A Sliver of Stardust (18 page)

They reached one such gap and Jill came to a full stop. The rock had eroded so much that there was a wide gap across to the other side.

“We can go back up to the next level,” Jill said. “It's near the greenhouse, and I think I could bluff our way through. From there we could go straight down to the laundry. The apprentices there are usually the last to hear what's going on, and even if they have heard, they won't think it's us that lit the pathway.”

“Too risky,” Wren said, thinking of how Elsa's spies were everywhere. “We should jump.”

Simon made it across easily. He barely needed a running start. Wren stood at the edge of the gap, pressing one side up against the solid wall of the mountain. Now that it was her turn, it looked awfully far to jump. Her knees tingled at the shadowy blackness of the ground far below.

“C'mon, Wren,” Simon said, one foot braced down the edge and his hand outstretched. “Jump.”

Wren took a deep breath and sprang forward, her heart throbbing through the breathless moment, and then she was toppling into Simon and sending him stumbling backward. Jack and Jill followed right behind. Wren's knees ached with the pounding descent. She and Simon were near the bottom when she heard Jack's cry of alarm from behind. He'd misstepped, or rather the mountain was giving way, or there was a rockslide. It was hard to tell, but a billowing cloud of dust mixed with the sound of falling gravel, and when Wren could next see, Jack and Jill were gone, and the cliffside was smooth.

“Jack!” Wren cried, sprinting past Simon down the final feet of their descent. Together they circled around to the site of the rockslide. Dust filled the air, and Wren pulled the front of her shirt up over her nose so she wouldn't have to breathe it in. “Jill? Are you okay?”

“Over here.” Jill's answering groan led them to her. Jill was sitting up, flexing one ankle, her face smudged with dust. “I think I sprained it,” she said.

“Jack!” Wren bent down over the still form. He was still breathing, but the large gash near his temple had started to bleed.

“Can you hear us, Jack?” Simon bent low. “Don't move your neck.”

“Ohhhh,” Jack groaned. “That was . . . not good.” He opened his eyes, and the whites were bright against his dirt-covered face. Bracing his hands under him, he sat up. “What happened?”

“You slid down the last bit of the Crooked House,” Wren said, pulling Jill up to a standing position. She limped forward, her mouth twisted in pain.

Simon braced his arm under Jack and helped him to his feet. Together they made their way across the valley floor to what, for the first time in her life, Wren found to be a happy sight: the falcon mews.

Row, row, row your boat,

Gently down a stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

Life is but a dream.

T
he falcon mews were empty except for the ancient Fiddler who worked there, and he squinted at them as though he had poor eyesight.

“It's the falcons you're wanting, is it?” He got to his feet, and Wren wondered if it was humanly possible for a person to move any slower. He reached for a lantern hanging on an old nail.

“We don't need the light,” Wren said. “We're kind of in a hurry.”

“Hasty, hasty,” the old Fiddler said. “You young ones are always in a rush. The birds don't like it.” He lit
the lantern and then inched his way forward, Wren and the others crowded on his heels, until they were finally inside, where the falcons were roosting for the night.

It didn't take Simon long to spot his bird. The falcon hopped up onto his gauntleted forearm and rode smoothly out to the mews yard. Jill followed, intently watching Simon's every move as though she was memorizing the rhyme. Even Jack, as hurt as he was, began to quickly make his falcon grow, leaving Wren alone in the mews, where she tried to find her bird and instead managed to shoo away all the others.

“Having some trouble?” The old Fiddler came up behind her, ruffling the head feathers of the falcon perched on his shoulder.

“I'm fine,” Wren lied. She clenched her fist to hide her trembling hands.

Simon's falcon was almost fully grown, and Wren willed herself not to panic. This was the worst possible time to screw up the flying thing. Who knew how long before Elsa and the others would think to check the falcon mews?

“Now would you look at that?” The old Fiddler pointed up at the sky, staring slack-jawed at the swirling gateway. “It's been many years since I've seen the
like.” He squinted at Wren shrewdly. “You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“I know they're ringing the summoning bell inside the Crooked House.” Wren dodged his question. “All full Fiddlers must attend, but we apprentices have an urgent errand.” With any luck, he would believe her and leave them alone in the mews.

“A summoning?” The Fiddler frowned down at her. “Well, hurry up and find your falcon. I don't want to be late.”

Wren didn't bother telling him that wasn't likely. The man still moved with excruciating slowness as he handed saddles to the boys. And then Wren heard it. The awful hissing-squawking sound that her falcon made when it was especially angry.

The old Fiddler laughed. “Such a feisty she-falcon. I rather think it says something about you.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Wren.” Jack had grown his bird now, too, and both he and Jill were watching Wren. And waiting. “C'mon. Let's go.”

Wren eased her way over to the falcon, holding one hand out, cupped into a small bowl filled with a pinch of the stardust. The falcon shifted on its claws, flicking
a twitching wing in her direction, but it stayed put. Wren crept closer.
Nearly there.
If she could just get within reach—and then the floor creaked under her, sending the falcon soaring into the sky with a final insulting screech.

The air around Wren grew thick with humidity. She stomped one foot, fighting the pounding headache, trying to remember what she'd learned about controlling her thoughts, but it wasn't helping very much. A distant rumble of thunder hinted at a storm to come. Wren tried breathing deeply. If the Fiddler Council wasn't already hunting for her, there was no need to remind them she was a Weather Changer.

“Wren? Remember what Liza said.” Simon's voice was cautionary, as though he thought she'd forgotten about the weird weather thing. “If you don't control it, it will control you.”

Wren ground her teeth. “Just a minute.” She counted her breaths. If she could slow her heart down and clear the heat from her face, maybe then she could avoid the storm.

“Identify your response to the stardust, and then you can channel it appropriately.” The old Fiddler's hand rested on her shoulder.

Wren's response told her that she wanted to swat his hand away. “I'm angry,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Good,” the Fiddler said as though he were a therapist. “What does your anger look like?”

Wren shut her eyes. “A hot ball of light.” It burned in her chest, the same feeling that made her want to sprint off in the other direction.

“Use the stardust,” the Fiddler said, and Wren felt the warm embrace of the magic as the Fiddler tossed some into the air above her. “Make the ball.”

Wren tightened her jaw, focusing on the searing heat inside, channeling her frustration and anger, and cupped her hands to catch the stardust. She made the movements Baxter had taught them, the one for the starlamp. The words for the rhyme came out stiff, as though she was forcing them out, and the next moment her anger was gone, replaced by the brightest, roundest, most brilliant starlamp of all.

“Excellent,” the Fiddler said. “I could tell you were a feisty one.”

The air returned to normal, the heaviness gone, and the humidity evaporated. Wren took a deep breath. She felt relaxed, as though her bird flying off at the
worst possible moment could be a ridiculous joke.

“We'll have to ride double,” Jack said, pulling Jill up onto his falcon. “Until your bird is in a better mood, that is.”

“Building trust is a crucial piece of the Fiddler-bird relationship,” the old Fiddler said, reaching down to adjust the strap on Simon's saddle.

“I've heard.” Wren pulled herself up and flung one leg over the falcon. “But how do you teach a psycho bird to trust someone?”

“Oh,” the Fiddler said, tottering back toward the mews as Simon's bird began his preflight run. “I wasn't talking about your falcon.”

The falcons needed little guidance, but even if they had, Simon had also taken detailed notes about the route on their first trip, so they arrived back at Pippen Hill without incident. Wren held tight to Simon's waist as his falcon dipped down and landed in the clearing in the middle of the wood. It was earlier in the day here, the golden light of afternoon sending leaf shadows playing on the grassy field. Simon immediately unsaddled his falcon and led it to food and water, but Wren gave it a wide berth. She'd had enough of falcons
for one day. Besides, the relaxed feeling from earlier was gone, and now the question of what they should do next loomed overhead. Would the Fiddlers follow them here?

From overhead came a most unwelcome and familiar squawking sound. A normal-sized falcon swooped in front of Wren, dipping low enough to peck her between the shoulder blades, before soaring off.

“Why, you little”—Wren shouted at the red tail feathers of her bird—“I'm not happy to see you either!” Her falcon landed on a gnarled old bush, settling its wings with what looked to Wren like an unmistakably triumphant expression.

“Fine. You win,” Wren said, stomping around to join the others.

“They'll check the apprentice quarters first, I imagine,” Jill said.

“Mary will know.” Simon hung up his saddle on the peg by the door.

“But will she tell the others?” Jack reached down to splash water from the trough over his face.

“You look awful,” Wren told him. Some of the blood from the cut was gone, but his skin was very pale, revealing dark circles under his eyes.

“I feel awful,” Jack said. “I could really use an ice pack or something.”

Jill's cheeks grew rosy. “I'm pretty good at healing. I could give it a try.”

“Like with stardust?” Jack raised an eyebrow. “I don't know about that.”

“Well, Mary does have that herb room at Pippen Hill,” Simon said. “If anyone knows which is which, we could use that.”

“Forget the herbs,” Wren said. Being in the Crooked House for so long had them all thinking like Fiddlers. They had other options now. “Jack and Jill, you guys stay here and get cleaned up. Simon, come with me.” Wren wanted to press pause on all the Fiddler craziness. She wanted to forget about the fact that she had royally screwed things up by lighting the Magicians' gateway. To forget about the horrible dreams and Cole's unblinking stare and Elsa's endless spies, and the way everyone there seemed to think she was helping Boggen. She wanted pizza. And sci-fi movies. And her old boring life. “We're going to my house.”

“Hello? Who's there?” Wren's dad called out from his home office when she let herself in the front door with
her key. It seemed like she hadn't been home in years.

“It's me!” she shouted, and fought to blink back the tears that threatened to spill over.

“Wren!” Her dad was beaming, and she ran over to give him a hug. “Are you okay?” he asked when she didn't let go. “What's wrong?”

“I've missed you, that's all.” Wren scrubbed a hand across her eyes. “Is Mom home?”

“She's upstairs. Come into the kitchen and I'll tell her you're here.”

“Simon's with me.” Wren pointed back to the front door. “Okay if he comes in, too?”

“Of course!” her dad said, but Wren could see the curiosity in his eyes as he looked past her to the front door. Which was when Wren realized how they must appear. Simon's apprentice cloak was streaked with dirt from the slide down the mountain. Glancing at her front, she saw that hers was hardly better. Several buttons had popped off and one sleeve hung at an angle. She slipped it off with an uneasy smile.

“Falcons are messy animals.” She waved Simon in, hoping her dad wouldn't look too closely. Once everyone was done hugging and oohing and ahhing over how much they had missed Wren and why hadn't she
called and how quiet things were without her, they all sat at the kitchen table. Her mom poured both Wren and Simon a big glass of milk. “So how is the urban farm experiment going? Your texts are so short I hardly know what to make of it.”

“Busy,” Wren said. As happy as she was to be home, it was going to be hard to juggle the truth. “And interesting.”

“How are the falcons?” her dad asked, bringing a plate of cookies to the table.

“Hard,” Wren said, happy to be completely honest about something. “We don't get along so well, but I'm hoping that will improve.”

“That's somewhat of an understatement,” Simon said matter-of-factly.

“How is the play?” Wren knew she should hurry. That Jack was waiting and the Fiddlers might be coming, but she wanted to savor the moment, to pretend for a minute that everything was normal. She took a bite of her cookie, which tasted better than anything she'd eaten in the Crooked House, even Baxter's baking.

“Great! We started rehearsals a few days ago, and I think we're in for some rave reviews.” Her mom gushed about how rich the Mother Goose rhymes were
for drama. “A reporter from the town newspaper even wrote an article about the origin of the Mother Goose rhymes. Did you know that some people think they are connected to historical events?” she asked. “Like Old King Cole might have been King Henry VIII. Or one guy thought the Land of Nod might have stood for the New World. Pretty crazy stuff.”

“Yeah, I might have heard something like that.” Wren felt a wild desire to giggle. If her mom only knew.

“I spent days researching it all down at the theater. The hardest thing was setting aside all those notes to actually write the darn play. What I think is the most interesting part is that many of these rhymes are so unknown. I'd never read some of them before.” She refilled her coffee cup. “There are all these conspiracy theories. Like this one rhyme that's about the corruption in Parliament. And another is supposed to be a hidden treasure map. And there's a door that only opens with a forgotten key, and the goose that lays the golden egg, of course. And the best is the idea that Little Jack Horner is a call to rebellion against the monarch. The plum pie is supposed to be the crown. It's all too perfect.” She scooped some sugar into her coffee and stirred. “Could you have ever imagined ‘The Three
Little Kittens' as a coded message?” She took a sip of coffee and smiled at Wren. “You used to ask me to sing that to you over and over again.”

“I remember,” Wren said, rolling her eyes.

“I always wondered if you would be a poet or a writer or something.” She shook her head and set her cup down. “And look at you! Learning falconry instead. Life is full of funny things.”

“That's for sure.” Wren brushed the last of the cookie crumbs from her fingers. It seemed that even here, far from the Crooked House, she couldn't escape being a Fiddler.

She excused herself to go the bathroom and left Simon to answer all her parents' questions about falconry. She found the Tylenol easily and grabbed some antibiotic ointment and bandages while she was at it. She tucked them into her hoodie pocket and stood for a moment at the bathroom mirror. Her hair was windblown, and her face was smudged with dirt on her chin. She ran some water and washed it off. She shouldn't look any different than before she left, but somehow the face looking back at her seemed more than just tired. Wren looked older. Like she knew things. She peered closer—were those wrinkles around
her eyes? Then the wrinkles grew to ripples, like water in a pond, as the mirror shimmered and changed, until Wren found herself staring into the reflection of an entirely different room.

It appeared to be a storeroom of some kind, dusty and cloaked in shadows. A long table with a few stacks of paper was shoved against one wall that had thick metal pipes running in different directions. Pinned over the top of them was a canvas covered with scribbled equations. A bed that looked recently slept in stood next to a metal pan holding glowing coals. A book lay open on the nearby table, and even though some of the words were misspelled, Wren could still read the rhyme.

King and Queen of Cantelon