Furthermore (26 page)

She and Oliver clung to each other as they fell,
and in her mind Alice was already apologizing to him for being the reason he died. Alice was half hope, half horror, split vertically down the middle about her chances at survival. She wanted to believe there was merit to Ancilly's song, but how could she? She was currently plummeting to her death. Worse still, this didn't feel anything like flying. This felt like dying. Though at least this death, Alice thought, would be a less brutal one. Alice had no interest in being eaten.

So there they were: falling to their deaths.

Neither one of them screamed (as it seemed to serve no purpose), and all Alice saw were Oliver's eyes, wide and scared and sad, so she closed her own, wrapped her single arm more tightly around his, and prayed for a quick, relatively painless exit from these worlds. But no matter how dramatic they tried to make the moment—muscles tensed, whispering quiet good-byes to the ones they loved—their imminent demise was running a bit late.

Eventually Alice opened her eyes and found that Oliver had, too. They were indeed still falling, and there was indeed a ground coming up beneath them, but something strange was happening, too: The farther they fell, the slower the fall, and soon they weren't rushing to the ground at all, but floating; floating, gently and steadily, all the way down.

They landed on the forest floor with their feet flat on the ground. She and Oliver were so surprised to still be alive that they spent the first few moments just staring at each other.

“Are you alright?” Alice finally said. Oliver was standing on his own now, and he looked wide awake. “Are you feeling okay?”

Oliver nodded. “I think that just scared the sick out of me.”

“Well, thank heavens for small presents,” Alice said, now feeling weak in the knees. She sank to the ground.

“You don't think they'll jump after us, do you?” said Oliver.

Alice looked up, startled. “I don't—”

“They might,” said a voice she didn't recognize.

Alice jumped straight up
and back and hit her head against Oliver's chest. His heart was beating as hard as hers; he steadied her shoulder against him, and they both looked toward the stranger.

The voice had come from a woman, the likes of which Alice had never seen before—except perhaps in a mirror. She was pale as moonlight and exceptionally tall, and she wore a cloak made entirely of golden leaves: vibrant yellow, dingy mustard, lemon and honey and saffron and sunlight. The leaves layered together looked like a collection of slivered wings, creating the illusion of something both monstrous and beautiful, all at once.

The lengths of the stranger's robes dragged beneath her, swallowing up her arms and legs; only her hands—paler even than Alice's—could still be seen. The hood of her cloak, also created from leaves, did not mask her face; she wore her hood only halfway, and the long, impossibly yellow locks of
her hair—nearly indistinguishable from her hood—fell to her shoulders, and her face, ghostly white, was lit only by a pair of matching golden eyes.

“They might,” she said again. “So you'd do best to come with me.”

There was something terrifying about her—glowing and beautiful and looming over them—but there was something else about her, too; something in her eyes. This woman had felt true pain before, and somehow Alice knew this was true.

Again, Alice thought of Ancilly.

Ancilly, whose song had saved their life.

I saw a lady reach for me

She told me not to fear

I saw a lady speak to me

She told me help was here

“Who are you?” Alice finally managed to ask.

“I am Isal,” she said. She did not blink. “Would you like to die?”

“No,” Oliver said quickly; Alice could hear his heart quicken. “Of course we wouldn't.”

“Then come with me,” she said, and turned away.

As she walked, she left a trail of golden leaves behind, like
a snail that could not help but make a map of its travels. But Isal was no snail; that much was obvious, and Alice envied her steady, quiet strength. She
wanted
to follow her.

And anyway, they had no other choices.

She and Oliver marched along behind her, sending each other sideways glances that did little more than remind them that they were not alone. They followed Isal deep, deep into the maze of the woods, but walking wasn't without its challenges: The forest floor was zigzagged by giant trunks of gigantic trees, the tops of which made up the land of Left. The roots that covered the forest floor were monstrously large; they were among the widest and tallest Alice would ever see; these trunks were thicker than most homes. As she and Oliver did their best to scramble over the mountain-sized roots, Alice was suddenly grateful for Isal's colorful cloak—without it, they'd have lost her long ago.

Finally, they reached a small clearing where a dilapidated cottage had been shoved unceremoniously against a tree trunk wider than the cottage itself. The home was simply made; the exterior whitewashed a dull shade. There were two windows cut into a wall not obscured by the tree, but the glass looked dingy and yellow, like the ancient windows had never seen a breeze.

Tall, wild grass grew up the sides of the house, and the roof looked like it'd collapsed a bit, right in the middle, and Alice
could see why: Five forevergreen trees had planted themselves on top of the cottage, nearly suffocating the slanted brick chimney, while haphazardly grown tufts of grass and roots gripped the roof in a proprietary fist. This home seemed to have been planted here. It was as if it had grown in and within the forest itself.

Isal opened the front door and turned to face them. “You may come inside.”

But Alice and Oliver hesitated.

“Who are you?” Oliver said.

Isal stepped forward. “I am Isal,” she said.

“Yes, but that doesn't help us at all, does it?” said Oliver.

Isal looked confused. “Your companion is wearing my designs,” she said to him. “And yet you do not know who I am?”

“The seamstress,” Alice whispered.

Isal nodded at Alice. “Yes,” she said, before looking away. There was a stroke of sadness in her eyes. “I was the seamstress. I am not anymore.”

Alice was too struck to speak. There was so much to be afraid of—so much to be concerned about in that moment—but Alice couldn't help but be awed by the woman standing before her. Isal, even in her loneliness—even in her sadness—was entirely too elegant to be real. She was everything Alice had ever hoped to be: strong, brave, dignified. And yet, Isal was
here
. A gem, buried in the forest.

An outcast.

Alice felt a kind of kinship with this stranger and she couldn't find the words to explain why.

Isal stepped forward and touched the feathers on Alice's dress. “I remember this gown,” she said softly. “It took me two years to collect enough featherlilies to finish the collar.” She dropped her hand. “Ancilly sent word that you were coming.”

“She sent word?” Alice said. “But—”

“She was my apprentice many years ago,” Isal said. “Long before I was pushed off the branch.”

“So they really pushed you off the branch?” Oliver said, aghast. “Why?”

Isal finally blinked.

“Fifty-six years ago,” she said, “when we'd had our last visitor—a young girl, not much older than you,” she said to Alice, “I tried to warn her away. I knew that ultimately, she would be sacrificed for the queens.” Isal looked away. “I did not agree with the queens' methods, and my actions were not appreciated. I was considered a traitor, and pushed off the branch.”

Alice's eyes went impossibly wide.

“So they thought you would die,” Oliver said.

Isal nodded. “But there is great magic at the bottom of the trees, and it does not wish to do harm. I have been safe here.”

“Do they know?” Oliver asked, gesturing to the sky, to the land of Left. “Do they know it's safe down here?”

“They suspect it might be,” she said. “But they do not know for certain. So we must hurry. We do not know if they will come looking for you. Please,” she said. “Come inside. I can help you.”

“But you say you've been here all this time,” Alice said nervously. “And yet you've never been discovered. How can we trust that your story is true? What if you're working with everyone else? What if we step inside your house only to be stuffed in an oven?”

Isal smiled a strange, sad smile and pulled back her hood. Her golden hair, no longer framed by the yellow of her cloak, was dimmer now. Desaturated. She looked almost as white as Alice did, pale on pale; all color sapped from her skin. And when she spoke, she spoke only to Oliver. “Perhaps you should trust a friend who looks like one.”

Oliver couldn't shake off his shock.
“How did you know?” he said. “How did you know my Tibbin?”

Isal considered him carefully. “Furthermore is only occasionally as helpful as it pretends to be,” she said. “All Tibbins are created purposely—in conjunction with Furthermore citizens —and in accordance with the happenstance of your path through this land. The moment you arrived, your future was measured, hypotheses were made, and I was sent notification of my role in your journey. Now that you're here, I'm tasked with providing you one piece of advice that will aid you in the rest of your excursion. Once the help is received, my bit is done.”

Alice and Oliver were stunned.

“We are never allowed to speak of our roles in all this,” Isal said, “but as I gave up on my loyalty to Furthermore long ago, I don't see the harm in telling you. But to deny a Tibbin is a moral offense, not a legal one, and so I am honor bound to
assist you.” She bowed her head forward an inch, and let her eyes rest on Alice's and Oliver's slack-jawed expressions. “No one has ever found me, you know.”

“Yes,” Oliver said, and looked around. “I can imagine.”

“No,” said Isal. “You don't understand. A Tibbin pinned to me is most ungenerous. Left is a land long forgotten, and I, Isal, am the most unremembered of them all.” She paused, studying the two of them carefully. “Assigning a Tibbin to me means the Elders were never trying to help you. In fact, it's likely they expected you to fail many moves ago. That you were clever enough to find me means that you are close to achieving what you desire. But tread carefully; the Elders cannot be happy about this.”

Alice and Oliver swallowed their fear and said nothing.

“Now,” said Isal, and clasped her hands. “I have more than answered all your questions. So I must insist, for the final time, that you come inside. If you stand here a moment longer I will not be responsible for your deaths.”

Alice and Oliver stumbled after Isal into her humble home, hearts racing in unison. Furthermore was meaner and twistier than even Oliver had imagined. They knew for certain now that their every move had been mapped and choreographed; the odds had been deliberately stacked against them. Their combined talents had kept them alive just long enough to move from one village to another, but the longer
they stayed in Furthermore, the faster their luck would run out, and they would have to be sharper than ever if they were to have any hope of surviving the rest of their journey. They were now fugitives, on the run.

And both Tibbins had been spent.

Alice was shaken back to the present as she walked into the organized chaos of Isal's home. Her cottage was little more than a glorified storage box. Every inch of wall space was covered in ornately framed oil paintings—“All my things were saved and pushed off the branch by dear Ancilly,” she'd said—while the interior square footage was set aside for her sewing supplies. Pins and needles and spools of thread and endless bolts of luscious fabrics were stacked up to the ceiling. Dress forms, boxes of jewels and baskets of feathers were arranged in tidy rows. Her home was small, but it was colorful and clean, and once they'd stepped fully inside, Isal removed her cape.

Isal managed to be beautiful in entirely her own way. She wore soft blue silks that draped around and across her body, and they made her look like a barely remembered dream: blurred at the edges and impossible to grasp. It was the first time Alice had ever thought a pale person could be beautiful, and it gave her great hope. Isal was not like Alice, not entirely, for she had depths of gold, even in her paleness, but even so, she looked very different from everyone back home in Ferenwood.

“So,” Isal said abruptly, “you are looking for a painter.”

“Yes,” Oliver said, startled. “How did you know?”

Isal narrowed her eyes at Oliver like he might be a bit bent in the head. “Your friend is missing an arm.”

“Right,” he said quickly. “Right, of course.”

“And you are certain,” Isal said, “that this is the one piece of information you seek? There is no greater question you'd care to ask?”

Alice's heart kicked into gear. She looked frantically at Oliver. Would this be their only chance to ask for help? Shouldn't they use it to ask about Father?

“Oliver,” she said, “don't you think—”

“This is not your decision,” Isal said swiftly. She gave Alice a look that was not exactly unkind, but a bit cold. “It's not your Tibbin to interfere.”

“But—”

“I'm certain,” Oliver said firmly. “We need to get her arm fixed.”

“Oliver, please—”

“We can still do both,” he said to her, taking her only hand. “I promise, Alice. We'll find a way. Even if we have to start all over again. But before we do anything else, you're getting your arm back.”

Alice swallowed hard. She was nearly in tears.

“Very good,” Isal said. “Your solution is simple. Pick any
painting”—she gestured to her walls—“and step inside.”

Oliver's eyebrows shot up. “That's all?”

Isal nodded.

Alice and Oliver looked at each other, faces breaking into smiles, relief flooding through their veins.

“Alright,” Oliver said, grinning up to his ears. He looked over the paintings. “How about—oh, I don't know—how's this one?” he said to Alice.

Isal stepped in front of him. “Choose wisely,” she said. “If the painter refuses to let you enter his home, you will remain here,” she said, touching the canvas, “in the painting of your choosing.”

“What?” said Oliver.

“For how long?” said Alice.

“Forever,” Isal said.

Sudden horror buckled Alice's knees.

“What do you mean?” Oliver demanded. “What nonsense is this? Why didn't you tell us there was a catch before you gave us our answer? You said the solution was
simple
,” he said, his neck going red with anger.

“It is not my job to protect you from the consequences of your own questions,” Isal said unkindly. “You wanted to know how to find a painter. I told you how to find one. My duty is done.”

“But—”

Suddenly the ground groaned and the walls shook; just outside the window a storm of yellow leaves had thrown itself against the glass. Alice knew instantly that it was a sign. Those were the leaves Isal had left behind, and now they'd come to find her.

“They're here,” Isal said softly, staring at nothing as she spoke. And in the time it took Alice and Oliver to catch their breath, there were four knocks at the door: one for every set of knuckles, which meant four people were waiting outside.

Alice knew they wouldn't be polite for very long.

Isal grabbed her cloak. “Choose wisely,” she whispered. “Choose wisely, and good luck.”