“Nah, not far at all,” he said. “Just up the road.” He jerked his head, gesturing to the rickshaw. “Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.”
“I don’t have any money,” said Prue.
The rickshaw driver paused for a moment before responding. “Don’t worry about it. Last fare of the night. You’re on my way home.”
Prue thanked him kindly and hopped into the rickshaw’s cushioned chair. The carriage’s garish coat of yellow paint was accented with bright red designs and little knitted baubles dangled from the roof. With a quick word of warning (“It might be bumpy”) from the badger, the rickshaw burst into movement, and in no time they were bumping along the forest floor at a quick clip. Taking a few quick turns, the rickshaw began following a well-trod path, and little ramshackle hovels started appearing in the woods. After a time, the dirt of the path gave way to cobbled streets, and the woods were upstaged by an impressive row of posh town houses, their mullioned bay windows refracting the light of candelabras down onto the pavement.
“Fancy place, this,” commented the driver wryly. “Your friend is doin’ all right for himself.”
The street began inclining gradually, and the badger put his head down in concentration as the rickshaw climbed the hill. When they had arrived at the top, the carriage came to a stop in front of the grandest house on the block—it was a three-story behemoth of alabaster-white stone, and twin cherubs carrying trumpets met in a relief carved into the ground floor window’s ornate molding. A warm light bathed the drawn curtains in front of the window, and the number 86 was written on a placard over the front door.
“Here ya go,” said the badger, catching his breath. “Eighty-six Rue Thurmond.”
Prue climbed down from the carriage. “Thank you so much,” she said. The badger nodded and drove off.
She climbed the marble stairs to the front door and took a moment to admire the knocker that hung there: a brass eagle’s head with a heavy golden ring in its beak. With more than a little trepidation, she lifted the ring and let it fall onto the oak of the door. It gave a resounding bang and she stood back, waiting. There was no answer. She tried the knocker again and still no one came to the door. Stepping back, she looked up at the placard a second time, reaffirming that this was, in fact, house number 86. She let the great golden ring fall a few more times before she started to get worried.
Suddenly, the door creaked open a few inches and stopped. She was about to step forward when the door slammed closed, only to inch a little farther open than it had before. Puzzled, Prue peered into the space between the door and the jamb and called, “Hello?”
The sound of feathers fluttering in a desperate manner answered her greeting, and she could see that two sparrows were trying, fairly unsuccessfully, to turn the doorknob.
“Sorry! Sorry!” one of them said, his talon striking at the polished brass.
“Oh!” said Prue. “Let me help you!” She carefully pushed the door wide and walked into the entryway.
“Thank you!” said one of the sparrows, hovering before Prue. “We’re not used to these sorts of bipedal contraptions.”
“You must be the Outsider girl, McKeel,” said the other sparrow. “The Prince is expecting you.”
The sparrows, after effortlessly taking her coat and flying it up to hang on a hook by the door, led Prue through one, down a short hallway, and into an enormous sitting room.
An open fire roared in the hearth below an ornate wooden mantel at the far end of the room, and its light projected whirling shadows against the towering ceiling. The furniture was, for the most part, draped in white cloth, save for two tall-backed wing chairs that were angled facing the fireplace. The walls were lined with high bookcases, the thousands of book spines lining their shelves giving the illusion of a multicolored tapestry. The draping on a framed portrait above the mantel had fallen to the side a little, revealing the figure of a blue jay in an austere robe, and it struck Prue that the room exuded a kind of cozy melancholy.
“Good evening,” said a wizened voice from behind one of the chairs. “I hope you found your way here safely. Please, sit.”
A giant wing appeared from behind the chair, its innumerable brown and white feathers articulating open to gesture to the chair opposite.
Prue whispered a thank-you and walked across the room toward the chair. The warmth of the fire greeted her as she reached it, and she found herself sitting, her jeans absorbing the heat of the flames, staring into the eyes of Owl Rex.
He was even more impressive in person, the hornlike feathers extending from the gossamer feathers of his head, and his brown speckled body easily filled the cushions of the chair. He wore a soft velvet waistcoat, and a tasseled cap was perched on his crown between the two feathered tufts. His gnarled talons were resting on an ottoman, and his piercing yellow eyes stared intently at Prue.
“I apologize for the state of the rooms,” he continued. “We’ve scarcely found the time to make ourselves at home here. More pressing things demand our attention. But I should be offering you some refreshment. You must be parched from your travels. Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, sure,” responded Prue, still getting over her amazement. “I mean, herbal tea. If you have it. Peppermint or something.”
“Mint tea!” shouted the owl, swiveling his head to the side of the chair. A sudden flapping of wings behind them suggested the order had been received. He turned to look back at his guest, the beads of his eyes burrowing into Prue’s. “A girl. An Outsider girl. Quite fascinating. I’m told you . . . you simply walked in?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Prue.
“I’ve flown over your Outside city many times, but I can’t say that I’ve had any interest in stopping. Do you enjoy nesting there? Is it comfortable?” asked Owl Rex.
“I guess so,” said Prue. “I was born there and my parents live there, so I guess I don’t really have a choice. It’s a pretty nice place.” She paused, thinking, before continuing: “Most people—and animals—I’ve met were pretty surprised I was here. You don’t seem to be that weirded out by it.”
“Oh, Prue, if you live to be as old as I, you’ll see many, many strange and wonderful things. And the more strange and wonderful things you see, the less likely you are to be, as you say, ‘weirded out’ by them.” Owl lifted one of his dappled wings and lightly pecked at the underside with his beak before returning it to his side.
Prue, in the conversation’s pause, hazarded the question she’d been dying to ask since she’d arrived at the house: “Mr. Rex, do you know what the crows have done with my brother?”
The owl sighed. “I am very, very saddened to tell you that I do not. If it is true, as you say, that the crows are responsible for your brother’s abduction, then I have as much authority to find and prosecute his kidnappers as I would if the salamanders were to blame.”
Prue didn’t quite follow.
“You see,” continued the Crown Prince, “the crows—the entire subspecies, mind you—defected from the Principality some months ago. They had always been a troubled lot, prone to mischief and petty thievery, and seemed to suffer under the delusion that they somehow stood above their avian brethren. A separatist streak developed. Naturally, we fought them on the issue many times over many years, but that did not stop them from leaving our Principality en masse one afternoon in July. And I’m disheartened to say that we’ve heard very little from them since.”
The rhythmic flutter of wings from behind the chair alerted Prue to the arrival of her tea, and she graciously accepted the cup and saucer from the claws of the two attending sparrows. A tea tray was brought and placed delicately on a small table next to her chair; one of the sparrows hefted a teapot and poured the dark liquid into Prue’s proffered cup. Thanking the bird, she despondently stirred a lump of sugar into the translucent brown liquid, crestfallen that yet another potential lead had been stamped out.
Owl Rex, detecting her despair, spoke up. “But that’s not to say we aren’t eminently concerned
about their whereabouts. Rather, their tomfoolery is a bit of a thorn in our side at present. You see, over the last several months the isolated settlements to the north—at the border of Wildwood—have been threatened on numerous occasions by roving bands of what our citizen birds describe as ‘coyote soldiers.’ Coyotes—the most infamously disorganized, ragtag creatures in the forest, mind you—who have somehow pulled themselves together enough to form a cohesive military force. If I weren’t so dedicated to the well-being of my subjects, I would be the first to dismiss such reports as absolutely implausible. But I have heard the stories, Prue, I have seen the anguished families, their nests destroyed, their home trees cut down, their foraging grounds despoiled. They cannot be ignored.
“Now, our emissaries have appealed to the Mansion over and over that we be allowed to defend our subjects and the strength of our border by retaliating against these bands of coyotes—but they have always been stonewalled. I have come myself to entreat that the amendments to the Wildwood Protocol that prohibit us from military action within Wildwood be suspended until our borders are made safe again. And here come reports of crows, ungrateful, meddling crows, carrying away an Outsider child and depositing him within the borders of Wildwood, clearly illegal activity that reflects very poorly on the Avians in general. I am as angered and disappointed with this situation as you, Prue. Since the Mansion doesn’t recognize the breakaway status of the crows, their actions have the potential of completely derailing our case.” He paused, searching for words. “The Mansion has, for years now, been looking for ways to curtail the freedoms of the Avians. It worries me that this may give them even more reason.”
“Why?” asked Prue.
The owl shrugged. “Distrust. Intolerance. Fear. They dislike our ways.”
This was baffling to Prue. The birds she’d met so far in this strange place seemed very kind and accommodating.
Owl Rex abruptly raised his wings and, with a few brisk flaps, carried himself to the stack of wood by the fireplace; the fire was now smoldering. He gripped a fresh log in his talons and threw it onto the coals, and the fire started anew. He returned to his seat, adjusted his cap, and continued.
“Gone are the days when the Mansion could be seen as a place of wise counsel and just governance. It is now a den of political opportunists and would-be despots, each grabbing desperately for every possible shard of power. It is the void that has remained since the coup.”
“The coup?” asked Prue. She had been stirring her tea the entire time, transfixed by the owl’s story. She caught herself and laid the spoon down on the saucer with a tiny clink.
The Crown Prince nodded gravely. “All this requires a bit of explanation. The coup in which the Dowager Governess, the widow of the deceased Governor-Regent Grigor Svik, was deposed and exiled to Wildwood.”
“Grigor Svik—Lars’s dad?” asked Prue.
“Uncle,” replied Owl Rex. “And what a ruler he was. A gracious man, a kind man. As understanding of other species as one could hope. He and I were great friends. When we assumed our respective seats of power, we agreed on the sovereignty of the Avian Principality and the country of North Wood, countries that had existed for centuries but had not yet been recognized by their neighbors. We allowed free and safe passage for all subjects between these nations. And, most importantly, we authored the Wildwood Protocols—that very treaty I am now attempting to undo—which set aside the vast, untamed country of Wildwood as free and wild space, safe from the industrial barons who would seek to spoil it for their own ends. When Grigor died, I was . . . bereft.” The Crown Prince lowered his head.
Prue shifted in her seat uncomfortably. “How did he die?” she asked softly.
Owl Rex composed himself, staring into the flames of the fire. “Heartbreak, I suppose. He and his wife, Alexandra, had a son, an only child. His name was Alexei. They adored him. From an early age he had been groomed to assume the governorship after his father, so it was a crushing blow to the country as well as the family when he was thrown from a horse, shortly after his fifteenth birthday. He did not survive the fall. Grigor and Alexandra, naturally, were devastated. After a private funeral, Grigor went to his bed in the Mansion and never left it.
“Alexandra handled these two unfathomable tragedies as well as could be expected, and she assumed the governorship, gaining the title Dowager Governess—but her grief was eating her from the inside out, and she became distant and withdrawn to those who knew her best. She isolated herself in the Mansion and kept very strange company: soothsayers, gypsies, and practitioners of the black arts. Her aides were powerless to stop her. Finally, she called the two most renowned toy makers in South Wood and, behind the Mansion walls, commanded them to create a mechanical replica of her dead son, Alexei.
“In a secluded Mansion garret, the two toy crafters slaved over their creation for months until they presented to the Governess the final product, and it was seen to be a very remarkable facsimile of the late young governor-in-waiting. It was, however, still a toy. It required winding at regular intervals and did little more than walk stiffly around, making metallic clicks and buzzes.”
“Creepy!” interjected Prue. “I mean, how could she think that would replace her son?”
Owl Rex nodded soberly, saying, “She had other plans. Using magics learned from her attendant dark mystics, she placed Alexei’s full set of teeth—which she had salvaged from his corpse—into the mouth of the automaton. Weaving a powerful spell into the machinery, she brought forth the deceased soul of Alexei into this mechanical child.”
Prue gasped. The fire crackled in the hearth. A clock on the mantel gently chimed the hour.
Curtis had never been so elated in his life. The surrounding forest took on an unearthly glow and the air tasted like ambrosia and he was being buoyed along on the shoulders of a multitude of cheering coyote soldiers, their overjoyed cries occasionally conjoining to chant, “CURTIS! CURTIS! CURTIS!” This rowdy parade marched through the woods, the soldiers’ crackling torches illuminating the way.
Their victory had been decisive, their losses minimal. The afternoon’s battle had been a resounding success, and Curtis the crowned hero of the day. Alexandra trotted her horse alongside the procession, smiling proudly on.
When they arrived at the warren, the great hall was alight with burning braziers, and the smell of a hearty stew drifted from the burrow entrance. A crooked, brazen melody was struck up by a motley brass band and the procession marched Curtis in five circles around the Governess’s throne room before depositing him, with much fanfare, on the moss of the throne’s dais. A mug thrust into his hand was filled to the brim with blackberry wine before he had a chance to demur.
The Commandant quieted the room with a loud bark.
“Listen up, curs!” he shouted when the clamor in the room began to calm. “You stinking mongrel dogs!” He grabbed a nearby soldier and with a free arm—the one not holding an overflowing mug of wine—ensnared him in a savage headlock. “I’ve not seen a more putrid, fetid stink of mange in all my days.” The room paused, unsure of what to expect from the commander. The Commandant smiled and snarled, “And we gave ’em what for today!”
The room exploded in a cheer, and the Commandant planted a sloppy kiss on the forehead of his imprisoned soldier before letting him go. Then, staggering over to brace himself on the shoulder of another coyote, he stiffened and grew serious.
“The woods will resound with our victory. In time every animal will be talking about our actions. Our presence will no longer be ignored. And when we march into South Wood, those pasty pansies will have no choice but to lay down their arms, and the gilded halls of Pittock Mansion will resound with the echoes of our celebrations.”
He was interrupted by Alexandra, who had strolled through the celebrants to seat herself on the ornate throne. “What’s left of the Mansion,” she said coolly.
The Commandant, sensing he had overstepped his bounds, bowed deeply, his mug raised high.
“Wh
en we’re done with South Wood, there won’t be two walls standing to support an echo,” Alexandra hissed.
“Aye, madam,” said the Commandant. The tone of the room had chilled considerably.
“But tonight, we celebrate our victory!” the Governess shouted, rising to stand before the throne. “And we raise our mugs to Curtis, cannon killer, bandit vanquisher, tree crusher.” She had turned to Curtis and was smiling, her wooden chalice proffered in a toast. He blushed and raised his mug in return. The room solemnly joined in, a sea of rough-hewn cups raised in salute. “Strike up the band!” she hollered, looking back out into the hall, and the drawling buzz of a trumpet launched the brass band into another drunken tune. The soldiers cheered loudly and returned to their celebrations. Grinning ear to ear, Curtis tapped his hand on the knee of his navy britches to the beat of the music.
“They’re never going to believe me back at school,” shouted Curtis over the band’s manic playing. “Never in a million years.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t return to school,” Alexandra replied, her eyes wandering the room of celebrating coyotes.
“What, drop out? My parents would . . . ,” started Curtis. He then blanched momentarily. “Oh,” he continued thoughtfully. “You mean . . .”
“Yes, Curtis,” said Alexandra. “Stay with us. Join our fight. Leave your plain, simple human life behind. Join the Wildwood brigade and savor the taste of our inevitable victory.”
“Well,” said Curtis, “I don’t know. I think my parents would be pretty upset, for one thing. They already had my spot reserved for sleepaway camp next summer, and I think they might’ve even paid a deposit.”
Alexandra rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh, I cherish you, Curtis. I really do. But there are more important things at stake here. The salvation of Wildwood hangs in the balance. You have proven yourself today; you have shown us all that within that little frame beats the true heart of a warrior.” She gestured to the room full of soldiers. “I have tremendous respect for the coyotes. They took a remarkable risk when they came to my side. But one longs for the company of humans. And I do not expect to build a cabinet of advisers from these ragtag canines—they’re far too impetuous.” She took a small sip of her wine and fixed her gaze on Curtis, her tone growing serious.