Avery frowned at the tentacle. He didn’t like the look of it. But he liked being rude even less, and so he reached out took the tentacle, sticking the very tip of it into his mouth. Like Zib, his eyes went wide.
“It tastes like my mother’s spaghetti,” he said, wondering. “I can taste the garlic, and the tomato sauce, and the mushrooms. But … spaghetti doesn’t taste like gingerbread or ice cream, not even a little. This can’t be real.”
“Flavor fruit was a gift from the Queen of Wands, when she had to step aside from being summer and take her place in the Impossible City,” said the Crow Girl. “She wanted to be sure that everyone would always be able to eat the things they like best in the world, because everybody needs a treat sometimes. You can’t eat only flavor fruit—you still need fish and bread and other good things in your belly, or you’ll get a stomachache—and that’s why it’s hard to grow. People would eat only it, if they had a choice.”
“I guess that makes sense,” said Avery, hungrily eyeing the fruit in the Crow Girl’s hands. Zib was munching on hers, body slightly curved away, so that there was no chance she’d have to share.
The Crow Girl handed him the fruit. “All yours,” she said magnanimously, before producing a third from the hamper. “We have to eat some fish and bread when we’re done, though, or it’ll be like eating all dessert and no dinner: hungry again an hour later, and ready for bed half an hour after that. How do children sleep, where you come from?”
“Um,” said Avery. “We mostly just close our eyes and … do.”
“Sometimes my parents let me take a sleeping bag into the backyard and I sleep where all the stars can see me,” said Zib. “Once I woke up with a spider in my nose.”
“That must have been very surprising for the spider,” said the Crow Girl. “You stay all in one piece when you sleep? How queer. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to be all one piece and try to rest at the same time. I think I’d shake myself apart even trying.”
“We’re always in one piece,” said Avery.
“No one is always in one piece,” said the Crow Girl. “Your heart wants one thing and your head wants something else and your lungs are pig-in-the-middle trying to argue with the both of them. Your spine wants to sit and your feet want to go and your hands want to grab, and they can’t all have their way. No wonder you look so confused and cranky! When all the parts of me start arguing, I pull them apart until they calm down. You, though, you keep holding them together.”
“We don’t mind,” said Zib. “I would think it very strange, if my hands and my feet went off in different directions at the same time.”
“You get used to it,” said the Crow Girl, and took a hearty bite of her own flavor fruit, smiling blissfully. “Carrion pie. Just like home.”
Neither Zib nor Avery knew what that tasted like, and they didn’t want to: they were happy to eat their own flavor fruit and then, once it was gone, to eat the fish and bread the Crow Girl had promised. The fish was juicy and sweet, roasted with unfamiliar greens and more of the little pink berries, which had burst as they cooked, spreading seeds across the fish’s skin. They popped between the teeth, adding a delightful sensation to their supper. The bread was soft and fresh, and there was cheese and butter and oh! Such a lovely meal it was that both children quite forgot how much they wanted another flavor fruit, and simply ate what had been set in front of them.
When they were finished, the plates licked clean and the hamper empty and their bellies aching pleasantly, as they always did after a good meal, they sat back in comfortable quiet. Zib leaned until her head rested on Avery’s shoulder, that insouciant hair brushing his cheek, and it seemed so right for her to be there that he didn’t object.
“That was wonderful,” he said, for his parents had always stressed the importance of remembering his manners. “Thank you. Did you cook it all yourself?”
“Oh, no,” said the Crow Girl. “I stole it!”
Avery gasped. Zib sat bolt upright, and it seemed like her hair sat up even straighter, so that she looked like she’d been struck by lightning.
“Stole it?” asked Avery. “From whom?”
“Why, the Queen of Swords, of course. Everything here belongs to her. Every beast and briar, every hill and hearth. All the crows have to steal if we want to eat. The Queen doesn’t mind. She’s the one who made us this way, and she knows that we don’t mean any harm by it.” The Crow Girl cocked her head thoughtfully to the side. “Although I suppose if you still want to get to the Impossible City, we should start walking again. The Queen doesn’t like things she doesn’t own, so she’ll come to try and own you soon. It’s the only way to keep everything exactly as she wants it and not a bit as she doesn’t.”
“So you stole our lunch from the woman who doesn’t want us here, and you don’t think that’s bad,” said Zib. She scrambled to her feet, one sock snagging on the uneven brick and pulling away from her foot, leaving her toes bare. “That’s all you stole, though, right? You didn’t take anything else?”
“Only one other thing. Catch!” The Crow Girl reached into her dress and pulled out a key, tossing it to Avery, who caught it without thinking. Then he gasped, nearly dropping it again.
It was a key, yes, but a key a foot long, carved from what looked like a single piece of bone. The surface was covered in scrimshaw swirls, showing two children walking the long length of a ribbon road. To make the point even clearer, the lines of the road had been picked out in mother-of-pearl, so that it glittered and gleamed against the white. It was stark and terrible and beautiful, all at the same time, for all things can be many things, under the right conditions.
“It’s a skeleton key,” said the Crow Girl smugly. “They’re supposed to be guarded, oh yes, locked away from the likes of me and us and we all together, but I got one. I snatched it and cached it and now all we need to do is find the lock that fits it and you can move on to the protectorate of the Queen of Wands. She isn’t there now, no, she isn’t there at all, what with the Impossible City needing all her time, but if we can’t find it—” Her face fell. She finished, almost in a whisper, “If we can’t find it, we have to go the long way round, through the protectorate of the King of Cups. You don’t want that, not at all. You want to stay safe and dry and well away from him.”
“Why do you have so many kings and queens around here, and why do we have to be afraid of half of them?” demanded Zib.
“Well, because if you belonged to one of them, you wouldn’t have to be afraid of them, and maybe you’d be afraid of the other half, which can be a nice change.” The Crow Girl stood and stretched, yawning at the same time. “Up, up, up. We need to be moving before we decide that sleeping would be better. Nothing can force you off the improbable road, not even queens and kings, but that doesn’t mean they can’t try, and sometimes the road goes on adventures of its own, and then you’re stuck. So get up, up, up. It’s time to walk.”
Zib was already standing. She turned to offer her hands to Avery, who took them and let himself be pulled from the ground. He was still holding the skeleton key. She shied away from it, dimly aware that she was glad he had been chosen as its guardian, and not her at all.
“If you could fly, this would be easier, but if you could fly, we wouldn’t be here, so I suppose we’ll work with what we have,” said the Crow Girl. “On you go!”
Avery and Zib moved closer together, Zib’s hand still holding tight to one of his. Without a word or a glance between them, they began walking.
The protectorate of the Queen of Swords was beautiful: of that there could be no question. Birds circled overhead, and other shapes that were almost birds but not quite. Avery squinted and thought they might be dragons, or winged people, soaring on currents he was too far down to feel. The Crow Girl’s comments about flight seemed more reasonable than they had before he saw that, and he shivered.
All around them were rolling hills and trees with high, straight branches, perfect for climbing or for roosting in. As
he thought that, two things happened at essentially the same time, so that no matter which we mention first, we are getting something out of order. So:
What he had first taken to be a particularly low cloud, snuggled tight against the trunk of one of the tall roosting trees, stirred itself, opened eyes as startlingly blue as a summer afternoon, and spread its wings, revealing itself to be a snowy owl the same impossible size as Meadowsweet. It launched itself into the air, gliding silently over the improbable road, circling the trio twice before setting down in front of them, and:
The improbable road, which had never been a straight line—had always been a curving, twisting thing, like a length of ribbon thrown carelessly down across the landscape, making its own way, setting its own standard, as suited a thing that was almost entirely an idea—abruptly forked. To the left, it twisted its way into another deep tangle of briars, each one equipped with thorns as long and viciously sharp as hatpins. To the right, it wound its way through an orchard of low, orange-leafed trees, their branches heavy with unfamiliar fruits, their roots growing with such wild abandon that they broke through the brick and turned the already-treacherous road even more so.
Avery found that he was no longer impressed by owls larger than owls had any reason to be. At least this one was a color he was accustomed to seeing on owls, and not pink, or purple, or a vivid green. The fork in the road was much more of a concern.
“Hello,” said Zib, to the owl.
The Crow Girl rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Broom. What are you doing here?”
“The same as I ever am,” said the owl, and it was no longer strange to hear an owl speak: clearly, that was what owls did in the Up-and-Under. “Warning travelers to be careful with their choices, and keeping watch over children who are out past their bedtimes. Children.” The owl turned its head, regarding Avery and Zib with enormous amber eyes. If Meadowsweet’s gaze had been like entering a staring contest with Halloween, this was like looking into a treasured jack-o-lantern, seeing all the wonders of a wild, wonderful night reflected in the candle’s glare.
Broom’s voice was soft and kind. Zib thought immediately of her father, who had never once raised his voice in anger, not even when the children on his bus were naughty beyond all reasonable measure. Avery thought of his math tutor, who always tried his best, despite Avery’s hopelessness with more advanced concepts. Both of them found that they trusted the owl, which was a nice change, given how many other things they had found and failed to trust since arriving in the Up-and-Under.
“You are out past your bedtime and before your bedtime and until bedtime ceases to have any meaning whatsoever,” said Broom. “Why have you done this? Why have you come here?”
“Oh shush, you flying mop,” said the Crow Girl. “I have them in hand. I’ll get them to the City, you watch and see.”
“Are you sure that’s where you’re taking them?” asked Broom, his head swiveling back to face the Crow Girl.
She bristled—literally bristled, the feathers of her dress lifting and puffing out, until she looked as though she were wearing a long shirt three sizes too big for her. “We’re on the improbable road!” she protested. “If I were planning to delay, betray, take them the wrong way, we wouldn’t be on the road. The road wouldn’t let us be.”
“You might not know,” said Broom, and again, his voice was gentle. He turned back to Avery and Zib. “Do you have Crow Girls where you come from?”
Silent, they shook their heads.
“Crow Girls serve two masters. They’re made by the Queen of Swords, because she can’t stand things that don’t belong to her, but she’s fickle, and she doesn’t like the mischief they get up to when she’s not keeping an active eye on them. So she gives them away, to someone whose name I won’t say, because that person listens to the owls, that person hates and remembers us, and if she hears her name on my beak, she’ll come for you for no reason other than to spite me. Even a Crow Girl who thinks she’s doing the right thing can betray you because her other master tells her to.”
Avery blinked slowly. Then he turned to the Crow Girl. “Is it true?” he asked.
Her feathers lost their puff and drooped, sleeking back down as she slumped. “It is,” she admitted. “I didn’t know. When the Queen of Swords said she could set me free, she didn’t tell me there was a cage on the other end. She didn’t say she’d wrap me in tangles and hand all their ends to a bad person. The Queen likes to own things. She’ll make monsters of you all if we don’t get you away from here. But she doesn’t like to take care of them.”
“Who do you belong to?” asked Zib.
The Crow Girl drooped further. “I can’t say it,” she said. “If I say it, she’ll remember who I am, she’ll know where I am, she’ll come to collect me and carry me away, and she’ll know you’re here, she’ll see you and she’ll take you too, because her keeper loves new things. I hate cages. Don’t make me say it.”
“We won’t,” said Zib, and patted the Crow Girl hesitantly on the arm, the way her mother sometimes patted her. “I promise.”
The Crow Girl smiled bright as anything, her distress instantly forgotten as she turned to Broom. “The road splits, and I don’t know which way to go. We’re looking for a lock to fit our skeleton key. Do you know the way?”
“Locks are tricky things,” said Broom. “Either way could be the right one, and either way could be wrong.”
“We don’t have time for this,” blurted Avery. “If the Queen of Swords is so dangerous, we need to not be here anymore. We can’t stand around arguing about which way we’re going!” He turned resolutely to the left branch of the path and began stomping away, his shineless shoes thudding on the bricks.
The Crow Girl stared after him, mouth hanging slightly open. Then she whirled around, grabbing Zib by the shoulders, and said, “I’ll go after him. He’s too delicate to go alone. Take the flying mop and go the other way. If we find the lock, I’ll come find you. If you find the lock, bring it back here and wait for us. We’ll have you to the Impossible City in no time!” She burst into crows before Zib could say anything, all of them flying wildly after the rapidly dwindling Avery.
Zib blinked, her hair wilting slightly as she realized what had happened. Then she turned to Broom, and said, in a meek voice, “Will you go with me?”
“No, child.” Broom tucked his vast white wings against his chest, looking as sympathetic as an owl could look. “I do not belong to the Queen of Swords, but I am her subject as long as I live in her lands, and I will not go against her by helping you. The road will keep you safe. Stay on the road, and you will be protected. I hope I see you again.”
Then he was gone, in a great buffeting of silent feathers, and Zib was alone.
SEVEN
THE QUEEN OF SWORDS
Zib stared at the place where the owl had been, willing herself not to cry even as hot tears prickled at her eyes, burning them. She was alone. Avery and the Crow Girl were off having an adventure without her, and even the owl wouldn’t stay with her. No one ever stayed.
No one ever had. So why should this place be any different? Angrily, she swept her arm across her face, chasing the swelling tears away, and turned to stomp down the right branch of the road, into the orchard heavy with unfamiliar fruit.
Her stomach was full, and so she didn’t pick any of the strange spheres, which were covered with tiny, nubby spikes, but eyed them warily. If they fell and hit her, it would probably hurt, and she didn’t like being hurt. Avery was upset because he’d lost the shine from his shoes—ha! She’d lost her shoes entirely, and one sock, and was barely on the civilized side of barefoot. Zib scowled before bending down, pulling off her remaining sock, and hurling it into the bushes. Let someone else be civilized. The Crow Girl got by just fine without socks.
As soon as the sock disappeared in the weeds, she felt a pang of guilt. Her parents worked hard to buy her those socks, and she’d already lost her shoes, and her mother was always so disappointed when she came home with
holes where her toes were or tears where her ankles were, and how much more disappointed would she be by an entire missing pair? It wasn’t kind. Zib glanced anxiously around. She wasn’t supposed to leave the road. She also wasn’t supposed to be walking it all by herself, and it wasn’t like there was anything around here that would hurt her; it was nothing but trees and berry bushes and weeds as far as her eye could see.
Sometimes things which seem like excellent ideas are actually terrible ones, and we wait for someone to tell us so. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, that person comes along and says “stop” before it’s too late.
No one came along. No one said “stop.”
Zib stepped off the path.
The grass, for all that it was dry and windswept, was soft under her bare feet, and the stones seemed to roll out of the way, leaving her with nothing but gentle surfaces to walk upon. Her sock couldn’t have gone far. All she had to do was find it and she’d be able to go back to the road and keep looking for the lock. Something white caught her attention. She turned, and there was her sock, hanging on a nearby bush. Triumphant, she rushed over to grab it, then ran back to the road—or ran in the direction of the road, anyway, because when she reached the place where it should have been, there was no road there at all.
Zib stopped, blinking repeatedly, trying to make sense of what she saw. The grass looked like all the grass around it. There were trees, and bushes, and no space wide enough to place a road, no space at all. The road wasn’t there. The road had never been there.
“I got turned around, that’s all,” she said, and started in another direction. The road would be there. Surely the road would be there.
The road wasn’t there.
Zib stopped again, expression going very solemn and small. The road had abandoned her because she had abandoned the road. She was lost. But Avery and the Crow Girl were still on the road, and the Crow Girl had left them once, to get food, and come back by looking for them, not the road. So all she had to do was look for her friends, and everything would be all right again.
Over the Woodward Wall Page 7
