Toil & Trouble

by Emery Belle

  “Thank you,” I said shakily, looking up into the eyes of my savior for the first time.

  I’d never seen cracks in his composure before, but for an instant, before the mask settled back into place, I almost caught a glimpse of the man behind the monster. Lord Macon accepted the empty mug back from me and vanished it with a wave of his hand. Then he strode back to a large wooden desk in the corner of the room and settled himself behind it, leaving me to struggle to a sitting position, pressing my chest gently and wincing at the tender spots where the talon wounds had been.

  “You’re lucky,” Lord Macon said, picking up a paper from his desk, along with a fountain pen, and sliding a pair of reading glasses up his nose. “Most people foolish enough to challenge Millicent leave this courthouse in a box… and not a large one, either.” Without looking up at me, he began making long pen strokes on the document he was reading while I sat there, trying and failing to come up with something, anything, to say.

  After several long moments of listening to the scratch, scratch, scratch of his pen, I cleared my throat and said, “I know.”

  Two little words had never held more meaning. Or more danger.

  There was a pause, long and drawn out and incredibly painful. The tension in the small room was palpable, a dry, musky taste on the tip of my tongue. Finally, with a long, low sigh, the chief justice set down his pen and looked at me. Really looked at me. The air coalesced around us, pressing in on me, making it hard to take a breath, and from the shallow rise and fall of Lord Macon’s shoulders, I could tell that he felt it too.

  My heart was pounding in my ears, my hands, which I’d clenched into fists, were trembling, and my feet were tapping a frantic, involuntary rhythm against the ground.

  My grandfather looked away from me. Picked up his pen. Resumed his work.

  “Miss Winters, if I am forced to rescue you again from our courthouse guard, I will have no choice but to fine you ten gold coins and sentence you to thirty days in jail. Now get out of my sight, and make sure you close the door on your way out.”

  With no choice but to leave Lord Macon to his own denial—again—I managed to scrape together enough coins to hail a magi-cab with bat-wing boost to fly me to Homer Vale’s office. Minutes later, the cab soared down in front of a beautiful weeping willow tree alone in a field of wild grass that was swaying gently in the breeze.

  I looked at the tree, then down at the address in my hand, and frowned at the cabbie through the open window. “I don’t know if this is the right…”

  But with a wave and a smile, he took flight again, leaving me alone in the field. I tucked the address into my pocket and began circling the tree, pressing my feet down into the long, unkempt grass in search of a hidden door. Finding none, I raised my hand to my forehead, shielding my eyes from the sun as I scanned the field, empty except for me and a family of rabbits munching on some wild cabbage.

  “Mr. Vale?” I called out to the empty field, and the rabbits peered up at me, bits of cabbage hanging from their mouths. “It’s Wren Winters. I’m here for my appointment? I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late…”

  My voice trailed off as nothing but silence greeted me. Wondering if perhaps the elf was running late himself, I sank to the ground and propped my back up against the weeping willow, gazing up at its wispy branches and feather-light leaves. The sun streamed through them, dappling my skin and dampening my forehead, and I watched with envy as a sparrow streaked out of the sky to dip its beak in a tiny pond across the field.

  I had just closed my eyes and rested my head against the tree trunk, debating whether to leave, when there was a sharp crack behind me and I found myself falling backward, into the tree. Literally, into it. When I opened my eyes, blinking to orient myself, I was lying flat on my back, staring up at a tall, thin elf with a pointed chin, flowing gray-blond hair, and a cross expression.

  “You’re late.”

  “I-I’m sorry,” I stammered, clambering to my feet and brushing the dirt from my knees. “I couldn’t find you.”

  The elf tsked impatiently and pointed to the doorbell hidden in the bark well above my head. Then, with an irritated wave of his hand to indicate that I should follow him, he began descending a long, dark, spiral staircase that was framed by cobwebs and felt so rickety I feared it would collapse beneath us.

  The interior of the tree was damp, and a dank, musty smell clung to my nose as I groped for a railing, a handhold, anything to hang onto as I followed the elf into the darkness. Finding nothing, I had to settle for clinging to stray pieces of bark and praying I wouldn’t lose my footing, for the staircase seemed to have no end.

  Finally, we emerged into a spacious circular room lit only by torches. Dirt clung to the walls and ceilings, and a spider the size of my fist dangled on a web in one corner, watching me with a steady gaze as it devoured the quivering insect in its grip. I averted my eyes, instead focusing on a wooden bookshelf that held rows and rows of clear vials, each containing something large, pinkish-gray, and squishy-looking. As the elf busied himself at his desk, I wandered over to the bookshelf, then reared back when I realized the vials held…

  “Brains.” The elf had sidled up behind me, though I hadn’t heard him coming. He removed a pair of thin spectacles from his pocket, unfolded them and put them on, then stepped forward to caress one of the glass vials.

  “The mind is a beautiful, miraculous thing, and I have spent my life studying its inner workings. No one, not even our zombie friends, is more intimately acquainted with the majesty of the brain, whether it belongs to an ogre—the least intellectually inclined—or the greatest witches and wizards the world has ever known.”

  At that last thought, he gestured to a row of brains at the very top of the shelf, in the most prized spot. “Donated,” he said, answering the question I was afraid to ask. “By those, like me, who understand the magic and the mystery of the mind.”

  The elf stared at me, long and hard, and I was just beginning to shift uncomfortably under his intense gaze when he turned abruptly on his heel and strode back toward his desk.

  “My good friend, Lady Brunhilda Winthrop, has informed me that you are struggling with your magic.” He gestured to a threadbare armchair in the center of the room. “She believes that being thrust into an entirely new world, along with a certain knack for attracting trouble wherever you go, has resulted in a mind that is weary and weak. Fortunately”—his voice became muffled as he bent beneath his desk—“I am more than qualified to help.”

  When he reemerged, he was holding an orange crystal attached to a long gold chain. “Sit, sit,” he said, waving me toward the chair again, and when I obliged, he followed me and began wrapping the chain around my head in ever-constricting circles. When I began to protest, he shushed me with a finger to his lips.

  “Relax your mind, relieve yourself of all thoughts, and open yourself up to the possibility of healing. For it is there in which you will find peace.”

  I rolled my eyes in what I thought was a discreet way, but he gave me a stern look and yanked even harder on the chain, which was now drilling into my head. “If you do not give your mind over to me, I will be unable to draw out the poison consuming it, and your magic will never again be free to flourish and take flight.”

  With a final tug, he stepped back to admire his handiwork, then reached out a hand to straighten the crystal on my forehead. “Perfect,” he said, kissing his fingertips.

  I gave him a skeptical look, but obeyed his instructions to close my eyes and relax my body. “Breathe in, two, three, out, two, three,” he said in a soft voice, his fingertips caressing my temples. “I want you to imagine something—a person, a place, even a favorite food—that brings you serenity and happiness. Focus on that, and try to keep your mind free of all other thoughts and worries.”

  My thoughts flitted around, trying to draw up an image that brought me peace—no small task at the moment, when I felt danger lurking in every corner. Finally, though, I landed on a secluded st
retch of beach on the island that I sometimes visited alone, and focused on the dusky, sunset sky, the coolness of the sand between my toes, the waves lapping against the ivory shore. I could feel the tension bleeding out of me, and as I watched the waves roll in, hypnotized by the rush and pull of the water, I was startled to feel tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

  “That’s it,” the elf whispered, his fingers digging almost painfully into my skin. He began chanting in a low, deep voice, and even though his hands remained firmly in place, I could feel tendrils of something soft, something silky, crawling through my mind, combing through my thoughts and feelings and fears. But I didn’t care—I was lost in the sunset, lost in the waves, lost in the lick of ocean air against my skin.

  With a sharp intake of breath, the elf yanked his hands away from my temples, so suddenly that I was jerked back to the present without warning. The beautiful scenery in my mind was replaced by the dim room, the dirt walls, and the look of fear on the elf’s face.

  “What?” I asked, turning my gaze to him. I still felt sleepy, dreamy, as though I were being immersed in a tub of warm water and cotton balls.

  He shook his head, then returned his fingers to my skin with an expression of intense concentration. When he yanked them away again, the sensation of warmth, of comfort, was replaced by the feeling of icy water being dumped on my head. He ripped the gold chain and crystal from my head, ignoring my cry of pain, and began backing away from me, holding his hands up as if to ward me off.

  The crystal, formerly orange but now a bright fire-engine red, dangled limply from the chain. He fumbled for it with trembling fingers, then held it up in the air between us, inches from my nose. “Be gone,” he said, struggling to gain control of his voice.

  I stared at him in confusion, then took a step forward, but he shoved the crystal further toward me, blocking my way. “Be gone from this place!” His voice was steady this time, his eyes gleaming in the low lighting, and the fear in them was unmistakable.

  When I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, he cut me off with another jab of the crystal. “I was not warned. Lady Winthrop did not say… There is a darkness within you, something dangerous and unnatural, and I will not bring it into the land of the elves. I will not taint my people with the curse that leaves a black stain on your mind, and on your very soul. You must leave here, and you must not ever come back.”

  He stepped aside, clearing a path to the staircase, and I walked toward it, zombie-like, pressing one hand against the wall for support. A clump of dirt broke off and fell to the ground, scattering at my feet, but I ignored it, staring at the elf as ice-cold fear gripped my lungs and squeezed, making it impossible to breathe. I knew it had been a mistake to come here. I knew no good could come from opening up the most private parts of myself to a stranger. And now, and now…

  “You won’t tell?” The words barely squeaked out, but the elf reared back as though I had shouted at him.

  “I am bound to silence.” His chest rose and fell rapidly. “My profession, my calling, requires me to keep the secrets of those who come to me for help.”

  “Okay,” I said, relief rushing out of me in a long exhale of breath. “Okay, thank you, I’ll just be—”

  “But that does not change what you are.”

  The elf cut me off, and this time, his voice held no hint of fear. He took a step toward me, and the crystal in his hands flashed red as it caught the light from the torch hanging on the wall beside him, bathing him in an eerie, otherworldly glow. His eyes bored into mine.

  “That does not change the danger your very presence brings into our world. Into our beautiful, peaceful world. You should leave.” He took another step toward me, more threatening this time. “You should leave, and you should never come back.”

  I faltered for a few moments, but after one last glance at the crystal, I turned and fled up the staircase, away from the dim room, away from the elf, away from the truth.

  Chapter 13

  Somehow, I made it back to the center of town without having any idea how I’d gotten there. I stood on the sidewalk, wiping tears from my eyes, watching the islanders going about their business on this beautiful day: a witch and her daughter oohing and aahing over a storefront display of solid gold cauldrons, a vampire sipping a steaming cup of hot blood while reading the latest edition of The Islander Gazette, a centaur offering astrology readings on a rickety table set up on the side of the road. Snapshots from the life of those who lived here, those who belonged here. I was not one of them.

  A few people looked at me in concern as I stumbled past, tears streaming unchecked down my cheeks, and though a few tried to stop me, I sidestepped them and pressed on, toward safety, toward the person who had become my haven, my home. When I arrived, I pounded on the door with both fists, my sobs now unleashed and lifting up into the air, a song of sorrow that the sparrows echoed back to me.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming! Jumping jellyfish, I’m an old man; I can only move so fast.”

  The door was wrenched open, and when Glenn caught sight of me, his cross look melted away. Stepping outside, he reached forward, opening his arms wide, and I collapsed into him, pressing my cheek into his soft chest as he stroked my hair and murmured words of comfort.

  “There, there, my sweet girl,” he whispered, flicking the tears away from my cheeks with tender strokes of his thumbs. He continued holding me until my sobs died out, until I was slumped against him, exhausted, every bone in my body collapsing in on itself as though made of jelly. I clung to him as he led me inside, and he got me settled on the couch before conjuring a tall glass of ice water and a platter of peanut brittle with a wave of his hand.

  I chugged half the water and took a few bites of peanut brittle, then sank into the plush cushions with a heavy sigh. The couch groaned under Glenn’s weight as he settled in beside me, and it was only then that I got a good look at him… and his bruised eye, and the gash across his collarbone, and the medical tape wrapped tightly around both wrists. When he caught me staring at them, he tried to hide them behind his back, but I grabbed his forearms to prevent him from moving.

  “What happened to you?” I demanded. I glanced around Glenn’s living room, noticing for the first time an enormous metal box backed up against the far wall. It was smooth on all sides with the exception of a small window at the very top, and as I watched, the box began rattling as a hand—a very stiff-looking hand—pounded against the window.

  Glenn tugged at the collar of his hot pink shirt nervously, his eyes glued to the box. “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, just a little mishap. Clemmy’s really starting to develop quite the little personality… didn’t expect her to be so feisty, if I’m being honest. But she’s a good girl, really, just doesn’t know her own—”

  The metal box began rocking back and forth violently as the mannequin tried to escape, and Glenn reared back on the couch, hand pressed to his heart, a layer of sweat breaking out on his forehead. After a few more loud thuds that sounded like the mannequin throwing herself against the side of her prison, a noticeable dent appeared in the box. Glenn swallowed hard and heaved himself to his feet before approaching the box tentatively.

  “Clemmy?” he called out, his voice rising an octave. “Sweetheart? We don’t do that.” He clasped his hands together as if in prayer. “Now be a good lass and I’ll let you come out, just like I promised.”

  A very long pause followed, and Glenn was just beginning to look hopeful when another bang rattled the box, followed by a sharp crack, and the windowpane spiderwebbed. Glenn squealed and surged forward, belly bouncing as he brandished his wand; I caught a glimpse of the mannequin’s face, twisted with rage, lips bared and teeth gnashing, before Glenn sealed the window shut, adding an extra layer of glass for good measure.

  “That oughta do it,” he muttered to himself, whipping a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopping up the sweat coating his red face. The box lurched again and he screamed, high-pitched and terrified. I was in
the process of ripping the duct tape off my own wand—a malfunctioning one seemed like a better option than none in this particular brand of crisis—when the box gave a final, feeble rattle and then went still.

  “Thank the goddess, I think she finally fell asleep.” Glenn doubled over the couch, hands pressed against the cushions as he caught his breath. My own pulse was skittering, and I kept one eye on the box as I laid my wand gently on the coffee table, grabbed a handful of peanut brittle, and shoved it into my mouth. If ever there was a time for stress-eating, narrowly avoiding being mauled by a department store mannequin come to life was it.

  When Glenn finally straightened up, still breathing heavily and looking to be on the verge of a heart attack, I shoved my water glass his way and waited until he’d taken a long sip before asking, in as sensitive a voice I could muster, “Maybe it’s time to send Clemmy back to where she came from?” Meaning, the land of the non-living.

  Glenn looked at me, aghast. “Send her back?” he spluttered. “Why would I do such a thing?” He waved his arms for emphasis, then, catching a glimpse of his bandaged wrists, shoved them behind his back. “She’s still learning,” he said stubbornly. “You’re expecting too much of her, Wren. It’s not fair to poor Clemmy.”

  I opened my mouth again to argue, but at the sight of his resolute face, closed it, suddenly feeling incredibly weary. Glenn studied me with a wary eye for a few beats, then, when I made no more mention of the mannequin, his shoulders relaxed. He plucked a large piece of peanut brittle off the platter, then handed it to me.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” he said, sitting back and crossing one short leg over the other.

  So I did. I told him everything, unwinding the band of fear cinched around my heart inch by inch, and when I was finished, I felt like I could breathe again. “But you knew all of this,” I finished with, my eyes blurring with unshed tears.