What I Wore to Save the World

“what are you going to wear?” he repeated incredulously. “That’s the least of yer worries, don’t ye think, Mor?”

“It’s bloody bizarre.” He snatched the letter away from me and held it up to the sun. “Look at that watermark—this is real Oxford stationery, all right. But how did they know you were here? And what does that mean, ‘Your campus tour was successfully completed?’ And—bloody hell, look at yer three choices for the interview time: ‘Now,’ ‘Soon,’ and ‘Later.’ Ye’d think Oxford could do better than that.” He gave the letter back to me. “Hey, ye didn’t open the yellow envelope.”

“What yellow envelope?” I kept the large envelope with the Rules of Succession in it pinned under my arm. “Oh, that! More college stuff, probably. Fek!” I shrieked, out of nowhere. “I just thought of something horrible!”

Think of something horrible, quick, I urged myself. “Um . . . my parents! All the computers in our house are on a network my dad set up so we could share the printer. If someone is hacking my computer, couldn’t that person get into my parents’ bank accounts and stuff too?”

My attempt to change the subject through the use of extreme drama (also known as the Tammy Technique) was working. “And my dad works at a bank! What if they hack into his work account? This could cause, like, a worldwide financial disaster of really large global proportions!” I backed away from Colin. “I have to find Mr. McAlister and call them on the oPhone right away.”

Colin looked bewildered. “They have courtesy phones right inside the lobby, Mor; if ye’re that upset ye should call them right now—”

“I can’t!” If I’d known how to make myself froth at the mouth I would have. “They still think I’m at Oxford! I’ll just say my wallet was stolen and they should cancel all the accounts and change all the passwords on everything. That should do it. I’ll see you later. I’m going to find the oPhone.”

“Noooooooo!” I was practically whinnying. “You stick to the game plan! Look for clues! That’s more important.”

Before he could argue with me any more, I turned and ran full speed toward the boardwalk, in the direction of the forest.

Surely the unicorns could hear me crashing through the trees like a drunken elephant? Where were they?

“Epona!” I was so winded from running I could barely get the word out. My heartbeat hammered in my ears. “Unicorns! Show yourselves, already!”

In the distance, thunder. The ground shook. Then, a trumpet blast—the kind that might come from a long, whorled horn—

“You’ve come back!” Epona circled me once and pranced in place excitedly. “Did you find the Rules of Succession?”

I was tempted to say in my underwear drawer, of course. But this was no time to wisecrack. “In the library at Oxford. They were written in the Book of Horns.”

Awestruck whinnies filled the air. When the noise subsided, Epona explained, “The Book of Horns is the most important book in all of Faery, written by the unicorns at the beginning of time. It contains various rules, regulations, points of etiquette, tax codes, the Faery Bill of Rights, emergency phone numbers, that sort of thing.”

Now I was confused. “So, wait—if it was written by the unicorns, how come you guys don’t have a copy?”

“We did, once, eons ago.” Epona hung her head. “But we lost it.” There was some background bickering from the herd—You lost it! No, I gave it to you—did not—did so—

These unicorns are pretty to look at, I thought, but not what I would call geniuses. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. The Rules of Succession are in this envelope.” I held it out to Epona. “Go ahead, open it.”

I thought of the gargoyles, lurking in the bushes. “No offense, but we don’t have time. The veil is already slipping—”

Then, right on cue, the unicorns did a big light wave with their horns. Two of them, including the little one I’d rescued from Titania, bounded up to me and put wreaths of flowers in my hair.

I felt warm horse-breath on my neck, as Epona whispered, “Say ‘Yes, I choose my destiny.’ That’s the way we practiced it.”

“Yes, I choose my destiny.” Why did I suddenly feel like a Pokémon master? “But—wait—I still have a few questions about this Queen of the Faeries gig—”

But it was too late. Epona blew a little trumpet call through her horn. “Summon the Book of Horns!”

“I know,” I said, annoyed. “It’s a photocopy. The Book of Horns is non-circulating. It’s the best I could do.”

“Photocopies are acceptable!” Epona assured the unicorns. “And now, for the first time anywhere, at least that we can recall: the Rules of Succession!”

Epona slit open the envelope with her horn, which also served as a handy booklight. She speared the single sheet of paper it contained and lifted it high.

“Oh, it is, it is. But my vision is not what it was.” She shook her horn a bit so the paper slid farther away from her eyes. “There, got it!” she cried. “It’s—drat, it’s a prophecy.”

“A prophecy, a prophecy!” The unicorns stamped their hooves and flicked their tails in excitement. One of them tried to start a spontaneous cheer: “Pee Are Oh! Ef Ee See!”

“It’s not Ef, it’s Pee Aitch,” another unicorn interrupted. Then the cheer degenerated into a heated debate about how to spell prophecy.

“Please, can you just read what it says?” I begged. “The dragon statue on the boardwalk looks ready to take off.”

Epona returned to the paper and gave a little clearing-her-throat whinny. “It says here: ‘The Rules of Succession are contained in ‘The Prophecy of the Three Clowns,’ which is as follows:

To win the throne is easily done;
The throne is yours when the throne you’ve won.
The Fey and the Folk are safe at last,
When the Day of Three Clowns is safely past.”

“Hang on, hang on.” Epona made her horn light a little brighter and squinted. “My bad. It’s not clowns. It’s crowns. Sorry about that. Oh! Underneath the prophecy it reads: ‘P.S.—You’ll understand once you’re Queen.’” Epona looked kind of embarrassed. “That’s it. The Rules of Succession. Any idea what it means?”

I didn’t even try to hide my grumpiness. “No. But I guess I’m going to have to figure it out, aren’t I?”

Apparently the unicorns took my sarcasm as a resounding yes. “Out! Out! She’s going to figure it out! Gooooooooooo, Morgan!”

several more whinnied cheers and some elaborate pyramid formations later (complete with flying stunts), and the party finally broke up.

Now I was on my own, stomping back through the woods and trying to make sense of this mysterious “destiny” I apparently had no choice but to choose.

After all that, and the Rules of Succession were nothing but a joke. To find out how to become queen I had to understand the prophecy, but before I could understand the prophecy I had to be queen. Brilliant. It reminded me of the way my dad complained that you could only buy health insurance if you weren’t sick.

“Typical faery logic,” I muttered aloud in frustration. And then I heard a crack, like a tree branch snapping. There was a muffled cry. Directly in front of me, something substantial fell with a loud thud to the forest floor.

Someone about six feet tall, to be precise. Someone I loved more than anything, who was also the very last person I wanted to see sprawled on the ground in a pile of leaves and broken branches, staring at me as if—as if—

“I’m fine. It wasn’t a very high branch. Or a very strong one, apparently. I don’t suppose ye’d believe me if I said I was up there pickin’ apples.”

His tone was light, but he was staring up at me with the strangest expression on his face. Like he was looking at a ghost—or a half-goddess from the land of faery claptrap—

“That last flyin’ pyramid routine was damned impressive,” he added, his voice strained. “They’re very agile beasts, I must say.” He scrambled to his feet. “I shouldna followed ye, I know. But I couldn’t stand not knowin’ what was really goin’ on.”

“I knew ye were keepin’ something from me, Mor, I could tell. Ye were actin’ fairly daft there by the pool. But, holy cow, girl! Queen of the Faeries? It’s a bit much to take in.”

“You weren’t supposed to see all that,” I said helplessly. “I’m sorry.” I stepped toward him, but he took a step back. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.”

“Ye mean ye’re sorry I found out, don’t ye? Were ye never planning on tellin’ me, then?” His voice was flat, but there was a flash of feeling in his eyes. Was it anger? Hurt? Or something worse?

He stretched out his hand. For a moment I thought it might be a gesture of forgiveness. But it was my hair he was reaching toward, and he came away with a sprig of violets.

He held it in two fingers, as if it were a strange and possibly dangerous object. “Is this part of yer faery princess getup, then?” His voice was thick, almost a sob.

Clearly he was too freaked out to say more, but it didn’t matter. Everything I needed to know was written on his face. Confusion. Betrayal. Disbelief. Colin’s eyes were a transparent blue pool that reflected only the truth. I could see myself mirrored in them with perfect clarity.