21

putting down roots

Nix

Lark and I hold hands as our boggle escorts lead us down the corridor toward the gala Perish has planned for Lark’s coronation. It’s also to be her first formal appearance as Architect, although unofficially, she’s already taken my place.

Before we returned to the castle some seven hours ago, Lark swallowed a handful of goblin fruit seeds and took several sips of Perish’s royal blood supplied in a goblet; the plants of the world instantly welcomed her as one of their own, rooting her deep into the infrastructures. Simultaneously, at Perish’s command and with my consent, my roots withered and withdrew, leaving me nothing more than a guest.

Oddly, I don’t feel sad at all. I glance at the black mirrored walls in passing, seeing myself anew. No longer lacking parts of me, feeling whole and complete for the first time in my life. A bustier bodice with a mermaid skirt—both of white lace—shimmer fluidlike in my reflection. Animated brushstrokes of paint swirl across the lacy canvas with each step I take, alternating shapes, lines, colors, tones, and textures to generate a variety of abstract portraits. It’s an artist’s dream gown, crafted at the hands of a goblin-fairy girl.

“How’s the dress fit?” Lark asks.

“Like it was made for me,” I answer, grinning.

Lark, being already tied to the world’s Heart through the magic she shares with Perish, didn’t need anything more than a thought and a snap of her fingers to coax it into being.

“Your hair looks great, too,” my sister offers.

“Right? Surprisingly, it’s no different than pruning trees.” I smirk, thinking of how, just before we dressed for the party, Angorla stopped by the room Lark and I have been sharing to offer a cut with her shears—an effort to mend all fences between us, and to make my reentry to the mortal world easier when we leave later this evening. I opted to keep the ombre-pastel dye job, having grown fond of it, but the strands are now pixie-short with a skimpy bang that highlights my widow’s peak.

“But we both know I can’t hold a match to the Goblin Queen of the hour,” I tell Lark without a hint of envy. She smiles beatifically, her white fanged teeth against her gilt complexion still striking awe and wonder in me.

Lady Glacia was true to her word, and her starlit robe trails the floor behind Lark, hiding her wings and casting dazzling-bright pinpricks all around us. Snow crystals, shaped like celestial bodies, unmeltingly spangle the braids at Lark’s temples, where they blend back into her long golden waves to reveal the points of her ears.

“Do you think she’ll really give you her matching crown?” I ask.

“The famed permafrost tiara? Huh. I think she fears my wrath enough to uphold her word.” Lark lifts a honey-glittered eyebrow and claps her hands together, causing the walls to tremble and crackle before smoothing back to flawless glass. The gown underneath her robe drums ominously in accompaniment.

I snort. “Fear can be a powerful motivator.”

“But not nearly as powerful as sisterly love,” she amends. Then, after clearing her throat, she chants, “For there is no friend like a sister, in calm or stormy weather.” She glances sidelong at me, her thick amber lashes shadowing wine-dark eyes, an obvious invitation for me to join in.

“To cheer one on the tedious way,” I say with a singsong lilt.

“To fetch one if one goes astray,” she adds, her voice gruff and sinister.

“To lift one if one totters down,” I continue, swishing my arm upward.

And together we recite the final line with the full potency of our combined voices: “To strengthen whilst one stands.”

That favorite stanza from the Goblin Market picture book Mom left us—the entire poem, in fact, about two sisters almost torn apart by goblin men but who found strength to fight back through their unconditional love for one another—will forever be our anthem now.

Lark draws me into a side hug, and her gown releases the soaring birdsong of a violin. She formed her dress of music—the one talent she wished for that always alluded her as a human. Crystal beads drape the tiered skirt, bell sleeves, and sweetheart neckline. They produce a different musical tone with every minute movement or emotion she feels: a harp’s nostalgic cascade, a cello’s mournful sigh, a flute’s perky trill, a guitar’s solemn strum. The options are as endless as the instruments played by every past Architect who gave the fey a setting to stand on.

These new talents resulted from her technically being born on eldritch ground. In the absence of an earthly body, she had no hobbies or interests that she physically or mentally already knew by rote, no muscle memory to eclipse or crowd out other gifts. As her Architectural roots reached deep into the fathomless depths of Mystiquiel’s foundation, they drank from the founts of each virtuoso who proceeded her—an expansive elixir of any landscape ever woven, sculpted, sung, written, sewn, carved, baked, or performed into place.

Upon testing her skills, Lark found herself capable of creating things with whatever talent she wished to utilize at any time. Perish was thrilled, as were the rest of the fey. She’ll be able to achieve an endless pastiche of settings, such as no other Architect in the history of the eldritch has been capable of supplying. Not only that, but her roots reached so deep, they tangled with the origin goblin fruit tree. Now every feeling she experiences feeds into the fruits. For the first time, the fey populace will find sustenance in their own harvests, and will no longer need to venture out in search of human emotions.

As for me, I retained the abilities and passions for sketching, painting, and robotics, and just the thought of getting back to the mortal world and stretching them to their full potential is finally enough to satisfy my artistic cravings. That insatiable hunger to create has been quenched, and now resides only in Lark. I’ve lost nothing, but have gained a magical sister who will never age and who will eternally remake and rule a fairyland beside her Goblin King.

The eternity beads pulsate on her neck, looking more at home than they ever did on mine. While we were celebrating at the entrance of Mystiquiel, after she and I recouped our memories and had a tearful reunion, the first thing I did was gift the necklace to Lark; it was easy to lift off my neck and place on hers with the entire fey populace applauding. Claws, wings, paws, fins, hooves, and misshapen hands alike gave their unanimous approval of the exchange.

Considering everything Lark did to save Lady Glacia, Perish, and his subjects from the dangers Scourge unleashed, the eldritch no longer feared her or doubted her dedication to them. And since then, they’ve witnessed her Architectural capabilities firsthand. Now, at last, they adore her as much as she does them, and are already treating her like the sovereign she’s about to be—the first ever Architect/Queen of Mystiquiel. And of course, Lark being Lark, she’s already coined her royal appellation: ArchMajesty.

What I love most about her choosing her own title? It’s proof she hasn’t changed. She’s still my twin, with all her human eccentricities and characteristics intact, at least on the inside, where it really counts. And the fact that Perish cherishes those parts of her as much as I do makes it easier to leave her here under his protection.

I smile and pull her closer as we turn down an adjacent hallway.

The corridor echoes with more footsteps as Uncle Thatch and Juniper join us from their rooms.

“Merry Christmas!” Uncle hollers heartily.

We return the sentiment to them both while Lark’s dress tinkles a festive “Jingle Bells” solo.

“Clarey and Flannie are waiting in the ballroom,” Juniper reminds us, and Lark and I nod simultaneously.

Just the sound of Clarey’s name makes my heart flutter. I haven’t had a chance to spend time with him alone since our initial hugs and hellos. For the first two hours in the castle after our reunion on the border of the parallel Astoria, Perish left the six of us and Flannie in the banquet hall so we could eat, relax, and catch up as a family. Once everyone had gone to their rooms to sleep, Lark and I huddled under blankets in front of the fireplace in our chamber. Lark recounted the many memories she’d absorbed from Dad’s ring, sharing lovely details of our parents’ epic love story that no one else will ever know. Then we cried over their incredible sacrifice for us. And as our tears ran dry, we discussed all the things we’d missed experiencing as sisters over the last three years, and all the things we’re looking forward to sharing in the future.

Lark can never return to the mortal world; Perish had her try to cross the veil with just the tip of her foot, and when her toes hardened to stone, it validated his concern. Because her body was born of magic, she has to reside on grounds built by magic or she’ll return to being a statue. When she drew her foot back into Mystiquiel, we all gasped in relief as she became flesh and blood once more.

Since she can’t leave, the rest of our family—me, Clarey, Uncle, Juniper, and even Flannie—are planning to make as many trips to Mystiquiel as possible to visit her. It will be no different than if she lived in another town, were the other town a substratum fairyland filled with goblin fruit and enchanted creatures.

“Still can’t believe the fey orchestra wanted Clarey to teach them that jazz number,” Uncle Thatch says, laughing.

We all exchange grins at the thought of Clarey training the royal orchestra with his harmonica. It’s both endearing and flattering to know that the entire populace has come to enjoy the fresh scent of rain. Lark has even taught them the word “petrichor,” so they can refer to it properly.

That’s why Clarey’s song “Feels Like Rain” was requested in prep for the coronation ceremony. Their intent is to varnish the floor in petrichor-scented kaleidoscopic puddles that Lady Glacia will turn into ice that neither slips nor slides but instead casts up waves of shimmery light like an aurora borealis, amid which everyone can dance during the celebration following the ceremony. And for the humans in our group, Perish will release a parade of hollow bubbles to float along the high ceilings, each the size and color of glass Christmas balls, in honor of our holiday.

“Songbird,” Uncle says to Lark as he and Juniper keep pace, “you look downright regal.” He grins when her dress answers with the metallic titter of a tambourine. “And Nix, wow!” His glasses reflect the latest masterpiece dancing across my dress. “That’s some dress, too.”

“Yep, Lark’s four for four so far,” I respond, admiring Uncle’s white tie-dyed tux Lark crafted in tribute to his bakery. The purple clusters of wisteria making up Juniper’s flowing gown appear to wave, perfuming the air with the gentle fragrance of vanilla.

Juniper beams, tucking a few stray salt-and-pepper curls back into her updo. “Pinch me. I still think I’m dreaming.”

“You’ll get used to it,” I answer. “But pretty sure Uncle wouldn’t mind pinching you, if you still need it.”

Juniper blushes adorably and chortles her goatlike bleat. Uncle glances my way, somehow managing a wink that’s both scolding and teasing.

I’m just grateful we don’t have to hide our otherworldly activities from Clarey’s aunt any longer. It was always hard on him keeping things from her.

When Uncle was left stranded outside Haystack Rock with Clarey and Lark already across the veil, he raced home in hopes of finding Tat, praying the inkblot would have enough residual royal blood so he could follow behind them. Uncle left the front door unlocked, too preoccupied to think straight. Since it was almost midnight, Juniper showed up with Flannie at the house looking for Clarey, who hadn’t been returning her texts. She and the dog found Uncle chasing a living tattoo through the branches of the Christmas tree. Flannie joined the pursuit, ultimately knocking the tree down and shaking loose a mess of sticky pine needles all across the floor.

After an abbreviated explanation, Uncle convinced Juniper to make the trip back to Haystack Rock so he could prove the existence of a fairyland she’d only ever heard of in the Goblin Market poem. But they didn’t even get as far as his Chevy Bolt before Filigree showed up with a note from Perish. Then, with Tat at her side, the owl led Uncle, Juniper, and Flannie through an opening to Mystiquiel within our own backyard, surreptitiously put in place by Perish himself three years ago when he carried Lark away.

Their small group arrived in Mystiquiel only moments before I breathed life into Lark’s goblin statue.

“So, I was trying to explain to Juniper about those wildflowers growing where the bakery was. We’re thinking of renting that property ourselves, and making that a botanical garden so she can keep the boutique’s courtyard for tea. But I told her we need to make sure the power they wield won’t be harmful. One of you guys want to take it?” Uncle asks.

Lark nods. “When Perish picked me up in the lair after I passed out, he told me the truth about his father’s enchantment over me and Nix. I saw the ring on his finger, then saw Nix across the way with the screen behind her, showcasing all the wildflowers that wouldn’t burn. I recognized them as the ones that sprang up from my blood in the ashes. Then it all clicked into place.” Lark squeezes my hand, and I lace our fingers tighter.

Uncle nods. “That the ring your mom made for your dad while she was Architect magically absorbed your memories when you put it on your finger,” he says. “And Nix had poured her memories into the enchanted flowers she created as Architect.”

“Exactly,” Lark answers, her dress underscoring the word with a trumpet’s authoritative blare. “Remember, Juniper? When I was sampling the cookies with the candied petals at Thanksgiving? My mind flooded with Nix’s memories with each taste. I couldn’t tell anyone because I was trying to keep so many secrets. But it came back to me the instant I saw those flowers on the screen behind Nix. So I told Perish about that and the ring, and he said we had all we needed except—”

“A body for your spirit,” I finish for my sister.

“And gobsmacked if you hadn’t already made one, without even realizing it,” Juniper chimes in with her charming British accent, catching on surprisingly well now that she’s had some time to wrap her head around things. “So are the flowers still serviceable for public tours . . . ​for coloring our meringue cookie marzipans, or putting in bouquets? Or will they ill-affect our clients?”

“Not at all,” Lark answers. “Perish says the petals will only affect me and Nix with memory rushes. For anyone else, they’ll just hold a tincture of the emotions encapsulated by the memories. At most, they will make people feel nostalgic for their own past experiences . . . ​mainly happy, sometimes pensive or thoughtful. But not emotionally overpowering or erratic like the goblin fruits were. It will be just enough to give people a taste of a feeling sweetened by a touch of magic.”

Juniper claps happily. “Splendid! So Wisteria’s Enchanted Tearoom & Arboretum will still be a fitting name!”

“And our New Year’s Day grand opening can go on as planned,” Uncle adds.

We’re all still chatting excitedly when we arrive at the ballroom and the scent of candied fruit, wine, and petrichor drifts out from a wide entrance garlanded with goblin fruits and berries. Inside, the aurora borealis already shimmies from one side of the expansive room to the other, changing the colors of every fey in attendance in fluid glimmers, while ornamental bubbles of red, blue, green, silver, and gold sparkle high above.

Flannie greets us with a bark and I lean down to nuzzle her fur and inhale that doggy scent I’ve missed so much, allowing her to lick my ear in return. Juniper captures her collar so she and Uncle can step inside ahead of us to find their seats. Flannie’s leg clicks and clacks in the resulting silence as all heads turn to the entrance.

Lark and I pause at the threshold while the orchestra commences playing a traditional fey anthem. Upon the first note, Clarey and Perish stand at attention, observing us from the dais where two thrones sit waiting to be occupied. Lady Glacia poses gracefully between them, holding a silvery glistening tiara on a pillow.

The Goblin King’s intense gaze locks on Lark, his crown and antlers flashing in time with the thunderclaps captured inside his storm-cloud royal robes. As for Clarey, he nervously smiles at me, straightening his gilded tinsel tie then tucking it into the lapels of a green velvet suit—both pants and jacket embroidered with real holly leaves and berries that disappear and sprout anew at intervals, another Lark Loring original.

Exchanging glances, Lark and I link pinkies then step inside, and we both agree in our silent speak: devotion and love are the two most beautiful expressions on any man’s face, be he human or goblin born.