Dearest

  “Wouldn’t we all?” said Lord Death. “Now, where were we?”

  “You were explaining about gifts,” prompted Bernard.

  “Yes, thank you. Don’t you see? Oh, it’s a beautiful thing.” Lord Death stepped back slightly to admire them as if they were a framed portrait. “An Angel of Feathers and an Angel of Fire.”

  At the mention of angels, two figures manifested out of the red light and smoke beside Lord Death. One was a man with wings of feathers. The other was a woman with wings of fire.

  “You”—Lord Death pointed to the lifeless body of Mordant—“have been a naughty little boy.”

  From Mordant’s body rose a shade with the same silhouette as the man lying prone at its feet. “You and your cohorts have trapped many a good soul in this edifice.” Lord Death shook his finger at the cowering shade. “Tsk-tsk. And you!”

  Lord Death moved to the altar, where a translucent image of François hovered above his body. “You are a hero, sir, and your legend will be spoken of for years to come.” He bowed low to François.

  “No.”

  They all turned to Philippe, who still stood over Mordant’s soulless corpse. “It should be me,” said Philippe. “Take me instead.”

  Lord Death shook his head. “That’s not how it works, my brave warrior.”

  But Philippe would not be dissuaded. Leave it to his bullheaded brother to be the one to not back down from a god. “Oh no?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Ask your wife.”

  Lord Death’s brow furrowed. A moment later it smoothed, and the god smiled from ear to ear. “Well played, sir.” With a snap of his fingers, Philippe collapsed.

  “No!” Friday tore herself from Tristan’s embrace and fell to her knees at Philippe’s side. Elisa did the same, crying out his name over and over again.

  Tristan heard a raspy cough. Behind him on the altar, a very pale François gingerly lifted himself out of a pool of drying blood. “What happened?”

  “Your brother won a duel with a god, François,” said Lord Death. “And now we must bid him adieu.”

  Humbly, Philippe’s shade rose from the body on the ground. One by one, Philippe’s shade met the eyes of everyone in that room. When he looked at Friday, she closed her eyes and put a hand to her lips. When his gaze fell to Christian, Philippe dropped to one ghostly knee and bowed his head in a pledge of fealty to the new ruler of Kassora. The rest of the room bowed with him.

  Tristan could not keep his tears from falling, nor did he want to. Philippe’s form wavered until he blinked them away. Christian nodded with a hand on his heart, unable to force his insubstantial brother to rise. The Angel of Feathers took care of that for him, placing a gentle hand on Philippe’s shoulder.

  “I’m not sure I remember the last time I saw anything so touching,” said Lord Death. “But, as brilliant as this has been, I’m afraid it’s time to go.”

  “Thank you,” said Tristan. He wasn’t quite sure which part of his involvement he was thanking the god for, but it seemed the right thing to do.

  Lord Death winked. “This isn’t forever, my friend. We shall meet again.”

  Despite the overwhelming sadness of the occasion, Tristan caught himself smiling. “Undoubtedly.”

  It was the answer Philippe would have given.

  “And you,” Lord Death snapped back over his shoulder at Mordant’s slimy shade.

  The Angel of Fire looked entirely too pleased. The tall, preternaturally beautiful woman strode majestically to the shade and lifted him up by his throat. Mordant wriggled and writhed in her gasp. She tossed her hair—sparks snapped in the air—and gave a low, knowing chortle that Tristan hoped he would never hear again.

  With a wave of her free hand, every image of submissive fire-winged angels that had been painted inside the sanctuary charred black and smoldered.

  “All wrong,” said Lord Death. “We look forward to showing you what the Angels of Fire are really capable of.” With that, the Angels of Feathers and Fire disappeared again, along with their charges.

  A very large man in a patchwork shirt scooped Philippe’s body up into his very large arms. No one made a move to touch Mordant. “We should be going,” said the man.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jolicoeur,” said Friday. She bowed to the god. “And thank you, My Lord.”

  “I assure you, the pleasure was all mine.” Lord Death reached up and pinched both their cheeks. “Wonderful!” he said, and then vanished into thin air.

  Christian was the first one who dared speak. “Well, that was—”

  “Wait!” yelled a voice, and in a snap, Lord Death had reappeared. “You really should leave now. I’ll be taking all the souls in this building to the other side with me, and there won’t be much left afterward.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Christian. With a salute, Lord Death disappeared once more. The floor began to shake, and what glass remained in the windows began to crack.

  “I don’t need to be told twice,” said Peter. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The swans were the first to flee. Velius stayed behind to make sure everyone had evacuated the Fire Temple before leaving himself. The second after he crossed the threshold, the gold plating aged to rust and the walls toppled in on themselves.

  The remaining heirs of Kassora looked on in silence as the last building left standing in their kingdom was crumbled to dust by the hand of a god.

  19

  A Heart As Big as the Moon

  IN THE END, it was Friday who gave Tristan his first flying lesson. She placed Mr. Humbug’s brass ball into his cupped hands and bade him whisper the name of the port city Velius had told them. From there they would take the King’s Road to Arilland, assuming it had returned once Saturday’s magical ocean had fled. Mr. Jolicoeur had decided to remain with the ship. He assured Friday that he would see it safely into the hands of a good owner: his former captain, the Pirate Queen Thursday Woodcutter.

  Christian, Elisa, François, and the twins remained on the Green Isles, though not in Kassora. Mr. Jolicoeur had sailed them to another island in the chain, and then another, until they discovered a group of former Kassorans who had run from Mordant’s forces and survived in hiding. When they told the people there of Mordant’s defeat and his sorceress’s exile, the people bowed to Christian and recognized him as King of the Green Isles.

  Friday gave Christian her flag, so that the white swan upon the colorful background might stand for peace, unity, and remembrance. He vowed that his people would remain in hiding no more, encouraging men, women, and children to spread the stories far and wide so that they knew it was safe to come home.

  They did not include Lord Death in their recounting. No one would have believed it anyway.

  King Christian gave Tristan and Friday his blessing, both to be together and to leave, with the condition that they postpone any sort of formal wedding until the Green Isles was ready to host a proper celebration. Standing side by side with ribbons wrapped around their entwined hands, they had agreed.

  “Are you ready to fly without wings?” Friday asked him when she handed him the bauble.

  “I’ve been flying since I met you,” said Tristan, “my girl with a heart as big as the moon.”

  Friday let Tristan be the one to tell Rumbold and Sunday the details of Mordant’s defeat. Rumbold congratulated them on their triumph and promised to send aid to the Green Isles as soon as possible. Sunday expressed their extreme sorrow at Philippe’s loss, and ordered white candles lit in all the windows of the palace in his honor.

  Friday and Tristan made their own pilgrimage to the top of the sky tower. They lit their own candle there and said a prayer to each of the Four Winds and all the Elemental Gods. Without Elisa’s magic to keep the wind at bay, Friday used her own strength to maintain the candle’s flame. The wax glowed a deep red while the stones below it glowed indigo. The flower petals they tossed were instantly caught up in the drafts and carried far, far away.

  From the moment they’d set foot in Ar
illand, Friday had not been able to stop thinking of the towerhouse. Her home. She wasn’t sure how to go back to her quiet life, the one she’d had before Saturday had torn the world in two, but she did miss it. Tristan promised to milk cows with her or cross-stitch in the queen’s solar, whichever she preferred. Friday loved him for every word.

  But first, of course, Sunday had to throw another ball.

  Thankfully, Friday still had Monday’s giant white chiffon gown in her rooms.

  Tristan was another matter. “Perhaps you might be able to fashion another shirt for me?” he asked sweetly. “If you have the time, of course.”

  Friday kissed him on the cheek. “You know I will. Even if I have to cut my own dress in half for the material.”

  The shirt Tristan had worn while in the islands and all the way home had, in fact, been made of the extra patchwork skirts she’d brought with her on the voyage. She’d taken the time to unpick the hems, salvage the thread, and use it again to make a shirt for him that covered his body but still left his wings free to move. It had been a challenge. Even with the proper supplies, it still would have been a challenge of which her mentor would have been proud.

  “I meant to ask, who was it that made your shirt for that first ball?” Friday would remember that ball—and that kiss—for the rest of her life, as would anyone who had journeyed with Friday on the Seven’s Seas. She would also remember that strange, haphazard shirt he’d worn with all the buckles.

  Tristan gave her a dazzling smile. “Did you like it?”

  “It was . . .” What was the best way to be judicious? He looked so proud; Friday had seen the same smile often enough on Michael to recognize it. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “. . . quite creative.”

  “I was similarly impressed. The guards’ tailor whipped that up for me in almost no time flat.”

  “Who?” Friday had never heard of such a person. Since when did the guards have a tailor? Had one arrived with the refugees and not made himself known to her?

  “He said his name was Grinny.”

  Friday couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing so hard she doubled over from the effort.

  “What my eloquent sister is trying to tell you,” Peter said helpfully, “is that Grinny Tram isn’t the tailor. He’s the hostler.”

  The look on Tristan’s face was priceless. It sent Friday into paroxysms of laughter all over again.

  “That shirt of yours was pretty much his equivalent of saddling a horse,” said Peter. “Only upside down.”

  Tristan looked as if he was giving the matter serious thought. “It did look rather saddle-like, now that you mention it.”

  “And the buckles!” Friday giggled, tears springing to her eyes.

  Peter slid his arm deftly over Tristan’s wings and draped it around his shoulders. “Grinny’s true talent is the creation of one seriously potent honey mead.”

  “You’ll have to fetch me a dram sometime,” said Tristan, “and we can toast my incredible fashion sense.”

  With that, Peter led Tristan off to the men’s quarters, while Friday scrambled to fetch material and trimming for her new projects. She wanted to find him emerald green satin and gold buttons, if there were any left to be had in the palace. She could use the remnants to trim her own white dress. With any luck, the splash of color would tone down the overwhelming feeling that she was disguising herself as a cloud of fog.

  She finished the shirt and had Conrad deliver it to Tristan’s room while she finished her dress. In the remaining time, with her remaining fabric, she sewed a new green coat for Mr. Humbug. He deserved so much more; perhaps, in time, her family might one day truly repay him.

  If the people of Arilland had been happy about the last fete, they were positively joyous now. Most of the refugees had gone home to their farms and families, but some had stayed, and were welcome. New alliances had formed. Customs and recipes had changed hands. Within a fortnight Arilland had become a hub of commerce, where men and women came to do business while they reunited with the friends they had made during their stay.

  Best of all, the farmers had gone home to full harvests and more fertile ground than ever before. Cook’s pantry burst at the seams with the surplus of fresh goods. She sent a great deal back to the Temple of the Goddess with Sister Carol. The orphans helped her manage everything—they were Sister Carol’s army now. Friday missed them, John and Wendy and Michael most of all.

  Sunday’s ball was the first reunion of the Arilland refugees. Adults and children alike wore their finest finery—though it was not rare to see a patchwork item or two scattered proudly throughout the crowd. Goods were exchanged, as well as many, many gifts, so many that Friday was overwhelmed by the bounty. The air was filled with laughter and love and hope for the future. Friday let her heart rest in the ease as her hand rested in Tristan’s.

  His shirt looked amazing, though her gaze rarely strayed from the blue of his smiling eyes. One day, perhaps those eyes would not remind her of Philippe and all they had lost that day.

  In the midst of the celebration, there was a fanfare. Sunday and Rumbold appeared at the top of the Grand Stair to address the crowd below.

  “It is my great pleasure,” said Rumbold, “to pay tribute tonight to a man to whom I, my family, and, dare I say, my country would not be whole without. Honored guests, let us please raise a toast to the esteemed Mr. Henry Humbug!”

  There was another fanfare. Conrad brought Friday the green silk coat she’d made for Mr. Humbug. She clutched it nervously, wondering whether or not he would like it.

  “Mr. Humbug, would you please step forward?”

  The crowd fell silent. Everyone began looking this way and that, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

  “Search the castle,” she heard Rumbold whisper to his guards. “Be discreet.”

  The coat weighed heavy in her hands. Friday hoped nothing terrible had happened to Mr. Humbug—too many people in her life had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Perhaps he had simply anticipated this moment and chose not to be called out in front of so many strangers . . . but somehow, Friday doubted that.

  She bade Conrad return the coat to her rooms and leave it on her bed; she would give it to him in the morning, or find a way to send it to wherever he’d gone.

  Sunday raised her glass and made a toast anyway. “To the absent man himself,” she said. “And other absent friends.”

  “Hear, hear!” echoed the crowd, and the revelry resumed.

  This time, Tristan tried his best not to let his new friends manipulate all of Friday’s time. He begrudgingly allowed Peter to cut in and dance with her. Once. Papa attempted to ease Tristan’s overdramatic suffering with a flagon of freshly brewed ale. Friday danced with Conrad and Rumbold and several others after that, so she assumed Papa’s peace offering had been successful.

  It was with great reluctance that Friday retired to her rooms, still smiling and humming to no one while she danced herself down the hall. Conrad opened the door for her and she walked through dreamily—and then stopped.

  “Conrad, where is the coat I made for Mr. Humbug?”

  “I laid it on the bed,” he told her. “Just like you asked.”

  Friday walked over to her bed. On top of the sheet where a coat might have once laid was a silver coin. It was not currency, but the kind of coin that couples threw in a well and wished on to keep their love forever. Beautifully inscribed on the coin was the word “Bliss.”

  “I will always wonder what happened to the donkey,” said Conrad. “His name was Bobo.”

  Friday smiled into the magic of the moment. “Good night, Conrad.”

  “Good night, Friday.”

  Friday changed into her nightdress and slipped the silver coin under her pillow. With her heart full of happiness, she slept the most restful, dreamless sleep of her life. She was home. She was loved. And she would do great things.

  Acknowledgments

  With a family like the Woodcutters, it does not tak
e a village to write a book.

  It takes a kingdom.

  Thanks to my beloved cousin, Jamie Feddersen (he would like me to tell you that he’s my favorite cousin), a wildlife biologist for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. Jamie was instrumental in that initial “swans or geese?” conversation.

  Thanks to Dr. Theda Kontis, Dr. Dave Tunkel, and my other-favorite-cousin Alexandra, who whisked me away to a convention where I was neither a guest nor a star . . . just a niece and a cousin. You will never know how much that meant to me.

  Fishy kisses to my Waterworld Mermaids: Carlene Love Flores, Dana Rodgers, Denny S. Bryce, Diana Belchase, Kerri Carpenter, Kimberly MacCarron, Masha Levinson, Pintip Dunn, and Susan Jeffery. My sanity thanks you.

  A million thanks to Fairy Godeditor Reka Simonsen and everyone at Harcourt; my tireless publicist Jennifer Groves and her team; Christine Kettner; Julie Tibbott; Joan Lee; Emily Holden; Lisa DiSarro; Jessica Yodis; Daniel Nayeri; and Adah Nuchi.

  As always, essential was the magic of my Fairy Godagent Deborah Warren; my Fairy Godfamily: Joe, Kassidy, and Ariell; my OF: Dad, Soteria, Cherie, and West; and my mother, Marcy Kontis, who read every chapter of this as I wrote it. Thank you, Mom, for cheering me on since elementary school.

  And thank you, my friends and fans who are like family to me, for reading this series, and for sharing our love of fairy tales with the world. May you all live Interestingly Ever After.

  1

  Fool’s Gold and Fairy Stones

  MY NAME IS SUNDAY WOODCUTTER, and I am doomed to a happy life.

  I am the seventh daughter of Jack and Seven Woodcutter, Jack a seventh son and Seven a seventh daughter herself. Papa’s dream was to give birth to the charmed, all-powerful Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. Mama told him seven girls or seven boys, whichever came first. Jack Junior was first. Papa was elated. His dream died the morning I popped out, blithe and bonny and good and gay, seven daughters later.