. “What griffin? What are you talking about?”

  “Aren’t you looking for griffins in the library?”

  “What? No!” Celie saw a vision of Rufus in the library, tearing apart priceless books and chewing on historic scrolls. “There are no griffins in the library … I mean, I’m not looking for griffins!”

  Rolf raised one eyebrow at her babbling. “Bran said you were looking for stories about griffins,” he clarified. “But I guess he was wrong … ?”

  “No!” Again Celie had to lower her voice. Lilah was now discussing the weather with JouJou. “I am interested in stories about griffins. Have you found a book about them or something?”

  “A book? No,” Rolf said. “But I wondered if you wanted to see my cushions.”

  “Your … cushions?”

  “And now the Celie will greet the queen,” Lulath said with uncharacteristic sharpness.

  Celie yanked her attention back to Lulath, and realized that he was looking at her with as much sternness as the normally silly prince could muster. Master Humphries, standing behind Lulath, was looking disapproving as well. Celie tried not to wince. She looked at JouJou—the queen—and tried to remember how to greet her.

  “Mineer othalia,” she began after taking a deep breath.

  She relaxed when she saw Lulath smile and nod encouragingly. The queen scratched herself behind one ear and tried to hop off the table, but Lulath hauled her back into position as Celie continued, praising her furry majesty and then finishing with a question about whether it would be good weather for sailing next week.

  Rolf’s turn speaking to the queen took them to the end of their lesson, and then Rolf and Lilah left with Lulath and his dogs. Celie had to endure another afternoon of epic poetry, and this one with no mention of griffins to liven up the transcribing. She was also called upon to do some mathematics, and finished her lessons with a rousing recitation of her own lineage back to the royal barber who became Glower the Sixty-ninth.

  After a quick check on Rufus, who was playing happily in his new tower room, Celie searched the Castle for Rolf. She found him just leaving the throne room with their father. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to say the word “griffin” in front of King Glower, in case it made her blush or act in a suspicious manner, but her father was obviously preoccupied. He called her Lilah, slapped Rolf on the back so hard he nearly knocked his younger son down, and then wandered off, muttering something about speaking to the Council in their chambers.

  “Is he all right?” Celie asked Rolf, staring after their father.

  “Just worried about things going wrong with the Castle,” Rolf said, his voice tinged with concern as well. “Do you want to see the cushions?”

  “What cushions are you talking about?”

  “The cushions in my bedroom have griffins on them,” Rolf said, leading the way to his room. It wasn’t far, now that all the bedrooms were in a row leading off the main hall. “I’ve had them for so many years, I hardly noticed them. In fact, I was going to ask Ma’am Housekeeper for some new ones, but when I heard that you were looking for griffin stories to read, I wondered if you wanted to see them first. They tell a story, sort of.”

  “Really?”

  Celie followed him eagerly into his room. Rolf had a wide bench built into the bay window that filled one wall, and there were a number of cushions scattered across it. They were made from old tapestries, and Celie had sat on them many times without paying much attention to them.

  “They’re all from the same tapestry,” Rolf said. “Ma’am Housekeeper told me that it was probably one that got too worn to hang anymore, so they cut out the parts that weren’t totally threadbare and made them into cushions. Here, let me put them in order for you.”

  He scrambled the cushions around for a moment, then stepped back. There were six of them, all roughly the same size, and all faded
and worn. Celie could understand why Rolf was looking for some new ones.

  But if you looked beyond the shabbiness, you could see the griffins. Beginning on the left, Celie stood with her hands clasped and her mouth slightly open, seeing the life of a griffin depicted with rich threads.

  The first cushion showed two halves of an egg with a small griffin crouched inside, humans standing over it with arms outstretched as if greeting it. On the second cushion the griffin had doubled in size and played with a hound at the feet of a woman holding a lute and wearing an oddly draped gown. The third cushion showed a man in an enormous hat fitting the now full-grown griffin with a harness, and the fourth cushion showed him mounted on the griffin, gesturing with a stiff arm as though encouraging it to fly. The fifth cushion depicted a battle between knights mounted on griffins, and the sixth showed the griffin, fallen, while a man stood over it with hanging head.

  “That one’s sort of horrible,” Rolf said apologetically, pointing to the last cushion. “There are a lot of arrows stuck in that poor beast. I usually turn that one against the wall.”

  “Yes, those are a lot of arrows,” Celie said, not trusting her voice.

  If the cushions were showing the life of a real griffin that had once lived in the Castle, she wasn’t sure how she felt. The idea of Rufus flying excited and terrified her, much like the idea that he might be large enough for a grown man to ride on one day. She was charmed by the picture of the griffin playing with the dog, and hoped it boded well for Rufus to one day join the court without Lulath’s dogs needing to fear that he would attack them. But the images of the battle and the slain griffin were deeply disturbing.

  “We have to show these to Bran,” Celie said, feeling almost overwhelmed.

  She wondered what other evidence of the existence of griffins she had missed over the years. Suddenly she remembered that she still hadn’t gone to take a good look at the tapestries that she had told Bran about, and wondered if Rolf knew about them. She tried to school her features as she turned to look at her brother, not wanting to make it seem too important, but Rolf was already watching her carefully.