Page 54 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

It was another philosophy thing. Zeno understood that. He untied his bag and showed Salvatore his usual treasures—his school workbooks, a fossilized shell from the beach, a toy puppet shaped like a mermaid, and a heavy book with thick leather wrappings. Salvatore raised his bushy eyebrows.

“It’s a book about Lukos,” Zeno said, bouncing a little in his seat, “by a Gerakian, like us. He went all the way there and stayed, and he wrote little fairytales in the back of the book. Plus he draws pictures all the time, look. It’s not hard to read at all.” He showed Salvatore an illustration of a house, and Salvatore’s eyebrows worked overtime, scrunching and lifting and waggling about while he read.

“Too cold,” he said at last. “Cold drains you of your vitals, dominance or submission. They’re probably all without it, up there.”

Zeno could care less about all that. “Yes, but he has a kitten, look. And the author’s an orphan, too, like me.”

“Ah.” Salvatore looked away. “I see.”

“One day I’m gonna go find him,” Zeno whispered. It was his biggest secret, but Salvatore was just a philosopher, so it was fine if he knew. “I’m gonna ask him to let me be his apprentice.”

“You could find someone closer to home,” Salvatore said. “We could always use another junior philosopher.”

“No, thanks. You’re always fighting.” Zeno tied his bag up again. “I wonder what he’s like. He must be nice if he loves Lukos enough to draw it all the time, and to adopt a kitten.”

Salvatore’s eyebrows were moving up and down again, and so was his mouth, like he was trying to figure out what to say during a debate. “If you want to be a historian like this Victor fellow, I suppose you can always make a wish in the fountain. You know the fountain by the Lost Dog’s statue?”

“The one with the golden nose?” Zeno smiled. The statue of the little curly-haired dog in the main square was a mascot of sorts. People pet his nose for luck so often that the bronze had turned gold, and Zeno always thought the dog looked happy to be loved by so many people.

“That one,” Salvatore said. “The truth of what makes magic magic is a complicated subject, but they say that a little spirit lives in fountains where people throw wishes, and sometimes, it’ll grant your wish for you. So if you want to throw a good career in philosophy away?—”

“How does it work?” Zeno hugged his bag close. “Can you show me?”

Salvatore’s eyebrows waggled around again. “Only if you promise to come back to your house with me and the crone over there. Just for a night,” he added, when Zeno scowled. “Then you can share my roof if you want. You can sleep in my shack. It has a lock on the door and everything.”

Zeno didn’t want to live in a shack on a philosopher’s roof. He knew precisely what he wanted, and he nodded at Salvatore with all the earnest hope in his heart.

Salvatore took him to the fountain and handed him a copper coin to toss inside. The fountain had lovely blue and white tiles, and Zeno chucked his coin right into the center of it.

“I want to go to Lukos,” he whispered, “and be Victor Owl-Eyed’s apprentice.”

“Hey, now,” Salvatore said. “That’s not a copper wish. That’s a gold piece at least. Lower your standards a bit, kid.”

But Zeno wasn’t listening, because as he stared into the burbling water of the fountain, he heard another voice, slipping about in his mind like a fish in a dark mountain lake.

I’m getting a summons.

What? Another voice this time, warmer, slightly bewildered. How?

Someone really wants something, I suppose. All right, boy. Why do you want to go to Lukos? It’s cold and terrible there.

Zeno leaned forward, nose almost touching the surface of the water. “No, it’s beautiful. My favorite historian lives there, and his husband, and a kitten, and so much snow it can cover the world.”

See, it’s the last part. Don’t give me that look. He’s a child, he probably belongs to someone.

“No, I don’t.”

“Boy?” Salvatore leaned over him, shadow sliding past Zeno’s.

Fine, the first voice said. Fine. I’ll do it. I’m not retired, you see. I told you I’m not giving it up entirely, I’m just selective.

“Can fountain spirits retire?” Zeno asked, curious, but it was too late. The fountain burst around him, water spilling out in all directions, and Zeno fell forward into it, clutching his bag with both hands. The last thing he saw was Salvatore’s shocked face through the water, and then he was gone, and when Zeno stopped tumbling and spinning and opened his eyes again, the world was white with snow.

* * *

“You might need another sweater. Wait, no, gloves, more gloves. Your hands will get cold, probably. I mean, they will.”

Sava leaned against the wall, smiling as his mate tossed yet another pair of gloves over his shoulder to join the six that were scattered about him like flower petals. Sava had a perfectly serviceable pair of gloves already, made with the skin of a seal that he’d hunted with Zev in the waters off the coast last summer. He’d made the boat during the previous winter, carefully sanding down the wood and asking Victor questions about how to make it float so that it wouldn’t topple over—even though he’d hunted the seal in the summer, the waters there were still frigid and not warm enough for a swim. The seals he’d hunted had given him enough skin for the gloves, boots, even a coat and a pair of trousers. All were oiled to repel water and lined in the bear fur, and they would be more than enough to get him through the trials.

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