Afa took them to a room farther from the passageway through which they had come, at the end of a corridor lined with closed doors. Strings of crimson and sapphire beads hung at the entryway, trailing across Clara’s arms as she passed through. It was clean here, and comfortable, with cool stone floors and plush carpets, and two low, wide settees boasting deep cushions.
Everyone sat. Bo scrambled on top of a chest of drawers and pulled a tiny gold lock pick from inside her jacket, rolled it back and forth between her fingers. The tall woman, Clara noticed, remained standing near the door, watching the corridor. Glyn was her name; the man, Karras.
Afa flipped back a corner of the carpet to reveal a small wooden hatch in the floor. She opened it and pulled out, with no small effort, an enormous book—yellowed, aged, but obviously well used. It had collected no dust.
She settled it in front of Nicholas on a low table. “It is,” she said quietly, “one of the few documents we have left from before that night, Your Highness. When they began to burn everything.”
“The Night of Red Winter,” Karras said.
Darkness passed over Nicholas’s face. “Do you mean the night Wahlkraft fell?”
“Yes. The night of Anise’s coup.”
Tentatively Nicholas reached for the book. His fingers trailed across the cover. On leaning closer, Clara could see four images inscribed there—a great black raptor; a sea monster; a stallion, rearing on powerful hind legs; and a dragon. A dragon like the one topping Godfather’s cane.
“Nightbird,” Nicholas said, glancing at her. He pointed to the raptor. “Sea serpent. A flatlands stallion.” The horse. “Dragon.” At the last image he lingered. “The sign of my family. The Drachstelle family.”
“The rightful rulers of Cane,” Karras said fervently.
Bo laughed. “Not according to the queen.”
“I recognize these animals,” Clara whispered, running her fingers across them. “Godfather, he . . . he made me a mobile, for my nursery. These creatures, dangling from delicate chains. ‘Such a monstrous thing,’ Father always said. ‘Is it really appropriate for a young girl’s room?’ But Mother insisted. I insisted. I have never taken it down.”
She broke off, haunted, uncertain.
Gently, Nicholas opened the book. “So, Anise is queen now, is she?”
“One of the first things she did was proclaim herself queen,” Afa said. “And who was left to challenge her?”
“No one,” Nicholas said. “There was no one left. I watched her kill most of them.”
He began turning pages, slowly at first, and then in larger chunks. The text was in meticulous script, broken up with images—diagrams, maps, lineages set in elaborately drawn trees. The handwriting changed throughout, as though multiple people had recorded the book’s contents. Here and there Clara saw a page with nothing on it but a set of seven names. Some of the names were the same from entry to entry, others not, but they each ended in “meyer.”
Could it be?
Clara saw the familiar name on the next page and pointed. “Godfather,” she said, disbelieving, absurdly happy. “That’s Godfather!”
Bo wrinkled her nose. “Who’s Godfather?”
“Drosselmeyer,” Nicholas said. Clara could not interpret his tone. “He was one of the Seven when I was prince. They served the royal family. He was sworn in when I was a child.”
“He was—is—my godfather,” Clara said, the words sticky in her throat, thick with pain. “My . . . friend. He taught me how to fight, how to sneak and break into locked buildings—”
He is the reason my mother is dead. Him and the man now beside me. Perhaps the more she thought the words, the less severely they would sting, and the less they would nettle her with suspicion.
“Wait.” Bo stuck her gold lock pick behind her ear. “You mean to say that Drosselmeyer, one of the Seven, was the ‘good teacher’ you had?”
“Taught her to be a first-rate criminal, it sounds like,” Karras said, amused.
“He fled with me that night,” Nicholas said quietly. “Anise and her army invaded Wahlkraft. It was the night of the winter festival. No one was ready. Things had been so quiet for so long, we thought—we hoped—it meant a peace, even a temporary one. And then . . .”
Everyone was quiet. Clara felt the weight of memory fall upon her, a shared memory in which she had no part.
“They came in through the ceilings. Dozens of them. Hundreds. They swarmed the capital.”
“ ‘The streets of Erstadt ran black that night,’ ” Afa whispered, as though reciting a passage from legend.
“ ‘Black with blood,’ ” Glyn joined in, from the door.
“ ‘And black with fright,’ ” Bo whispered.
“They killed Mother and Father.” Nicholas turned the page past Drosselmeyer’s name. Two portraits stared back at him, at Clara—a man with Nicholas’s mouth, and a woman with his fierce eyes and dark hair. A third portrait, below that, connected to the first two with elaborate scrollwork—Nicholas, handsome and groomed, lightly sketched, as though whoever had been working on it had been unable to complete the final piece. “The Seven got us out, on horseback, but Anise came after us. My parents fell. The Seven fell. Except for Drosselmeyer. Except for me. We had two horses, and then one. And there were loks coming after us. Anise drove them to a frenzy.”
“Where did you go?” Afa asked quietly. She put a hand on his arm. “My prince, where have you been for so many years?”
Nicholas looked up at Clara. “In Beyond, where time passes more slowly.”
Karras seemed bewildered. “But . . . how did you get there? And how did you get back?”
“Through a Door.”
Glyn burst out laughing. “But, sire, those are children’s tales. There are no other worlds but ours, no such things as Doors.”
“And children’s tales cannot be true?” Nicholas snapped, silencing her. “I think you’d do well to examine such stories more closely, Glyn. There is more truth in them than you know. The magic folk have always known that, and so has the crown.”
No one said anything for a moment. Nicholas turned troubled eyes toward the book in his lap—toward his mother and father, toward the half-finished portrait of himself.
“How many years has it been?” His voice was flat.
Afa looked uneasy. “What do you mean?”
“I was Beyond for eighteen years. Has it been eighteen years here as well?”
Clara could tell by their expressions that it most certainly had not.
“Seventy-two, sir,” Bo said from her corner when no one else spoke. She looked terribly sad to tell him. “It’s year seventy-two of the Iron Age.”
Seventy-two years. Clara thought quickly. Seventy-two here, and eighteen in New York. If that was the ratio, then . . . four. It came out to four. Four days here for every one at home.
She felt dizzy with relief. There was time, then, much more time than she had first thought. But she could not let this knowledge lull her.
Nicholas’s shoulders moved—but with a laugh or a sob, it was impossible to tell. “Then everyone I know—everyone I ever knew—is dead. My friends, my teachers . . .”
No one said anything, waiting for him to . . . what? Grieve? Accept such an ungodly piece of information? Clara tried to imagine returning to a world so different from the one she had known, with no one familiar in it but herself; it was a horrible, claustrophobic idea.
“So,” Nicholas said tiredly, after a moment that seemed to have left a new weight on his shoulders, and in his eyes, “the Iron Age, is it?”
Bo’s response was reluctant. “That’s what the queen calls it, sire.”
Clara tried to think of something to say into this silence, something helpful or encouraging, or even simply bracing. The question of what they would do next to find her father—if Nicholas did in fact mean to help and wasn’t just trying to appear impressive in front of his new followers—pounded insistently at the back of her mind. Four days here to every one at home. It had been perhaps a little less than one, now. A little less than one day since they had fallen through the Door and into the snow. Six or so hours at home, then. It would be dawn on Christmas Day.
Felicity would be waking to a morning that should have been joyous, to find her family gone and Concordia there instead. Clara’s fists clenched, and her throat seized with urgency. She had to fix this—she would fix this.
Such a tiny twist of hope. She clung to it, and suggested, “Perhaps it would be helpful to see what the land looks like now.”
Nicholas looked up at her in surprise.
“Seventy-two years is a long time. You need to know what’s happened to the kingdom in your absence. Don’t you agree?”
“I agree,” he said slowly, “although I’m not sure I want to see.”
“Here.” Bo withdrew a folded paper from her jacket, jumping down from her perch and hurrying over. “I’ve been working on making this current. Not quite there yet, but it’ll do.”
Afa took it from her sternly. “Bo, you shouldn’t keep this on your person. What if you’re apprehended?”
“It’ll never happen, sister. I’m too good for that.”
Together Clara and Nicholas unfolded the paper and spread it out on the table. It was a crude map, inexpertly drawn but serviceable. The land mass depicted was roughly circular, a great continent surrounded by oceans. Something about the map bothered Clara, but as hard as she looked, she could not tell what it was.
Nicholas examined it for a long time in silence.
“Mira’s Ring,” Clara noticed, pointing at the band, mostly blank, at the continent’s coastline.
“Only the Innocents live there now,” Bo said grimly. “If they do still live.”
“Innocents?” Nicholas asked.
The others looked at him uneasily. “Sire,” Afa said, “one of the first things Anise did after the Night of Red Winter was divide the surviving humans into groups.”
He frowned. “For what purpose?”
Afa hesitated. “For punishment. Punishment for crimes they had committed against the nation of faeries.”
In the silence that followed, Bo cleared her throat. “See, the thieves—them that stole from faeries in the raids and lootings during the war—they got sent to Zarko.” She pointed at an area on the map inside the dark perimeter wall. “That’s where you were today. And here”—she pointed to a tremendous stretch of land even farther inland—“that’s Rosche, north from where we are. That’s where them that hunted faeries for the crown were sent.” She paused. “Now they’re hunted themselves. And the Innocents . . .” A funny look came over her face.
Afa broke in gently: “The children, the queen said, were innocent of crime but could not be trusted, due to the evil nature of their human blood. So she turned them out into Mira’s Ring to fend for themselves.”
Nicholas was horror-struck. “Children, alone in Mira’s Ring?”
Clara remembered the furred hunters they had watched in the snow, the man eaten alive by mechaniks as his bloody-mouthed companions had watched. Children. Or they had once been children.
Pushing that nightmarish thought aside, Clara pointed at a place on the map, within Rosche, that seemed to represent a small, walled city. “What’s that there?”
“That’s the queen’s Summer Palace,” Bo said, rolling her eyes. “Why she needs two palaces, I’m sure I don’t know.”
“She doesn’t like the cold,” Nicholas said shortly. “No faeries do. And Wahlkraft’s farther north.” He pointed north of the map’s center, at a city clearly marked ERSTADT. In its center stood a poorly sketched black castle.
“The castle is Wahlkraft?” Clara said.
Nicholas nodded, terse. “It looks like she’s totally restructured most of the kingdom—into these . . . districts.”
“We call ’em neighborhoods,” Bo said helpfully. “It sounds cheerier.”
“And she’s expanded them east and west, farther north,” Nicholas murmured, following the district lines with his fingers.
“The queen has said,” Glyn said, tight with anger, “that she intends to district the entire country.”
“But what of these open lands farther north that don’t belong to any particular district?” Clara pointed out.
“We don’t know,” said Afa. “The wildlands are, we can assume, still that—ruins from wartime, abandoned cities and farmlands. The queen combed them for survivors, so there can’t be many people left there, if any. But it takes time, she says, to develop land properly.”
“Yes,” Karras said, wry, “especially when you don’t ever stop developing it.”
Nicholas looked up at that. “What do you mean, Karras?”
“You may have felt the ground tremors since you’ve arrived here? You’ve noticed the storms? Sire, she began rebuilding the country after the coup and has never stopped.”
“She builds one district and tears it down,” Afa said quietly, “to rebuild it as something even more extravagant.”
“The streets reek with faery magic,” Glyn spat. “And with sugar.”
“What is that?” Clara asked. “We saw advertisements.”
“A drug,” Afa said. “It comes in several forms: needle, smoke, powder, capsule. The poorer you are, the dirtier your sugar. Everyone wants it, and everyone gets it, one way or another. Highly addictive. The queen is the only manufacturer and supplier.” Afa paused. “It is, you could say, like a game of hers, one you cannot help but play.”
Bo kicked the table. “It’s filth, is what it is. Brought the whole country to its knees. We need it, so we need the queen, and we let her pump our blood—and the faeries’ blood, everyone’s blood—full of this poison. We hate her, but we need her. It keeps us stuck.”
Nicholas looked away, rigid with fury.
“Does Anise not use it as well?” Clara asked.
“Oh, she does,” said Karras dryly. “Of course, lucky for her, it doesn’t seem to affect her in the same way.”
“She continues to fashion and refashion the land,” Afa said. “We thought, perhaps, after rebuilding the capital and the country to meet her needs, after ridding the land of human influence—all architecture, all government—she would be satisfied. If she turned Cane into the pure faery country she’d always wanted, perhaps that would be enough for her. But I doubt she will ever be satisfied. Even someone as powerful as she can push herself only so far before . . . Well. I would not be surprised if someday she cracks, and the land cracks along with her.”
Clara found herself fascinated by this image of Anise on a high, black throne, crafting buildings like a child on some diabolical seashore. “How is she so powerful?”
The others stared, except for Nicholas. His posture seemed defeated, his face full of hate.
Did I say something wrong? She cleared her throat. “I mean, you talk of magic folk, faeries and mages. If there are other magic folk besides her, then why do they allow her power over them? What gives her this authority?”
“Well,” Bo began hesitantly, “first off, the queen is . . . They called ’em two-bloods in the old stories. Half-breeds. One human parent, one parent of the magic folk.”
“Abominations,” Glyn said. “Creatures that should not be.”
Nicholas spat, “How nice for her, to be protected from the worst of her drug by her own wretched blood.”
Clara was taken aback at the viciousness in their voices. “So, mages and faeries and humans . . . they do not interbreed?”
“It is one of the most ancient taboos,” Afa explained. “It simply isn’t done. It is repulsive to us—all of us, humans, mages, and faeries alike. But it happened once. Many generations ago, a king of the Somerhart line had an affair with a faery countess, and Anise was born. Therefore, not only does she have magic blood, but she also has royal blood, which gives her a connection with the land. Hence the ease with which she can manipulate it.”
“What does that have to do with being royal?”
“All of us have it,” said Nicholas, his voice strained. The conversation was taking its toll on him; the shadows beneath his eyes seemed to have magnified. “You felt it, didn’t you? When we sang? Everyone in the royal families is bound to the land. It is a compulsion in our blood, to keep it safe and whole, to serve it. And it serves us, giving us strength and age beyond those under our rule.” He looked up at Clara, haunted. “I can feel it, Clara, like a sickness in me. I can feel how stretched it is, how worn thin.”
After a heavy moment Bo said hesitantly, “And besides all that, there’s no one left to fight the queen. Her own people are too scared of her, too comfortable. And the mages— Sire . . . they’re gone.”
Nicholas snapped to attention at that. “What? All of them?”
“Some of our youngest don’t even know the word ‘mage’,” Afa said, smiling sadly. “It’s not one that people speak, and there are so few recorded stories left.”
“But surely some of them still live!” Nicholas was overcome, a man pummeled by one too many blows. No one spoke to reassure him; he closed his eyes and looked away from them.
Meanwhile, Clara’s eyes had drifted to the map, to the thick, dark circle surrounding the capital, Erstadt, and its castle, Wahlkraft. The longer she stared at the circle, the sharper it became in her vision, as though everything else were falling away.
“What is that?” she said, pointing. “That dark place, around the capital. Is it another district?”
“That’s Rieden,” said Karras, solemn. “Where the last of the mages fought. It was like a whole new war after you left, Your Highness. She hunted them down, every last one.”
Nicholas’s fist was white and clenched on the map. His unsullied hand, Clara noticed. The right one, without metal embedded in it. His left hand he seemed to favor, like he did not quite trust it enough to use it.
“But why is it marked specially?” said Clara.
“There’s a forest there now,” said Karras. “You can’t get through it. People have tried, but the trees are woven together, as solid as rocks. Can’t cut it, can’t tunnel under it.”
“We even pinched some grind’ems from a lothouse,” Bo said. “Nearly singed our skins off trying to blow the forest open.” She seemed disgusted. “Nothing.”
“Even the queen has to travel above it to move to and from the capital,” Afa added. “We think that was her original reason for constructing the trains.”
“That, and making up for years of us destroying any railroads they did build,” Nicholas said, smiling grimly.
“Well. Yes, sire, perhaps that, too.”
“Do you think . . .” Clara hesitated, not knowing how to say what she needed to, or even if it would make sense, but Godfather, for all his cryptic stories, had spoken a little about magic—spells and enchantments, songs that opened unopenable doors. “Is the forest impenetrable because the mages made it so?”
Nicholas glanced up at her. “It’s possible.”
“We think so, in fact,” Afa said. “It’s a sort of legend on the streets, if you will. Some like to think they crafted it as one last defiant gesture to the queen.”
“And some think,” Bo said carefully, her eyes intent on Nicholas’s face, “that the mages are still there. At least some of ’em. Like they’ve trapped themselves inside, hiding.”
Karras smacked her arm lightly. “Don’t tease him with stupid street tales like that.”
“I’m not teasing!” Bo was indignant. “I’m telling him what I know!”
As they bickered, Clara stared at the dark circle. Rieden. An impassable forest. Possibly with mages inside? More Godfathers, more silver-blooded beings with endless tricks up their sleeves. Something sharp and cold settled within her, something resolute and strange. She felt on the brink of figuring out something essential—as though if she held her breath, if she focused precisely enough, she would stumble upon inspiration.
The ceiling began to vibrate, ruining the moment. From somewhere far overhead came the sudden sound of music. Drumbeats pounded, and faint stringed instruments wove vaguely discordant melodies.
Clara came back to herself. She realized she had been tracing the line of Rieden with her finger, over and over, and that Nicholas was watching her, unreadable. She looked away, embarrassed, but the feeling of nearness, of almost, remained in her limbs, and she was glad for it.
Something was calling to her—something to do with Rieden.
Outside in the corridor, a series of delicate chimes sounded, followed by opening doors and hurried footsteps. Rustling fabrics and murmuring voices.
“Shike,” Karras hissed, hurrying toward the entryway. “I’m on soon. Got to get ready. I’ll see you two in the morning, eh? If you’re going to stay here, you’ll need to fit in. Lucky for you, you’ll be in the hands of a master.” And then he bowed, grinning, and disappeared through the beaded curtain. Glyn followed him, more sedate. Past the beads Clara could see a sudden tumult of activity in the corridor: shapes coming and going, glittering flashes of jewelry.
“He’s ‘on’?” Nicholas turned to Afa, confused. “What does that mean?”
Afa raised her eyebrows. “Did Bo not tell you what this place is?”
“Only that it was safe.”
“Bo . . .”
Bo made a face. “I wanted to get ’em off the streets, not waste time talking.”
Afa looked sheepish. “Sire, I apologize deeply. If I had any other choice, I would house you somewhere much more dignified, somewhere better suited to—”
“Oh, Afa, just say it.” Bo turned, rolled her eyes. “It’s a pleasure-house. My sister and her friends work here. But don’t worry, Your Highness—the faeries, they don’t come down to our rooms often. Wouldn’t want to sully themselves.”
Clara opened and closed her mouth, a blush overtaking her, but Nicholas looked thoughtful. “We are in this district, here?” he asked, pointing at the neighborhood on the map that lay due north of Zarko.
Afa nodded. “It is called Kafflock.”
“And of what are you guilty, then? What did Anise deem your crime?”
“Kafflock is a bit . . . different from the other districts. Here Anise put not criminals but rather the beautiful people. Those whom it pleased her to look at. The borders are thinly guarded; faeries are always coming and going. Her people need entertainment, after all.” Her expression turned sour. “You cannot imagine the surgeries people subject themselves to in an attempt to make themselves worthy of Kafflock. There is dancing here. There is . . . more. They do not touch us. They consider us too low, too filthy for such things, but they enjoy watching all the same. It is not an easy life here, but it is not the hardest. We are given food, shelter, basic education. The faeries do not have patience for idiots.” She sighed. “As my own audition approached, I prayed every day that Anise would like what she saw.”
Clara blurted, “You met her, then?” Nicholas cut a look her way, but Clara ignored him.
“Oh, yes.” Afa smiled, a curious mix of dreaminess and fear. “She looked me over, made me strip off my clothes. She told me I have lovely skin.”
Absently Afa traced a line up her arm. Following the memory of Anise’s hand? Clara watched her, mesmerized. The thought came to her, preposterously: Would Anise think I have lovely skin?
“She charmed you, in other words,” Nicholas muttered.
In an instant the dreaminess vanished from Afa’s face. Clara stepped back, like she had been cut loose from a taut line. Even Bo seemed dazed.
“She would have done the same to you, Your Highness,” said Afa, quiet but defiant.
The atmosphere in the room had altered. The music drifting down from overhead held a sudden sinister quality. What acts were the humans upstairs being forced to do? Or doing willingly, if it meant they could keep their warm beds and their no doubt clean supply of sugar?
Clara wrapped her arms around herself, feeling lost and small.
“Karras said something about seeing us in the morning,” Nicholas said after a moment. “As long as you’re here, you will need to look like you belong,” Afa said, “and I’m sorry to say that it will not be the most dignified of disguises.”
“Dignity is a luxury I care little about.”
“And then what?” Clara had to push on; she had to. Nicholas might have said he would help, but she was the only true advocate for her family. She straightened to look at him. “After we are disguised, what will we do then?”
“We’ll strategize,” Nicholas said, managing a small smile. “If we’re to find your father in this mess, we’ll need a solid plan, won’t we?”
Clara smiled back, and when he rose, she took his offered hand. But she did not clasp it too tightly, keeping a tiny separation of air between them, like a buffer.