When the doves left, I went down to the Man of Flowers’ shop and bought milk. Imagine! It comes in a cold package, not still steaming from the cow. And I bought as well honey, and two loaves of bread with the last of my coins. Once I was home, I did not go outside again for fear of missing the doves. Keeping the front window open for them, I sat by the window in the single soft chair and watched the sky.
The sky. How different it looked from the window of a house than that which peeks through the green woods. Different from the great swath of sky that hangs over the meadows. This sky seemed squeezed between tall buildings, fitted and cut down and seamed together like one of the Queen’s formal dresses. It was neither a comfortable nor comforting sky, being an unhappy human color as gray as the buildings.
* * *
BY THE THIRD DAY, I had eaten through the green leaves and the fruit and had but one cheese left, plus a full container of cold milk that I sweetened with the honey. I kept the loaves untouched, in case the birds returned.
The two females came back that night but with no news, the young male—Puff Boy—on the fifth day. He was severely dehydrated and I gave him water from my mouth, spitting it into his beak in little drips until he was able to drink on his own. At least the water from the taps was inexhaustible, though my food was not. But this dove likewise had nothing to report. I fed the three of them one of the loaves, crumbling it on the sill and they were grateful for my offering.
Old Man of the Tree had not returned in seven days, and I was at a loss. With no more money, I could buy nothing. I had maybe a single day of cheese and honey left, plus a tiny bit of milk only slightly soured. And water, of course. But seven days—I was in despair.
The local birds came and went in those seven days, hoping for bread. A small gray mouseling played around my feet. None of them had much conversation. If only Jamie Oldcourse had appeared, she would have been company of a sort, though wishing did not make it so. I had no more power with wishes than I had with the greater magicks. I even hoped that the wheat-colored flower man might come. But then, he did not know where I was staying. And besides those two, what humans did I really know in this great village?
I was about to lie down on my bed and weep, cursing this place, my condition, the Queen, when there was a fluttering at the sill. My heart fluttered in answer. Turning, I saw the old dove, and ran to help him in. He had lost some tail feathers and it was this that had made him so late in returning.
“Tell me. Coo-coo-rico,” I said, in a soft voice, “have you found my sister?”
“She lives far away,” he cooed back.
Could I believe him? Seven days away from here? Well, three-and-a-half there and three-and-a-half back. Crows are notorious liars, but doves have not the imagination for it. Still . . .
“She sends you this token.” His voice was low and throbbing and he lifted his right leg.
How had I not seen it at once! On his foot, shoved up onto the leg, was a twisted stem from an ash leaf, in the knot that Meteora and I used for a code, meaning It is I; all is well.
“Oh, you lovely, lovely bird,” I whispered and held him tight.
“Can’t . . . breathe,” he said, and I let him go.
“When you have taken a day to rest, and a day to fatten up on my crumbs, I will have a note for thee to take back to her.”
He nodded in that way that doves have, bobbing his head so vigorously that his breast moved up and down. It is often amusing, and many times Meteora and I had imitated the movement, laughing. But now my laughter was pure joy. He had found her! He had found Meteora!
“Is she well? Is she safe? Is she happy?”
He shook himself all over. “She is fat,” he cooed.
For a moment, I thought he meant she was beautiful. Doves like their females plump. But even before my head told me that was not what he meant, my heart knew. Meteora had been changed even as I had.
“And old?” I whispered.
His head went up and down.
I did not weep in front of him. That would come later.
“Pray tell your sisters and brothers, too, where she lives, so that if aught happens to thee . . .”
He nodded again. Doves have little fear of death for it is always their close companion.
Then I brought him the first of the second loaf, crumbling it into tiny pieces, and soaking half in milk and honey. All the while I was thinking: Oh Meteora, dear sister, only friend, soon enough we shall be together again before I remembered the curse of the iron rain. But I would chance that, truly I would, to be with her again.
* * *
COO-COO-RICO CAME BACK TO ME refreshed the next day, and I wrapped a tiny letter to Meteora in half of the rosy silk patch, tying it to his leg with a basil knot. If I had had any magic left, I would have used a word of binding. As it was, I had to trust my fingers, no longer as agile as they once were but surely as competent as Meteora’s had been with the ash leaf. She would know the silk at once. And then she would come to me if she could. I had not told her of the iron rain. I could not think why. And then I knew: I did not have the courage to go to her, nor could I without the help of Jamie Oldcourse. Or—perhaps the Man of Flowers would give me aid if I asked. It was such a potheration. I would leave it up to Meteora. Because curses work only on those who hear them. She would be safe. I would not. But I did not care what would happen to me, only that I see my sister again.
My dearest Meteora,
The view from my city window is but of a few spindly trees sending out fervent prayers for a bountiful summer that never quite comes. The pigeons crowd my windowsill hoping for a blessing of crumbs.
My messenger tells me that you—as I—have been stripped of youth, thrown into a middle passage with its attendant agonies. Do you have any glamour or magic left? I have none. Yet in my head I’m more powerful than ever, understanding life as never before. Were we always old but living as if young? Did others laugh at us behind their hands? Magic and image have the same parent, you know. Were we fools in our own Eden? Is no one in the Greenwood still lovely and full of gaiety? Except perhaps for the Queen?
Always except for the Queen.
Who knew that bitch would go on forever?
My fondest wishes (oh, that I could really grant them still).
Your old and fat but still loving sister,
Serana
PostScript: Where are you? I am at Number 13 in a large village called New York. How large, I do not yet know. I will not go back to the Greenwood without you. Write soon. Write soon. Write soon.
I PATTED THE DOVE’S HEAD and gave what blessings I could still manage. Small comfort where once I could have covered him with fairy armor against beak and talons. And claws—for he had cooed to me of his near death from Meteora’s cat. She has a house among flourishing trees and a cat! How astonishing that my little sister, who has never fended for herself in any way, has managed such a thing! Perhaps, I thought, she is more in tune with this world than I will ever be.
And then the dove was off, flying past the spindly tree, past the line of gray buildings, past the corner light now green, before banking upward into the blue sky. I watched as long as I could, but even after he had flown out of sight, I kept watching as if there were actually something to see but a trick of the light that looked—now here, now there—like the beating of wings.