He reads my thoughts. “Think of it like cutting up a broken shoe.”
“How did you know I work with shoes?”
The fox hesitates, then says, “You told me so.”
“I did?”
The fox lifts his neck, and I see his white ruff like snow in the moonlight. “One good cut. I won’t bite.”
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“Did you drive here all the way from Miami not to kill me?”
He’s right. The rat said I should kill the fox, that it was for the best. But I didn’t kill the giants, and I didn’t even kill the witch. Still, I reach toward the fox, hold his neck in my left hand, close my eyes, and with one motion, slice into his neck.
A bright red pain shoots through my hand. I look down, and it’s gushing blood. I press my finger against it, trying to staunch it. But where did the fox go? Where’s the fox?
And then, I see him. He’s on the ground. His neck wound is not just open, but gaping and getting bigger, spreading out until it’s bigger than his body, then bigger than mine. I jump back to avoid being swallowed up by it. But I needn’t have worried because when I look back, the hole is filled with something. A man, stepping from the fox’s skin. An older man, brown hair streaked gray. He looks familiar somehow, but of course, he isn’t. He’s the fox.
He’s the fox.
I saved him. I will never get used to this.
The fox-man looks at his hands, then puts them to his neck, checking for wounds. Finding none, he stares at his hands again. “I’m human. I’m alive. I’m . . .” He turns his hands from side to side. “. . . old.” He touches his face, like he’s feeling for wrinkles. “I spent my best years as a fox. Do I look hideous?”
I’m still drinking in the fact that he’s a guy. His fox skin lies on the ground, forgotten. I wonder why he got changed in the first place. Could it happen to anyone?
I say, “No, not bad. You don’t look old either. Just, you know, middle-aged.”
“I was twenty-five when I was changed. Thank goodness my clothes still fit. Still, my wife won’t recognize me. Aw, she’s probably married to someone else anyway, probably thinks I walked out on her. How am I ever going to convince her of the truth?”
The truth. I remember playing Four Truths and a Lie with Meg. Does anyone ever really know the truth about anyone?
Meg.
That makes me think of something else. The cleaning. When we played Four Truths and a Lie, I assumed her statement about doing all the cleaning was a true one.
Now, I know that was a lie. The lie. The brownies did the cleaning, not Meg. So if that was the lie, all the other statements must be true.
Including the last one.
And five: I am secretly, madly in love with you.
She loves me. At least, she did love me when she said it. She was trying to tell me, but I ignored her. I feel euphoria and despair. Meg loves me. Loved me. But is it too late now? Did I let her slip through my hands?
“Thank you!” The fox interrupts my thoughts and places his hands on my arms. They’re rough, probably from years of walking on them, but he’s shaking me, hugging me, jumping up and down, happy. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“You’re welcome. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to leave.” I have to find Meg. It’s after three. If I drive without stopping, maybe I can drive to the hotel, sneak in before Farnesworth gets there and sees me, wait for her at the shop.
If she hasn’t left to marry her prince.
But something tells me she hasn’t, that she was just pretending to be so happy, to make me jealous. It worked.
Meg loves me. She wouldn’t have had the elves make the shoes if she didn’t. I know it.
It is this thought that propels me away from the fox. “Here.” I shove a couple of bills into his hand. “To get you started. I need to go.”
“But wait! I have to talk to you.”
“I’ll see you around, maybe.” I start toward the car.
“Wait! Let me—”
The door slams shut. No time for long good-byes. I have to find Meg.
Chapter 43
In the middle of the night, two little men came and sat at the shoemaker’s table. They began to hammer, stitch, and sew.
—“The Elves and the Shoemaker”
I speed down the mostly deserted streets. Halfway back, my needle’s near empty, but I hope I have enough gas to make it. I will the car forward. Don’t stop. Don’t stop now. It starts to rain. Then harder, so all I can see is a blur of red and white light. I feel my car hydroplane out of control. I turn into the skid, right my direction, and keep going. I slow down, but not too much. When you’ve found out that the person you love loves you, you can’t delay. You have to hurry.
I reach the hotel on fumes. When I get to the employee parking lot, the car sighs as it stops.
Four o’clock. The lobby is deserted. The swan area seems oddly shiny and empty. The night clerk doesn’t look up. It’s too early even for Meg, but I know my only chance is to camp out, wait for her.
I slip back into the shoe shop first, then close the door against Farnesworth’s eyes. I sit, considering what I’ve gained and maybe lost. I wanted so much—romance, adventure. How could I have known that the only adventure worth having was the one I was already in? The only romance was with the girl next door.
I leaf through the marketing plan the brownies made for me. It isn’t very thick, and when I open the booklet, there’s only one page. It says:
Get Princess Victoriana to mention the shoes on television.
Get Princess Victoriana to mention the shoes in magazines.
Get Princess Victoriana to mention the shoes in the newspaper.
It goes on like that for a while. I guess a marketing plan was a lot to expect from elves who didn’t go to business school.
I hear noises from the hallway, small, high-pitched noises, like voices, but no voices I’ve ever heard. I open the door and listen.
“Oh no,” says a small voice that I can only hear because the hotel is so silent.
“What is it?” says another.
I stay completely still. The voices are definitely coming from the coffee shop. But who’s there?
“I’m telling ya, she is gone,” says a tiny voice. “Would you want to get him?”
Gone? Do they mean Meg? That the prince has taken her? Or someone else?
“Get him?” says another voice. “We cannot be getting him. We speak to no one.”
“But she’s only a wee girl, and she is in bleeding danger,” says the first voice. “And he knows we are here. She told him.”
“Our Meg is a feisty lass,” says the other. “She can take care of herself. Best not to meddle.”
Meg! It is Meg, and she’s in danger. Before I can even think further, I launch myself over the counter and across the hallway. I pound on the door, saying, “Let me in! Please help me! I need to know what happened to Meg.”
After that outburst, I’m quiet again, to let them answer. I know who they are now. The brownies. They must be in there. Will they answer me? I knock again, more softly so as not to scare them. “Hey, you did a great job on the shoes. Thanks. So much! Will you let me in?”
Then, I realize. I have the key to the coffee shop. It’s inside the register at our place. Meg and I exchanged them long ago. I run across the hall and grab it.
It takes precious seconds to open the door and turn on the lights. When I do, the room is empty.
“Are you in here? I heard you before.”
I search every counter for evidence of what the brownies have seen, what made them think Meg was in danger. But the counters are so clean I can picture the tiny guys, skidding across them. Even the sugar packets are all turned to face the same direction in their holder.
“Please.”
Suddenly, the lights go out. As I fumble for the switch in darkness, I hear something, tiny footsteps like rats in the walls. When I finally find the light switch, I look in
the direction of the sound.
What I see is a leg in ragged brown pants disappear around the corner, as quick as a cockroach. He’s heading toward my shop.
“Hey!” I follow it. “Hey, you!”
But when I get there, my eyes fall on something that wasn’t there before. A note.
I read, in Meg’s handwriting:
Help! Johnny! Sieglinde has me in the Bill Baggs Park lighthouse. She’ll kill me if you don’t come!
Sieglinde! I should have known she wouldn’t give up this easily, wouldn’t take no for an answer. I know what she’s after. She’s using Meg to get to the prince.
If only I’d realized earlier how important Meg was to me, that she was what I needed.
For want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of the shoe the horse was lost; and for want of a horse the rider was lost. . . .
—Poor Richard’s Almanack
Meg is lost. I have to find her. I check my watch. Four thirty. She should be here soon, but she won’t be, and it’s my fault. I stuff the note into my pocket.
“What am I supposed to do?” I yell across the hallway.
No answer. I turn out the lights. “Will you talk to me in the dark?”
Nothing. I want to leave. I need to leave. But I leave the light out just another moment, and I hear scurrying, then a small voice at my feet.
“You’re a good lad, Johnny. You work hard and love your ma. ’Tis why we helped you. You have strength you do not even know about. When the moment is right, you will know what to do.”
The footsteps scurry away. When I know the coast is clear, I turn the light back on and rush for the lobby.
I try to sneak out, but it’s not my lucky day. Farnesworth’s there. He starts toward me, shouting, “Hey, you! You! Boy from the shoe repair!”
I ignore him and run, slipping on the shiny floor, toward the exit.
It’s still dark, but slivers of light are starting to peek through the night sky. I dart behind the hibiscus hedge near the driveway, keeping my back against the wall, the better to blend with the morning sky in case Farnesworth has followed me.
But he hasn’t. I find Mom’s car, unlock it, and put the key in.
The engine won’t turn over.
It had seemed like such a good, such a romantic idea, to drive and not stop for gas.
I beat my hand on the soundless horn until it hurts. Then I use my head.
“May I help you?”
I jump at the voice. I turn and see an older man with glasses and neat gray hair. He wears a hotel-parking-lot-attendant uniform.
I find words. He must think I’m vandalizing the car. The last thing I need is to get arrested for destruction of property. “Um, it’s okay. It’s my car. I mean, my mom’s. I was . . . just frustrated it won’t start.” I stare at the pavement.
I hope this will get rid of him, but it doesn’t. I can see his feet, oddly pointed apart from each other on the ground below.
“Was there something else?” I ask.
“I asked if I could help you,” says the parking attendant. “For example, there’s a bicycle which I happen to know is unlocked. Its owner came in late last night. He won’t be awake soon, I suspect.”
“You want me to steal a bicycle?”
“Borrow it, if there’s an emergency.”
“There is. But . . .”
“You helped us, my friend. Now I’ll help you.”
Recognition floods over me. It’s Harry, the swan from the lobby. No, wait. He has no wound in his arm. It must be Truman, his twin.
“But how . . . ?”
“Time for explanations later. I suspect you’re in a hurry. For now, let me help you find that bicycle.”
And, sure enough, it’s unlocked.
South Beach to Bill Baggs Park on Key Biscayne is no short ride. The traffic hasn’t started, not yet, but it’s still dark, hard to see, and after a few blocks, because things aren’t rough enough, it starts to rain. Again. Pour, really, that driving predawn rain you get only in Miami, where an entire week’s worth of rain falls in fifteen minutes. I keep going, even when it feels more like swimming than biking, even when I realize I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there. I have no powers. I can’t defeat Sieglinde. And yet, if I don’t have Meg, I have nothing.
With your head full of brains, and your shoes full of feet, you’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.—Dr. Seuss
I wasn’t smart. I went down a road that was not-so-good. I’ve lost Meg.
I have to find her.
I cross MacArthur Causeway in wind and rain so hard they almost propel me into the water below. I’m not going to drown, not now that I know Meg loves me. I pull the handlebars left and pedal through the wall of wind, barely able to see downtown Miami in the distance. Finally, pedaling is no longer an intentional act but simply something I do, like a motor-driven toy, unthinking, unknowing.
Where is she? What are they doing to her? Don’t think about it, I tell myself. Don’t think at all. But I know the truth: They took her to get me to bring Philippe back.
Finally, I see the sign that says BILL BAGGS STATE PARK. The lighthouse is there, its light shining against the mostly bright sky. Someone’s inside. I reach the mangrove-studded sand and pull my bike until it will go no farther. My legs feel like they’re vibrating, and I fall to the ground. The sand is cold, wet against my aching legs. If I wanted, I could stay there forever. It would feel so good just to sleep right now, but I can’t. I won’t. I push my hands against the sand until I’m standing again, until finally, I can lurch, Frankenstein-like, across the beach, almost falling two more times before I reach the lighthouse.
The lighthouse door is old with black paint stained whitish by salt air. More important: It’s locked. I pull at it several times before I accept this fact. Then I pound against it, screaming my lungs out.
Nothing. My voice is lost against the ocean’s roar. I try again. Again. But the crashing waves drown out everything but the sound of my own helplessness. I can do nothing. I have no powers, no strengths. I’m just a regular guy, less than regular. If anything happens to Meg, it will be all my fault for involving her.
And that thought makes me feel superhuman despite my aching legs, despite the resistance of the sand against my feet, and the fact that I got no sleep. I back up, crouch, and start to run, to throw myself against the door.
That’s when it flies open.
My momentum almost throws me through it, but I stop and collapse against the sand. Black, red, and blue patterns dance before my eyes. When I can focus, I look up.
“I wondered when you would get here,” Sieglinde says.
I stumble forward, then back, finally finding a palm tree I can use to pull myself up.
“Where is she? Where’s Meg?”
Sieglinde chuckles and glances at the gradually lightening sky. “How dear. You have come for your sweetie.”
I try to keep my voice steady. “Give her back. She has nothing to do with this.”
“I’ll be more than happy to release your Meg.”
“Great,” I say, even though I realize it’s too easy. It must be a trick. But I’m just so tired. “Let me see her.” I push against the tree and start toward the lighthouse door.
“Tut, tut.” Sieglinde holds up her hand. “I’ll give you your Meg, but first, you have to give me what I want. Give me . . .”
A clap of thunder drowns out her words.
“What?” But I know.
“The princess!” she shrieks against the dark morning sky. “Bring me Victoriana, and I will give you back your darling . . . your beloved Meg!” She raises her arms and laughs at the wind and rain, and I remember the witch in The Wizard of Oz who melted in water. I guess that doesn’t really happen. “Foolish boy! You could have had her all along, had her and your silly shoes, and all the wonders of your ordinary life. But no. You had to seek out adventure. Now all you have loved is in peril, all for a worthless princess who doesn’t care for you, who w
ill never care for you.”
Another thunderclap, right on top of the lightning. The whole beach lights up like midafternoon, and I see the palm trees, flapping, propellerlike, hear the sand battering the sea grapes, and see Sieglinde’s terrible face as she says, “Bring me the princess before the day is done. Only then shall you have your Meg!”
“No!” With strength I don’t possess, I start for the lighthouse door. The wind picks up, pushing me backward into the sand. I hit the door, and it feels almost hot. I look up and see Sieglinde, unaffected, standing straight and tall against the outline of lightning. “The princess!” she shrieks.
Another gust shoves me down again, and when I look up, she’s gone. The lighthouse door slams behind her.
Then the wind calms to a breeze. I struggle up with nothing to hold on to but prickly sea grapes that scrape my legs. I rush to the door. It won’t budge. I pound it with all my strength, but even as I do, I know it’s no use.
I don’t know what to do. I guess call the police, like they can do anything about witches.
I stumble away and find my bicycle half buried in sand. My legs ache. I pull at my wet jeans, trying to stretch them out, make them comfortable enough to ride in.
That’s when my hand brushes something in my pocket.
Is it?
I reach inside and touch it, remembering Meg’s words at Mallory Square: “Here. Take the ring. If you need me, you have it.”
I have it! It will be my salvation, my salvation and Meg’s.
I mount the bicycle, forgetting my aching legs, forgetting everything but riding far enough, getting away from here, from Sieglinde.
The morning traffic has begun now, cars whizzing by on one side, rough water on the other. I concentrate only on my destination. When I reach it, a beach far from the lighthouse, a rocky beach where people go with their dogs, a small beach almost swallowed up by the morning tide, I stop.
I slip Meg’s ring onto my finger.
“Hey, what the . . . where are we?”
I look at her. She has on jeans, a blue T-shirt, and the apron she wears to work. She’s beautiful, the most wonderful sight I’ve ever seen. I throw my arms around her. “Oh, Meg! You’re okay!”