Page 13 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
“Not anymore. You’ve laid claim to it, so it will obey only you until you die, or until it is stolen without your knowledge, or until you yield it to a new master. Give it to me.”
“I’m not sure I should. I’d like to know a bit more about it first.”
The man’s lips pucker briefly before he says, “If you’ll come with me, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Everything about him—the strange rotted hole in the hedge, the dark-brown rabbit mask, and his knowledge of the book—it all screams danger. It reeks of things that are new and wild and unexpected—sorcery, blood, and strangers.
I should be frightened. Iamfrightened, but in spite of my fright I can’t seem to say the words I’m supposed to form:No, I will not come with you.
Instead I hear myself say, “Where are we going?”
“To a place where everything you know will be flipped upside down.”
“Can I return here afterward?”
“Of course.”
I don’t quite believe him. But the dagger of truth, of knowledge, glitters so beautifully before me. “I’ll come with you.”
What am I saying? What am I doing?
“Very well.” He tucks the watch away, then stretches his hand toward the oak, fingers splayed and rigid.
The tree’s roots groan, hunching and lifting themselves from beneath the soil, unwinding and parting. The trunk splits wide with a grinding creak. At the oak’s base there now lies a deep, black hole, ringed with twisted roots.
That was magic. Fae magic?
Mam hates stories of the Fae. She believes fairytales “make useless dreamers out of good honest girls.” Uselessness is the worst of sins in our district.
But when Pap wasn’t working or drinking—rare moments that happened maybe once a month—he’d tell us stories about the Fae, and warn us about their magic. “Mystical jabberwocky,” he called it. “Riddlesome madness. Have naught to do with any of it.”
I never truly believed any of his stories, or his warnings. But now that I’ve witnessed real magic with my own eyes, I am tortured with curiosity about it. If I hadn’t already decided to go with this man, I’d agree to it now.
Besides, if he’s Fae, he cannot lie, and he told me I would be able to come back.
Reassured, I take one step toward him.
There’s a shout from the garden, and I glance back, searching for its source.
Master Drosselmeyer is running toward the oak tree, toward me and the white-coated gentleman.
He’s near enough to see the book in my hand.
Now he knows I stole it.
Clarity flashes through my mind, banishing my last doubts.
I can stay, and be dismissed from my post for thievery—or I can leave with the stranger, and get the answers I crave.
“In you go,” says the man in white, but I barely feel the press of his hand at my back because I’m already leaping into the hole.
It closes over us, shutting out Master Drosselmeyer’s cry as I slide down a lumpy chute of roots and earth.
Then the chute ends, and I drop into the empty dark.
5
The morning after our message from Drosselmeyer, as we’re entering the palace, I discover that the pompous and bothersome Chief Steward has sent a message to Lir anyway, without my permission. A message containing everything Drosselmeyer said.
