“What’s happened to him?” asked Elsie, who was standing at her sister’s side. She’d only once seen an adult man cry who wasn’t on the TV; it had been her dad, after her brother’s disappearance. This was different, though. This bout of crying seemed to come from a further-off place, a stranger place.
“I don’t know,” responded Rachel. “He’s crazy, I guess.”
“Serves him right,” said Cynthia. “That place was like a prison. It’s a crime what he did to us.”
Jacques had put his arm around Unthank and pulled his sobbing head into the crook of his shoulder. “There, there,” said Jacques, a consoling parent. “Cry it out, Joffrey. It’s true, my old friend. My old partner. You’ve done terrible, terrible things. Not just to these children: Oh, no—though that was a very serious misstep—worse, you’ve corrupted yourself and your own mind in your search for satisfaction, despite the costs. You’ve lost track of the man inside in your restless need to create things, to amass stuff, to have power. It is the disease of desire, my friend. And it has rotted your soul to the very core.”
Joffrey, smothered in the fabric of Jacques’s turtleneck, could only mumble a weird, “Hmm hmm tra la. Tra la.” The tears continued to fall, and they wet Jacques’s shirt.
“But you can redeem yourself, Joffrey,” continued the saboteur. “You can rise, like the phoenix, from the flames of your destroyed creation. You have arrived here, at my home, at your former fellow Titan’s home, to come face-to-face with your past and all the terrible decisions that you’ve made and that have led you, inexorably, to the place you currently, sadly, desperately inhabit. Look at your failed life, Joffrey: It is standing right in front of you.”
At this, Unthank pushed himself away from Jacques’s embrace and stared, teary-eyed, at the figures that surrounded him: the Chapeaux Noirs, the Unadoptables. Elsie, standing frozen by her sister, saw that Jacques, too, had started weeping.
Planting an affectionate kiss on Joffrey’s forehead, Jacques spoke again. “But you, like the rest of us, are a victim. You are ultimately not to blame. You were set up by a cruel and unfeeling master. You are not bad, not at the core. And fate has deposited you here to be a part of a great rebirth, a grand destruction of an empire of which you yourself have been its most recent victim.”
“Wiggggg . . . ,” mumbled Joffrey through his sobs. “Wiggggg . . .”
“Yes,” prompted Jacques. “Yes, speak his name. Speak his name as a soul newly hatched.”
“Wigmannnnn!” shouted Joffrey.
Just then, Jacques abruptly yanked Unthank from the floor and dragged him, stumbling, to the table. He held him by the scruff of his neck, as a mother cat would hold its litter, and pointed to the sheaf of pages on the table. “Here is your Babel, Joffrey. Here is your pillar of salt. Here is the beacon that has brought you to us, that has brought us all together. Look on it and laugh. For you are now free.”
And Joffrey Unthank began to laugh.
She’d placed the eagle feather on her dresser, right next to the framed mirror, in a little brass bowl. She wasn’t quite sure how the spirit wanted the things presented to her, but she figured a little bit of ceremony couldn’t hurt. It was a little disappointing to have the mirror do nothing when she’d arrived home, her hair a snag of twigs and moss, to present the feather she’d labored so hard to retrieve. True, the spirit only visited at night, when the clock chimed twelve—but she thought that maybe the ghost would make an exception now, when she’d brought the first thing the spirit had requested. When she got no response, Zita grabbed the little brass bowl, the one she herself had chosen from her mother’s belongings, the one her mother had kept her rings in at night, and set it in front of the mirror, placing the newly won feather in the dish. Still, nothing. She waited out the clock, waiting for the night to come.
When it did come, when the chime rang out in the hallway and her father was silently asleep in his room, she was prepared for the spirit’s return.
GOOD was written in the fog on the pane of glass of the mirror.
“Thank you,” said Zita, getting over her initial chill to see the words appear. What’s more, she found herself to be ever so slightly more comfortable with the fact that she was in the presence of a disembodied soul, one who was communicating with her through the mist on a mirror. “What’s next?” asked Zita timidly, her hands clutching her duvet.
The mirror cleared and again a mist, unseen in the room, clouded the surface. PEBBLE was scrawled.
Easy enough, thought Zita. A pebble could be gotten from just about anywhere.
ROCKING CHAIR CREEK. The words had taken up all the remaining real estate on the mirror. Zita’s face fell. She had never heard of Rocking Chair Creek, let alone where it might be. “I don’t have to go to the Avian Principality again, do I?” she asked to the ether.
But there came no response from the mirror. The fog disappeared. The mirror again reflected the small, dark room and the glow of the candle at Zita’s bedside. A moon, half-full, shone through the window and cast its light across the room as Zita contemplated her next move. Her father’s atlas would have an answer, she decided. Retrieving it from the hallway, she opened its cracked and dusty spine and smoothed the pages that showed the Wood in its entirety. Optimistically, she searched the area directly around her house, in the mercantile district, for the Empress’s words: ROCKING CHAIR CREEK. As she’d sadly expected, she found nothing. Moving farther afield, she crossed with her eyes the boundary of the Avian Principality and scanned the area’s many squiggly blue lines for the words—still nothing. It wasn’t until she’d glanced even farther north that she saw what she was looking for. Rocking Chair Creek did exist.
It was a creek that was deep in the heart of Wildwood.
CHAPTER 10
The Empty Folder;
Unthank Reborn
Prue cracked the door open carefully, slowly. The sounds of the angry crowd had receded, but she couldn’t be sure if there weren’t some desperate souls directly outside the door to the Interim Governor-Regent-elect’s office, waiting in secret for her inevitable escape. Through the small crack, she saw nothing; the bunting had been torn on the balcony and a few mismatched pairs of cycling shoes—evidently having been used as missiles—lay strewn about the landing.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the heavy oak door open and saw that she was very much alone, aside from a rather disgruntled-looking janitor who was sweeping up the torn clothing, broken teeth, and casquettes that littered the granite floor. Seeing Prue, the man glowered at her and continued on with his work, mumbling something denigrating about bicycles and maidens and revolutions.
Prue walked to the top of the staircase and was surprised to see a group of people still holding vigil in the foyer; fearing they would attack, she edged backward, her heart racing. It wasn’t until she saw the crowd’s expressions turn into ecstatic smiles that she knew she was safe.
“Maiden!” called one, a teenaged girl. “You’ve come back!”
“We were waiting for you,” announced another, a man with a bushy brown beard.
“What are we to do now?” called another—it was the badger rickshaw driver.
Prue edged apprehensively to the first step of the staircase. “You guys aren’t mad at me?” she asked.
A collective look of surprise came over the gathered faithful; there were at least fifteen of them. “No, of course not,” came the response, chimed in unison.
“You’re the Bicycle Maiden, the hero of the revolution,” said a fox. “We’d never abandon you.”
“Those others, those were just pretenders. Poseurs,” said the teenager. “They aren’t the true believers.”
The bearded man suggested, “We’ll apply to have their heads chopped off, Maiden, assuming that’s what you’d wish.”
Someone shushed him, saying loudly, “The Maiden clearly said there were to be no more decapitations.” The speaker turned to Prue for confirmation. “Right?”
“Right,” said
Prue, walking unsteadily down the stairs. She was still a little shaken by the near riot she’d escaped. “No more of that.”
“But what should we do with the people who oppose you?” asked a young man with short, dark hair wearing riding pants.
“Let them believe whatever they want,” said Prue. “Who cares? That’s the beauty of things, right? People should be able to believe what they want to, follow who they want to.”
The crowd seemed to be impressed by this pearl of wisdom, and they all said, “Ahhhh” simultaneously.
“Where to now?” asked the badger.
Prue chewed on her lip, thinking. She took a deep breath, her heart still beating fast. “Okay. Everyone,” she said as she climbed down the stairs. “Fan out. Talk to people. Spread the word about Alexei. Tell them the Council Tree wants him brought back to life and in order to do that, we need his two makers. We need to find out what happened to Carol Grod. Tell them the other maker has been found. Follow any leads you can. Find his family, find his friends. He was exiled somewhere; we need to find out where.”
The small crowd murmured their understanding and made for the doors, their steps energized with a kind of newfound bounce. Before the man with the beard could depart, however, she called out to him, “Wait!”
The man turned around. He was perhaps in his twenties, and he wore a pair of bib overalls with a sprocket brooch pinned to the right suspender. “Me?” he asked.
“I need someone to keep me protected,” she said.
The man smiled widely. “I can do that, ma’am,” he said. He walked back toward the center of the foyer.
“I’ll just wait by the rickshaw, then,” said the badger, making his way to the front doors.
“Actually,” said Prue, “stick with me. A third pair of hands couldn’t hurt.”
When she arrived at the checkerboard parquet of the foyer floor, she extended her hand out to the lumbering, bearded man, saying, “I’m Prue. What’s your name?”
“Charlie,” said the man. He was blushing; the skin above the hair of his brown beard was flushed red. “Very nice to meet the Bicycle Maiden, in person.”
“You can just call me Prue,” she said.
“I’ll do my best,” said the man. “But you’re still the Bicycle Maiden to me.”
“I’ll need you guys to stick by me,” she said. “There was an attempt on my life, not so long ago. Someone sent an assassin. Still don’t know who. I thought by coming here, I’d be safe. But I see I’m not quite as loved as I thought I’d be.”
The man, Charlie, frowned. “Oh, you’re still very loved. Anyone who don’t can expect to be missing their head, quick snap.”
“No more of that,” said Prue quickly.
“Sorry,” said the man.
“Unless they actually attack us. Then . . .” She paused in speaking. “Then, do whatever you want.”
“With pleasure, Bicycle Maiden,” said Charlie.
“Prue.”
“Prue, sorry.”
She’d noticed, ever since she’d left the safety of the Interim Governor-Regent-elect’s office, that a kind of fog of anxiety had come over her. She felt like the supporting foundation of her plan, the plan she’d devised with Curtis and with Esben, had eroded: She didn’t necessarily feel safe in the wide open now. She should’ve foreseen it, the crowd’s displeasure with her ultimate goal, but now it was too late. She still had these few supporters, and perhaps that would be enough to save her life. In any case, she decided, the quicker she found this mysterious blind Carol Grod, the better.
“We’re going to the archives,” said Prue. “Follow me.”
It became clear that in the intervening months since Prue’s last time at the Mansion, the place had been stripped of its staff as it had been stripped of its influence and importance in day-to-day affairs. It was a sad shadow of the bustling place it had been prior to the revolution. Gone were the attendants and the secretaries, the butlers and the maids (Prue wondered what had happened to Penny in the time between; she hoped she was safe). Instead, a few grumpy bureaucrats tried to do what the veritable army of staff had worked to achieve, and the deficit was clear. Each room had the same look of the foyer: The day-after-an-apocalyptic-party decoration scheme was carried over throughout the building. The three of them, Prue, Charlie, and the badger (whose name was Neil), wandered the massive building, asking directions when they could from the harried staff. No one seemed to know where the archives were; they were continually being sent in the wrong direction, ending up in strange dead ends and janitor’s cupboards. They lost about half an hour in a larder they’d stumbled on because Charlie was hungry. Replenished, they continued their search, which finally led them up a steep, winding staircase in a far-flung wing of the building. They found themselves at a wide wooden door with the sign ARCHIVES hanging over it.
“I’m guessing this is it,” said Neil helpfully.
Prue pressed the door’s iron handle and watched it slowly, creakily open into a giant, circular room that appeared to occupy the entire top floor of one of the Mansion’s towers. The windows were set high on the curved walls, walls that seemed to be built entirely of bookcases.
Made of a dark, marbled wood, the bookcases towered over the room and were filled with a staggering number of binder spines, all colored the same bland off-white. Several ladders, attached at a high rail, provided access to the higher shelves, and it looked to Prue that someone would risk a very serious injury if they needed to consult any of those volumes. A few lecterns were scattered about the carpeted floor of the room, and a small desk presented itself directly in front of the open doorway. There was someone, or something, cowering underneath the desk, Prue could see. The round feathered cap that peeked above the desk’s leather-covered surface gave him away.
“Hello?” asked Prue.
No answer came.
“Hello?” she repeated. “I can see you, you know. I can see your hat.”
A shuffling sounded, echoing in the high, vaulted chamber. The hat disappeared below the desk.
“I have a form here,” said Prue, undeterred. “Signed by the Interim Governor-Regent-elect. I need to look something up.”
Finally, a voice replied, “No one here!”
Prue and Charlie exchanged a confused glance. “I can hear you,” said Prue. “You’re talking to me.”
A silence followed as the speaker apparently considered this oversight on his part. The hat appeared again, above the lip of the desk. “Well,” said the speaker, the whoever-it-was under the desk, “make it quick, then.”
“Why are you hiding?” asked Prue.
“Is that your question? Is that what you’ve come here for? Will you leave if I answer?”
Prue knitted her brow. “No,” she said. “That’s just me being curious. That’s what a normal person would ask.”
“So what’s your form for, then? What are you here to look up?”
“I need to find a record of someone who was exiled, five years ago. Think you’d have that somewhere?”
“No,” came the definitive answer.
“You didn’t even look,” said Prue.
“I did.”
“You didn’t move. I can still see your hat.”
The speaker behind the desk let out a loud, importuned sigh, as if cursing his telltale headwear. “I don’t have to look. The records aren’t there.”
Prue’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean, they’re not there?”
“They’re not there. That’s what I mean.”
“Can you look again? How can you be sure?”
“I just looked. You’re the second person today who’s had me look.”
“Second? Who was the first?”
“Listen, I know you’re angry about this and I can understand your frustrations, to a certain degree. You’ve come looking for something and it isn’t here. I apologize. As the keeper of the archives, it is as dismaying to me as it is to you, rest assured. Perhaps more. Dismaying. To me. However
, there’s little I can do, and it is likely only a matter of hours before the next riot comes through, and I’ve just finished this morning putting the place back to order.” During this recitation, the hat began to float upward, and soon the speaker’s brow was revealed. Prue was surprised to see it was a rather large tortoise who’d been speaking. “Now if you’d kindly let me be, I can better protect myself.”
“Just, please,” said Prue, now more uncertain about her next step than she’d been in the past many weeks. “I need to know. He could be anywhere. Maybe the record is misplaced somewhere. Did you look anywhere else?”
Now the tortoise’s head appeared in its completeness above the cover of the desk. It was green, scaly, and fairly mushroomlike and sported as frightened a look as Prue had seen grace any human’s head. She immediately felt sorry for the thing.
“Fine!” he shouted. “Fine! Fine, fine, fine.” The tortoise then stood up fully from behind the desk (he wasn’t much taller than the structure he’d been hiding behind) and waddled over to the wall of bookshelves. “No need to look it up in the card catalog,” the tortoise fumed, having suddenly become almost manically fearless. “I just put it back. That’s helpful!” He laughed, once, madly. “The whole file’s up here. Institutional Punishment, Exile, years 340–345, Common Era. Ha, ha! Look at the memory on the turtle!” Arriving at one of the bookshelves’ ladders, he began climbing it. His journey took him to the very topmost rung, where he splayed a single flipper out to the limit of his reach and there grabbed one of the yellowing white binders. “Here, catch!” he howled.
Luckily, Charlie and Prue had both followed the tortoise over to the bookshelf and were there to catch the binder as it fell from its great height. Two more followed, the binder’s direct neighbors, with a fourth and fifth tagging along for good measure. The tortoise on the ladder cackled as he dropped the binders, muttering things that were thankfully just out of hearing of the two humans on the floor—they didn’t seem quite cleared for twelve-year-old ears.