The Curiosities (Carolrhoda Ya) (23 page)

Often, when I’m reading the stories, I can hear Brenna’s or Tessa’s voices as I do. Not just their word choices, but the sounds of their voices. I can see the hand gestures and imagine their faces. We’ve told each other enough stories in person that I know the way these long-distance ones will look. This is a fun thing, but for me, the most amazing thing is when I’m reading one of their stories and I can’t hear them. Sometimes they write a world that is so other, so outside, so complete without my knowledge of them, that Brenna or Tessa becomes completely invisible. “Ash-Tree” is one of those stories for me. Intellectually, I know that these are things that interest Tessa, but to me, this story moves past that. I think this story was when I first really realized we were getting better as writers. Because it is a simple thing to be inconsistent when you are unsure of your authorial voice — it’s a very easy thing to have no authorial voice. But it is a harder thing to be consistent — to always sound like you, to have a style. And it is something altogether different to have a style that you know quite well and to be able to put it down. To become a different sort of storyteller for four thousand words only. To hide yourself cleverly away so that even your friends cannot see you. “Ash-Tree” was the first story that did that for me. —
Maggie

This story started with lips falling off and turning into rose petals. —Tessa

I
was created of beeswax and honey, with a butterfly for my heart. He should have used a spider or iridescent beetle.

My master gave me hair from strips of ash-tree bark and lips of rose petals. Violet-black chokeberries became my eyes, and he sculpted the planes of my face with kid gloves until it was as perfect as perfect could be.

He named me Melea, for it is the word to invoke the power of the Ash.

I breathed a breath of life and rose to my feet, more graceful than the rippling clouds that were my first sight through his chamber window. Master touched my chin with his cold fingers. He was sharp and bright like the sun on ice. He said, “Welcome, Melea. Here is your order: find my rival August Curran, make him love you, and rip out his heart.”

The butterfly in my chest cavity fluttered as the command settled into my ashwood bones.

. . .

Master’s housekeeper dressed me in an elegant gown of violet with cream lace and black-pearl buttons. My hair was lifted onto my head and pinned under a cap that frothed with netting and spilled over my eyes. The housekeeper sighed and whispered, “Such a sight I never saw. No need for color on your lips or cheeks, Miss Melea. ’Tis life and beauty glowing through you like a sunset.”

She shuffled me out the door with a parasol and boots buttoned up my ankles. The street was damp from an early morning rain, and the air smelled of water and oil and dank horses. But also, the breeze hinted of sun-warmed brick and window-box flowers. And the teasing scent of those high-up graceful clouds. I tilted my face and saw the billows of white fluff spread in strips and ripples against the bright sky.

And I began to walk.

My footsteps were quiet against the cobblestones, and every person who passed me tipped a hat or bobbed curtsy. Four times a gentleman paused to guide me around pud-dles or across the street, and an elderly lady in an open-air carriage offered me a ride somewhere, but I only smiled, nodded, and continued on my way. The butterfly pulled at me, and the smell of the clouds bade me forward.

. . .

The sun had dipped below the tallest buildings, and I had wandered out of the city’s heart. The homes around me lined the street in simple rows, all white stone and red bricks, with arching windows and small brown doors. My toes ached where the point of my boots pinched them, so I chose a delicate iron-wrought bench and sat. Lowering the parasol, I placed it across my lap with my hands, in their lace gloves, folded demurely. Here the air was filled with living smells: trees and grass and flowers from the small square gardens in the center of every block. It was spring, the beginning of it, and blossoms had awakened during the day to sip at the world.

“Miss, are you lost?”

I opened my eyes and saw the face of the man for whom I had hunted all day. He was brown and warm, like tree bark baked long in the sun. His hair curled around his face like wood shavings, and his eyes were as green as the garden behind me. For the first time I parted my lips and formed words. “No, sir, I am where I need to be.” And I smiled. It was an easy smile, for I found myself wanting to be beautiful for him.

The sun-brown man bowed and held out his hand. His gray jacket was not near so opulent as Master’s had been, and he wore boots splattered with mud. But it was fine and fit him impeccably. “I am August Curran, King’s Cunning Man.”

“I am Melea, Mister Curran.” I put my hand into his.

His eyes slid from the crown of my head to the toes of my boots and his smile fell away. “You are, indeed,” he murmured, before smiling again. “And beautiful, too.”

I thought perhaps I should blush, but instead I rose to my feet. I was nearly as tall as Curran, and it was easy to press my lips to his. He tasted like salt, and I gasped.

“My apologies, Melea,” he said, though he did not lean away from me. “I was poison tasting for His Majesty this afternoon. It is only a simple charm and should not harm one so well put-together as you.”

“You know? What I am?” The words tumbled out, though I was certain I should not say them.

“I will not send you back to your death,” he promised, turning to offer his arm.

I took it, and Master’s command shivered again through my butterfly heart.

. . .

August Curran fed me delicious soup tasting of mushrooms and curry powder, and while we dined thin, shadowy servingmen darted in and out from the kitchens to bring us fresh wine. I ate, discovering that I could be hungry, and watched Mister Curran. The setting sun spilled through the perfectly clear glass of his windows, gilding the edges of his hair. I discovered then, too, that I wanted him to love me. But I did not know if it was the command or my own wish.

“Why did you invite me into your house?” I asked.

“You have nowhere else to go. And so long as you are here, he may leave me alone.”

. . .

I was given a room on the third floor of his house, tucked into the corner and full of light. The balcony hung over a thick but well-tended garden surrounded by high stone walls over which no one from any of the other houses might peek. I slept with the moon pouring in and woke with tiny blue finches singing from perches all throughout the room: atop the bureau, clinging to the oval mirror, to the back of the armoire chair, and to the bedposts. I sat up, and they fled to the balcony.

I found my way to the dining room and ate from the spread of breakfast cakes. The shadow-men brought me a crystal glass of tart apple juice. I asked one where I might find Mister Curran, and he bowed with a yellow flicker of firelight-eyes. The door behind him opened. I stepped through it and followed the blue hallway around a bend and up a half flight of stairs. There was no door, but a wide arch led into a grand library that should not have fit inside the house. August Curran lounged in a rocking chair with a large tome in his lap and a steaming mug of fresh-smelling coffee in hand.

“Ah, Melea, good morning.” He flapped his hand toward another chair, which was cushioned in a yellow to rival the sun.

“Mister Curran.” I curtsied and sat near him in the yellow chair. “May I go into your garden?”

“Yes, of course.” He closed the book and set it on the carpet. “You are no prisoner here.”

I thanked him, and he brushed it off. “Please, you should call me August. You are my guest.”

“August,” I said, letting the name hold still on my tongue. I sighed and said, “It does not feel like a proper name. Did your mother know you would be a wizard?”

“No, I chose it as I began my apprenticeship. Coffee?”

I accepted both the coffee and the cream he poured. It smelled like the earth, like old, rich, but bitter earth. What strange magic to drink in the morning. “Why did you choose it?”