Extraordinary (25 page)

Phoebe didn't know when, during this rant, she began to cry. She didn't know when she realized that Mallory, although tense beneath her, wasn't fighting back, and had not even tried to say anything. But these realizations came to Phoebe when she paused, panting, for breath. And then she looked down into Mallory's tense face, felt Mallory's tight muscles under her hands and body, and came back fully into herself. And all the words she had just said washed back over her in a flood of understanding.

If she had said all those things, if she had asked those questions now, then she must believe all of it. And that meant she either was insane and deep in a hallucination (and strapped down and/or drugged in a mental hospital somewhere), or she was truly in Faerie, having entered through a portal in Ryland's bedroom, and there really were faeries, and Mallory and Ryland were amongst them, and they had entered her life wanting something from the human realm and from the Rothschild family, and/or from Phoebe herself.

Fayne, Phoebe thought. Fay equals Fey equals Faerie. How ironic. She remembered having made that very connection once, laughing about it to Mallory, even. Actually, it had been Mallory who brought it up. But of course Phoebe had not been paying any serious attention. Because she wasn't, like, a certifiable nutcase.

Until now.

Phoebe rolled off Mallory and scrambled a few feet away. Vaguely, she became aware that Mallory was wearing something that glimmered. But she didn't look closely. She was shaking all over her body and didn't dare try to stand up. She grabbed her knees with her arms instead. The door to the hall was only a short distance away; beyond it she could see the gray Berber pattern of the hallway carpet and where the white paint had chipped away from the molding of the doorway. The real world, just outside the door. She could race for it, and leave all of this craziness behind her. And she would, as soon as her legs would support her, and her breath calmed down.

Around her and in all directions was the gorgeous, mysterious landscape of Faerie. Flowers, brighter and more fragrant than normal flowers. Birdsong, more harmonic than its earthly counterpart, but somehow for this very reason grating to Phoebe's ear, which had been trained by Benjamin.

She didn't want to look down into the glade, to see if the throne was still there. The throne with the books about the Rothschilds piled up beside it.

Later she could blame herself for all her mistakes. For loving and trusting where she was not trusted and loved—or cared for at all—in return. But now was not the time.

If she ran back through the doorway and slammed the door shut, would the nightmare end? If she set the house on fire, if it burned to the ground with Mrs. Tolliver and Mallory and this gateway to Faerie inside it, would that take care of things? Would Catherine then wake up and be okay? Phoebe would probably have to go to jail for arson and murder, but it would be worth it. Maybe she'd be able to claim insanity. It wouldn't necessarily be a lie.

All of these rushing thoughts had taken only a few seconds. Mallory was sitting up now too. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but clear, and held a bone-deep tiredness. “There is a reason for my behavior, Phoebe. Not one that will excuse me to you, but nonetheless, it exists.”

“You were never my friend,” said Phoebe. “You were acting the whole time. You know what hurts the most, after what you did to my mother? It's that you manipulated me from the start. You were my friend for some reason that had nothing to do with liking me, weren't you?”

“Yes,” said Mallory simply.

For some reason, that single word stopped Phoebe cold. She had nothing more to say. Mallory had admitted it. She stared at Mallory, looking for some sign of—something—on her face, but found nothing. She had even temporarily forgotten her intention to make a run for it.

After a minute, Mallory said quietly, “Before—all this. You left me a message. Something about uh, Mrs. Tolliver.”

“What? You receive messages in here?” said Phoebe nastily. “Who handles the network, AT&T? The monthly charges must be huge.”

“My mother—that is, Mrs. Tolliver—”

“You're a little confused about who she is, huh? Or is it that you're confused about who
you
are? But it's good to know you care about someone. Unless you're faking it again. You're good at that. Well, don't worry. That's her in the next room, snoring. Can't you hear?”

They listened.

Mallory said formally, “Thank you. It sounds like she's all right. Or she will be as long as she sleeps.” It was as if this were a regular conversation. It was surreal, but it helped Phoebe calm down a little.

“She took some Tylenol PM,” Phoebe said. “On top of a lot of Skittles.” Amazing how easy it still felt to talk to Mallory. She gathered her fury protectively around her again. “She knows all about you, by the way. She's not fooled. She's been going along hoping to get her real daughter back.”

Mallory—or whoever she was—went very still.

“What did you do to the real Mallory? Sacrifice her in some faerie ritual? Or is she alive and there's some small chance that your—Mrs. Tolliver—can have her back?”

Mallory—Phoebe wished she could think of her by some other name, but she could not—winced. “Her daughter can't come back. She died of leukemia. We had nothing to do with it.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“No reason.”

“Tell me, is your mo—is Mrs. Tolliver really sick? Really depressed? Or do you do something to keep her dependent and helpless? Did you
make
her crazy?”

As Phoebe narrowed her eyes at Mallory, Mallory's appearance penetrated fully for the first time. She was awfully thin; thin, not slender. Also, she was wearing a soft-looking dress that glinted and glimmered with sparkles in the Faerie sunlight. But there was something peculiar about the dress; it wasn't quite beautiful. The fabric was too shiny, like polyester, and the starry glints, on closer examination, came from cheap sequins that had been sewn on with a less than expert hand.

“Incidentally,” Phoebe said, “that dress isn't what I'd have thought a faerie would wear. It's a little, uh, ragged. And you look pale and, uh, sick.”

“We've been encountering some difficulties lately, here in Faerie,” Mallory said politely. “This is the best I can do right now.”

Phoebe's breath was coming easier now. It was time to leave. Past time. And she would. Carefully. She just needed to keep Mallory talking until she was closer to the door and could outrun her—slam the door behind her—figure out where to go to be safe—Benjamin, she could go to Benjamin, he'd listen—or no, Mallory knew all about Benjamin, Phoebe couldn't endanger him—maybe one of her Rothschild relatives—but how to protect her mother—father—maybe she really should set the house on fire. She would turn on all the burners on the gas stove. She'd pull Mrs. Tolliver with her, somehow.

“Do these difficulties have something to do with why you've interfered with Mrs. Tolliver and with my family?” Phoebe kept her voice conversational. She slid her butt a half inch nearer the door.

“You were always smarter than you gave yourself credit for.” Another inch. “Really? That's a change, coming from you. And in fact, I'm feeling exceedingly stupid. It seems to me that I was very easy for you to fool. Wouldn't you agree?”

Mallory's voice was soft. “Yes, actually. From the first, you were very credulous and trusting.”

It shouldn't have hurt, because it was not news. But it did.
I loved you!
Phoebe wanted to scream back. But she needed to remember that the friend she loved had been an illusion. A made-up Mallory. This creature was not her.

Another inch.

“Did you know your mother—Mrs. Tolliver—was on to you?” And another.

A pause. “No,” said Mallory.

“Then you're not so infallible, are you?” Phoebe matched her calm, even tone to Mallory's as she scooted another inch. At this rate, she might make it to the door by midnight. Could she speed it up? Why not? Mallory had made no move to stop her. Yes, it was time. Phoebe would scramble to her feet and run like the wind. She'd grab Mrs. Tolliver; she'd set that fire—

“I have never,” said Mallory, “felt infallible.”

Phoebe tensed her muscles. Now—it was now!

She jumped to her feet and headed for the door.

Phoebe crashed into a stone wall that materialized before her. The crash knocked the wind out of her and she leaned against the wall, feeling its solidity against her bruised shoulders.

“Don't bother, Phoebe,” said Mallory. “It's too late. The queen has summoned you. You have to go to her. It's over, Phoebe. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry.”

Phoebe ignored her. She put out both hands and touched the wall with her palms. It felt like old stone; mossy, somewhat worn. The wall looked old too; its stones irregular in size and fitted together precisely, without the use of mortar. It could have been there for centuries. She pressed here and there, frantically, as if she would find some secret touchstone that would magically make the wall an open doorway again.

She turned back to Mallory. She could literally taste fear now, acid at the back of her throat.

She would not collapse. She would not allow it. She stood up straight.

“Now you will go see the queen,” said Mallory again. “She's expecting you.”

Phoebe had a sudden, vivid memory of Mallory describing the Queen of Faerie as Mayer Rothschild had seen her.
Hair the yellow of a bee's fur, the russet of a fox's pelt, the white of a dandelion gone to seed, and the shiny black of a songbird's eye. Skin formed of leaves. As much akin to trees and plants as to humankind.

She shuddered.

“You have to understand something, Phoebe,” said Mallory. “It really is nothing to do with me anymore. My part is done.”

“You've got me wishing I was Christian,” Phoebe said. “So I could call you a Judas.” She took in one long, deep breath.

And then, shocked, another, as a new realization dawned on her. By now, if history was any guide, she should have been having a very serious asthma attack. But she wasn't. There wasn't even the slightest rattle to her breathing, and her lungs were filling up with air to a depth that was totally unfamiliar and should, for Phoebe, have been physically impossible.

Phoebe breathed in again, to make sure. She frowned.

“Health comes to any human in Faerie,” said Mallory quietly. “Your lungs are already healing. When you were here before, you left too abruptly, and that was what triggered that attack.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful?”

“No. Just—point of information.”

Mallory got up from the ground and dusted off her tawdry little dress. “I have to go. My mother—Mrs. Tolliver—I need to check on her. And, I repeat, you have to go too.” She pointed down lower into the garden. “Follow the path on the far side of the clearing. Ryland will be waiting for you. He'll take you to the queen.”

Ryland. Phoebe thought of the last time she had seen him—of being in his arms—of begging him to give her another chance.

Bile rose again forcefully in her throat. It was less easily swallowed back than before.

“Terrific,” Phoebe managed.

Mallory shrugged. “Good-bye.”

“Mallory,” Phoebe began. She stopped talking because she saw that Mallory had raised her hands and was shaking her head back and forth, almost violently.

“Don't start,” said Mallory. “Just don't. I have to go!” Possibly the worst thing of all about this moment—worse than the panic and terror and the unbelievable knowledge of betrayal—was that Phoebe wanted to beg her ex-friend, her betrayer.
Don't leave me! Be by my side. Please. Don't leave me all alone. Don't abandon me to your brother! Stay with me.

She didn't say any of it. She looked at Mallory instead. Just looked.

“I told you, it's nothing to do with me anymore!” Mallory shouted.

“Mallory...”

“No, Phoebe, I—”

“All right. All right! But can you just tell me the end of the story?”

Mallory blinked.

“The end of the story about Mayer Rothschild,” Phoebe said steadily. “Just take a few minutes. You were going to tell me on Nantucket, so what's wrong with doing it now? Don't you at least owe me that?”

Mallory didn't answer.

“A short version.” Phoebe tried to keep the pleading out of her voice. She tried simply to speak normally. “Come on. Mayer joined the dance. He was naked. He was worshipping the faerie queen, paying tribute to her, being part of her court. And then ...”

The two girls locked eyes.

Mallory sighed. She shut her eyes tightly for a moment.

Then they snapped open. “All right,” she said to Phoebe. “I actually now have permission to tell you. Someone else would have to explain it to you later anyway, now that you're here. So Ryland will wait.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe said uncertainly. She was freaked out, a little, by what Mallory had just said about permission.

Mallory hesitated another moment. Then she began. But this time her voice wasn't slow, mesmerizing, but rapid and angry.

“Hours passed, while Mayer danced with the faerie court. It was solstice, and he had seen the court and the queen as they really are. He had eaten no faerie food. He was not beguiled or enchanted or enslaved. And yet he gave voluntary tribute, with a full and joyful heart, without doubt or hesitation. He danced with the full attention of his body and his mind and his heart and his soul. This had never happened before with any human. It has never, incidentally, happened since.