Storybound (9 page)

“Once upon a time,” Mrs. Merriweather began, “there was a King. He had done many valiant things in his long reign, some of which you know. This is the same King who carried out the Siege of Mysterium Castle, the Rescue of Princess Julian, the Discovery of the Forbidden Lands, the Restoration of the Guardian Books, and the Winning of the Emerald Throne. He was very brave, and, if that wasn’t enough, he was good, noble, honest, and true. Under the King’s rule, his people had peace, justice, and fruitfulness. In every corner of the land, characters lived in peace and harmony.” Bastian and Rufus crept back into the room, their pirate game abandoned, and sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire.

“One day the King decided to have an adventure. He prepared for a long journey and placed trusted servants in charge of his kingdom. The day of his departure came, and all his people lined up to bow before him. Their sons and daughters threw flowers on the streets, cheering and laughing as they sang their favorite songs.” Una could almost see the dancing children, could feel the sweetness of their farewell.

“This pleased the King,” Mrs. Merriweather continued. “And he departed in full confidence, knowing his servants would be careful to rule his land well in his absence. No one knew the King’s destination, but all the people, young and old, awaited their King’s return. And where do you think the King was all this time?”

Rufus had his chin cupped in both hands, his face fixed on his mother. He shook his head. “Where?”

“Why, the King was traveling the land, living among his people. Such was the wisdom and kindness of the King. He disguised himself, of course, else the people would have recognized him straightaway. And he didn’t want that. Before he decided to leave, he had thrown great feasts at his castle, and everyone who came sat stiffly in their chairs and minded their manners, and wiped their mouths with the corners of their napkins just so. Though the King didn’t mind that, his favorite thing to do was to sit around a merry fire with friends, telling stories and eating good food, and he couldn’t do that when people were always trying to be on their best behavior around him.

“One day, he arrived in a mountain village, weary and footsore. He looked nothing like the King he was, for his hair was matted, and his clothes were dirty from traveling. He went from house to house, seeking a night’s hospitality, but every door was turned against him. One woman said that her rooms were all full for the night. Someone else made excuses about not having enough food. A farmer wouldn’t even offer him the loft of his barn. With each refusal, the King went sadly on his way, for he longed to sit at a table and break bread with his people. Finally, on the very last street of the village, he met a little boy. The boy was dressed in rags and hardly had a place of his own to call home. Most nights he made camp on the outskirts of town and curled up next to his dog to sleep. But he offered to share his fire with the King and received in return rich company and delightful Tales. Out of his battered pack, the King pulled all manner of delicious food. The boy had never tasted chocolate before, and to this day he talks about his first bite of it by that fire. And such stories! The boy grew up and traveled around telling the best of the King’s Tales, and they are favorites of little boys and girls everywhere. The next morning, the boy’s mysterious visitor was nowhere to be found, but he left a sack full of gold coins for the boy.” She smiled down at Oliver, who had nodded off in her lap. “And inside the money bag was a note that read, ‘Any old fire is fit for a King if kindness be there.’”

“Aw, Mother.” Bastian stood up, his owlish eyes peering through his glasses. “That’s one of those stories that’s supposed to teach you a lesson, isn’t it? There wasn’t even any fighting.”

Rufus stretched. “It made me hungry. Do we have any chocolate?”

“All right, then, boys. That’s enough,” Mrs. Merriweather said, shooing them out of the room. “Now. You must need new things, Una. I don’t know how you’ve managed on what Peter’s scraped up for you so far.” She shifted Oliver onto one hip. “Peter can take you to pick out fabric in the morning, and I’ll whip up some new dresses for you by the time you have to go back to Perrault. While I’m gone, why don’t you make up a shopping list?”

Chapter 13

L
ater that night, Mrs. Merriweather tucked Una into one of the spare rooms on the second floor, which had been fixed up just for her. The walls were papered in white, with little daisies scattered about. The ceiling was all angles, and a little cupboard poked out in one corner. Next to it was a squat potbellied stove merrily heating up the little room. Braided mats lay scattered on the wood floors, and one wall had a large bay window, in which a snug window seat was fitted. Even though it was after midnight, Una curled up in one corner of it, looking out into the clear night.

What would it have been like to grow up here? To wake up every day and be surrounded by warmth and love? She thought of Ms. McDonough in her empty apartment and wondered if she was worried about her. By this time she must have given up on Una. Had there been a search? Una didn’t like the thought of being one of those kids whose faces were all over the news. Everyone probably thought she was a runaway. Just another lost orphan. She wished she could send Ms. McDonough a message letting her know that she was fine and not to worry. Maybe then she would feel a little less guilty about enjoying the hominess of Bramble Cottage so much.

She sighed. Sending a message back to her old world was unlikely. Besides, she had a sneaking suspicion that if a message could go back, maybe she would too. And Una didn’t want to go back. In fact, just then she was nearly perfectly happy.

From the corner of the garden, under a crooked apple tree, a light flashed. And then another. Una leaned back behind the curtains and watched a carriage turn in at the front of the drive. Mrs. Merriweather emerged from the direction of the flashing light, and the visitor followed her into the black orchard.

Before long, a lone rider on a horse arrived. Mr. Merriweather met him. After they, too, disappeared from view, Una grabbed a wrap, slid her feet into the fuzzy slippers at the foot of the bed, and hurried up the stairs to Peter’s room. She crept past the nursery, where Trix sat in a rocker, dozing by a fading fire. Two more doors, and she was next to Peter’s bed shaking his shoulder. He woke with a start, and she quickly put a finger to her lips.

“Come with me,” she whispered. Together they sneaked downstairs and outside without incident.

“The old potting shed,” Peter said when she described the route the strangers had taken. “It has to be.”

The night was frosty, and Una tugged her shawl closer as she followed Peter into the woods. He was wearing flannel pajamas that had tiny knights storming miniature castles patterned all over the fabric.

Soon, they reached a crumbling brick structure, overcome by wild vines, with a square glass-paned window in the center wall. Una couldn’t see a door, but she could hear voices.

Peter pointed at a broken pane on the far side. Picking their way through a garden, they moved closer to the window. Una had to stand on a rotting board to see inside. Peter, who was tall enough to see on his own, grabbed one of her hands to help her balance. She propped the other against the brick wall and strained up on her tiptoes. The interior glowed with a light that shone faintly through the dirty glass panes. It was a good thing they had come up from behind, as the front of the shed was nearly gone, its bricks having fallen into crumbled heaps, and the little group that was gathered there would have surely seen them.

Una could see Mr. and Mrs. Merriweather standing opposite, but it wasn’t their presence that made Una gasp. Leaning in, talking seriously to Mr. Merriweather, was Professor Edenberry. And next to him was the dryad Una had met in the Tale station. Una pressed her face as close to the glass as she dared. Edenberry must be how the Merriweathers knew she was Written In.

“I have no doubt that she entered through Peter’s exam,” Professor Edenberry said.

“But she looks young. I’d have never thought a WI would be so young. What if she’s lying? A Talekeeper spy, perhaps?” That was the dryad.

Una let go of Peter’s hand and inched a tiny bit closer.
They don’t believe me?
Why on earth would I lie about being Written In?

“I think she’s telling the truth, Griselda,” Mrs. Merriweather said. The fact that she even had to say it bothered Una.

Especially when Mr. Merriweather said, “Even if she is lying, Elton himself is convinced she’s a WI.”
Great. The one time I actually tell the truth, and everyone thinks I’m lying.
“And his friend, a woman who cloaks herself in red, knows as well.” There was a collective grumble from the group at the mention of Elton’s name, but no one knew who Red was.

“But would they really harm a student?” Mrs. Merriweather exclaimed. “Una’s just a girl.”

Mr. Merriweather patted her arm gently. “Not to worry, Cora,” he said softly. “That won’t happen.” As he turned, the lantern light glimmered off his glasses.

Edenberry crossed his arms. “Elton may have decided to wait, but I don’t know what the Talekeepers will do if they find out. We must be careful. If we act too soon, we could risk everything.”

There was a crashing noise off in the forest. Una gave a little cry of surprise, but it didn’t matter, since everyone in the potting shed had done the same. The crashing grew closer, and the little group clustered together. Una grabbed Peter’s hand.

A tall man stumbled into the group. He was out of breath from running, and he cradled a small parcel in his arms.

“Wilfred, you gave us a fright,” Mrs. Merriweather said, her hand flat against her collarbone. Two seconds later someone else burst in.

Una clamped down on Peter’s hand. He had thrown a cloak over his jeans and sweatshirt, but Una knew him at once. It was the Truepenny boy.

“And Endeavor,” Mrs. Merriweather said to him. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

Endeavor Truepenny looked over at the tall man. “Dad made me come,” he said in a low voice.

Endeavor’s father shook his head as he tried to catch his breath. He set the parcel down on the potting bench. If possible, the group grew more tense.

Una waited breathlessly.

Finally, the dryad Griselda stepped forward. Her tapered fingers folded back the edges of the rumpled paper. She stood for a moment looking down with wide eyes. She shook her head back and forth. “Another book . . . gone,” she breathed.

Una could almost get a good look at the package. She let go of Peter’s hand again and stretched as tall as she could, squinting at the charred remains in the center of the parcel. It didn’t look like a book; that was certain. Whatever it used to be, all that she could see now was a tiny mound of ashes.

Mrs. Merriweather began to cry.

“How is this happening?” someone asked.

“No one knows,” Wilfred answered. “I found it this afternoon. The other Talekeepers at the Vault are all in an uproar.”

“Well, whoever is doing it knows,” Mr. Merriweather said lightly, but his voice carried an undercurrent of worry. “Someone’s figured out a way to erase the old Tales. Isn’t it enough to lock them all up and keep us from reading them?”

“This is a new magic,” Griselda said. “Erasing a Tale goes against all the laws of Story.”

“How many have we rescued?” Professor Edenberry asked.

“I left more in your box in the Vault,” Wilfred said to Mr. Merriweather.

“What if it’s more than just one of the old Tales,” Griselda said, fingering the wrapping. “What if it was a Muse book?”

“But that’s impossible!” Mrs. Merriweather pressed both hands over her mouth.

“There were seven Muses.” Griselda rubbed her hands together. “Perhaps some of the other Muse books are in the Vault. If we could get our hands on one, we could prove that the Talekeepers are lying about what happened before the Unbinding.”

Someone in the little group cleared his throat. Professor Edenberry shuffled his feet and studied his hands. Finally, Mr. Merriweather said in a gentle voice, “Griselda, there’s no proof that any of the Muses survived. Quite the contrary. As much as I dislike the Talekeepers, I have to agree with them on this. The Muses would have done something by now if they were still around.”

The dryad set her lips in a thin line. “I realize I won’t convince you, but I know what I’ve seen. I’ve spoken to old characters. I’ve read some of their accounts.” Mr. Merriweather opened his mouth, but Griselda waved her hands at him. “No. Let me finish, for once. Just think. There’s no proof the Talekeepers actually destroyed the Muses. If they had really done it, why hide everything to do with the Muses? Anyone who has ever demanded more information from the Talekeepers has disappeared or had a convenient change of heart. What if the Muses really are out there somewhere?”

“Just waiting for us to find them? Nonsense.” Mr. Merriweather’s voice wasn’t gentle anymore. “We all know the Muse books disappeared with them. And that’s all the Muse books were: ways for us to visit the Muses. Looking to the past isn’t the way to help Story. The age of the Muses ended a long time ago. It’s the bad people, evil people even, among the Talekeepers who have forbidden us our Tales. We know this for certain, with no room for speculation.” He picked up a fistful of the powdered dust. “What
this
means is that the Talekeepers aren’t just locking up our Tales, they’re systematically erasing them.”

Wilfred spoke next. “I don’t know about that, Henry. The Talekeepers seem as surprised as anyone about the books. And we’ve been able to smuggle some books out of the Vault. What’s to say other groups aren’t doing the same? Besides, the Talekeepers are hardly organized enough to do anything systematically. It’s such a bureaucracy over there. Incompetence, inefficiency—”

“Dad,” the Truepenny boy said as if to hush his father.

“Perhaps it’s not an organized effort. Maybe it’s just certain Talekeepers.” Peter’s father examined the remains of the book. “Maybe they are divided after all.”

“Of course they’re divided!” Wilfred wrapped up the little package and tucked it away into a pocket. “I’ve been saying it for years. If the characters of Story would just stand up and call for a vote, we’d have new leaders in there in the blink of an eye. But does anybody care? They’re so afraid, they won’t even fight for their rights. ‘A big scary Muse, you say? Why, go ahead, take away all our Tales. Tell me what I should learn! Tell me what type of character to be!’ It’s enraging! What we need is—”

The little group shifted around as Wilfred spoke, and Una thought that they might have heard his ideas before. His son looked embarrassed, until Mr. Merriweather interjected, “I’m all for a good political rally, Wilfred, you know that. And when the time is right, I’ll be there standing next to you calling for change. But we don’t have enough information yet. If we could prove that the Talekeepers were doing something to harm Story, the characters would rally.”

“If we could prove the Talekeepers have been lying all along”—Griselda looked directly at Mr. Merriweather as she said this—“we’d have the beginnings of a revolution.”

“Not the kind you’d want.” He sounded angry now. “Telling people the Muses might still be around will just make them more afraid than ever, and they’ll be begging for more Talekeeper control. It’s no use arguing about this now, Griselda. We may disagree about what the Talekeepers are lying about, but we can agree on one thing: it’s time for new leadership. What we’ve got to do is find out what’s written in the old Tales, especially the ones the Talekeepers are so keen to keep locked up.” He looked at the place where the book had been. “Or the ones that are so dangerous they’ve found a way to erase them.”

Una’s first mistake was twisting to look at Peter. Her second was forgetting that she was standing on a board. One minute she was peering in at the little group, the next she had tumbled to a heap in the abandoned garden bed.

She groaned, but the commotion her fall had caused in the little potting shed drowned out the sound.

Peter was by her side in an instant. “Get up!” he hissed. “Quickly. They can’t find us here.” He tore off into the woods. Una ran blindly behind him, little branches whipping her frozen cheeks. The woods that had seemed so friendly in the afternoon sun were menacing by moonlight.

She soon lost track of where they were going, but Peter forged ahead. Una could hear nothing beyond her own breathing and her slippers crashing through the underbrush. She grabbed at her shawl as she tried to run faster, fighting the piercing stitch in her side. Finally they burst into the yard behind the house and raced up the back steps.

No one was behind them. Whatever the little group in the potting shed thought about being spied on, they didn’t think to look in on the children of Bramble Cottage.

“Go!” Peter whispered as they ran up the first flight of the stairs. He pointed to Una’s room, “Don’t look out the windows. Don’t let them see you. Just pretend to be asleep. Meet me in the kitchen in an hour.” Una nodded, too out of breath to say anything, fled into her room, and collapsed onto her bed in a shivering heap.

Peter ladled two mugs of cinnamon apple cider from the pot on the stove and set them down on Trix’s worktable. A slim tapered candle cast everything into shadow. Una appeared from the dim hallway, slid onto the stool, and took a sip.

Peter sat opposite her, but he pushed his mug away, untouched. “It’s just for show. In case anyone comes down,” he said. “They’ll think we wanted a snack.” Peter wasn’t sure what else to say.
I guess my parents have been keeping stuff from me all along, what do you think about that? How about that pile of dust that worried everyone?
He didn’t want to even think about what they had said about the Muses.

Finally, Una spoke. “So, I don’t think your parents are telling us everything, Peter.”

“That’s the understatement of the age,” Peter said. Knowing his parents had been hiding their secret group from him made him feel about three years old.

Una smiled at him. “You see, Peter,” she said in a fair imitation of Professor Thornhill, “people aren’t always what they seem.”

“I just can’t believe it,” Peter said. “I mean, they’re my
parents.
It’s like I’ve been living with strangers my whole life.” He looked down at the table’s worn surface. He couldn’t ignore the Muses any longer. “And that dryad said the Muses are still around.”