Hero

  Trix grimaced. “You need to work on your descriptions.”

  “Almost as beautiful as Monday herself,” said Saturday.

  “Ooh, that’s much better.”

  “Better still—it’s a magic mirror. A looking glass.”

  “Really?”

  Saturday nodded.

  “How does it work?”

  “She holds it in her hand, says a little rhyming verse, and the mirror shows her whomever she’s asking to see.”

  “That’s a pretty clever gift.”

  “I thought so too,” said Saturday.

  “Almost as clever as yours.”

  It was Saturday’s turn to grimace.

  “Hey, nobody else got a gift that changes with her destiny.”

  “That’s because everybody else got magical powers,” said Saturday.

  Trix tilted his head and sighed in defeat. “So why does Monday’s mirror suddenly fascinate you?”

  “Do you remember the trunk Thursday sent this spring?”

  “No fair answering a question with a question,” said Trix. “Of course I remember.”

  Saturday knew he would. He’d spent hours killing an army of trees with the bow and arrows Thursday had included for him inside that trunk. Trix hadn’t aimed for any animals—on the contrary, the squirrels, birds, and chipmunks made up his arrow-retrieval team. In that trunk had been the miles of material Friday had used to make dresses for all those ridiculous balls Sunday’s true love had forced them to attend. Saturday twisted the blue-green bracelet around her wrist, briefly reliving that torture.

  “Do you remember what Thursday gave me?” asked Saturday.

  The answer took him a moment; he had been too busy testing out his new toys at the time to give much notice to anyone. Then his eyes widened. “You got a mirror.”

  Saturday nodded and pulled the silver-backed mirror from her swordbelt. There’d been an ebony-handled brush in the silk purse along with the mirror, but Saturday had left it up in her room.

  This mirror was larger than Monday’s; the silver framing it made it unwieldy, top-heavy, with no balance whatsoever. Saturday had no idea why Thursday had given her the fool thing; she had more use for it as a club than as an instrument of vanity. Roses stood out in relief all over it; the embellished thorns around the handle made it incredibly difficult to hold.

  “What’s it say on the back?” asked Trix.

  He was right; there was a word faintly etched between the petals. “‘Very’?” Saturday guessed. “Or . . . ‘Merry’?”

  “I think it’s French,” said Trix.

  “How would you know?”

  “Wednesday,” said Trix.

  Until her recent emigration to Faerie, Wednesday had often spouted impromptu poetry in foreign languages. They only knew it was poetry because Wednesday used her lofty poetry voice during the recitations, but Saturday wouldn’t have been able to tell French from Cymbalese or Trollish. Papa couldn’t tell the difference either—he’d told Saturday as much once—but he always applauded Wednesday’s performances. Animals talked to Trix; maybe some of them had French cousins. “I think it means ‘glass.’ Or ‘water.’”

  “Or ‘flamboyant useless object’?” suggested Saturday. Trix made a face. “Well, that’s what I would have written. Want to see if it works?”

  In a flash, Trix leapt over the table and landed in the chair beside Saturday, much like she had vaulted the fence earlier to sit with Monday. As impressive as the move was, it was a good thing Mama hadn’t been around to witness it. “Do you know what to say?”

  “I’ll make something up.” Saturday and Peter often played rhyming games while they worked in the Wood—games that Saturday won more often than not. She could easily come up with something that might coax a smile out of her brother. She straightened again in her chair and held the great gaudy thing before them. She and Trix looked back at themselves over her outstretched arm, fascinated by their humble reflections.

  “Mirror, Mirror, gift of doom,

  Show us Mama in her room.”

  Trix giggled. Saturday waited for the image to blur and resolve into a picture of Mama rummaging through her wardrobe, but the mirror did nothing. She wished to see something so hard, her eyes began to hurt. It took her a moment to notice that Trix was no longer interested in the mirror, and another moment to realize what an incredible fool she’d been. She’d said “Mama,” and Trix’s mother was currently dead. It would have been just as easy to say “Papa.” Why hadn’t she done that instead? But it was too late. She almost wished the glass had shown those terrifying floodwaters. Anything but this.

  “Gods,” she sputtered, “I’m such an ass.”

  Trix left her glaring at herself in the mirror and went back to minding the stewpot. “You tried,” he said. “I appreciate the effort.”

  “I only wanted to—”

  “Just set the table, Saturday. Please?”

  “Okay.” Saturday shoved the offending mirror back into her swordbelt and went to put her stupid, idle hands to work. As she set the bowls and spoons clattering upon the table, she said, “I’m sorry,” before she forgot.

  “So am I,” he answered.

  Peter returned to the kitchen. Saturday gave him the rest of the spoons and the cloth napkins and a look that explained exactly how far she’d shoved her big foot into her big mouth. He took them all from her without a word and finished setting the table. Saturday and Peter didn’t need words to communicate, but for Trix’s benefit she said, “I’m going to fetch . . .”

  She stopped before saying “Mama” and reopening the wound she’d just kicked with her boot. She thought about switching it to “Papa,” and then wondered if Trix knew who his father was . . . or if his father was even human. As there was just no good way to finish the sentence, she fled the room.

  She didn’t bother knocking; her parents would have heard her footsteps echoing through the living room and down the small hall. Everything about Saturday was large and loud. Trying to pretend otherwise was a waste of time.

  “Dinner’s ready,” she called.

  The door opened a crack to reveal Papa’s face. “We’re coming, m’girl. Thank you.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No,” said Mama, thus effectively tying Saturday’s hands.

  The look Saturday gave her father said, There she goes opening her mouth again without thinking. You can’t say I didn’t try.

  I know, Papa’s wrinkled forehead said in return. At this point, there’s really nothing any of us can do. “Come now, Seven,” he said to his wife. “I won’t ship that stubborn mouth off in a carriage without kissing it first, and I refuse to do that until it’s been properly fed.”

  Mama granted Papa a smirk, only slightly less rare than an actual smile. She tossed whatever garment she was holding onto the bed next to her carpetbag and pushed past him. He patted her shoulder, and then smacked her playfully on the rump. Making Mama smile in earnest was a knack only Papa had. And Thursday . . . not that she’d stuck around long enough to take advantage of it, or teach it to any of her younger siblings. With no other course of action at her disposal, Saturday followed her parents into the kitchen.

  The smell hit them before they’d reached the table. Saturday closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Mama’s cooking skills were none too shabby, and the palace cook had presented a scrumptious feast in celebration of Sunday and Rumbold’s royal wedding, but this aroma left those dinners all behind.

  Peter was already at the stewpot, helping himself to a generous bowlful. The divine dish was a result of Trix’s stirring, for sure. Saturday snuck a glance at Mama before snatching up her own bowl and following Peter’s suit.

  “Go on, girl,” said Mama. “I’m not going to scold your rascal brother. It seems the gods decided we’ve had enough misery for one day.”

  At Mama’s blessing, Saturday shamelessly filled her bowl. Mama had always been stingy with ingredients and kept an eye toward portion con
trol, but she’d mothered ten children in her life. The current population of the Woodcutter household was half what it had been in the spring, so the stewpot was nowhere near as overflowing as it once needed to be, but there was still enough inside for each of them to have seconds, if they so desired. Saturday anticipated that desire this evening, and happily.

  Only . . . when Saturday sat down at the table her appetite left her, fully and completely.

  She waited politely for the rest of her family to serve themselves and sit, though Peter had forgone manners and dug deep into his bowl, as if he’d felled a dozen trees that day and toted them all the way back from the Wood barehanded. The rest of them similarly devoured their bowls, as if they’d been starved for a fortnight.

  Saturday filled her spoon with the delectable stew and brought it to her lips, forcing herself to chew and swallow. The tender bits of roast melted on her tongue. There was a hint of wine and cream in the sauce, and the potatoes and onions were cooked to perfection. Saturday didn’t normally like onions, but this was one of the most delicious meals she’d ever eaten. She only wished her body would stop whatever it was doing and behave. Her muscles were tense from her head to her toes, and her face felt flushed; the only cool spot on her skin lay under her sister’s bracelet. When she swallowed the spoonful, it felt like swallowing a rock. Her stomach tightened, and a cold sweat broke out behind her ears. Perhaps she was coming down with something. Couldn’t it wait until she was done with supper?

  Mama noticed Saturday playing with her food. “Eat up, girl,” she said. “I’m not going to—”

  Papa laid a hand on Mama’s arm before she could finish her sentence, in a subtle effort to force her to think before she spoke. It was obvious that she did not appreciate the gesture.

  “Do you think I will be less sad if you starve yourself?” Mama said, turning the second phrase into a question instead of an order. But she had still commanded that Saturday eat, so eat she did, slowly and reluctantly, bit by stony bit, until her spoon scraped the bottom of her bowl.

  Papa and Peter quickly jumped up for seconds, but Mama had her elbow on the table and her head in her hand before she came to the end. She set down her spoon and closed her eyes. Papa patted her arm again, but said nothing and continued to eat.

  Peter was the second one to fall asleep. He pushed the bowl aside, cradled his head in his elbow, and began to snore. Papa only had time to glance quickly at Saturday and Trix before his own head hit the table. Saturday winced at the sound. Papa’s empty bowl spun around and clattered to the floor.

  Saturday’s eyelids drooped. Her stomach spasmed and clenched. The heat spread down from her ears and cheeks. She wanted to move, to leave the table and run, but her body felt like a sack of the rocks she’d just swallowed. Slowly, she turned her head to Trix.

  Trix stood and snatched up the rest of their uneaten bread into a small sack.

  “What’ve you done?” Saturday managed to say without moving her teeth.

  “It’s a sleeping spell, that’s all. You’ll be rested and fine in the morning. Or possibly sooner, thanks to that sword of yours. I’ll be long gone by then.”

  “You said you didn’t want to go,” mumbled Saturday.

  “If I’d told Mama I wanted to go, she would have ordered me to stay here, and I would have had to obey her,” Trix said. Curse him. Saturday had never been half so clever. “I can’t do that, Saturday. I have to go. Tesera was my mother.”

  He certainly didn’t need to explain himself to her. She understood all too well the desire to leave this place, and would have for far less important a reason. “I . . . come too,” she managed to say. She may have failed at keeping his spirits up, but she could protect him on his journey.

  Trix kissed her hot, stiff cheek. “And you would make a fine traveling companion. But I will move faster on my own. I may already be too late.”

  Too late? Too late for what? His mother wasn’t getting any deader. But the words weren’t coming anymore.

  “Goodbye, Saturday,” he said to her from the door. “I love you. And good luck.”

  Anger made her skin even hotter, and she growled louder than her stomach. With a hand on her sword, she forced herself to rise from her chair, much as she had forced herself to eat that bowl of stew. With each slow step up the tower, Saturday cursed Mama. She cursed Trix. She cursed her Aunt Joy and every meddling fairy she’d ever known, and all the ones she hadn’t met yet to boot.

  By the time she’d made it to the aerie and crossed to the window, Trix was a dot on the far side of the meadow. Saturday growled again, this time parting her teeth enough to let out a full-fledged scream from her tight belly. She wished she had enough strength to pound the walls or unsheathe her sword, but it took all she had to stand and look helplessly out at the disappearing form of her foundling brother. She adjusted her grip on her sword hilt. Her thumb brushed against cool metal thorns.

  The mirror. Stupid, useless thing. As useless as Saturday herself, frozen in place at the casement. With the last of her energy she pulled the mirror from her swordbelt and threw it out the window with a roar. She tilted back on her heels. Her eyes rolled up into her head, and her eyelids drooped again. She did not hear the mirror hit the ground below, nor did she hear it break. She lost her footing as the world began to shake and tilt around her.

  3

  Godstuff

  “WHOA!”

  Wind whipped. Horses whinnied.

  The clattering of carriage wheels. A door opening and slamming.

  “Mama?! Papa?!” A woman’s voice like an angel. Frightened.

  Monday.

  “Here. In the kitchen.” A deep voice with a common accent, trying to stay calm.

  Erik.

  “Are they . . . ?” asked the angel.

  The rumbling answer was too low to be understood.

  Saturday tried to open her eyes. The light that slipped between her heavy lids stabbed mercilessly at her brain.

  Painpainpain.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated instead on sounds. The two voices swam in and out of clarity, both strange and familiar. She tried to make sense of them through the pounding of a heartbeat that crashed like waves in her ears. The squealing birds outside the window made a horrible high-pitched racket.

  Erik and Monday would be looking for her. Saturday had no strength to cry out. She slid a tongue between dry lips and tasted salt there. Was she bleeding? Had she hit the stones when she fell? She opened her mouth to scream, but all she managed was a wheezy moan. Try harder. She must tell them what had happened, tell them about Trix. She had to make sure Papa and Mama and Peter were all right.

  First, she needed to figure out a way to get down all those stairs. The thought alone exhausted her, but concern for her family urged her onward. She leaned against the sheathed sword at her belt and used it to stand, but it tangled in her legs as she tried to walk. After stumbling twice, Saturday unfastened the swordbelt and removed it.

  The moment her body stopped making contact with the sword, she felt a thousand times worse. Her stomach clenched, spasmed, and threatened to rebel. Daylight blinded her as it bounced off the cloud cover framed by the casement. One by one, her disobeying limbs began to shut down. Before she completely passed out again, she forced a hand out and grasped the hilt. Energy and relief flooded through her. Trix was right: the sword’s magic actively fought off the sleeping spell.

  “Aren’t you handy,” she muttered. With the sword no longer attached to her person but still sheathed, Saturday used it to stumble and crawl down the many steps from the aerie. Oh, if Velius could see her now, forced to use her gift as a literal crutch. He would laugh himself silly.

  Erik must have heard her less-than-graceful descent, and met her on the last flight of stairs. Careful not to knock the sword away, he slipped an arm beneath her shoulder and encouraged her to lean her weight on him. She reluctantly obliged.

  “Not going to carry me to safety, Hero?” Saturday teased him, but h
er words slurred together as if she’d been swilling Grinny Tram’s honey mead. The lack of control frustrated her.

  Still, Erik seemed to understand her. He’d no doubt helped more than one mumbledy-mouthed guard back from a tavern in a similar fashion. “And throw my fine back out, Giantess? You must be joking.” But his arm did tighten around her waist, and she felt a few pounds lighter as they crossed the living area. When they reached the kitchen, he announced, “I found her,” and lowered her into Papa’s chair by the fire.

  Saturday’s face was immediately filled with Monday’s hair as her eldest sister embraced her. Saturday would have reciprocated, had her limbs not been still full of rocks. But her strength was slowly returning. She patted Monday’s voluminous skirts and repeated, “Really, I’m all right,” in response to her sister’s cooing. Over her sister’s shoulder, Saturday could see Mama, Papa, and Peter, heads down on the dinner table, as she’d left them the night before.

  The night before. It was daytime now. She’d slept the whole night through. Trix was half a day ahead of them now, assuming he hadn’t stopped to rest. But he probably had stopped to rest, so he couldn’t have gone that far. If Monday and Erik let her have one of those horses she’d heard, she’d be able to cross the meadow and catch up with—

  Saturday’s gasp died as she choked on Monday’s mass of golden curls. Monday backed up to let her sister breathe, allowing Saturday to see Erik standing at the open back door. Wild gusts of wind whipped at his hair and sleeves; the fabric danced like the exiting storm clouds and the waves crashing on the impossible ocean beyond him.

  Saturday slowly raised a hand to her mouth. The salt on her lips hadn’t been blood. That hadn’t been her heartbeat pulsating in her ears upon waking like waves on the ocean—it had actually been waves on the ocean. Above those waves cried a cacophony of gulls and shorebirds, fishing and flirting with some very confused cousins from the Wood. The Woodcutters’ little towerhouse was leagues from the nearest shoreline. Or at least it had been.