On my return to Number 13, I was careful to avoid the chaos of before, walking round and about widdershins till I found the right number and the green door. I crossed and recrossed the streets many times for fear of someone stepping on my shadow or speaking my name aloud. I did not know if the humans in this great village had any magic—and none actually knew my name—but better to be safe than buried. This was not the Greenwood where I could touch elderflower if my nose began to drizzle or chew on a rosemary sprig if I feared my new lover might smell my morning breath and leave me for another. This was a new world of strange stone-and-iron buildings where folk spoke casual curses and did not honor the old gods. Who knew what they might do given the chance, or the push. I do not want to die here, so far from the green that nourishes me.
Yet, for all the peril of these strange streets, I did delight in finding the place the Man of Flowers sent me to, with its windows filled with pretty papers and writing tools. I stepped inside and smiled, relieved for a moment of my fears. Oh, the colors there, like a pied meadow. I finally chose papers that had names of growing things: lavender, marigold, madder, apricot, violet, straw, and a blue the shade of a robin’s egg. I also purchased a pen with no iron in it that wrote with ink the color of an otter’s wet coat.
* * *
WHEN I GOT BACK TO my nest, safe at last, the rooms seemed airier than before, and then I noticed I’d left the windows wide open. Probably not a good idea, with chaos about and me without the protection of my magic, but there was a serenity here that made me think no UnSeelie thing had gotten in.
I put the papers and pen on the table next to the bed. However, it took me longer to decide where to keep the food. The cold locker seemed right for some of the fruit and the green leaves. But as for the herbs, I spread them about the windowsills, some to find the sun, and some the shade, where their homey magicks could do the most good. Across the windowsill, closest to the dove’s tree, I spread crumbles of bread as well.
Then I moved the downy mattress into the front room and lay down on it to rest, my rosy silk patch clutched in my hand. Walking so much on the hard human roads in this aging, aching body had left me more tired than I realized.
* * *
WAKING, I FOUND THAT MY old feathered friend from the tree was the first to find my offering of bread crumbs. I got up carefully, tiptoeing to the window where I watched him eat his fill. Afterward, I put my hands around his stout body, pinning his wings, but gently. I did not want to fright him, only get his attention. Most bird brains are not made for long thinking, though some have deep, almost fey thoughts.
“I need you to find my sister,” I said to him. “I do not know if she is in the Greenwood or out in the world, if she is in this village or another. She is a fey of uncommon beauty, with eyes that are berry black and a nose that uptilts. I will tell you her secret name.” I whispered it to him; not Meteora’s true name of course, but her Name of Finding.
He cooed his acceptance, and gave me his name in return, Coo-coo-rico, which means Old Man of the Small Tree.
“Well, Coo-coo-rico, you will have many miles to go before you can rest again in your small tree.” Then I opened my hands, and he was gone.
I tried this with three more doves, two female and another male, who was smaller than the first, being no more than a yearling. They were called Fly By, Leaf By Linden, and Puff Boy. By the time I was done, the bread was all gone.
I had no idea how long the search would take them. If Meteora was safe and in the Greenwood, they would find her with ease. But what if she had to hide, having seen what the Queen had done to me? Or worse, what if she had been stripped of her own magicks and banished somewhere, too? This last did not bear thinking of. I forced myself to shut the thought away.
Doves, I told myself, think upon the doves. I knew they were strong fliers. They can always find their way home. I had their names. And they were entirely loyal. More I could not do. The only problem was that they were often prey of greater birds, and if Meteora was far from here, there might be hawks or merlins or shrikes to contend with. That’s why I sent out four of them. I did not like putting them into danger, but they were all that I had, now that magic had been taken from me. And having fed at my hands, they and their small natures were mine to command. I could only hope that at least one of them was stalwart enough to find my sister.
* * *
TO EASE MY MIND, I sat down and made packets of thyme to carry in the seams of my clothes to keep me healthy and to help me make money. Though I was healthy enough for this new age, no more money had come to me while I was out, and I had only copper coins left, change from the scrip that Jamie Oldcourse had given me. I did not know when I would see her again. Or indeed, if I wanted to.
I left the other herbs in their pots or in pieces on the windowsill: basil for the peaceful home, bay leaf against jinxes, marjoram to drive off those who would harm me and mine, rosemary for protection against evil and to give me dominance in my home.
I thought about speaking again to the Man of Flowers. I would do it because of the Law of Friendship and because he had given me a gift of a strange fruit with a star at its center. I knew not how he managed to sneak it into my paper sack. But now I was beholden to him.
Also, I wanted to say to him, “If I tell fortunes, and make predictions, can I be given money for this?” I knew that the Rom, the traveling folk who have small magicks, often do such a thing. They are the nearest of human folk to the fey. Telling fortunes and making predictions was a magic that did not depend on what had been stripped from me. I could still read tea leaves, palms, the pattern in a swirl of hair, the lines of a face. All such readings are accurate to a degree as long as the reader has some small part of fey blood.
Suddenly, I remembered how Meteora and I had teased the locals who came with gifts to our faerie market, telling them outrageous lies, the exact opposite of what we read on their hands, on their faces. But if I told fortunes properly here, perhaps I could make enough until Meteora and I could figure out how to get home again without suffering the iron rain.
If the Queen would let us back in.
Always, it came down to the Queen. I knew that. Meteora did, too. But oh, how I wished it were not true.