“So sorry to disturb you,” the man said apologetically. He gave the baker a twinkling smile, then bowed low.
As he straightened up again, the man said in his lilting, melodic voice, “I am honored to meet you.” Something about his voice felt calming—almost hypnotic—so that whatever he said, people felt inclined to agree with him.
“Are ye here fer a pastry?” asked Morey, speaking more calmly now . . . yet still with an edge of suspicion. “If so, me goods are there on the counter. Yer welcome to take whatever ye’d like fer free. But then ye should go, since it’s past closin’ time.”
The man smiled again and said pleasantly, “The truth is, I did come here hoping to buy a pastry or two. But as I stood at your counter . . . I just couldn’t help overhearing your plans.”
Shangri, like the others, stiffened. “What plans?”
“Clever girl,” said the man mellifluously. “Your plans to stop that wicked man Reocoles, once and for all.” His voice took on a harder edge as he vowed, “I want to help you defeat him. It’s a true crime what he’s done to our fair City of Great Powers.”
Shangri breathed a sigh of relief. “We could always use more help.”
“Slow down, dumplin’.” The baker scrutinized the stranger. “Ye seem very nice, a real gentleman. But even so . . . we don’t know you from a pecan tart. So how are we s’posed to trust you?”
“Good question, Master Baker.” His voice as sweet as the honeyed syrup Morey liked to drizzle over pastries, the man explained, “I give you my word that I hate that horrible man as much as any of you. Possibly more.”
Despite his initial doubts, Morey nodded. How could he ever have doubted such a good, honest fellow?
Seeing that he’d won the baker’s confidence, the man continued, “And I do have certain skills that might prove helpful.”
“What skills?” asked Morey.
“Could ye show us?” Shangri asked.
With a nod, the man opened his coat, revealing a row of knives inside. “I’m a traveling performer,” he explained. “What I do to entertain people is . . .”
With a lightning fast movement, he whipped out a knife and hurled it at the wall. The blade sank deep into the wood, leaving the handle quivering from the impact.
“That’s fine,” said Lorno. “But I can do that too. It’s not that special.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Then what do you think of this?”
Instantly, he threw two more knives, one after the next. One buried its blade in the very top of the first knife’s handle. And the other buried itself in the handle of that knife. All three knives protruded from the wall, trembling like a long branch that had just sprouted there.
“Well now,” said Lorno approvingly. “That really is impressive.”
Turning to Shangri, the stranger asked with sincere politeness, “Would you allow a lowly entertainer, a humble knife thrower, to join your company?”
Shangri nodded. “Oh, yes, I surely would. Yer throwin’ skills could be very useful.” Turning to her father, she asked, “Don’t ye agree, Papa?”
Morey nodded, as well. Then, facing the stranger, he asked, “Would ye swear to do whatever it takes to keep me daughter here safe?”
The man said decisively. “I would.”
“Even if that means hurlin’ one o’ yer knives at some attacker?”
“Even if it meant throwing all my knives at a whole army of attackers.”
Morey grinned. Extending his meaty hand, he said, “Welcome, then. Ye can call me Morey.”
The man smiled with satisfaction and extended his own, much slimmer hand. “And you can call me Graybeard.”
CHAPTER 9
Magic Circles
All right, then,” announced Shangri. She carefully placed the leaf compass in her pocket, then gazed at her companions in the bakery. “Let’s meet here again at sunrise; then we’ll be leavin’ fer the forest.”
“At sunrise,” repeated Graybeard. His dark eyes gleamed. “I’m looking forward to it.”
With that, he turned and stepped away silently. Crossing the bakery, he passed the counter and grabbed a plump blackberry tart. With a wink at Morey, he breezed out the door and disappeared.
“Such a nice fellow,” the baker said, watching Graybeard go.
“And,” added Lorno with a grin, “he has great taste in pastries.”
Morey chuckled, then gently elbowed his daughter. “Jest like yer old friend Promi.”
Shangri nodded, bouncing her red locks. “But there’s a thumpin’ big difference between the two o’ them. As much skill as he has as a knife thrower, he can’t do anythin’ as wonderful as Promi.”
“That’s true,” agreed the baker. “I’m so glad ye finally told me Promi’s big secret—that he’s really an immortal. That explains a lot! Never has a pie thief had so much amazin’ magic.”
“You’re right about that!” exclaimed Lorno. “His magic caused the wave that gave me . . .” Pausing, he eyed Shangri with affection. “A whole new life.”
Morey smirked, then added, “That wave gave me somethin’ too.”
“What, Papa?”
“A mighty sore back!” He burst out laughing, making his prominent belly shake like a mound of lemon custard.
The others joined in, filling the bakery with laughter. As Shangri and Lorno quieted again, Morey told them, “It sure tickles me heart to see the two o’ ye so close these days. Ever since ye got married . . . ye’ve looked so happy together.”
The baker nodded, then said wistfully, “Seein’ ye two reminds me—well . . . never mind.” He shook his head, embarrassed. “It’s none o’ me cracklin’ business.”
Shangri looked at him lovingly. “What is it, Papa? Ye can tell us.”
“Well, sweetcake . . .” He shook his head again. “Really, I shouldn’t say. It’s yer life, not mine.”
“Please, Papa?” She smiled at him. “We’d really like to know.”
He blew a big sigh. “Well . . . it’s jest that, lass . . . ye remind me so much o’ yer ma.” Blinking the mist from his eyes, he whispered, “When I first met her, she looked so much like ye do right now.”
Her own eyes misty, Shangri said nothing.
“An’ when I watch ye two together,” the baker went on, “it reminds me o’ those blessed days. Everywhere we went, yer ma an’ me, it seemed like we were standin’ inside a magic circle.”
Taking hold of his meaty hand, Shangri replied, “That’s jest how it feels to us, Papa.”
“Every day,” declared Lorno, moving to her side.
Morey nodded. Reaching out his burly arms, he embraced the two of them. “Now ye have yer own magic circle.”
“Yes, Papa. We do.”
Struck by a sudden inspiration, the baker released them. “Wait here,” he said. “Jest fer a moment.”
Quickly, he darted to the counter at the front of the bakery and grabbed something from one of the shelves. Then he searched through several drawers, hurriedly slamming one and opening the next as he searched. At last, holding some objects against his apron, he hustled back to Shangri and Lorno.
As he approached them, he extended his hand, which held a lone cinnamon bun. Though it looked a bit stale after sitting most of the day on a shelf, it still smelled wondrously sweet. With an unmistakable look of satisfaction, Morey handed it to the young couple.
“There,” he announced. “Another wedding cake. Jest to continue yer celebratin’! It’s not so special as the one I baked fer ye on the day ye got married, but it’s—”
“Still wonderful!” cried Shangri joyfully. Bringing the pastry to her face, she inhaled its sweet aroma of cinnamon, butter, and sugar. “If Promi could be here, he’d agree.”
“You can tell him someday,” said Lorno.
As swiftly as a cloud hides the sun, Shangri?
??s expression darkened. “I hope so. I really want to speak to him again—an’ not jest hear his voice inside my head.”
“Now,” declared Morey, “I have somethin’ else fer ye. Somethin’ I’ve been savin’ fer jest the right moment.”
Seeing their looks of puzzlement, he showed them his other hand, closed tight into a fist. Slowly, he opened his fingers, revealing what lay on his palm.
Shangri gasped, almost dropping the pastry. “It’s . . . a ring.”
“Right,” her father agreed, watching her with delight. “Yer ma’s wedding ring. I gave it to her after I’d earned enough to pay fer it . . . which took a fair while back in those days.”
“That ring must have cost a lot of cinnamon buns,” said Lorno. He, like Shangri, looked in awe at the beautiful copper ring. While streaks of green tarnished its edges, most of the ring still gleamed, shining as if it was lit from within.
Shangri gave the pastry to Lorno. Then she gently lifted the ring and slipped it onto her finger. It fit perfectly. Tears welled in her eyes, and she wrapped her arms around her father’s neck.
“Thank ye so much, Papa.” She sobbed quietly as she held him. “I’m the luckiest girl alive to have such a pa.”
“An’ I’m the luckiest pa,” he answered, “to have such a girl.”
Pulling slightly away so they could look at each other face to face, he corrected himself. “Yer not a girl, though. Not anymore. Yer a woman . . . a wonderful woman.”
Wiping a tear off her cheek, she replied, “Yes . . . with a beautiful wedding ring.”
Morey smiled at her. “Another kind o’ magic circle.”
CHAPTER 10
Banana Bread
Early the next morning, Atlanta sat at the small pinewood table in her kitchen. The first light of day sent shafts through the acacia and spruce trees surrounding her house, shafts that fell through the open kitchen window, brightening the whole room. Just outside the window, the day’s first birdsong drifted in from a pair of curlews perched on a branch.
Atlanta took a sip of fresh mint tea from her favorite mug, carved from a burl by her friend Honya, a chimpanzee who was the most skilled woodcarver in the Great Forest. Reaching for the bowl of wildflower honey beside her, Atlanta spooned some into her mug and took another sip. Something about the combination of mint and honey always gave her a serene feeling of well-being.
As she drank her tea, Quiggley the faery worked patiently to weave a few lilac vines into a hole in the shoulder of Atlanta’s gown. The faery hovered in the air above the hole, his luminous blue wings whirring softly, as he inspected his progress. After one more tightening of a vine, he landed on her shoulder. Tilting his tiny cotton hat at a jaunty angle, he nodded with pride, then sent Atlanta a wave of satisfaction.
“Oh, thank you, little friend.” Atlanta set down her mug and felt the newly repaired gown. “Beautiful work.”
Quiggley crossed his arms and peered at her, as if to say, Well, of course. What else?
She grinned at him, well aware that clothing repair was the very least of his skills. Ever since she’d nursed him back to health after Grukarr had destroyed an entire faery colony that included Quiggley’s family, the little fellow had proved himself to be her loyal friend and companion. As well as something more. As a rare lone faery, a quiggleypottle, he brought good luck that had on occasion saved Atlanta from harm—or death.
Suddenly the stove popped open. A loaf of fresh-baked banana bread, steaming hot, shot out and skidded across the table. It stopped right in front of Atlanta, filling her nostrils with the aroma of sweet, buttery bananas. At the same time, a bowl of butter and a knife flew out of the cupboard, landing right beside the loaf.
“Why, Etheria. What a wonderful surprise!” Atlanta winked at Quiggley, for both of them knew how the house dearly loved a compliment.
All the candles in the kitchen flared brighter. The window shutters clacked in approval. And the floorboards under Atlanta’s chair shivered with delight.
Atlanta sliced a piece of banana bread, inhaling more of the wonderful smell. Breaking off a small chunk, she put it on her shoulder next to the faery, who released another wave of gratitude and started munching. Meanwhile, Atlanta spread butter on the rest and took a big bite.
Savoring the banana bread’s sweet flavor in her mouth, she gazed around Etheria, the sentient house that had been her home for many years. She remembered vividly the moment she’d found the acorn that had grown to enormous size after it had been dropped by a squirrel near the Starstone. The crystal’s power had magnified not only the acorn’s size, but also its magic. After some diligent carpentry by Atlanta’s friends the beavers and woodpeckers, and some help from a team of centaurs who hauled it to this spot, Atlanta had gladly moved in.
Right from the start, the acorn house had shown supreme devotion to Atlanta’s comfort—as well as a rather quirky personality. If Atlanta had any visitors who might make a mess or leave muddy prints on the floor, Etheria would sprout thorns on her outside walls, slam the windows shut, and barricade the door. Porcupines (who often left quills behind) and centaurs (who often left something very smelly behind) were Etheria’s least favorite visitors. Anytime Atlanta tried to coax Etheria to be more welcoming, the whole house closed up tight all its windows and cabinet doors, simply refusing to listen.
At this moment, however, Etheria was at her best, providing tea and breakfast. Atlanta took another bite of the warm banana bread.
“Nothing for me?” grumbled a plump squirrel from inside the cupboard’s top drawer. The squirrel poked his furry brown head above the rim. Studying Atlanta with beady black eyes, he complained, “That’s typical.”
Atlanta shook her head, tossing her brown curls. “If you want some banana bread, Grumps, you’ll have to ask nicely.”
The squirrel glared at her. Then, pointing his bushy tail toward the faery on her shoulder, he complained, “You didn’t make Babywings over there ask you nicely.”
Quiggley frowned, sending a wave of indignation around the room. He set down his crumb of bread and raised both his tiny fists, ready to teach the surly squirrel a lesson.
“Hold on, little friend.” Atlanta glanced over at Quiggley. “Let’s just ignore him until he shows some better manners.”
As both of them went back to eating, Grumps dived back down into the drawer. After a few seconds, the tip of his tail lifted out and knocked against the wood. “All right,” came the muffled voice from inside the drawer. “May I please have some bread?”
“Yes,” replied Atlanta. She sliced another piece and tossed it into the drawer. “Enjoy it.”
No more words came from the squirrel . . . though there was the unmistakable sound of small teeth nibbling.
Casting her gaze again around her house, Atlanta felt grateful for the Starstone. Not only had its great powers made this home possible, those very powers had magnified every bit of magic in the forest. The dancing mist maidens who rose from streams, the singing fruits that hung from boughs, the birds whose every feather changed colors with those birds’ moods, the many-tongued lizards who spoke several languages fluently, and countless other creatures—all of them owed their extraordinary gifts to the Starstone.
I’m so glad it’s safely hidden on Moss Island, she reflected. And I’m even gladder that Promi rescued it from all those dangers.
She swallowed some more mint tea, recalling her amazing dream visit with Promi. He’d been so vividly present, so truly with her as they walked together and spoke earnestly, she had no doubt at all that it was real. While a whole week had passed since the dream, she could still hear Promi’s voice, still feel his touch, still see the loving gleam in his eyes.
Sadly, he hadn’t been able to tell her the most important thing he’d wanted to say. Etheria had woken her up just at that instant—jealous, no doubt, that Promi had come in her sleep. Yet . . . she had some idea of w
hat he’d been hoping to tell her. Just the thought of that made her grin.
Let’s hope, she told herself with another sip of tea, he has another chance soon. Before too much more time goes by.
A troubling fact about the spirit realm, she and Promi had discovered, was that time there moved far more slowly than on the world of mortals. So the week since his dream visit might have been only a day—or less—to Promi. And the gap between the two worlds’ times could accelerate dramatically. While Promi and Atlanta had originally met when they were the same age, she was now already five years older. That age difference didn’t seem to matter at all in their dream visit. But if a lot more years passed before they could truly be together . . . that could be a serious problem.
Her thoughts turned to more pressing problems right here on Atlantis. Although the vast mining operation where she’d met Shangri had been abandoned for the past week, Atlanta had no doubt that Reocoles would try to revive it. And probably expand it. Soon more soldiers and workers, plus more of those monstrous machines, would be tearing off soil and ripping down trees.
Sensing her change of mood, Etheria dimmed the candles in the kitchen. Quiggley, too, sensed the change. He leaped into the air and hovered in front of Atlanta’s face. Though she felt a rush of compassion from the faery, it didn’t help.
“What happens,” she asked, “if those mining people move deeper into the forest? What if they put everything here at risk—including the Starstone?”
Wings humming, Quiggley frowned. He released a new feeling, one Atlanta recognized immediately.
Fear.
She set down her mug on the table. “Come on,” she declared. “We’re going to take a walk.”
All the shelves in the kitchen sagged and the floorboards creaked as Etheria sighed in disappointment. But Atlanta merely patted the top of the table gently and then stood. As the faery landed on the collar of her gown of woven vines, she stepped over to the door.
Seeing Quiggley’s quizzical expression, she said, “We’re going to the Indragrass Meadows. To find the one person who might know what’s going to happen. And what we can do about it.”