Her eyes narrow. “So you are. I’m Natters’s Missus, come to meet you.” She glances behind me. “This the rest of your lot?”
“The ones that aren’t at the gate, yes,” I answer.
“Good.” She gives a brisk nod and starts down the street, moving surprisingly fast for someone with such short legs. As we walk, she fills me in on what’s been happening in the city. For the past few days, the Godmother’s footmen have been extra vigilant. Houses have been raided, weapons confiscated; suspected rebels have gone to the post; one by one the prince’s castle guards have been disappearing. The castle clock has struck the hour at shorter and shorter intervals. The city is wound up and terrified and waiting.
She glances again at the others. “I’m half surprised not to see Shoe with you.”
The worry I’ve tried to set aside comes rushing back all at once. “He—” My voice trembles, and I fall silent. Owen must be in the Godmother’s hands by now. I can’t speak of it.
The Huntsman fills in my silence. “He was captured along with Prince Cornelius,” he says.
The Missus stops suddenly, staring straight ahead. “The Godmother has him?” She closes her eyes, then lifts her fist and presses it into her forehead as if she can somehow push the thought of Owen’s capture out of her mind. “I can’t tell my Natters. We’ve lost two already; he can’t bear to lose another.”
She can’t bear it either, I can see that clearly.
“We’d better get on,” the Huntsman puts in gruffly. “It must be nearly time.”
As he speaks, I look up to see a white wall rushing down the street toward us; a moment later, we are enveloped in a thick, damp fog that smells of the forest’s snow and pine. In the distance is a sudden roar of sound. The battle has begun.
“Take hands,” Missus Natters says, and I feel her blunt-fingered hand seize mine; the Huntsman’s big hand rests on my shoulder.
“Lead on,” I say.
The Missus hurries us through the fog to a group of city rebels armed with staffs and swords and stout clubs. I catch a glimpse of the ratcatcher among them, the one who brought me the message from Owen; he winks and gives me a gap-toothed grin.
We attack the Godmother’s footmen—the ones guarding the city gates—from behind so our rebels can bring the battle inside the city itself. We are quick and fast and our people flood in. I join in the battle, and it is a whirl of sound and strikes with my staff, and glimpses of snarling mouths with too many teeth in them. It seems like chaos at first, but just as it was in the fortress, I get a feel for the rhythm of the battle, its surges and sudden attacks. Every time I turn around the Huntsman is there, stalwart with his ax, protecting my back.
The Godmother has been busy, it is clear, because there are many, many footmen, most of them naked and half wild, and fanatically fierce. She must have found every dog and cat and rat in the city and used her thimble to bring them into her service. They emerge in snarling clots from the fog, striking us from the side, and we fight through them toward the castle. That’s where we’ll find the Godmother.
And, I hope, Cor and Owen.
I am in the midst of the fighting, striking with my staff, receiving reports from the Jacks and Spinner. We push on, and I catch a glimpse of Anna and a footman from my stepmother’s house fighting back to back against too many footmen; they are about to be overwhelmed. Then I hear a piercing shriek and my stepsister Dulcet is there, wildly swinging a staff; Precious, beside her, follows it with a precisely placed thrust. I step toward them to help, when suddenly there is a flurry of attacks and I find myself shoved aside and stumbling into an alley. From the other end of it comes a snarl; I whirl toward the sound.
“Come’n fight me, girlie,” taunts a guttural voice.
I glance behind me, but the fighting is too close for me to plunge back into it. Gripping my staff, I pace toward the challenge. The fog swirls away from me and then closes in behind me again. I trail my hand against the brick wall to my left and peer ahead through the fog. There are lumps of trash on the ground, and here and there a doorway. The air smells of fires burning and of scorched metal; in the distance I hear the clash and crash of glass breaking, shouts, running footsteps. “Afraid, are you?” the voice taunts. I keep trying to catch it, but it recedes before me. Above the fog and the roofs of the city I can see the tower clock, its face shining luridly red, a kind of beacon, and a place of power. I head toward it.
At last I stumble out onto a wide street that leads directly toward the castle. As I orient myself, four naked footmen, half dog, half man, slink from the alley behind me. Fog smokes around them. They must have been following me, their paw-like feet silent on the cobblestoned street. I gulp and back away from them, holding my staff ready.
They lope toward me, their heads jutting forward, sniffing, ropes of drool trailing from their muzzle-like mouths. One of them lunges at me and I stumble back and swing with my staff, but he twists away, and then another nips at my side and I whirl and strike out and miss again. They growl and I back away again; with a glance over my shoulder, I see that I’m closer, now, to the castle, to a door at the base of the clock tower. The footmen dart in again, but they don’t bite—they are herding me.
“Well, that’s enough of that,” I gasp. I give one last sweep with my staff and then turn and run straight for the tower door; snarling, they follow.
I am at the door, scrabbling for the latch, when the guards’ strong, clawed hands grab my arms and shoulders.
A wave of cold air washes over me. I grope in my pocket for my thimble.
“Hello, my dear,” the Godmother’s voice says in my ear. “I have been waiting for you.”
A touch of ice at my temple, and all goes dark.
I COME TO myself.
And I am myself. I am still Pen; she didn’t take that away from me.
Something is wrapped tightly around my ribs, and I can barely catch my breath. I blink and a curved wall swims into focus. It is hung with paintings of blue flowers and girls in blue dresses. And there is—I blink my bleary eyes again—a mirror in a gilded frame.
I sit up straight, my head whirling. I am in the castle . . . in the clock tower. The chairs are covered with blue damask; candles gleam; a thick white carpet covers the floor. Shakily I get to my feet and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I am wearing a dress of deep-blue velvet, cut low over my corseted breasts; the skirt is cut wide over layers of petticoats. My hair is held back from my face by two diamond-encrusted clasps. One of my feet is covered only by a pale-blue silk stocking; on my other foot is a thin slipper, replacing the sturdy boots that Owen made for me.
Owen.
He must be here, somewhere. I have to find him. Blinking black spots from my eyes, I see a door and stagger over to it, but the knob doesn’t turn. Locked. Thimble. I need my thimble to open the door. I fumble at the stiff velvet of my skirt. “Bother this dress,” I mutter. No pockets.
“It is not quite time yet,” comes a voice from behind me.
I whirl. My head whirls too, and I lean against the door, dizzy.
Lady Faye—the Godmother—is standing behind a chair. She looks different. Story has taken its toll. Her white-blonde hair is now completely white, her mouth bracketed by wrinkles, her glittering eyes deep-set and shadowed. Her pursuit of us has not been easy on her. Yet she is impeccably dressed in ice-blue silk and her necklace of knucklebone diamonds.
“Where is he?” I gasp.
“I assume, of course, that you are speaking of the prince,” she says. “Don’t worry. You will see him very soon.” She is trying to be smoothly controlled, but I can hear the edge of tension in her voice. “Won’t you have some tea?”
“I don’t mean—” I don’t mean the prince. My head is so fuzzy, I’m not sure what is happening.
“I know exactly what you mean, my dear,” the Godmother says, and goes to a tea table, where she pours out two cups of tea and sets one on a table beside the chair I was sitting in.
I try ta
king a deep breath to settle myself and feel the corset cutting into my ribs. I look around the room again. The walls, I realize, and the door against my back, are trembling with the faintest low thunder, just at the edge of hearing. There is a grinding edge to the noise, as of gears clashing.
“It won’t be long now,” the Godmother says, regarding me over the rim of her teacup.
I go to the table and pick up my cup with shaking fingers and take a long drink. I list my advantages. They are not many. I am still light-headed from the touch of the Godmother’s thimble. I don’t have my own thimble, or my staff. I am wearing this cumbersome dress and this cursed corset that is squeezing me into an uncomfortable shape. The door is locked and there is no other way to get out of this room. The Godmother is holding Owen prisoner somewhere and intends to kill him, and possibly Cor as well.
The advantages would seem to be all hers. There is no hope of escape, and no one is going to rescue me.
My ears hear something faint, in the distance, but it sounds like shouting, the clash of swords. I hold my cup out for more, steadying my hand so that it does not shake. “It sounds as if the fighting is getting closer,” I say, calm and even, trying to hide my hopeless desperation.
The Godmother pours more tea and hands the cup back to me, but I stay on my feet. The tea is clearing my head; I take another gulp.
She shrugs. “Everything will be settled soon.” There is a low, heavy groan from the walls. “Ah.” She sets down her teacup with an uncharacteristic clatter. “It is time. Come along, Penelope.” She gets to her feet and shakes out her skirts. Moving stiffly—not her usual graceful self—she leads me to the door and opens it with her thimble. I am right on her heels as we come out into the hallway.
I can feel the floor trembling under my feet, especially the foot without a slipper. The low thunder has gotten louder. We go through another doorway and then up a narrow set of stairs that doubles back on itself, climbing higher and higher into the central tower of the castle.
By the time we reach the top I am panting for breath and cursing the corset and the petticoats that weigh heavily against my legs. We come out into a huge, high-ceilinged room that hums with power and seethes with shadows. One wall is taken up by an enormous clock face as luminous as the moon. Its hands are huge, taller than two men, and made of heavy iron. I can see that the hands have nearly met in the middle; it is a few minutes until midnight.
The clock, I realize. As its power has grown, Story has taken this huge, implacable shape, and with iron hands and grinding gears it has imposed its will on the city. It is as if we’ve stepped inside a giant machine, one with invisible wheels and pistons. The stone walls almost seem to breathe in and out with the rumblings of the gears of Story turning. I swallow and my ears pop from the pressure.
The next thing I see is Owen pinned against the stone wall just to the left of the clock face. Brambles grow from the stone and wrap around him so that he is bound to the wall and can’t move. His head is lowered, but I can see that his face is ashen and bruised. Without the brambles holding him up, he would fall.
My heart twists in my chest. “Owen,” I breathe.
He looks up, blinking. I see his cracked lips shape my name—Pen.
I take a quick step toward him, and the Godmother rests cold fingers against my shoulder. “Wait,” she orders.
I shrug off her touch and start toward Owen again.
From one of the brambles gripping him a knifelike thorn erupts; he flinches as it slashes a deep cut along his ribs. Blood seeps out, staining his sweater.
“The next one may find his heart,” says the Godmother from behind me.
I pause and feel as if I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff. Under my feet, the floor shudders, and briars burst from the stone and wrap themselves around my legs under my skirt, holding me in place. My breath comes short. “No,” I whisper.
“Ah,” the Godmother says, as if confirming something. “I see.”
I am about to speak when we are interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Cor bursts into the room. He is breathing hard and holding a sword; he looks pale, and his eyes are deeply shadowed. “Pen!” he shouts.
“Good,” the Godmother says. She raises her hands. “Hold there, prince,” she orders.
Cor stops, panting. Beneath his feet, brambles twine from the stone and wrap around his ankles.
“He has come to complete your story, Penelope, do you see?” the Godmother says aside to me. “So brave, so noble.” She raises her voice. “She is such a pretty girl, don’t you think, Prince Cornelius?” She points at me, and I see now why she has dressed me so finely. We each have roles to play, the prince and I.
Cor finds his voice. “She is very much more than that,” he says, regarding me steadily. “But pretty? No.”
“Oh, well done,” I say, releasing a breath of relief. Cor is himself, resisting the pull of Story toward an ending that I know he wants much more than I do.
The Godmother frowns. “We don’t have time for this,” she says impatiently. Moving with strange jerkiness, she crosses the room to where Cor stands. Brambles writhe up his legs, binding his sword arm to his side. Swiftly she raises her thimble. Cor struggles, but the vines grip him all the tighter. The Godmother holds her hand to his temple. Blue light flares and Cor goes still. “There,” she says, satisfied. “Now let us try this again.” She leans forward, slipping something—a shoe?—into Cor’s coat pocket, then steps back. “She is a pretty girl, is she not, Prince Cornelius?” she prompts, pointing at me as she did before.
“She is,” Cor says, staring blankly ahead. “You are so pretty, Pen.”
“You know very well that I am not, Cor,” I say desperately.
“You are pretty, Pen,” he repeats woodenly, and I can see that he has no choice but to play his part.
We make a triangle—Cor near the door, Owen bound against the wall, and then me, all of us entangled with brambles. The walls are vibrating now; the huge clock face glows like a full moon. There is an immense grinding, groaning sound, and the clock’s hands come together with a clang. From overhead the first strike of midnight rolls out with a thunderous boom.
When the Godmother speaks, her voice takes on the deep echoes of the clock’s second strike. “It is time! We will take up your story again where we left off.” She goes to stand at the center of the triangle; then she holds up her hand, the thimble on her finger glittering with an icy, blinding light.
The third strike roars out. Boom.
“Before the clock strikes twelve, you will go to your prince!” she announces, taking a step toward me.
The briars holding Cor’s arms loosen. His movements rough, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the dainty dancing slipper that the Godmother had put there.
I finally understand. Owen interrupted this ending before; now I have to allow Cor to put the slipper on my foot and claim me as his own.
The clock strikes again and a swirl of a breeze tugs at the hem of my dress. “You will marry your prince.” The Godmother points toward Cor, but takes another step toward me. Her words have power; they speak with the weight of a thousand happily-ever-afters. Boom, the fifth strike. The weight presses down on me; I can barely hold up my head beneath it.
“You will become his princess.” The clock strikes again—boom—interrupting her. “Story will be satisfied!” As she speaks, she uses her thimble to trace a line in the air from me to Cor.
As the line connects us, I feel a powerful pull in his direction. “And if I don’t?” I say through gritted teeth.
The seventh strike rolls out. Boom. Dust sifts down from the high ceiling. The Godmother steps closer and raises the thimble, and I feel an answering tingle of cold in my forehead. Then she turns the thimble on Owen with chilling precision. I gasp as another thorn rips into him, his arm this time. Blood drips. The eighth strike, and my ears are ringing so loudly that I almost can’t hear the Godmother’s answer. “If you refuse to play your part, the
Shoemaker will die.” The Godmother’s hair has come loose and writhes around her head; the thimble flashes with cold fire. The ninth strike booms and the walls tremble.
The tenth strike. Doom. The air around us cracks and shatters. I’m running out of time. The weight of Story is so heavy; I brace myself, trying to resist it. The brambles fall from my legs.
I so desperately want Owen to live, and in that wanting my body takes an involuntary step toward Cor. He opens his arms as if to welcome me, the slipper clenched in one hand, but the smile on his face is really a grimace of pain.
The eleventh strike rises from the stone floor, an all-encompassing sound that is like a blow against my ears. Doom. “Go to your prince!” the Godmother shrieks. “It is the only possible ending.”
The silence before the last strike vibrates with anticipation. I take a deep breath. The only one? My arm weighs a hundred pounds, but I lift my hand to my face. I tap my chin with my finger. “Do I want that ending?” I tip my heavy head to the side, as if thinking. “I suppose I must choose.”
“You do not choose,” the Godmother says, and I see a flicker of unease cross her haggard face. “Story has chosen you. Go to him!”
Story grips me, huge, implacable. The air thickens; the weight of the last boom waiting to strike fills the room. I struggle to take a breath against it. “Oh my,” I gasp. I give the Godmother my wickedest grin. I am my mother’s daughter after all, the Witch, even without my thimble. A wind whips around me; dust whirls into my eyes. “But I hardly know what to say.” I am stalling, not sure what to do, I only know that I can’t cross the room. I cannot let Cor put the slipper on my foot. I glance at Owen, where he is bound against the wall.
You do the unexpected thing too, Pin, he said to me once. I can hear his voice as he says the words, feel the force of his steady gaze.
He knows me. And I know him. And oh, I am stupid, or slow, because Templeton was right. It is simple. Of course I love Owen. I love his steadiness and his stubbornness, the way his face shows his every thought, I love the way he thinks and the way he likes to talk, and the way he likes raspberry jam just as much as I do. I loved him when I was Pin, and I love him as Pen, and I love so much that he loves me, for who I am, because I am absolutely sure that he does.