The Autumn Castle (33 page)

“Heard anything from Miranda yet?”

“No.” She shook her head, then wished she hadn’t because the room kept moving after she stopped.

“If you do hear anything let me know,” he said, averting his eyes. Was he embarrassed? “I’d like to know how she is.”

“Yeah, sure,” Christine muttered. “Who do you have to bribe to get a beer around here?”

Mandy kept her close at the crook of his elbow all night, leaning toward her, including her in his asides from the main conversation.
Jude sat diagonally opposite, conversing inaudibly with Gerda and Fabiyan, leaving Pete—drunken and full of useless statistics—to
assist her with Mandy. A combination of inebriation and eating too much of the most astonishing butter chicken she had ever
tasted had left Christine heavy-stomached and queasy, and the beer she was throwing on top of it wasn’t helping.

“So you see,” Pete was saying as the plates were cleared, “Berlin is one of the safest cities in the world. You want murder,
you go to New Orleans.”

“Fascinating, Peter,” Mandy said, leaning back to let the waiter clear his plate. “How do you remember all these things?”

“There’s nothing else in his head to get in the way!” Gerda shouted from the other end of the table. Everyone laughed.

Pete smiled, proud of himself. “I have a photographic memory for numbers. If I see it once, I remember it forever.”

“Are you good at math?” Jude asked.

“Yes, I was declared a mathematical genius at age nine,” Pete said. “My mum still has the photo of me from the newspaper.
She keeps a scrapbook.”

For some reason, Christine felt stupidly defensive of Jude, who hadn’t finished high school. “But genius is about more than
remembering facts and figures and regurgitating them later, right?” she said.

It seemed everybody turned to look at her, and all those eyeballs focused on her face made her feel vulnerable and giddy.

“Of course,” Pete conceded quickly.

“So, you can tell us how many murders have been committed in any city in the world,” Gerda said, “but you can’t tell us why
they were committed.”

“Not at all. I have no ability to understand something that far out of my personal experience.” Pete shook his head. “Just
before I left Australia, a guy I went to primary school with was charged with murdering his girlfriend. I couldn’t believe
it. Nothing about him as a child indicated that that’s where he would end up.”

“So,” Gerda said, “how does a person get to that point, where suddenly taking another life becomes a reasonable option?”

Mandy sputtered to life beside Christine. “Perhaps you don’t understand because you have never hated somebody deeply enough
to want them dead.”

Attention turned to Mandy.

“I mean . . .” he said, his voice taking a smoother tone, “that murderers may not see murder as a reasonable option so much
as the
only
option.”

“Well, I still don’t get it,” Pete said, and then promptly changed the topic. “Hey, are any of you guys interested in going
back to that punk bar?”

They teased him and argued over the rest of the evening’s entertainment, but Christine’s eyes were drawn back to Mandy’s pale,
small hands, grasping the water glass in front of him. No mistaking it, his fingers were shaking. Talking about murder had
agitated him for some reason and, drunk and paranoid as she was, that agitation unsettled her profoundly.

M
orning had nearly broken on the third day of the search for Hexebart. Mayfridh knew that they wouldn’t find her in time for
the parade. Only a few hours remained until she had to descend the slope; the horses and open carriage were being dressed.
Hexebart was nowhere to be found.

Mayfridh sank to the ground beneath a tree. In the distance Eisengrimm and three of the royal guards combed the Eternal Woods,
though their stealth meant she couldn’t hear them. She looked up through the half-bare branches. The sky was pale yellow,
the shadows deep around her as dawn gathered itself out of the ashes of sunset. She missed night, its long soft darkness and
secrets, but at the Winter Castle she would soon grow sick of it and start longing for the fresh sunshine of spring.

The future, stretching out empty before her. What would Jude be doing while she was at the Winter Castle? At the Spring and
Summer Palaces? She would have no concept of their parallel lives, he would be entirely forgotten. Perhaps, one morning when
she painted on her Real World eyeliner, she might feel a twinge of memory:
Why is there a trace of excitement attached to this object?
But soon after it would be gone, and the things she’d brought back with her would feel as though they had always been with
her; eternal, natural, ordinary.

Surely it was impossible that her soul could really forget his. Surely they were connected always, far beneath the swirl and
tide of memory and forgetfulness. Would she continue to ache, deep and low under her ribs, without even knowing what she was
aching for? A gust of wind rushed overhead, sending a shower of leaves rattling down on her. A dry leaf tip grazed her cheek
and she closed her eyes and thought of Jude, of the feel of his hot breath through her clothes and the unutterable melancholy
of his admission that he was lonely, that he was sad. And she believed she would understand it all if she captured Hexebart
and pried Jude’s secret from her.

A rustle nearby made her sit up and open her eyes. Too large to be a squirrel, too nimble to be a man. “Eisengrimm?”

“There you are,” he said, emerging from the bushes and approaching her.

“Have you found her?” she asked glumly.

“Three men are still looking for her, but you and I must return to the castle to prepare for the parade.”

She covered her eyes with her hands. “Oh no, the parade. I won’t have enough blessing spells. Everybody will hate me.”

“Nobody will hate you.”

She dropped her hands and met his gaze. “Eisengrimm, some days I don’t want to be queen. Some days I can’t stand the official
duties, and the clothes, and the blessings. I just want to be a Real World woman with a job in a department store and friends
over on the weekend and a man to love.”

Eisengrimm settled on his back legs next to her. “Jude?”

“Yes,” she sighed, “Jude. For my entire life, Eisengrimm, I’ve been able to get whatever I want. But now, the thing I want
most in the world I can’t have.”

“That’s because he’s not a thing, he’s a person. You can’t make somebody love you.”

“He does love me.”

Eisengrimm remained diplomatically silent. The first rays of sunshine broke over the tops of the trees, tracing the leaves
with glittering gold.

“The sun,” she said.

“The parade,” he replied.

Her hands were cold. “I’d like to stay here. Just here.”

“Come, Little May. Time to be a queen.”

Halfway down the slope on her decorated carriage, Eisengrimm as Crow perched on her shoulder, Mayfridh could hear the noise
of the crowd in the village below. The autumn festival had begun at dawn. The town well had been decorated with vines, and
music and noisy drinking took place in the street. Now the royal procession descended from the hill. Mayfridh wore her finest
bronze and gold gown, her crimson hair pinned under a golden scarf. Before her, five black horses trod proudly; behind her,
the royal guard marched. The sight of hundreds of villagers mingling in the street made her catch her breath with fear.

“Eisengrimm, they are so many. I haven’t enough blessings.” She patted her woven bag, woefully thin under her fingers.

“It matters not if we run out of blessings,” he said close to her ear. “It only matters if they know that Hexebart has escaped.
Just tell them you will return to see them individually with blessings in the next few days.”

Mayfridh recoiled. “Visit the villagers individually? In their homes?”

“Little May, you are not in a position to be intolerant. Once we find Hexebart, we will get more spells and we will deliver
them as we must.”

Mayfridh fell silent. The crowd below roared with laughter and shouts of joy. Music floated up on the breeze. A group of villagers
had seen her and started to chant her name.

“Mayfridh! Mayfridh!”

Eisengrimm took to his wings and sailed down amongst them, urging them left and right and left, clearing a path for the royal
carriage. The music grew louder and some folk had started singing. Most of them were already drunk. The Queen began to wave,
mustering her most dazzling smile. The crowd cheered. Moments later, she was among them.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” they called, individually trying to catch her attention.

“A blessing for my home, Queen Mayfridh!” Crowding in on the left.

“A blessing for the harvest, Queen Mayfridh!” Pushing on the right.

“A blessing for my sick mother, Queen Mayfridh!” All around her, pressing in on the carriage, supplicating faces and hands
outstretched. Isolating anxiety and dread loneliness: they all wanted something from her, and cared nothing for her own wants.
She reached into the bag and produced a spell.

“A blessing for you!” she called, blowing on the golden ball and watching it float and disappear like a bubble over a farmer’s
head.

“Thank you, my Queen, thank you!”

Young girls were showering her with colored leaves, collected at the turn of the season, red and gold and russet brown.

“Queen Mayfridh,” one of them called, “the leaves!”

Mayfridh gritted her teeth. It would waste a spell, but the young ones expected it. She threw a spell in the air, it exploded
overhead, and suddenly the leaves cast above her turned to glittering foil, dazzling down on her in the slanted sun. A cheer
arose from the crowd. They pressed in on her, demanding their blessings, as Eisengrimm ducked and glided overhead. A tall,
lean man thrust his pregnant wife in front of him. “A blessing for our unborn child!” he called. She obliged. Others joined
the chorus. She reached into the bag over and over, fingers finally closing on the last spell.

“Here!” she cried, flinging it into the crowd. A well-being spell, to relax everyone there. She ordered the carriage to stop,
and stood, shaking the colored foil leaves from her clothes.

“I shall return and call upon you individually within a week,” she announced, “to hear your cases and give out the blessings
you need.”

The villagers applauded, a small child called out, “All love to you, Queen Mayfridh.” For a moment, smiling in the sunshine,
Mayfridh believed all would be well. Then an unshaven, crook-eyed man stepped in front of the carriage, his arm tight around
a white-haired, gray-faced woman.

“A blessing for my mother, Queen Mayfridh,” he said, a cruel smirk on his face. “She is very ill.”

Mayfridh’s smile froze on her face. “I have said I will return to you personally, perhaps even tomorrow.”

“She may not live until tomorrow,” he said.

Mayfridh glanced at the old woman. She looked ill, but not near death. In fact, she shared the gleam in her son’s eye. What
was this about?

“I’m sorry,” Mayfridh said. Eisengrimm came to rest on her shoulder. “I have no more blessings today, but tomorrow—”

“Then go to Hexebart tonight. Go to her now. We shall wait for you.”

The crowd had grown silent around him. One person murmured, “Leave her be. She’ll do as she pleases.”

“I do not wish to return to Hexebart today,” she said, gathering her queenly demeanor, “and I am not in the habit of taking
orders from villagers. Your mother will be well until tomorrow. Now step aside so my carriage may pass.”

“Is it true, my Queen,” the crook-eyed man said, not yielding his position, “that Hexebart has been accidentally set free?”

A collective gasp moved through the crowd. Mayfridh felt Eisengrimm’s claws tighten on her shoulder. One of the royal guards
moved forward and accosted the man, forcing him off the path. But it was too late, the question had been asked.

“Is it true?” another man called, anxiety keen in his voice. “Is the royal magic no longer under your control?”

“Tell them,” Eisengrimm whispered in her ear, “only make it sound as though you are not concerned.”

“There is some truth in that rumor,” Mayfridh said, hoping her voice wasn’t shaking as much as her knees were. “Hexebart has
escaped, but we expect to find her before the end of the day and then the royal magic will—”

“The magic is gone?” a panicked voice cried.

“We won’t have blessings for the season!”

“Will we be safe to move to the Winter Castle?”

“How can this have happened?”

Such a hubbub of angry and anxious voices ensued that Mayfridh had to press her hands over her ears. Eisengrimm hopped from
her shoulder, transforming to Wolf and coming to land near her feet.

“Hear me!” he cried. Then when the noise continued, “Hear me! Hear me, all of you!”

The crowd quietened.

“Hexebart is not lost,” he said, his rich voice ringing clearly on the crisp air. “We know where she is and we are simply
waiting for the right moment to apprehend her. She will be back safely in our custody before the sun rises again. I promise
you.”