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The Shadow Kingdom

Angelina Suwoto

Chapter One“Wednesday, wake, you must get up. It is almost time for the New Year’s Eve Festival.” A pair of hands shook Wednesday thoroughly. She murmured sleepily, her head aching, drowsy and

weak from medicine. Dry tendrils of cough were creeping up her throat. “Wednesday, it’s almost evening.” She cracked one eyelid open. At least the sun wasn’t bright. Someone must’ve had the kindness to

pull the draperies closed. Surely it wasn’t any of her sisters. The stiff pillow under her head was mashed into an uncomfortable position, and she tried to raise her arms to fluff it out. But her limbs were too weak and feeble, and instead she mumbled an unintelligible phrase.

“Wednesday!” Something firm but soft hit her in the head. A body plopped onto the bed, jolting the old springs effectively. Wednesday winced as pain shot through her head and neck. She clumsily batted the pillow off her face, blinking blearily up at her offender. Willow stared down at her, gorgeous green eyes dancing with mirth. “Wednesday, you are truly a pig,” she said with glee. “I have never seen somebody sleep for so long.”

“Mmm.” With great effort, Wednesday raised her arm and brushed strands of coppery auburn off her face. “Willow, could you please grab the medicine bottle for me, please?”

Willow grinned. “No, I’d really rather not. Suffering from too much exposure to the elements again, hm? You’ve been paler than elderflower for a few days now. I’d been imagining you’d have passed out.”

“Please, Willow,” Wednesday begged, not liking having to be totally at her sister’s mercy. “I can’t get up. My body’s too fragile right after I wake up.”

“Oh, yes,” Willow said, cheerful. “Delicate little Wednesday, hm? No wonder Father never pays attention to you, you do nothing more than take up space and use his money on medicines in an attempt to cure your horribly weak body. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you don’t make it through the festival tonight. Remember last year? You collapsed over the banister and fell on that poor gentleman with the brown hair. He was sweet. Poor thing, he didn’t deserve to have a little moth dropped on top of him—”

“Willow,” a voice said warningly from the doorway. Willow looked up, startled. From her position on the bed, Wednesday couldn’t tell who the intruder was, but she suspected from the tone that it was her other sister, Winter. Their father had insisted on matching names, but as far as Wednesday could tell, the three girls had nothing in common. After all, she was the weak one, Willow was the proud one, and Winter was possibly the sensible one, though sometimes even her head got lost in the fantasies of gentlemen and courts. Wednesday mentally sighed. Gentlemen and courts. She would never feel the thrill of dancing with a man, enjoying the breath of a first kiss. Alas, in a cursed, pale body like hers, no man in his right mind would ever escort her, let alone love her.

“Oh, please.” Willow rose from the bed, smoothing her skirts, the ruffles making shadows the color of a rich plum, matching perfectly with her naturally doll-like face and golden-red tresses. Her sister’s famous hair, for which she was named for. Wednesday stared at the flowing tendrils of delicate wispy curls that floated down from Willow’s hairstyle, mimicking the sweep of a willow tree’s branches. Willow was well-known in several kingdoms, and many men came to beg for her hand. Jealously panged through Wednesday. How could her sisters be so beautiful, whereas she was doomed in this fragile shade of a body? Winter strode over, surveying Wednesday coolly. She picked up the small bottle of medicine and balanced it on Wednesday’s bed sheets, then pushed Wednesday up on the headboard of the bed and placed the medicine in her palm. “Here, and hurry,” she said crisply. “You don’t want to be late for the New Year’s Eve ball; you know how Father is with these things. Will you need any help dressing? I can send for a

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servant.” Behind Winter, Willow pretended to gag and make a face, clearly stating that she thought Winter

was crazy. Wednesday ignored her and shook her head gratefully, regarding her more mature sister with a newfound respect. “No, but thank you,” Wednesday said shyly, unscrewing the medicine bottle’s cap and downing a few swallows. It burned fire against her throat, and she coughed a few times before subsiding into gasps. Winter was watching her cautiously. Wednesday waved a hand. “I’m alright,” she panted. “Just a little…wheezy.”

Still suspicious, Winter rose from her side. Apparently she had already fixed herself up for the ball. Her honey-blonde hair, much lighter than Wednesday or Willow’s, was done up in fanciful weavings with bejeweled ornaments, and she was wearing a tight pearl-white bodice with sweeping snowdrop skirts. Yet again Wednesday felt bitter.

Winter turned to Willow. “And you mind your tongue,” she said in a low voice, her skin paling. “You know what father said about being fair—”

“Fair?” Willow exclaimed, and Winter tried to shush her. Wednesday listened, wide-eyed. Father? No way. He never paid attention to her, just like Willow had said, and yet he was scolding her sisters about teasing?

“No need to be fair!” Willow continued, her fair skin coloring a faint blush pink. “You and I, you said we had free reign. We are princesses, after all.” She cast Wednesday a disdainful look. “And a proper princess should very well act like it!” She whirled around and was out the door in a poof of purple skirts and reddish hair.

Winter frowned after her, and slowly left, murmuring softly to herself. Wednesday watched, rapt, for a moment, then she replaced the medicine bottle and forced herself up. Willow had said it was almost evening; indeed, from the sliver of window uncovered by the draperies in her small room, she could see the golden light of sun-stained skies. She scrubbed her eyes with the back of her sleeve, and forced herself up.

The medicine definitely helped, and the fact that she wasn’t sleepy anymore kept her briskly cleaning up for the festival. Winter was right; Father wasn’t one to wait patiently for her. She’d better hurry if she didn’t want to be his object of wrath. It wasn’t that he was grumpy, just that he liked major things, like the New Year’s Festival, to be on time and orderly so it wasn’t in a jumble. Quickly, she cleaned her teeth, bathed, and prepared to dress in one of the ball gowns that her father always laid out for her at the foot of her bed. Wednesday stared at it. Her gowns were never the same flashy, brilliant shades as her sisters’. After all, her sisters were both of marrying ages now—over fourteen—and she supposed vivid coloring was one way to woo men.

The lime-green skirts of a silk dress lay smoothed on the bedpost. She slipped it on, fidgeting a little and wondering if her corset was too tight. She was thirteen, and really didn’t qualify for a ball, but Willow didn’t either. Theoretically, Winter was the only one old enough. She was sixteen. Sixteen! Wednesday always wondered why Winter had waited until sixteen to even lay eyes on a man. Her coming-of had been four years ago. By now, she should have a fiancé. Perhaps she though any man would not be good enough for her. Winter had high-esteem that way.

Willow was a little over fourteen, almost the same age as Wednesday but not quite. They were a few weeks apart. Willow expected to be of age soon. Wednesday just thought Willow was a late bloomer. Then again, she herself was as well. Winter’s coming-of was at twelve. The rest of them? Not so. At any rate, she was glad she was allowed to attend the ball. Wednesday was hoping her coming-of would come shortly. Not only because it would mean she could keep an eye out for gentlemen and formally attend the festival, but also because it was the day you

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became legal for magic. Being of age meant that you were susceptible to magic, but it also meant you could use it. She wasn’t sure what Winter’s magic was. At least one of her sisters preferred not to show off. Lots of things could happen at your coming-of. First of all, sometimes, the twelve Goddesses would come and bless you with twelve gifts, each giving one different. But sometimes the twelve didn’t show up, leaving the spotlight on the thirteenth. When the thirteenth Goddess gave her gift, it could change your world. Not only that, but each person had a special magic inside them when they came of age. The magic was so mystical, so hard to find that it was usually ignored by people. But if you could find the secret to unlock your special magic, which no one knew how to do, legend said you would be marked as a key role player in the constant game of the world, that if you could utilize the magic, you could become one of the Goddesses.

As fast as possible without sliding her hair out of place, she styled it carefully and viewed the result with a critical eye. Perfect. Wednesday smiled. If there was anything she was good at, it was perfecting something. If only her talented hands could perfect her delicate form.

She searched for a rose. Being fond of the flowers, even though she pricked herself on them time after time, she always enjoyed their fresh and faint smell, especially when they were in her plain auburn hair and cast beauty upon it. She found a rutilant pink one in a vase near the bathtub and tucked it in, checking her appearance in the mirror. Perfect. Wednesday smiled again. Perfecting something, once more. The faintly glowing, healthy flower would delude people that her skin was like so.

She tied on slippers and rushed downstairs. Judging from the light, it was almost seven. Definitely time to start the festival. She almost tripped on the steps and took them more slowly, then reached the ground floor and hurried for the open ballroom.

People were flocking inside. The musicians had unpacked their instruments and were tuning. Ladies with poofy skirts and gentlemen with suits milled around, talking and generally getting acquainted before the actual ball started. Wednesday let out a breath of relief. They had not begun yet.

She looked around and caught sight of her father and sisters standing by a half-covered dessert table. Her father, a stoic, tall man, was talking calmly to another man, telling him the rest of the desserts needed to be put on the table before the festival started, not during the festival. Willow was sampling a delectable-looking strawberry custard and talking with another young lady. Winter was practicing dance steps near the corner with a gentleman who was helping to correct her missteps. Wednesday smiled. Winter ought to be able to do such a thing by now.

“Ah, Wednesday,” her father said as she approached. He shooed away the dessert man and looked her up and down. “Lovely, my little rose. Are you feeling alright?” He placed a large hand on her pale forehead. “No more fever? Did you take your medicine?”

“Yes,” said Wednesday, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. He treated her like a baby dove. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Willow and her new friend holding back giggles and smirking at her. Wednesday ignored them, turning her attention back to Father. “Where’s Mother?” “She’s tending to business,” he said, her expression turning disappointed. Wednesday nodded, understanding. Mother was always tending to business. No time for others. It was strange; in most stories she read, the father was always busy; the mother was usually absent or dead. In the Fontana household, things were usually somewhat upside-down. Father seemed to have noticed Wednesday’s gloomy mood, because he tried for a kind smile.

“Curtsy for me,” he invited. Willow’s face turned sour behind his back, and Wednesday knew why. Maybe she herself didn’t

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have the best curtsy in the world, but Willow was terrible. It always got to her, especially in dancing, when Willow would curtsy to her partner and the gentleman would start in dismay at her sloppy form. Wednesday shyly sank into a curtsy, letting herself vanish in the midst of her green skirts, folding her legs beneath her, then pulled back up again.

“Mmm.” Her father nodded in approbation and swept off. Wednesday beamed. Her father, the king, approved! “Yes, that was lovely, my little rose,” Willow said slyly, mimicking Father. She and her friend strode

over. “That was lovely. Wonderful. For the Queen of Mistakes, that is.” Laughing high-pitched squeaky giggles, the two of them made sympathetic faces at her.

Wednesday glared at them. It looked like Willow had managed to dress for the ball in time, too. Her plum skirt had been replaced by an expensive-looking golden-white dress that went extremely well with her red-blonde hair. Wednesday could almost see the men falling over trying to get to her. Somehow, the beauty, the taunting, the gentlemen, made her upset. “Yes, well, at least I’m not the Queen of Tripping,” she retorted, surprising herself. Willow stared at her, dumbfounded. “Like a certain Willow I could mention,” Wednesday added.

“Oh, you did not!” Willow’s face flushed. She glared right back at Wednesday. “Funny, you’re talking about me being

clumsy, while you’re the one who falls and faints and messes up everything. You’re the reason Father is so tired, so troubled, because he’s dismayed that he has such a weak princess under him.” She took a step forward. Wednesday backed up, tears threatening to make their appearance at Willow’s hurtful words. “I’m surprised he even thinks you real, because a princess is someday going to run this fine country when she marries, and a pathetic little wench like you has no place in running a country. You’d probably faint the first day. Even if you do manage to marry, which I quite doubt, the poor gentleman with you probably did it out of pity, not out of love.” She rubbed a lock of Wednesday’s unruly brown-red hair, smoothing it out with one finger. “Look at this. How boring. And your face!” She pinched Wednesday’s cheek. “Pale. Like a ghost. It’s literally lacquer ware. If I pushed, I wonder, would you shatter?”

“Probably,” her friend said snootily. She briskly looked Wednesday up and down, like Father had, and sank into a sleek, perfectly balanced curtsy, her grey skirts swathing the floor. Wednesday started in inconcealable admiration as the pretty girl disappeared in a fluff of raven-black cloth and crinolines, and rose back up. “Hello, Princess. Though, if I may say so, you don’t look like one at all.” She turned to Willow. “If we may depart, I would think it’s about time for the dancing to start…” “Oh, yes.” Willow smiled. Right on cue, the musicians struck up a waltz. “You can go first, Lady M, I won’t be long.” The girl, who Willow had called Lady M, gave Wednesday a sickly sweet smile and slipped off, skirts trailing like gossamer, but she hung around nearby, seemingly floating. Wednesday’s brow wrinkled slightly. Lady M. The black yet still beautiful skirts, the grace, all seemed to point to someone she knew, but in her fury Wednesday could not tell a thing. Willow rubbed a silken thumb over Wednesday’s collarbone. “Oh, Father would be so disappointed to see you not dancing with a gentleman tonight,” she whispered softly in Wednesday’s ear. “So, so disappointed…” Wednesday slapped Willow’s hand, making her let go with a sting. Willow made a face. “You are a disgrace,” Willow spat. Then she turned and she and her friend stalked off.

Wednesday stopped.

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She wasn’t sure if she had actually done that or not. It seemed like a dream. Willow wasn’t used to being stood up against before, especially not by her. It seemed so questionable that Wednesday was wondering if she was getting sick again.

She looked around for Willow, but she and her mean little friend had disappeared. Probably off giggling and admiring themselves in a bathroom mirror. She shook her head. If her sickness was catching up with her, she might as well fetch her medicine. It was still upstairs. Picking up her skirts so she wouldn’t step on them, Wednesday hurried toward the upstairs to her room.

Willow. She was so mean today. Unusually mean, even. Willow was normally a little teasing, but this was way too far out of her league. A dreaming part of Wednesday wondered if maybe today was Willow’s coming-of, and none of them had realized it, and Willow’s magic had turned out to be demonic. The more sensible part of her told her that that idea was preposterous in itself, and perhaps Willow was just a bit too energized on sweets.

Wednesday paused by her bed, panting slightly. The medicine bottle that stood on her small bureau by the bed was not there. Frowning, and slightly dizzy from running, Wednesday placed her hands on her knees and sat down on the bed. Had she taken it downstairs with her? It seemed unlikely. She lay her head down on the pillow, feeling satin under her tendrils of hair. Thoroughly wiped out. Maybe she would just take a few minutes to catch her breath…

Dooooong! Wednesday jolted awake, bleary-eyed. Had she fallen asleep? She hadn’t even realized it! The light outside was a dark grey-blue. Doooong! Another toll shook her awake. Of course, the clock tower must have been ringing. Earlier today she must’ve been so deeply asleep that she hadn’t heard it. Wednesday jumped up, alarmed, took a second to smooth her hair and skirts, and rushed downstairs, counting the bell tolls as she went. So far there were two…then three…four…on and on until it reached eight. Just eight o’clock. Wednesday hoped nobody had known she was missing. That would be embarrassing to explain.

The ballroom was full of dancers, whirling about in each other’s’ arms, while the musicians piped up a fast, breathless song. Wednesday wrinkled her nose. She had no place in such advanced dances, with their intricate steps and quickly-paced twirls. She turned away, looking around as she headed for the chairs lining the ballroom’s walls— And ran straight into Willow.

“Goodness, Wednesday, you’re clumsy as a horse.” Willow laughed spiritedly, grabbing her elbow to steady her. Wednesday looked with surprise into her sister’s green eyes. They held no malice. She glanced around furtively. Willow’s friend was nowhere to be seen either. Willow studied Wednesday’s face worriedly. “Wednesday? Are you alright? You’re paler than I’ve ever seen you. And that’s saying something, seeing that you’re often whiter than the clotted cream at the tea table.” She grinned.

“Mm,” Wednesday said distractedly. “Have you seen my medicine, Willow? It was on my bed stand just earlier and now it’s gone.”

“No clue,” said Willow, bright as always. She cocked her head to one side. “I like this music. Like springs on your feet. I think I’ll grab a gentleman before all the decent ones are taken…oh, but don’t you mind,” she added as Wednesday’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “You could never get a gentleman, I don’t think you could dance at this speed.” She swept off, gold skirts billowing.

Well, Willow was certainly back to her old self. Wednesday watched her for a moment as she shyly approached a young and rather rakish-looking

gentleman and asked him to dance. It was the poor guy that Wednesday had fallen on last year when she’d fainted from exhaustion and toppled over the banister. It was an embarrassing event that the king had had

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to apologize for profusely again and again, and Willow and Winter would never let her live that down. Wednesday couldn’t help but look on as the young man accepted Willow’s invitation. Willow’s face was aglow with delight, and her face split into a smile.

As he turned to guide Willow onto the dance floor, the young man caught sight of Wednesday staring, and his eyes, piercingly green, landed on her. Blushing furiously, Wednesday ducked behind a fountain set on a table, hoping she would disappear from view. The man turned away, taking Willow’s hand and escorting her onto the floor with a gracious bow.

Green eyes. Wednesday’s cheeks were hot. Green eyes were unusual around ____________, one of the reasons why Willow and Winter were both so desirable. Wednesday herself had green eyes, but sadly, like with most other things, hers weren’t of the same attractiveness as her sisters’. Always the same. Always that way.

She peeked out from behind the fountain, eyes landing on the young man. He was leading a stumbling Willow through the difficult transition steps of the dance. Willow, stumbling? That seemed a bit unlikely. Wednesday couldn’t help but creep closer. To stay safely out of view, she hid halfway behind the grand piano in the corner and peered out. The pianist, who happened to be at that same piano, gave her an odd look, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge her appearance. Wednesday mentally thanked him. She knew she must have looked strange—a thirteen-year old pale little princess spying on the dancers—and would really rather not draw any attention to herself.

From her new position, Wednesday could see Willow’s dreamy smile as she cluelessly followed the man through the dance. Though she tripped time after time, and quite obviously so, the young man just brought her back in, so she was almost leaning upon him, leading Willow towards himself to pull her into dance position and bring her back in step. Wednesday watched, wide-eyed, as Willow stumbled out of position, and the young man, holding her hand, gently pulled her in with a graceful sweep so he had scooped her slightly up by the small of her back, and then resumed the dance. Wednesday’s mouth almost dropped open right then and there.

Alright, so, maybe they weren’t the best dancers in the world, but Wednesday knew this tempo—a trois-temp waltz—and she was sure that Willow was capable of dancing to such a rhythm. Only Willow’s feet could move in precise moves. But right now, Willow’s feet were tripping over each other, stepping in and out of position…surely this wasn’t right. Willow didn’t stumble often. That paired with the dream-come-true look in her eyes…

“Oh, great scott!” Wednesday exclaimed under her breath. Willow! She was in love! She wasn’t even of age yet, and she was in love! That meant as soon as Willow had her coming-of, she wouldn’t have to deal with the agonizing choices and the threat that the government would choose for her; she could just pick him up and be done with it! \(>.<)/ (Yesssss!)

But what would happen in the family? Wednesday pictured them all, sitting quietly at the dinner table, eating fish soup, and Willow casually stating this fact. Father would be dismayed. Very dismayed indeed. Wednesday’s chest prickled with worry. If Willow was in lov—no, since Willow was in love, it would only be fair that she got the man she fancied. Wednesday peeked at the two of them again. He did seem like someone Willow would set her sights on. The green eyes, for one. And his hair, the indescribable color between copper and brown….mmmm, gorgeous. Sort of…cinnamony.

Oh, Wednesday, what are you thinking? Wednesday thought to herself, pinching her arm underneath her long gloves. Of course she herself had no interest in anyone yet, no love in her heart. Besides, no one wanted her. The man was for Willow, and for Willow only. She had him all to herself.

Wednesday watched carefully as they drew a little closer, and she slipped farther behind the bulk of

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the piano, not wanting to be noticed. The musician paid her no heed, except to flip a page of his song and crash on some eardrum-burst-worthy chords. Wednesday tried to filter it out so she could hear Willow and the young man talking. They were still a good length away, and their conversation was soft and breathless, so Wednesday had to strain to hear a few words. Against her better nature, she scooted forward again to hear better. Next to her, the pianist flipped another page, presumably for a new song. Sure enough, the musicians started up a new dance, with the violins exciting the crowd of dancers with their entrance of catchy glissandos.

“Oh, very good,” the man said softly as they smoothly flowed into the next song, spinning into a fast midair mazurka. Willow flashed a brilliant smile as he caught her in his arms and landed her, her slippers tapping on the polished floor. Ta-tap tap tap. They twirled quickly, movements exact. Willow was no longer faking mistakes. She had let her true dancing come over her. The two of them made great partners. They even looked about the same age. Wednesday wondered if the gentleman was also not of age, either. “You are an excellent dancer, my lady. Yet you were having trouble in the last quickstep. Are you feeling quite all right?” Still keeping his other arm in flawless dance position, he raised one hand and faintly brushed Willow’s forehead.

Willow blushed a bright red, and the gentleman flinched, perhaps thinking he had gone too far. But Willow just leaned in closer to him, still keeping in the steps of the song. “I’m fine, sir,” she said. “Ah, but you! You are the best dancer I have ever seen.” She shifted her hand so it was clasped more tightly around his.

The young man laughed. It was a nice laugh. Wednesday smiled, watching him. “Really, I haven’t done much dancing,” he said conspiratorially, as if divulging a personal secret. “I’m actually just a thread spinner. I suppose I get a little carried away with the string stretching sometimes.” He smiled wryly. Willow laughed in surprise.

“Well, I don’t have any secretive job,” she murmured as they spun again. “Just a princess. I must seem like an open book, right?”

“No offense, but, yes, you do.” He breathed out. “You’re well-known, you have to be an open book. It’s true for everything, Princess.”

“Willow,” Willow said. “My name. It’s Willow. Call me by that. I want to know you. Sir.” They were close to the wall, and Willow slowed to a stop, causing him to stop also. She looked up at him almost seductively and put her palms on his shoulders, looking straight into his eyes. “Sir…” she breathed. “Your name? I would very much like to know…”

“My lady?” The young man took a step back, back towards the dancers, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from Willow’s gaze.

“You know,” Willow said conversationally, “I’m not quite of age yet, but I will be soon, and I cannot resist…I must confess.” She rested her jaw on his collarbone and put her mouth up to his ear, whispering something.

He jerked back. “My lady! Princess…Willow…” He pulled away, detaching himself from Willow’s vicious embrace. “I—I really can’t…please…my…”

“Willow!” Willow almost snarled, drawing back. Her emerald-green eyes flashed. The young man looked staggered, yet transfixed. “It’s Willow! No ‘Princess’ or ‘milady’-ing. It’s just Willow!”

“W-Willow…” His gaze would have been incredulous if not for the mesmerized look in his eyes. Willow paused. “Better,” she said with a slight smirk, tossing her hair over one shoulder. She gave

him a knowing, sly look. “And sir, your name? I must address you by something other than ‘sir’.” She ran her fingers, as delicately as butterflies, up his neck so she was brushing his chin.

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The young man backed away, towards the dancers, breaking off. “No,” he said, the captivated look now eclipsed by anxiety. “Willow, lovely meeting you, but I have to—”

Willow snatched his sleeve. “Your name,” she demanded fiercely. Wednesday’s eyes widened more and more at the scene unfolding in front of her. No one else had noticed. The fast dance stole everyone else’s attention.

The young man stopped in his tracks, frozen by the ice in Willow’s voice. Willow slowly released his sleeve. “Please,” she murmured, looking ashamed. She looked down,

one hand wringing the end of her other glove. There was a slight silence. Then—

“Cassius,” he replied quickly, after a moment’s hesitation. “Cassius Wickerworth.” Then he was gone.

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Chapter TwoAs soon as the young gentleman had disappeared amid the swirl of dancers’ skirts and colorful

cravats, Wednesday dived out from behind the piano to crash into Willow, who stumbled back with a surprised yelp. Wednesday pinned her against the wall.

“Willow!” Wednesday shrilled. “What were you doing? Harassing that poor man? I saw you, I was here the whole time, don’t deny it! What were you doing?”

Willow folded her arms over her chest crossly, pushing Wednesday back. She didn’t seem at all surprised that Wednesday had been spying on her. “Doing what? I love him, Wednesday. Ever since last year! Cassius…he never noticed me…so I seized the chance to attract him! Oh, he’s so strong…and sweet…and ultimately dashing. I can’t help it, and I do hope that you’re not sorry, because I love him, and there’s nothing that you can do about it. Can’t you see, Wednesday? It’s true love! For me!”

“I do see,” Wednesday said, and she truly did. At least the dashing part. She felt the need to add in what mischief Willow was up to. “I see what you did. You call that attracting a man? You were on the brink of seducing him! A lady should never act that way, that’s what Father taught us. Be a proper lady, Willow.” Wednesday’s legs were trembling with the exertion of standing up to her sister, something she rarely did, but this case was far too extreme for her to stand idly by and ignore. “Be proper, and attract him with…you. He should love you because you’re you.” She grasped Willow wrist and started lightly pulling her over to a better, quieter area. Willow grudgingly went with her. Skirts of lace and silk brushed their arms as they walked. Wednesday stopped breathlessly by the refreshment table.

“Being a proper lady,” Willow began strongly as Wednesday tried to catch her breath, “Depends on how you see it. A lady in our country is supposed to be sweet, introverted, unable to do anything at all. I want to prove I am hard-core, strong, proud. If you simply do what Father taught us,” –and here she spat the word Father, “You won’t get honking nowhere!” She yanked her arm from Wednesday’s hand. “Let go of me, you could never understand. You’re just like a traditional lady. You follow orders. Like a servant. A princess should have free reign, do what she likes. That’s what I’m just doing.” She strode off, wispy trails of gold fluttering after. “Oh, and go and eat before you starve,” Willow called over her shoulder.

Surprised, Wednesday glanced down at the table, suddenly aware of the prickling pain in her stomach. She’d been too absorbed in the love scene to realize how hungry she was. She raised her head to call a thank-you to Willow, but she’d vanished.

“Thank you,” Wednesday breathed softly. She filled a plate with delicate pieces of salmon, puddings and rolls, slices of cucumber and pork

drenched in sauces. While she sat by and ate, the dances passed by. Waltzes, varsoviennes, schottisches, jigs, mazurkas, quadrilles. They all passed so quickly. She watched Winter dancing with gentleman after gentleman, presumably trying to find one that she fancied, but possible unable. In dancing, she gave gracious smiles and compliments, but every time she took a break, Wednesday saw an unhappy, almost puzzled expression on her face. She was clearly disappointed by the lack of love in the air.

Well, except for Willow, that is. Wednesday scowled, remembering Willow rubbing her cheek against Cassius like a cat. Not that she loved Cassius at all, Wednesday reminded herself. Sure, he was sweet, and definitely handsome, but she wouldn’t like him. Especially because of his name. She shivered at the name ‘Cassius’. Everyone knew the legend of the original Cassius, the greatest traitor of all time. Wednesday wasn’t sure what the real story was, but in ____________ , the legend said Cassius had been a Roman, who tried to overthrow the government. He won two triumphs and suffered losses, and in the end, he and a man named

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Brutus had killed Julius Caesar, and Cassius was beheaded by angry villagers, who wanted nothing more than to avenge Caesar’s death. Wednesday’s skin crawled. And Wickerworth. It reminded her of a spidery web of flaxen cords somehow, something that could entangle her and tie her up in knots. Her heart gave a twinge. Pity. He was such a nice gentleman, and very young, too, by the looks of it, almost Willow’s age—but, alas, he had an unfortunate name. Wednesday wondered what he had done to deserve that name. Certainly he couldn’t have done anything wrong! She could tell by the gentle, honey timbre of his voice. A sweet young man like him…ah… No, Wednesday told herself firmly. To distract herself from more thoughts of Cassius and his striking green eyes, his gorgeous hair, she picked up a cream bun and buried herself in the chocolatey flavor.

By the time the tower chimed ten, Wednesday was almost asleep in her seat. She had probably eaten enough food to feed Willow and Winter put together. Guests were starting to trickle away, ladies waving good-bye, men bowing and laughing jovially, thanking the king. He nodded solemnly in return, and quickly ushered them out. It was nearly eleven o’clock before every guest was practically shooed out by the king and the musicians stopped playing background music. Yet Wednesday noticed, through a sleepy haze, that they did not pack up their instruments, but instead began busily arranging for more music.

Winter fluttered over on her silky white dress, as if gliding on the breeze. “Having fun, Wednesday?” she asked with a long yawn. She grabbed a jelly roll from an embroidered porcelain plate next to her without even bothering to use a napkin and shoved half of it into her mouth, savoring the bite. “This is good. Who made it?” She popped the rest in.

“The cook,” Wednesday said sleepily as Willow joined them, her cheeks flushed pinkish. “Willow, why are you blushing so?” Winter asked, raising her eyebrow’s at the pleasant expression

on Willow’s face. “Mm, I am so tired. My slippers must be dying.” She collapsed in a chair next to Wednesday and nodded at Willow. “Well? Spill.”

“I met such a dashing young man today,” Willow told Winter cheerfully. Wednesday groaned to herself. She did not need a reminder of Cassius, with his sweet voice and fine looks.

“Did you?” said Winter, taking another roll and eating it. Wednesday hurriedly took one, worried that Winter might eat them all. Crumbs already flecked her lacy gloves.

“Well,” Willow said, beaming, “I think he likes me, too. And that’s good. If he fancies me…” She hugged herself, eyes closed in bliss, “As soon as I’m of age, I can go and marry him…”

“Oh, do stop,” Wednesday moaned, holding her head. Willow looked at her in mock surprise, eyebrows almost at her hairline. “Excuse me?” she said, hand at her collar. “Wednesday…are you…”

“No,” Wednesday said firmly. She stood and strode off. Willow stared after her, then quickly resumed conversation with Winter. Wednesday closed her eyes, slowing to a stop a good twenty yards away from her sisters.

Why was she so irritable whenever it came to talking about—or even thinking about, actually—Cassius? There wasn’t a single reason in the world why she should care about him. And yet she was so sensitive about Willow’s affection towards him. Wednesday clenched her hands in her skirts, feeling silk crumple into waves under her fingers.

“Wednesday?”Her eyes snapped open at the deep, strong voice, to see none other than Father standing in front of

her. He looked slightly weary, liked he always did, his crimson waistcoat spotless nonetheless. The cook, carrying yet another plate of food—even though the ball was over—and Wednesday’s brow creased yet again at this—waddled up behind the king, a tower of sandwiches rising over his head, and almost bumped into him. “So sorry,” the cook muttered, and bumbled off. Wednesday frowned after him, letting go of her

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skirts, the silk sliding fast out of her grip. “Why are the cooks still cooking and taking out food?” she asked Father, giving his somewhat

mussed auburn hair a quick brush over with her hand to make him more presentable. “Is the ball not over? And—” She stared at him accusingly. “Why did you urge the guests out? Isn’t that…” She didn’t like to and wasn’t accustomed to saying bad things about Father, but she couldn’t help it. My, she was feeling brave tonight. “Isn’t that...well, rude? They should be able to stay as long as they like, right?”

Father sighed. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. Wednesday grasped his arm and led him over to a chair, where he sank down gratefully. “You see, Wednesday,” he began, “I had to quickly get them out. Might have made them too ecstatic if they saw the thirteen legendary fae coming over.”

“The Thirteen Goddesses?” Wednesday gasped, her mouth agape. “They are coming? Are they even allowed to?”

Father shrugged. He picked up a salmon-and-cheese cracker from a platter and finished it in two bites, brushing the crumbs off of his suitcoat. “Lady Aurelia wrote me, telling me that the Shadow King told them that they should come to our ball. I arranged so they could come at midnight.” He glanced at the clock. “It is past eleven. We must hurry if we want to completely prepare for their appearance.”

Wednesday’s heart pulsed with a fluttery kind of anticipation. The Thirteen Goddesses! And for the Shadow King…

The Thirteen Goddesses were not actually goddesses. They were fairies, each gifted with the power to bestow a trait upon someone. If they appeared, usually at an important person’s birth, each ‘goddess’, starting with the first, Lady Aurelia, and ending with twelfth, Lady Larissa, the gifts were normally of beauty, kindness, integrity, knowledge, quick wit, and so on. The thirteenth fairy, however, was Lady Mirabel, and she usually came at a girl’s coming-of, and only a girl’s, and gave them the power of vanity. This was why, after a girl was of age, she would typically spend most of her time at a mirror, staring at herself and trying to become perfect. Everyone Wednesday knew agreed that a little bit of vanity was maybe needed—a little, to keep some awareness of appearance—but many did not think highly of Lady Mirabel. Of course, they didn’t voice it—who knew if she could be right around the corner—but Wednesday could always see it written on their faces. For the reason that Lady Mirabel always gave the power of vanity, she was also commonly known as the Goddess of Vanity.

The Thirteen Goddesses, however, never appeared together. Wednesday didn’t think that it had ever happened in history. Legend said that if the Thirteen Goddesses were together and united, they could change a person’s heart and soul. Wednesday wasn’t sure if that were true, but it sounded realistic enough, seeing how powerful the Goddesses were.

Once, Wednesday had read about them in a book, with pictures of each one. She had tried to memorize all their names, and the color of their dresses, and what power they commonly gave, but it was hard to remember. Now, though, she could keep them straight, thanks to the organized soul that had put the Goddesses in alphabetical order.

Lady Aurelia was the first and older-sister-type of the Goddesses—starting with the letter A. Next was Lady Bliss—B—then Lady Chalize, Lady Daelynn, Lady Esme, Lady Fylecia, Lady Gyelle, Lady Haleyana, Lady Isterielle, Lady Jewel, Lady Keilani, Lady Larissa, and Lady Mirabel. And not only were they in alphabetical order, but color-coordinated, too. Starting with white-dressed Lady Aurelia, to pink-dressed Lady Bliss, red Lady Chalize, and on and on past orange, yellow, light green, dark green, light blue, dark blue, indigo, violet, and brown, and, for Lady Mirabel, black.

Wednesday could still only just barely keep them apart in her mind. Sometimes she thought Lady

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Esme was the one wearing light green, or Lady Jewel wearing pink, but she had to remind herself that way. It wasn’t easy, Wednesday knew, but it sure made you sound smart if you had the Thirteen Goddesses in order, colors, names, and all.

But as powerful and unearthly as the Goddesses were, even they quailed to a higher power. The Shadow King. Wednesday didn’t know much about him. Tales of him were told in whispers, in hushed tones. No

one was sure who he was. Most people believed, and rightfully so, that he was the ruler of the Shadow Kingdom, a place of eternal nothingness and slumber, where ethereal beings like the Goddesses lived. But he never came out of the Shadow Kingdom to see anything. Nobody knew what he looked like. In the book Wednesday had read on the Goddesses, it had depicted him as a hideous old man with scabby grey spots and an oily, hairless scalp; colorless, deadened black eyes; an ugly, shriveled body. Wednesday thought the book a tad exaggerative, but she wasn’t one to judge. She had always pictured him as a quiet young man dressed in dark colors, with striking eyes and a smooth figure. The ultimate picture of mystery, covering a most mysterious man. He would be a person that Wednesday would like, and he would possibly like her. As a friend, of course, not as in… Wednesday cut herself off.

In Willow’s opinion—the three sisters had once exchanged thoughts on the Shadow King one late night when they were much younger and quite friendly to one another—in Willow’s opinion, he was a pale, pale gentleman covered in a long black cloak with a large hood, so you couldn’t see his face or his body. Winter had disagreed, saying he was most likely a fairly regular-looking fellow, just very dark and mysterious. Willow had been irritated with Winter’s opinion, and the two of them argued the whole night like a pair of savage wolves. Completely pointless.

At any rate, it was a blessing that the Goddesses were coming. “Will Lady Mirabel be coming, too?” Wednesday asked, dread seeping through her blood. “I do not believe so,” Father said crisply. “I did send her an invitation, but since today is nobody’s

coming-of, I doubt she will make an appearance. You should not dwell on these things. The Thirteen Goddesses and the Shadow King should be none of your concern.” He rose slowly from his chair and headed towards a servant, who was carrying an enormous basted chicken decorated with garnish on a silver aluminum plate, and directed him to put it on one of the tables. Wednesday watched them, not really focusing, but her mind instead ran to other things.

It was a good thing that Father had invited Lady Mirabel, of course. Being as vain and self-centered as the trait she gave, if Lady Mirabel was not invited to any event her sisters were, even if she hadn’t planned on going, she became irritated, cranky, and turned many townspeople into crows in her anger. Obviously, when she came to a coming-of, where neither her sisters nor she had been invited, she apparently chattered and bragged about being special for the rest of the day. But Father was right; Lady Mirabel probably wouldn’t show up.

Wednesday had seen Lady Mirabel. Once. At Winter’s coming-of. A beautiful young lady, dressed in black skirts so dark and deep they would’ve made an eclipse look grey, with tendrils of flowing rowan hair and a porcelain face. She had swept over to Winter and planted a kiss on her forehead, causing a glow to emanate from their point of contact for a second, and then she’d fluttered away. Quick as that. For the rest of the day Winter had sat in front of her mirror, brushing out her hair and looking at herself in the glass. She hadn’t even come down for supper. But during the time when Lady Mirabel had given her gift, she’d met eyes with Wednesday, and the expression on her face was almost…pitiful. Sympathetic. She’d stuck out her tongue slightly and shook her head. Wednesday had almost cried. It was a definite sign. Lady Mirabel didn’t

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think her worthy of being gifted with vanity. Of course, that wasn’t completely true, Wednesday thought stoically. She needed to stop wallowing

in self-pity and actually do something. She squared her shoulders. All right. She would help with the midnight festival setup.

Tables were set, draped in cloths—white, to honor Lady Aurelia, Wednesday assumed—and set with food. There was one huge, circular table in the center, flanked by smaller circular ones. Chairs were set out, tables adorned with candles, matching silver cutlery and satin napkins placed at every spot. Someone came through with a broom and mop and cleaned the floor until it shined. More food was brought out. The musicians finished tuning from their place on the ballroom stage and started up some soft background music. The lights were dimmed, making the flickering of the candles more obvious. Two servants brought in boxes of gifts to honor the Goddesses and piled them neatly in the corner, satin gleaming in the candlelight.

The tower had just declared midnight with loud peals, sending a slight tremble through the floor, when a servant outside called a loud greeting to the Goddesses. Father stepped into place to form a line. Winter, being the eldest, lined up next to him, then Willow, and, in a hurry, Wednesday. The servants also lined up for good measure.

The double doors of the ballroom opened. Wednesday could not suppress a gasp. She had never seen so many of the fairies together before. Lady Aurelia came in first, magnificent and dressed in her white, shining black curls trailing after. Her eyes met Wednesday’s, and the Goddess gave her a smile. Wednesday blushed, as she had when Cassius had spotted her, and ducked her head.

After Lady Aurelia came Lady Bliss. Lady Bliss was much like Willow in a variety of ways, the most being for her luscious, floaty silken dark hair. She was dressed in a blush pink dress, which complemented her hair fantastically.

Lady Chalize, dressed in striking scarlet, was one of Wednesday’s favorites—primarily because the Goddess had come to see her one year when she was sick. Chalize had given Wednesday special permission to omit the ‘Lady’ part of her name, and had said Wednesday could contact her if she was ever feeling unwell. Now, Chalize brushed aside her dark hair, peeking at Wednesday, and grinned.

Lady Daelynn, in orange froth, walked delicately, as if on butterflies. Wednesday had never seen her in person before, and she memorized every detail; waves of black hair, green eyes, a pointed chin.

Next was Lady Esme, in yellow. Wednesday noted her sunny smile and silky dark hair, so soft-looking that Wednesday wanted to reach out and stroke it. Trotting close behind Lady Esme was Lady Fylecia, in a close-trimmed light green gown that complemented her also black hair. Lady Gyelle followed, fingers brushing her darker green skirts. Her strangely unpinned hair cascaded to her waist.

Lady Haleyana, in sky blue, and Lady Isterielle, in a darker shade, reminded Wednesday of a pair of mirrors. Except for the dress colors, they were exactly alike—identical twins, down to the dark hair, fair skin, and tiny beauty mark on the left jaw.

Lady Jewel was a beauty like Wednesday had never seen—a fairy worthy of being called a goddess. Waves of layered, curling wisps of black hair trailed down from her pinned-up hair. Her soft, layered indigo skirts floated over one another, making Wednesday think of stormy sea waves. But when she looked Wednesday over, she gave a smile sweet as honey.

Lady Keilani, the most exotic and unique of the bunch, was dressed in vibrant shades of violet. Wednesday liked to think of her as the daring one. She had colored her dark hair with streaks of brown-red, caramel, and blonde, which looked quite beautiful, and her skirts faded from almost-white at the top to almost-black violet at the bottom.

The twelfth fairy was Lady Larissa. Known as a bit of a quiet homebody, she wore a plain,

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inconspicuous tawny-brown dress, in stark contrast to Lady Keilani’s vivid coloring. She had black hair, like all of her sisters, and unassuming facial features and bluish eyes. But underneath her neutral expression, Wednesday glimpsed excitement.

As Father had predicted, Lady Mirabel wasn’t here. Wednesday wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. Probably relieved. She bit her lip and stared as the Goddesses looked them over. Lady Aurelia, in front, was known for her orderly, motherly ways, and she graciously smiled. “Well?” she said. “Don’t just stand there, it’s lovely to see you all.” She swept over to the king, who stood ramrod straight and looked uncomfortable. “Sir George Concord Oliver! It has been quite a while since I last saw you. And don’t you call me ‘Lady’ Aurelia, I can’t stand the pressure of being so formal,” she added as Father opened his mouth.

“Well, Aurelia,” he said calmly, correcting himself, “I have never seen all of your sisters together in one place at the same time! Thank you for coming.”

Aurelia smiled, smoothing her pure-white skirts, which would have shamed Winter’s dress to tears. “Well, it’s absolutely corking to be here, I must say. We had to leave on short notice, though, and I’m sorry that you must have had to hurriedly prepare—I do know it’s a busy night, with the New Year’s festival and all, but...well…you know.”

Father looked a little confused. “Know what?” he asked conversationally. Aurelia shrugged. “All right.” The king exhaled. “I suppose I will have to go without knowing—”“Oh, but that’s not true!” Esme piped up from her spot in line. A young-looking girl from what

Wednesday could see, looking not even of age yet, but looks, especially with magical beings, could be deceiving. “It’s just that—that—well, the Shadow King…he…” She trailed off, lowering her eyes to the ground. All the other girls’ smiles dropped, and they looked downwards, too.

“Oh, Esme,” Aurelia admonished, tapping the girl’s toe with her slipper. “Sorry,” Esme muttered. She raised her head to look at Father. “We promised to not divulge any

information about the King…” Aurelia shook her head. “Esmeralda, please,” she said, addressing Esme by her full name. “Do stop

making a scene.” This was true. The musicians had ground to a stop, but, now that they realized they ought to start up again, they hurriedly whipped up a gorlitza.

There were not nearly enough gentlemen in the room to escort all the ladies, so, with Chalize’s pleading, some girls danced with gentlemen that night…and some girls danced with other girls.

Chalize grabbed Wednesday’s hand and led her onto the dance floor. “How have you been?” she whispered. Or so it seemed. Chalize’s voice was always softer than the

wind, and Wednesday barely caught the words over the sound of shoes tapping on the floor. “Oh, well, you know, sisters.” Wednesday let out a breath. She didn’t add in the part about Willow’s

unnatural scorn earlier that night. “How about you?”Chalize said something, but her voice was too soft. “Sorry?” Wednesday asked, stepping in time to the rhythm. “King” was all Chalize repeated. She didn’t say anything else after that.

Halfway through the next dance, where Wednesday was dancing with Keilani and they discussed unique qualities, like Keilani herself, they heard a voice singing loudly along with the music. Everyone turned to see Gyelle standing on the stage with the musicians, her glorious voice filling the room. Wednesday clung to the ringing, sugar timbre of her voice, though a little unsure of why Gyelle was suddenly warbling was though her

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life depended on it. Gyelle motioned for them to keep dancing, not breaking the tone of her crystalline, wordless song. Wednesday turned to Keilani. “Should I ask?”

Keilani shrugged. “Gyelle is notorious for singing. She sings everywhere. In the Shadow Kingdom. In the bathtub. In her sleep. It’s pretty—I mean, thank goodness she doesn’t sing out of tune—but it can still jolt you awake on a hazy, hot afternoon.” She sighed.

Wednesday laughed in surprise at Keilani’s funning. “Do you have afternoon in the Shadow Kingdom?” she asked curiously. “I thought it would just be all black.”

“Well, we don’t spend all of our time in the Shadow Kingdom, you know.” Keilani fingered her streaked hair. “The Shadow King would never have let me do this willingly. I found myself distinguishable only if I’m not in the Shadows. Everyone knows who I am now. They could never get me confused with Jewel or Haleyana. After all, do you see Jewel or Haleyana messing with their hair?”

“Well, it seems to me that Jewel’s been working with hair,” Wednesday commented, remembering the delicate silky layers of Jewel’s dark locks.

“True enough,” Keilani agreed, nodding. After the dance, Wednesday took a break, trying to memorize everything about the Goddesses, the

way she had years and years ago. So. At least she knew Aurelia as the older-sister type. Chalize was quiet, as Wednesday had known for some time now. Esme was young and childish, and Gyelle was a great but sometimes annoying singer. Of course, there were the twins, Isterielle and Haleyana, and then there was Jewel the beauty. Keilani—well, no trouble there.

As the hours passed and Wednesday found herself not dancing, but just conversing with the Goddesses, she came to realize that they weren’t all high and mighty and prim. A very casual group, minus Mirabel, who was missing out on all the fun. After all, Keilani was definitely not very formal. And Esme, who chattered nonstop with Wednesday, could not seem to fit the picture of a strictly in-line Goddess.

As for some of the others, like Bliss or Fylecia, or even the twins, she couldn’t be quite sure. But they were cool and polite, and, well, Fylecia even referred to someone as a ‘rotten nuffermonk’, something Wednesday would never do. She supposed Fylecia and the twins could be classified as casual. Bliss, on the other hand, was very, very formal. The only real lady in the group. Wednesday sighed softly.

The ballroom suddenly seemed too stuffy, with all the dancers and gentlemen and the musicians and even Gyelle singing onstage in her crystalline voice. It was too much. Wednesday stood up and weaved her way around dancers, heading for the doors. She pushed them open with difficulty—they were heavy—and ran down the hall, her bloodstream pounding along with the music still hearable from behind the big ballroom doors, her slipper-clad feet still stepping in time to the rhythm on the hallway’s flooring.

She took a right turn, skipped the next, then took another right, a left, and went straight. At the end of the corridor lined with doors that led to who-knows-where—and Wednesday didn’t really want to find out—was a glass door, the panes letting in the moonlight from outside. Gratefully, she pushed it open and ran out into the gardens, the fresh air filling her lungs, so clean it stung her throat, much preferable to the suffocating perfumed smell of the indoor ballroom. Her breath made small white clouds in the still-hiemal air. She took a quick turn through the rosebush hedges and past a gurgling fountain, breathing in and out, inhale…exhale…

The gardens looked so different at night. The night sky was brilliant, a night dark blue dotted with trillions of tiny bulbs of light. It must have been a harvest moon, because it hung a fiery orange bulb in the air, spotted with greyish craters and mountains…and men…and cheese…and whatever whatnots lived up there. Wednesday laughed to herself under her breath. Nothing lived on the moon as far as she knew, but

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with magic in the air, you could never tell. She wandered about, staring skywards for a few minutes, then sometimes stopping to stroke an iris

or a lily on the surface of a pool. Cheerfully enjoying herself, she plucked a rose from an arbor, pricking herself yet again, and fixed it next to the other one in her hair. A bubble of blood squeezed out from the puncture the rose thorn had made in her finger, and she absently pulled out her handkerchief and pressed it against the cut. She gazed around.

The gardens were organized in an orderly way. An ingenious way, but orderly nonetheless. There was a circular flower maze in the center, which Wednesday always took great care to avoid, and the rest of the gardens were split into four quarter sections around it. Each section had its own special flowers. A row of fruit trees, which Wednesday and her sisters picked from every spring, lined each quarter. Each quarter also had a pyramid-like landing structure at the corner, from which a rope bridge stretched to the center, meeting in the middle. The bridge had been Willow’s idea. Wednesday had never dared to go on that flimsy bridge. It was up high, taller than the mature fruit trees, and didn’t look like it would support anyone’s weight. But Willow tromped around on it all the time, so maybe it was okay. Wednesday wasn’t sure.

The edge of one branch of the rope bridge stretched like a canopy above her, and the temple-like landing was only a few twenty yards away. Rosebushes curved here and there, and, just barely visible on the far side, were rows of leaf-sprouting trees, the trunks small brown blebs silhouetted against the midnight sky. A hedge of lone daffodils ringed her area. So she must be in the northwest section, near the end of the garden property. So that meant if she wanted to get to the exit, she had to travel east, turn north where the northwest and northeast gardens met, follow the circumference of the hedged circular maze, and she would exit the gardens and reenter the palace through the southeast wing.

Wednesday smiled. She might not be physically able, but she made up for that by being smart. IF Willow came here at night she would probably get lost. Or, Wednesday realized, her smile fading, Willow would probably bravely scale the rope bridge and scout her position.

Whatever. As long as she herself could get out. Past the daffodils, past the landing, following the course of the rope bridge swooping above her,

Wednesday hurried back. The moon was creeping towards the horizon. It was almost dawn, perhaps four in the morning. She’d spent a good deal of time in the garden, and Wednesday felt a little guilty about not staying with the special guests. After all, she probably would never be with them so intimately again. But she pushed the thought back. She did have Chalize.

Wednesday had just starting walking alongside the tall maze hedges when she heard voices. “…not going to be happy, sir.” The voice was Aurelia’s. “May I ask why you took it out from her

without her knowing? She will think she was not asked to come.” “My point exactly,” said another voice. It was smooth, soft, sweet, a gentleman’s tone. Everything

about his voice was slightly mysterious. Wednesday dared to draw closer, trying to find where the couple was talking. Was Aurelia secretly being courted? If that were true…such things as forbidden love were not to be taken lightly. After all, Wednesday thought to herself, the Goddesses had to be virgin, right? “I hope that she will just take her wrath upon the right person, seeing as I will be there. That lady is undoubtedly lovely.”

“You saw her today?” Aurelia exclaimed, plainly astonished. “Sir, you know the oath is not something to be taken lightly—”

“Silence, Lady Aurelia, I won’t have you blathering about this to any of your sisters, you do know that, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Aurelia murmured. Wednesday had pinpointed their location and was sneaking towards the right or her hands and knees, staying under the cover of flower arbors and bushes. She stopped as the

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voices started up again, bits of color visible through the tightly woven flower branches, moving slightly. She spotted the gleaming white silk of Aurelia’s dress, but nothing else. Was Aurelia conversing with a spirit?

“I do hope Mirabel will not be too disgruntled when I reveal this to her,” the gentleman said, laughing a little. Wednesday’s eyes widened. Mirabel? “She will like the idea of banishing the lady to the Shadow Kingdom, will she not? It would be most unfortunate if she ended up somewhere I could not reach her. Like Brazil.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Aurelia said dryly. Skirts rustled as she shifted from foot to foot. “So you actually want to possibly harm this woman just so she can be with you? That is not right. If you keep her in the Shadow Kingdom with you, you might as well imprison her.”

“I believe she will understand,” the man said solemnly. “She is known for her bravery, no? If she becomes too wilted in the Shadow Kingdom, I can release her.”

“You said ‘release’,” Aurelia noted. “Not ‘return to the human world.’” The man laughed. “My, Aurelia, you wouldn’t actually think I would let her go like that, would you?

She is mortal, and therefore not bound to the oath of secrets.” “You could make her swear,” Aurelia protested, sounding agitated. “You know very well that no mortal can meet the covenants of the oath of secrets.” “Very well.” Aurelia sounded weary, like she’d given up. “Well? If you won’t keep her, and if you

won’t take her back to the human world, how else can you release her?” “Simple enough of an answer,” the gentleman said. “There is only one option left to choose from.

Not very difficult, and she’ll find it painless.” “And?” Lady Aurelia pressed. There was a smile in his voice as the gentleman replied. “I’ll kill her.”

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Chapter ThreeWednesday almost fainted right then and there. This man, whoever he was, knew about the Shadow

Kingdom, could trap people there, and wanted to kill someone, somehow, by using Mirabel. Wednesday’s head spun. It was so much to clear…

She rested her forehead on the garden pine-needled floor, her heart pulsing. From her new spot, she could see Aurelia from between the branches, talking to seemingly nothing, again. It occurred to Wednesday that he could be a spirit from the Shadow Kingdom. That would explain a lot of things.

Suddenly she realized it. Aurelia wasn’t talking to nothing. Blending in almost perfectly with the darkness around them, like a shadow itself, was a figure

wearing a flowing black cloak that swept the floor and a long, thin hood that obscured his face. This mysterious man…with a black cape and hood…talking to Aurelia as if she were a mere child…

Could it be the Shadow King?Wednesday’s breath caught in her throat. It must be. Who else would have such a captivating, sweet

tone, mysterious and dressed in all black, conversing with Aurelia—the Lady Aurelia—so freely? Wednesday was sure that if anyone else had acted so disrespectfully toward her like this, Aurelia would have turned them into an earthworm or something.

No, this had to be the King.Wednesday squinted. She couldn’t see him all that well. She was horrified by the fact that he was

amused at the thought of killing some poor lady, especially someone he had just met today. In fact, what was the Shadow King doing here? He had no business in the human world. If this truly was him—and Wednesday was fairly sure of this—he shouldn’t be leaving his Kingdom. He shouldn’t even be able to leave.

“Oh.” Aurelia’s voice came out strangled. She cleared her throat, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Well then. That was not the method I would have used, but if that’s what you prefer, sir, then no objection shall cross my lips.”

The Shadow King sighed. “You did see Mirabel today, didn’t you?” Aurelia was silent for a moment. Wednesday strained to hear what was going on. Finally Aurelia

slowly said, “I did not.” “You did know that she was here tonight?” “No, sir, I did not.” “And you did know that Mirabel is going to be very, very cross when she notices this?” “No, sir.” “At least she was here tonight. That will surely help contain her tirade to a minimum. Yet, if she is

too overwhelmed, you do know I am counting on you to guide her in the right direction, Aurelia, yes?” “Yes, sir.” Aurelia sounded relieved to be able to say yes to one of the Shadow King’s questions. “I

understand sir, and if Mirabel does seem too ornery, I will inform you at once.” “Excellent.” The Shadow King laughed again, and it was so sweet and gentle that Wednesday smiled.

“Okay, then, I must get going. After all, I have…business…to conduct with the Sunlight Queen.” Was it Wednesday’s imagination, or did his voice sound wearier than it had just before? “Interesting moon, if I do say so myself…anyhow. Tell your sisters that I said hello, alright?”

“Yes.” Aurelia’s skirts twisted as she curtsied. “Oh, and Gyelle wanted to tell you she sang today. Apparently she has become quite the opera singer. And Fylecia says she called someone a rotten nuffermonk for the first time today. I am blushing to shame.”

“Don’t worry about it. Your sisters are your sisters, and they’re a very fine group, if I do say so

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myself.” The King’s cloak whispered over the air as he turned. “I bid you a pleasant night, Aurelia.” Then he picked up the corner of his cloak—Wednesday caught a glimpse of a glinting silver pocket watch—brought it around him, and vanished. Wednesday could just barely tell in the darkness.

Aurelia didn’t move for a moment. Finally, she let out a soft sigh and raised her head up at the harvest moon. “He has to be careful,” she said to herself, voice barely intelligible. “If the curse comes into effect…” Trailing off, she picked up her skirts and daintily started to pick her way through the gardens back to the castle.

Once Aurelia was out of eyeshot, Wednesday dared to peek up over the rose arbor, carefully pushing thorny branches out of her view. Aurelia was a faint white speck bobbing up the steps to the castle by the southeast entrance. She wasn’t looking around, so Wednesday decided it was safe to stand. Her mind was cloudy and her legs were wobbly. Without thinking, she braced her arm on the rosebushes to support her, then jumped out of her skin when it jabbed her entire hand with spiky needles. The sharp yelp that escaped her she quickly cut off.

At least she was awake now. Aurelia hadn’t turned around. She was probably too far off, and presently Wednesday cautiously

watched as she opened the large gilded doors and slipped inside. “Great waistcoats,” Wednesday whispered to herself, trying to process all the things she’d witnessed

in the past few minutes. The Shadow King was here, and he could come out. And he had a wicked plan that involved a mortal lady who couldn’t swear an oath, Mirabel, and possible death, just so he could get what he wanted. Not even; what he might have wanted.

No, Wednesday concluded, she did not like the Shadow King. And not only that, but as Aurelia had said just now…the King had to be careful because there was a

curse of some sort. All that lead to…what? Everything was too secretive. And obviously, Aurelia was not being secretly courted. No; this was something more important, something more personal. Since the Shadow King was possibly in love with this unnamed lady, things could get complicated. Judging from the conversation, Wednesday guessed that the King couldn’t bring the lady he liked into his kingdom because she couldn’t swear the oath of something. And if the Shadow King did try, which he very might well do, at the very least people would notice the lady had gone missing. ___________ was a fairly small city; and in this area of the city, most people knew each other. Surely someone would report that she had disappeared. And if it was more complicated than that, and the lady ended up not liking him, and him her, he would kill her. News of something as serious as that—an innocent civilian being murdered—would definitely spark anger within the city. That anger could easily evolve into full-fledged warfare, based on the major skirmishes popping up every which way in the country.

Oh, yes, the war. It wasn’t technically a war; in fact, it was about as dangerous as a snowball fight at this point. Still,

Wednesday and her family were worried. For some reason, citizens were angry at the government, and being a king, Father wished to do something about it. Unfortunately, since he was just a minor king of the many other minor kings in __________, there was nothing they could do to control it. Father did his best, though, and so did Mother—attending campaigns, workdays, events, and such other things where government official tended to be. Not that they made much difference, Wednesday though grimly.

At any rate, people weren’t happy with the constitutional monarchy their country had. Fights, violent protests, and other illegal things were becoming more and more popular, especially in urban areas where there were others to join ranks with. Wednesday wasn’t sure what the Monarch was doing—and hopefully that he or she could actually do something about it. Since the monarch had been quiet lately, she

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supposed, people were getting braver and braver to stand up against it. Deep within her, she wondered if the high ruler was even paying attention to this. Wednesday imagined a fat old man soaking luxuriously in a bathtub with rose petals, and grimaced.

At least the war hadn’t evolved into a real war yet. However, if the Shadow King killed the young lady, certainly it would wreak havoc. In a world where

the men owned their wives, it did not seem that such a thing would cause much harm, but it was unbelievable how much men paid attention to their women. The killing of a fair maiden would be an enormous deal, especially if the Shadow King decided to disappear into thin air and not claim any responsibility, leaving the population to wonder who the murderer was. No, they couldn’t have that.

With a start, Wednesday jolted back from the rosebush as a bird shrieked, bringing her back to reality. It was high time she went to the castle. She hiked up her skirts over her ankles—no one was here to see her anyway—and made a shortcut, stepping over a low row of winding flowers. The leaves caught the wispy ribbons of her dress and tore them from the edge of her corset with the sound of ripping satin, but Wednesday just picked her way to the next hedge. The green silk of her dress wouldn’t be noticed by anyone in the tangle of plants.

As she was making her way along the maze wall, Wednesday couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. The feeling only increased as she reached the palace doors, and she turned back to hesitantly scan the garden to see if anyone was there—ludicrous, of course. Just as she decided no one was there and slipped into the palace, she thought she saw a faint figure dressed in golden-white running along the rope bridge.

The ballroom was easy to locate. Follow the sounds of violins, crashing piano chords, honking trumpets. Obviously there was some lively dance going on. Wednesday absently passed the ballroom doors, then backtracked and entered. Sure enough, the dancers were engaged in a dynamic polka. She watched as Fylecia and Gyelle practically flew by, their silky slippers tripping across the floor, Gyelle’s unpinned hair a vortex of black as they spun, Fyelica’s tightly bunched curls bouncing this way and that. The other Goddesses were having fun with this, apparently, from the breathless laughs and exclamations. Winter was standing deep in thought by the wall, but Willow was nowhere to be seen. That was fairly normal, though; Willow was always somewhere else. When Winter caught sight of Wednesday, though, she weaved her way over, through the dancers, and halted in front of her.

“Wednesday, where have you been?” she said with a cool laugh, tweezing a pine needle out of Wednesday’s hair. Mortified, Wednesday realized it had probably been from when she had been spying on Aurelia and the Shadow king, and she hadn’t thought to brush up a bit before coming back.

“Sorry.” Wednesday waved her hand dismissively. “If you must know, I was out in the gardens. Got a little stuffy in here for a moment.”

“At the New Year’s Festival? Past midnight?” Winter grasped Wednesday’s arm and pressed it to her lips. “Raspberries, Wednesday, don’t you know better than to go out without a cloak in wintertime? You’re cold as ice.”

Wednesday blushed. “I know, I’m senseless, aren’t I? Really, Winter, you needn’t worry, I’ll be fine, I promise. Just need—ah—some, you know, warmth to bring the color back into my cheeks.”

Laughing, Winter spun her in a dizzy whirl and brought her into dance position on the floor. “Well, then what you need is to dance away! Nothing like a polka to get your spirits up!” She twirled Wednesday around again, not paying any heed to the gentleman’s actual part, and created some sort of midair plié, ending with a graceful spin. Following the ebb and flow of the movement, Wednesday stepped sideways, twisted in an improvised turnover curtsy, and overbalanced and fell in a tumble of skirts. Winter brought her

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up and twirled her again, but Wednesday stumbled as her ankle gave way. Winter caught her again and brought her back into the movement, another turn, another spin, another graceful, fast gyrate. Dizzy and giddy, Wednesday danced alongside her sister, colors spiraling brightly in her vision.

It was very bright. All the sounds of the orchestra were sounding strangely muffled and distant, and Wednesday was vaguely aware that her head throbbed. She misstepped again, and this time collapsed on top of Winter, the silks of her sister’s ballgown sleek against her cheek.

“Wednesday, are you okay?” Winter’s face was oddly blurry and her voice faint. “Wednesday? Wednesday?”

“Urrrrrrrrgh.” Wednesday tried to stand. Strands of Winter’s pale blonde hair were in her face. “I’m fine, I think, but…ahhh.”

Winter straightened her and started to guide her towards the ballroom stairs. “I think you’d better take some medicine. The spinning must’ve gotten to you. You know the shortcut, right? Up the stairs, through the servant’s staircase, and take a right for our room. Do you think you can go by yourself?”

“Yes.” They were at the stairs. Wednesday set her shoulder back and took a deep breath. Her head was still in the polka, spinning round and round, and a horrible sick sensation was pervading her throat. “I’ll…I’ll manage. You keep dancing.” She tried to smile and unsteadily grasped the banister’s carved railing for support, then planted her foot on the first stair and commanded herself to move.

“Well…alright.” Winter didn’t look entirely convinced, but Wednesday knew her well enough to know she’d rather dance than pull her sister up the stairs and feed her medicine. “If you see Willow you can ask her to help you.”

Not that Willow would ever help her for anything, Wednesday thought to herself. She just nodded, though, and, using the ornate espaliered rail, started to pull herself up the stairs. The exertion was getting to her weak body, she knew, and halfway up, she was gasping for breaths as black spots danced in her vision. In her woozy mind she somehow remembered that the bottle of medicine had been missing earlier, and this only added to her wobbliness. She had just leaned precariously far over the banister to call it out to Winter when the black splotches in her vision burst, and everything went dark.

Wednesday suddenly awoke with a thunderbolt of pain, electrifying her and frying her to her fingertips. The floor was hard and wooden under her head, not the comforting fluffiness of pillows. Her reddish hair had come unpinned and tendriled over shards of porcelain and glass on the ground. The ceiling swooped above her, and in the upward corner of her vision was a stairway railing with latticed swirls—

She had fallen off the stair banister— Winter was at her side, she dimly realized, her sister brushing sharp porcelain pieces away from her,

clearing the mess. “Wednesday. Wednesday. Come on, you’re fine, you need to…” “Allow me,” said Father’s voice. His face appeared in her vision. “Goodness, Wednesday, you need

to get to bed.” I fainted, Wednesday thought, blinking as rainbow speckles sprung around in front of her eyes. But…

only for a few moments? Father’s steady arm supported her, and very slowly, raised her into a sitting position. Wednesday’s

breath was coming in short pants. She was hyperventilating from the effort. The rainbow speckles blotched in blurry paint marks. Her mind couldn’t concentrate on Father’s face; instead, figures in the background came into sharp focus. Aurelia, Bliss, and all the other Goddesses were crowded among themselves at the ballroom’s edge, Haleyana and Isterielle clasping each other’s hands as though their lives depended on it. Esme was clutching at her skirts. Chalize’s eyes were wide with shock. The few gentlemen invited were

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staring. And there was something else. By Keilani stood Larissa, stabilizing the limp form of a gentleman

against the wall. Wednesday let out a choked cry. “Oh, no,” she said, wanting to curl up and die. “Just like…last year…I fell over the banister and on top of…”

Cassius. But this year it wasn’t Cassius, it was someone she didn’t know. The young gentleman had dark hair, as smooth as Cassius’s was mussed, and his stature was somewhat finer, and more delicate somehow, yet pronounced and strong at the same time.

“And I suppose he…” Wednesday couldn’t help being drawn to the blood streak on the gentleman’s cheekbone. He must’ve gotten it when she fell on top of him, presumably crashing into a breakable object. That accounted for the pieces of porcelain and glass. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Again.

“Don’t you worry, he’ll be fine,” Father reassured her, scooping her up as though she weighed nothing more than paper. Wednesday let her eyes close. “Let’s get you to bed. The doctor will see you shortly, but I think you need some rest first.” He stepped over the shards, carried her up the stairs, took the shortcut through the servant’s staircase, and deposited her in her bed. Wednesday let him tuck the sheets in over her and arrange the pillow behind her head, not minding that she was still in her dress. Rolling over, sending sharp stabs of pain up her chest, she reached blindly for the nonexistent medicine bottle—

—And found it. Shocked, Wednesday’s eyes flew open. Her fingers had indeed closed over the cylindrical medicine

bottle, the smooth coolness of smoothed glass under her hands. She almost gasped, but instead let out a hacking cough that had Father swiftly warming up a mug of water and handing it to her.

“Sit up to drink, but go to sleep,” he ordered. “You need rest. What were you thinking, dancing the polka? Do you not know your own body?”

Wednesday took a sip of the scalding water and nearly spit it back up. As it was, she choked it down and laid her head back. “I’m sorry, Father. Who was that poor gentleman? I’ll need to say sorry to him…” She rested the mug on her lap, weary.

“Say sorry?” Father exclaimed, almost violently. He righted himself and exhaled slowly, looking like it was all he could do not to scold her. “You must do so much more than apologize. Do you realize the extent of this damage, what happens when such a thing occurs? Last year was a fantastic example; we were very lucky indeed that the young gentleman didn’t ask for solatium. If our gentleman this year is not as forgiving, we may need to prorogue the renovation of the palace…”

“We’re renovating?” Wednesday asked in surprise. “Is there something wrong with the building foundation?”

Father waved his hand. “You needn’t worry, Wednesday. It’s a simple thing with the roof shaft in the west wing. Where the bell tower is.”

“Hm.” Wednesday couldn’t recall the bell tower. She hardly ventured beyond the first few floors; she was scared of heights. Willow relentlessly teased her and tried to persuade her to come up, but Wednesday wouldn’t budge. For once. “Well, I’m terribly, terribly sorry, Father.” She avoided his eyes under the pretense of sipping more water, burning herself in the process. Father took the mug from her and blew vehemently on it, as if he were taking out his anger on the water. In a moment it had cooled to a drinkable temperature. Father set the mug down on Wednesday’s bedside table with a thunk.

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed, Wednesday,” he began, pulling a fat green armchair over and awkwardly reclining. “But I’m not angry with you. I know you’re…limited.”

Wednesday’s cheeks were burning even more with humiliation. “And just know that I love you, all right?” he said, clearing his throat. Wednesday stared at him.

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Father had never said that to her before. She’d always assumed a mutual connection, but this was the first time…After all, Father never paid much attention to her—or anyone, for that matter.

“T-thank you,” was all she could manage, and gulped down a considerable amount of water. Father wrung his hands lamely for a moment in silence, then rose from the chair with the sound of

creaking wood. He frowned. “Perhaps the palace is in of more renovation than I think,” he said, and headed for the door. In his typical Father way, he didn’t look back as he eased out and closed the door quietly behind him.

Wednesday drained the mug, just methodically taking sips of the water. Father had been paying more attention than she’d thought. She recalled that morning, when Winter had said something…you know what Father said about being fair…

And Willow hadn’t been happy, naturally. But still…Thoughtfully, Wednesday put the empty mug on her bedside table and removed the medicine,

taking a few mouthfuls. It tasted more bitter than usual, but she hardly noticed because her head was still throbbing. Come to think of it, who had taken the medicine? And where was Willow, anyway? It was like her to be gone, but definitely not if people as important as the Goddesses were around. Willow loved celebrities.

After a few minutes of uselessly pondering this, Wednesday slipped out from under the covers and placed her feet unsteadily on the floor. Her head was still dizzy and her stomach still unsettled, but she was determined to apologize to the young gentleman she’d fallen on this year.

Such things were becoming a tradition, she reflected guiltily. Using the walls as a counterbalance, Wednesday made her way across the room, skirts swishing the

floor. The banister proved a valuable guide as she staggered down the steps. It was like an ectype of last year. Halfway down the servants’ staircase, still hidden by the wall shadows, Wednesday paused as she listened to the quiet converse of people going on in the ballroom hardly five feet from her.

“…Hopefully, Lord Seigfried.” That was…Wednesday cocked her head. Bliss’s voice? Calm and cool, it must have been. For a moment, Wednesday wondered if Bliss was talking with the Shadow King, but that didn’t make any sense. Lord Seigfried? Sounded out of state.

“Well, all right, then.” The young gentleman’s voice was polite and soft. “Thank you, Lady Bliss. And you, Lady Chalize.”

“Just Chalize is fine,” Chalize said. “I’m sorry about your arm, Lord Seigfried.” “No, it is quite all right. I’m afraid that I’ve caused you some trouble.” “Not at all. I am the Goddess of healing, after all,” Chalize said with a laugh. “Well, thank you again.” “You’re welcome.” There was the pacing of feet, possibly Bliss’s, from the sound of light footsteps. Or perhaps Daelynn.

Wednesday inched downward a little farther, and caught glimpses of pink and red and a bit of orange. Maybe Daelynn was in the vicinity after all.

“Where is the young lady?” the gentleman’s voice asked. Nothing about his tone seemed to have malicious intent, but still Wednesday stiffened.

“Upstairs, I believe.” That was Aurelia’s voice. “Ah. I shan’t disturb her, then.” There was quiet for a considerable amount of time. Wednesday considered going down but felt too

self-conscious. She was sure that this Lord Seigfried was the gentleman she fell on. Two nobles in two years! That had to be some kind of record.

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Still, she had to apologize anyway. Might as well get it over with. Mustering her courage, Wednesday gripped the banister for support and deliberately stepped down.

The ballroom was nearly empty. It looked like most of the guests had left, including the musicians. Wednesday wished there was some background music to cancel out the awkward silence sure to happen soon.

The Goddesses were sparsely separated around the room, some looking bored, others worried. Gyelle was holding Jewel’s hand so tightly it was turning white. The twins, Haleyana and Isterielle, were whispering to one another. Esme had puddled on the floor, buttery yellow skirts spread out in a blossom, and was picking at the hem of her dress, evidently bored. Larissa stood quietly off to one side, observing the center of the room, where a few chairs had been set out. Most of the Goddesses had serried around here. In one chair sat Aurelia, the next Bliss, and then Chalize. In the chair next to Chalize the young gentleman sat. If anything, with his almost-androgynous stature and smooth, dark hair, he looked even sweeter than Cassius.

“Oh, my dear Lord,” he said as Wednesday approached. Quickly, he stood, and hurried over. “My lady, you shouldn’t be up. You’re hurt.”

I’m hurt? Wednesday thought, looking at him. The blood streak was still there. One arm he had wrapped a wide strip of cloth on and over his shoulder, creating a sling. She cringed. “No, sir, sit, please,” she whispered, fire burning on her face.

Lord Seigfried stared at her for a moment, then slowly backed off. But he took her arm with his non-injured one, and led her to an empty chair. Chalize, Bliss, and Aurelia had surveyed this unfolding of events with little comment. Chalize blinked at Wednesday, unsure.

“I am…terribly sorry for all this…inconvenience.” To Wednesday’s shock, Lord Seigfried started first. And with such a deep apology, too, especially since Wednesday had been the one to cause all the trouble. Lord Seigfried leaned back in his chair, but tensely, as though sensing Wednesday’s imperceptible hesitation. Wednesday got the feeling that Lord Seigfried was quite perspicacious, and she blushed again. Determined to set things right, she sat up and faced him, looking into his eyes. They were a light, crystalline blue, but dark near his eyelids so they looked purple.

“Um…so…” Now that Wednesday had his attention, she didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, the clock tower chimed six in the morning, and the resulting tintinnabulation gave her a moment to think.

“So,” Lord Seigfried prompted, after the resonating had dissipated. “Ah, yes.” Wednesday smoothed her skirts in her lap, not wanting to look into those attractive,

openly clear eyes. “Um…I really should be the one apologizing. It’s my fault. I’m sorry, I should’ve known my limit, because I was dancing the polka and started to hyperventilate.” Catching his confused look, he quickly added, “I have medical difficulties. With my health and respiration and circulation and all that. I’m really sorry for that. If you need compensation, we can make it up for you. Just please, do forgive me.” She dipped her head, which made her dizzy all over again. “Lord Seigfried.”

Lord Seigfried considered her for a moment. He tipped his head to one side as though seeing her clearly for the first time. “You…have the Shadow’s…” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry, I mean, it’s quite all right. There’s nothing wrong with this.” He smiled, and something about his smile made the room’s presence lighten. It made Wednesday feel…appreciated. Preposterous, of course, seeing how she had hurt him.

“May I have the pleasure of inviting you to stay in the palace for a bit?” Father’s voice sounded from the ballroom door. Wednesday quickly glanced up. Father, looking somewhat bemused and decidedly worried, was standing in the doorway. He held a large book with papers under his arm, clenched very tightly as though nervous. Wednesday glanced at his hands, which were white. Even so, his voice was even and

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smooth. He was good with words. No wonder he was a minority king. “After all, it is only appropriate that we repay you in some way after all this…trouble.”

“No, it is no trouble.” Lord Seigfried looked almost shy. With his almost-delicate physique and soft-looking dark hair, he seemed like a kitten. Wednesday just wanted to use him as a teddy bear, so she could squeeze him all she wanted.

“Well, at least stay for the morning while you heal,” Father urged. “Anyhow, it is a storm out, and you have no horse.”

“True enough,” Lord Seigfried said, “But I would hate to trouble you.” “Surely you would not be troubling us in any way,” Father pressed. “I say, it is storming out, and you

have no reason to soak in a rainstorm after you have been injured, and you have no means of transport besides foot. Anyhow, we all could use a bath, and you are part. At least stay until you have freshened up. And I do insist.”

Lord Seigfried out his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “Well, I suppose,” he said, relenting. “Only because I wish to not experience your speech.”

“Lovely,” Father said courteously, though the corner of his mouth twitched. He left. Wednesday rose, gesturing for Lord Seigfried to follow her. She was still a little nauseous. “Here, I’ll

draw the bath for you.” He protested, until Wednesday finally marched off without him, and he trailed after her.

The storm kept going. Willow huddled under the shelter of a thick, thorny bush by the omphalos of the gardens. She knew

in the spring it would sprout in golden flowers, as it did every year, but for now it was deadened and gnarled. However, it did provide a safe cover from the unrelenting rain pouring down from the sky. A drop of water landed on her nose. Well, almost a safe cover.

The storm had started twenty minutes ago, and Cassius still wasn’t here. Willow didn’t know if he’d even accepted her offer or not. She dearly wished that he would. After all, he was hers. Willow scowled as she thought of Wednesday’s reaction to her telling Winter about Cassius. Wednesday didn’t deserve Cassius. He was too good and noble and…Willow struggled to think of a word. Though solemn on the surface, Willow knew very well that he was feisty. The conspiratorial wink he’d given her. The way he danced. It all seemed perfect for her— Cassius and her, together. She smiled dreamily. If only.

“Willow.” Willow jumped as Cassius materialized from practically nowhere. He had no umbrella, yet he wasn’t

wet at all. Willow’s heart sang with happiness at seeing him smile at her. “Willow, aren’t you cold?” he asked, gesturing at her sleeveless ballgown. “The rain must’ve gotten

to you. You have to be careful.” He unbuttoned his suitcoat and slipped it over her shoulders. “I have to be careful? What about you?” Willow said, though she accepted his coat. It was nice and

soft, and she wrapped it around herself more tightly. “How come you’re not wet?” Cassius seemed to realize this the same time she said it. “Oh—uh, it’s a magic of sorts,” he said,

sounding hurried. “Anyhow. Why did you call me here?” “Well…” Willow twirled a finger idly in her long, wavy hair. “I mean, Father would never like me to

be with you—he’d probably prefer me with a prince or something—but, I meant, I don’t mind, I’d love to be with you.” Her words blustered with nervousness, and blush heated her face. “I mean, I love you.”

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Cassius just stood there, still in the rain. Willow scooted over under the bush to make room for him, but he didn’t move, the rain splashing off his head in drops.

“Well?” she asked hopefully. “I…don’t know,” he said slowly. “I mean, I like you too, Willow. However…it would be…difficult…to

live together. My household has slight issues. Well, serious issues, if you would have it. But…” He hesitated. “I—I mean, I’m not so sure right now, it’s a bit of a shock to me so soon—”

“No, it’s all right, I understand,” Willow said, something like anticipation—or maybe apprehension—flickering within her. It was a nervous sort of feeling that made her itchy, as though she needed to jump around, but she didn’t want to go out into the rain. “Just—think on it, okay?”

Cassius smiled at her. Right on cue, the storm started to yield, the rain shutting off as though with a flick of a switch. “All right, my princess,” he replied slowly. Carefully, he looked up at the sky. Willow figured it was past two; she had heard the clock tower. It was pretty much impossible to miss the clock tower’s peals, anyway. Since the storm had cleared up, the sun would be coming out soon. “I’ll think on it.”

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Chapter Four “Goodness—this is—”

Lord Seigfried was stuttering like he’d never eaten palace food before—which didn’t make sense of course, since he was a lord. After laving in the bathtub among the shiny mirrored blebs and coming out squeaky clean, Wednesday had seen just how…beautiful he was. His dark hair, looking almost as soft as the silk of Wednesday’s dress, was incredibly glossy, with an ice shine. His modest but cheerful facial features were fine, smooth. And his clear blue eyes, light and room-brightening…

At Wednesday’s insistence, Lord Seigfried had decided to stay until morning. Supper was…well, a regular supper—ah, more like a breakfast, actually; the Goddesses had all left,

and it was six in the morning—and yet he was bewildered by the food every time a new dish came. Wednesday didn’t get it. Maybe he was delirious from the bath fumes or something. To Wednesday’s surprise, he was quite a bit of a talker. Over their roast turkey and specialty potatoes, soup and vegetables, he and Wednesday made idle chitchat about all sorts of things, from the weather to the war to how many encyclopedias the palace had. Father sat at the head of the table, looking somewhat bemused as this situation unfolded in front of him. Willow and Winter were both not here.

“This is delightful food, I have to say. And…it’s a bit of a shock to me that the war is starting up,” Lord Seigfried added thoughtfully, his fork halfway to his mouth. Wednesday tried not to focus on the fact that he was left-handed. That was cool. At least his left arm wasn’t the one that had broken. Wednesday tried to envision a Lord Seigfried awkwardly attempting to do all his actions with his non-dominant hand, and she blushed. “I didn’t think that such a thing would happen here. Irresponsible monarch, if I might say.”

Wednesday remembered how she had imagined a fat old man in a bathtub and privately agreed. “Well, I don’t know what the High King is doing,” Father said tiredly, poking at his soup, “But I hope

he intervenes soon.” “Agreed,” Lord Seigfried said, nodding in approval.Just then, the door to the dining room burst open and in flew Willow, golden-red hair coming

unpinned. She wasn’t in her ballgown, and her hair looked damp. Very damp. A drop of water dripped off one of her wavy tresses and onto the carpet. Her pale cheeks were rosy red.

“Willow,” Father said calmly, standing. “What is the meaning of this?” Willow twisted a finger in her dress. Her emerald-green eyes roved over Father, stiff and looking a

bit disapproving; Wednesday, who unconsciously stiffened; the dining table, already set out; and landed on Lord Seigfried. Her eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.

“Nothing,” she said, a little haughtily. She took the chair at the other end of the table, opposite of where Father sat. “Why are we eating supper at six in the morning?”

“Why are you here at six in the morning?” Father smoothly returned, lowering himself back into his chair. “It seems most unusual, Willow. Where have you been?”

“Out,” she said evasively. “I—ah—took a shower.” “But your hair isn’t dry,” Wednesday blurted, who couldn’t take it any longer. Willow turned on her. “And since when does my hair always have to be dry? I am a princess; I can

go about as I please, right? And judging from our injured gentleman tonight, I would think that you fell again. You have nothing to say about the likes of me, Wednesday. At any rate, where is Winter?”

Wednesday shrugged, eyes on her plate. Willow coolly pulled a plate forward and piled it with potatoes and vegetables, brushing a hand through her hair to let it dry out faster. “So,” Willow began, smiling at Lord Seigfried, “May I have the pleasure of recognizing your name?”

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Lord Seigfried eyed her cautiously. “Castil Seigfried.” He pronounced it with a long ‘i’, so it sounded like ‘Castile’. “And I suppose you are the famed Willow Fontana? My lady is most fair.”

Willow smiled, flattered, and batted her eyelashes. “Thank you, Lord Seigfried. You are handsome as well. You have the most beautiful eyes.” She tilted her head, looking at him sideways, partially closing her eyes so she could see him differently. “I’m guessing you recognize my sister here, but—”

“Yes, he’s my new friend,” Wednesday half-interrupted, trying to emphasize the ‘my’ to Willow without being too obvious. She didn’t like how Willow was flirting with every gentleman in sight. Minus Father, of course. That would be strange. She turned to Lord Seigfried. “I’m sorry Winter’s not here. She would love to meet you. She’s very…courteous.” This was aimed at Willow again. Willow scowled at her, tossing her hair over her shoulder as to not get into her food.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Lord Seigfried said with a laugh. Right on cue, Winter came in, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. She stopped and stared at them all when she saw them gathered around the table. Like Willow, her eyes moved over them all, landing on Lord Seigfried. Her normally white face colored rose pink.

“Am I intruding upon something?” she said, blinking. “Ah, Winter! Come join us for an early-morning supper,” Father greeted jovially, rising from his

chair. He motioned towards the chair next to Lord Seigfried. “Sit, sit. We were just talking about you, you know.”

“What did you say about me?” Winter seated herself delicately in the chair and spooned some brightly colored jellies, fresh butter, and a soft roll onto her plate. She took her knife and spread the stuff over the bread and took a bite. Swallowing, she added, “It wasn’t anything bad, was it?”

Wednesday absently stirred her soup, carefully watching Winter’s face. It was almost red. Was she embarrassed?

“We were saying we missed you,” Lord Seigfried explained, dipping his vegetable in his soup and eating it. Again with the left-handed eating. It was driving her insane, in a good way. Wednesday wondered again if he was from out of state. That would account for his name and the way he dined. “But we see you now! You are beautiful, my lady.”

Winter’s cheeks were glowing. “Thank you, er…?” “Lord Seigfried.” He dipped his head. “Oh. A pleasure to meet you.” Winter smiled. Friendly talk started up again between Father and Lord Seigfried, with Willow clamoring for Father’s

attention and Winter having the decency to stay quiet. Lord Seigfried and Winter discussed some economics and politics then, and Willow sank back into her chair, sighing and looking up at the ceiling.

A good two hours later, servants had cleared up the table, Lord Seigfried had found a place to sleep near the ballroom, and Father had shooed the three girls up to their room for bed. Willow decided for all of them to take the servants’ staircase shortcut, so they now crammed into the narrow stairwell, Winter clawing at the cobwebs getting stuck in her hair and Willow muttering curses under her breath. As soon as they got to their room, Willow unlaced her corset and fell face-first into her bed without even taking off her dress, Winter ran for the bathroom to comb the wispy spider webs out of her hair, and Wednesday unbuttoned her dress, loosened her corset—which was too big for her anyway—and started pulling the pins out of her hair, letting strands of her auburn hair flutter to the small of her back.

“Hey, Wednesday,” Willow said from her pillow, her voice muffled. “Yes?” “Do you want to go out into the gardens with me? It’s stopped raining.”

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“Not really. I’m dizzy. Ask Winter.” “She’s in the bathroom. Please?” Willow sat up, hugging her pillow to her chest, and looked at

Wednesday pleadingly. “I don’t want to go by myself. I’d ask Winter because you’re not really a good person to tromp around with, but she’s busy and I would get very bored if I went by myself, so.”

Wednesday paused. “Maybe if you tell me where you really went before you came to supper. Maybe then I’ll go with you. And let me take my medicine first.”

“All right. Deal?” Willow held out her hand. Wednesday took it, and she helped Willow up. “Let’s go now, before anyone knows we’re missing.”

“Wait, you still have to tell me,” Wednesday reminded her. “Okay, okay.” Willow tossed her pillow onto her bed and paced, almost feverishly. “I went into the

gardens earlier, when it was raining, so that’s why I was late. Because, you know, I was in the rain and I had to dry my hair and change.”

“That’s all?”“Yes. Can you hurry up and go now?” Wednesday downed a swallow of her medicine, biting her tongue to keep from making a bleh face.

It really was terribly bitter, more than before. “Fine.” Willow took off, hiking up her skirts so she wouldn’t trip over them. Wednesday did her best to follow, keeping her sister in sight as Willow weaved down the hall, past the servants’ staircase and down the royal staircase, and ending by sliding down the banister in a billow of crimson skirts. Wednesday actually took the stairs, though two at a time, and almost sprawled in a heap at the base of the steps. Willow was already zigzagging down the entrance hall, sometimes pausing behind a wall in case people were nearby. Wednesday copied her moves, though she wasn’t nearly as stealthy—her breath was coming in pants now. Willow, fed up, gestured at her to stay quiet. Wednesday bit her lip.

Tiptoeing now, Willow slowly pussyfooted in her linen-backed shoes past the library, which was located next to the ballroom. After reaching the doorway, Wednesday realized why she was so cautious. Lord Seigfried was lying on a bench-like piece of furniture by the ballroom doors. He certainly was not asleep, but his back was turned to them. Willow flattened herself against the wall past the ballroom and gesticulated for Wednesday to come. Not daring to breathe, Wednesday crept past, glad she was still wearing her quiet ballroom slippers. She joined Willow at the wall opposite the ballroom out of Lord Seigfried’s view, and the two of them snuck off.

Once well past the ballroom and at the entrance hall doors, Willow slowly pushed the handle forward. It did not squeak. Luckily, both of them were rather slim, and they slipped out the small exit in the door. Willow closed the crack soundlessly, and they were out.

Wednesday’s breath made small white puffs as it hit the air, like clouds condensing into fluffy white cotton balls. Winter skipped down the steps, her skirts flying. Wednesday followed her into the gardens on the left.

Everything was dripping with water, sparkling with a magical glitter. The sun was just barely visible above the horizon, tiny streaks of gold fighting their way through the blanket of low silver clouds. Pieces of sky were visible here and there, flashes of grey and dark purple, stained with bits of blonde strands. In the faint rays of sunlight, the round, pebble-sized drops of water would catch that light and glimmer in a rainbow sheen, as if in scented oil. The flowers hadn’t opened yet, but every glossy dark leaf of the holly bushes, each limb of waving tree branches, and every curl of the vines curling up the sides of the castle had been dipped in luminous crystal, lending an unearthly feel to the gardens.

The sinking moon was hardly able to be seen through the cloud cover, but slight fragments of the

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orange-pink of the harvest moon shone above everything. Wednesday twirled through the garden path, following Willow, staring in awe at the unrecognizable beauty of the gardens now.

Somehow, all things were different at night, at the break of dawn. There was something not the same. Sort of as if the flowers and trees and plants had began to sing a song, one that opened your eyes to the world. Wednesday reached out and touched a spade-shaped leaf hanging from one of the vines. A cap of water slid off and onto her finger, clean and fresh. She set the drop on her tongue.

“Wednesday! Hurry up!” Willow was already charging for the nearest landing. “You’re so slow and dainty. Come on!”

She climbed up the narrow stairs to the temple figure, ascending the rope bridge on top. Wednesday stopped at the base of the landing. “I don’t think so,” she said with a shiver.

“Come on, you’re scared of everything. Give it a try.” “No way. I already fainted today.” “Come on, you silly. Or I’ll leave without you,” Willow threatened, crossing her arms. The rope

bridge was swaying in the wind, and she shifted from foot to foot to keep her balance steady. “It’s not bad. You can see the world from up here.”

Against her will, Wednesday took the stairs. Why not? She could always rush back down if necessary, or fall. And Willow would know what to do. Carefully, carefully, she grabbed ahold of the bridge’s flimsy wire railing and hoisted herself up onto the wooden planks, slowly standing up.

Heights. She was so afraid of heights Wednesday couldn’t even understand why she was doing this. But Willow was right in a way; she could see the world. From high up, the gardens were laid out in a map of dark greenery and little bits of white frost the accented the other colors. From high up, she could see the peeking sun better, rays gleaming golden yellow. From high up, with the sharp winter wind whistling through her hair and piercing her dress, it was exhilarating.

“So, not as bad as you thought it’d be, right?” From the middle of the swooping bridge, Willow smirked at her. Wednesday gave a half-smile half-scowl to show that she appreciated it, but didn’t like the smirk. Willow just laughed. The wind tore through her curls in a sudden gust; the corkscrew ends defying gravity in the wind. Wednesday shielded her face from the blustery airstream with her forearms, her bare skin stinging from the sudden cold. The bridge was swaying in the strong current, pitching her back and forth. She bent down closer to the planks for better balance.

Willow spread her arms wide, the wind blowing her hair and dress straight back. She gave a faint, breathy laugh, eyes closed, and made a high-pitched sound that sounded like a delighted scream. Right one cue, the clouds parted as though pushed shortly by invisible hands, and the gleaming, rising sun let its full light shine on the earth. Wednesday gasped. It was…beautiful. Rosy and pink-cheeked, a bit shy but still not afraid to show its brilliance and spontaneity, the sun reached one arm of a ray out, hooking it over the land, and hoisted itself up; slowly, slowly it came, smiling brightly and giggling but trying to hide its joy. The sun pulled a cloud over to cover what could be seen of it, trying to be demure, and as the whitish cloud drifted over its face, the light faded considerably.

“Did you see that?” Willow called at Wednesday, as the wind subsided contentedly. “Did you see that? That was light. The light of the morning is so breathtaking, something beyond what you could fathom, in that glorious daybreak where the crack of dawn glitters upon the dew and bathes it in the faintest, most beautiful colors in the universe.”

Wednesday slowly stood up, blinking away the splotches of the now-hiding sun. Her knees were still shaky from the sudden wind, but Willow’s poetic description had calmed her down. And Willow was right; that gleaming ray had been no ordinary sunrise. It had to be magic. She wasn’t sure what was happening;

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surely the Goddesses weren’t behind this. But it was magic. Something about it lingered in the air for a moment, and Wednesday inhaled it, drinking in with it the last rainstruck breath of the night. Delicious. A pang of something strange ran through her, as though light itself was pouring into her veins, but then it died away, leaving Wednesday sure that it was just a dream.

“I don’t want you to disappear in the night like that ever, ever again. Do you hear me? What? You say you hardly gave me a fright? Don’t you dare tone it down, Willow, you scared me half to death when I saw you two had vanished—”

When she and Willow had returned a quarter to eight, Winter had sat them down, trembling, and given them a stern talking-to, mostly blabber about not to run around the castle at dawn, and Wednesday couldn’t help feeling badly. They had scared Winter out of her wits when she’d come out of the bathroom and they had simply disappeared. Willow protested that it wasn’t against the rules to go out in the morning, given that it was past seven, and Winter retaliated by saying it was hardly a millisecond past seven when they had gone charging out. Wednesday just let the tempest pass, leaving Winter and Willow to duke it out.

“Please, don’t do that again,” Winter begged. Her hair was down, a delicate, silky waterfall of satin, and it made her seem even more anxious. “Especially you, Wednesday, what were you thinking going out, what if you got sick? It’s scarcely past the dead of winter and you just barged out of the castle with Willow—at least Willow has a strong system! What if you collapsed, you’d be in a fine predicament, and Willow would have to explain to Father what was going on because she can’t carry you all the way back to our room without being noticed. And for heaven’s sake, we have a guest—” Here her cheeks colored slightly— “Don’t cause trouble for your sister when we have others over, you want to seem proper.”

Though Wednesday interpreted and understood Winter’s little spruik, she didn’t get why Winter blamed her. It wasn’t as though they had been making trouble, after all, and Willow didn’t mind a bit. Of course, it always ended up being her fault anyway, so there wasn’t any difference.

“Well, Winter, then.” Willow sounded cross. “We were just having a little jolly time, and here you are, ruining it right after we saw the most amazing thing…” Her eyes widened. “Oh, Winter, did you see it? When the sun came out and it was just brilliant, I’d never seen anything like it. Magic, I’m telling you, and not that stuff that you have now that you’re of age, I mean magic created by a higher power.”

Winter shook her head, long blonde-auburn hair whispering over her shoulders and down her back. “Get that out of your mind, Willow. There’s not higher power than the monarch except…” Her pink face drained of color, leaving behind a paper-white pallor. “Except for…him.”

Willow went slightly pale. “Surely not the…” She lowered her voice unconsciously, and Wednesday leaned forward, fairly sure of who they meant. “Surely,” Willow whispered through her teeth, “You don’t mean that fool Shadow King?”

Wednesday froze. “Don’t say that, Willow, that’s a terrible criticism, and you’ve never met him before,” said a smooth,

sweet voice like a chorus of angels. All three of the whipped around to see none other than Lady Daelynn, dressed in her typical orange dress, lounging on Wednesday’s bed.

Willow let out a sort of gasp-scream, and Winter collapsed into a pool of cloth, overcome with fright. Wednesday took a step back, but for some reason she wasn’t that surprised. You didn’t talk about the Shadow King…mostly because there was always a feeling that one in his realm could hear you. And certainly there was.

“Pardon my sudden entrance,” Daelynn said dryly. She rose from Wednesday’s bed and walked

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straight up to Willow. Compared to Willow’s youth, Daelynn looked much older, but also equally young. Timelessly, classically beautiful and magical. Wednesday craved for it. “Of course, my dear Willow, you’d do well to not anger my lord. He’s agitated as it is, with some political…affairs…going on right now.”

Winter, on the floor, pushed herself up using a table leg. “Affairs…do they have anything to do with love? Does your king love someone?”

Daelynn studied Winter curiously. “Winter…you really do have a keen sense for these things, don’t you?” Her voice was smooth, but Wednesday caught the barely perceptible tremor at the end of the rhetorical question. “That’s not the main thing my king is preoccupied with…but how did you come up with that?”

“You’re my birthmonth Goddess,” Winter said unsteadily. “I have your blessing, Daelynn…” Wednesday thought about that. Of the Thirteen Goddesses, the first twelve each represented a month, as well as a color, a letter,

and a virtue. Mirabel, of course, was a special case, seeing as she was Goddess of vanity and came to a girl’s coming-of to bless her. But for the first twelve, Aurelia was January, Bliss was February, Chalize was March, and so on. For each Goddess’s month, the child born was blessed with that Goddess’s virtue. Lady Daelynn’s month was April, and her virtue was faith; Winter had been blessed when she was born by Daelynn to have the gift of faith. Wednesday was born in February, meaning she was in Bliss’s month of patience. She had wished she’d been in Chalize’s month (health—if only!) or perhaps Jewel’s (beauty), but of course she didn’t have any of those. Not that patience was a bad thing to have—all the Goddesses’ virtues were vital. Having that Goddess as your birthmonth Goddess just meant that virtue was stronger in you than most others. It was a strange thing, birthmonths. Most people considered February the month of love, for example, while Aurelia was the one in January who gifted love. And October was ‘supposed’ to be scary, but Jewel was the one with October, and she was sweet.

“Are you really?” Daelynn murmured. “I didn’t really study you when we met earlier…” She smiled at Winter. “A faithful one, no doubt, loyal to your heart. Born April 16…” She turned to Wednesday. “Let me see…oh, Bliss’s month, your birthday February 9, very patient. Well, that’s certain.” She finally looked at Willow. “What about you…ah. Borderline between Jewel’s beauty and Keilani’s courage, but it looks like you leaned too far on Keilani’s side after all…November 1, hardly past midnight.” She smiled a little frostily at Willow. “I would be careful when discussing matters such as serious as my king, Willow…”

Willow looked like a deer caught in the light of a bright torch. “I’m sorry, Lady Daelynn. It’s just…well…” Willow grinned challengingly. “I don’t approve of your

king, and neither do most everyone here.” “Brutally honest.” Daelynn swept this aside. “Thank you for letting me stay for a moment, but I

really must hurry back to my king. He’s very busy, you know. Take care, you all, and have faith in your actions…”

A curtain of glimmering tangerine orange slipped over Daelynn, and she was gone. As soon as the Goddess had vanished, Willow slammed her fist down on the nearest table. She was

seething. “Did you hear that lady?” she fumed. “So wispy and disapproving, oh, I can’t stand her. Did you hear? First she was invading our room, and then she was all offended just because I insulted her precious king…” Willow tipped her head to one side, thoughtful. “Do you think she loves him?”

“Oh, Willow, shut up.” Winter crossed her arms. “It’s already eight. Do you think Father would get angry at us if we slept in now?”

“Probably,” Wednesday said, voicing her opinion. Father was strict about those sorts of things; most of the time he was fairly easygoing, though. Being on time was one of the few things he didn’t like.

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“I was asking Willow, but all right,” Winter said pointedly. She looked worn out. “Let’s go, if we stay here any longer I’m going to fall asleep.”

They trundled downstairs. The whole castle seemed to be in some kind of sleep, Wednesday decided. There was hardly a

sound out and about. Only the occasional servant, maid, or lamp flicker broke the stillness. The morning after the New Year’s Festival was always eerily silent.

Precisely at that moment, there was a loud clang from the kitchen. Wednesday glanced at Willow, who in turn looked at Winter skeptically. Winter shrugged, put a

finger to her lips, and tiptoed her way down the carpeted hall to the kitchen. Willow motioned to Wednesday to move, so Wednesday grudgingly followed, trying to stay quiet. As Winter’s slippers barely touched the stone floor of the galley, she froze. Willow stopped behind her, trying to see what the holdup was, and Wednesday, overcome with interest, strained to peek. What she could see of Winter face had become pink.

Whipping around, flustered, Winter put a finger to her lips and shooed them frantically back, Willow resisting but finally backing down when Winter gave her a murderous look. Wednesday stepped back down the hall, turned a corner, and the three girls crowded together a good ten yards from the kitchen’s open doorway, on the other side of a wall.

“What was that about?” Willow hissed at Winter. Winter’s face was red. “Why didn’t you go in? Who was there? Father? You’re afraid of him?”

“Of course I’m not afraid of him, you wench,” Winter growled. Wednesday had never seen her so disturbed before.

“Did you just call me a wench?” “I sure did.” Wednesday flapped her arms to keep their voices down. “Winter, who was there?” Winter bit her lip and ignored Willow’s hisses. “I’m not telling,” she whispered tremulously. “You

don’t want to know, it’s embarrassing, I won’t tell. And don’t you go down there,” she added, catching Willow’s sleeve as she tried to sneak out to get a good look.

“I already saw,” Willow said, keeping her voice soft. “At least, I think it’s Castil.” “When were you on first-name terms with Lord Seigfried?” Wednesday whispered angrily. “You

have no right to call him Castil.” “Oh yes I do.”“Was it really him?” Wednesday looked at Winter for confirmation. Her cheeks were flushed bright

red as a cherry and she clutched her hands to her chest. Why was Winter so agitated? “We don’t have to worry about him, Winter,” she whispered consolingly, “He’s really friendly.”

“I’m not scared of him,” Winter sniped unconvincingly. “If you want to go into the kitchen, fine, but you have to go fir—”

There was a loud bubbling noise, like something thick and gloopy was simmering over a flame. “What is he doing?” Wednesday tried to edge around the corner to see into the kitchen, but Winter

pulled her back. Willow straightened her posture. “I’m going,” she said bravely. Winter’s pupils had dilated in fear. “All right, but I’m not joining you,” she warned. “Go, shoo, I can’t

stand you hissing at me like a feral cat…”Willow put her shoulders back and walked down the hall. Wednesday and Winter both strained to

hear every detail, not wanting to miss a second of this.

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“Good morning, Castil,” Willow’s voice said, sounding pleasantly surprised. “You’re up early. What are you doing at this ungodly hour?”

Castil—Lord Seigfried—laughed. “It’s only ungodly if you go to bed at seven in the morning,” he replied, referring good-naturedly to the ‘supper’ just a few hours ago. “Had nothing else to do, so I thought I’d make something to eat.”

“Oh, but you’re a cook?” Willow asked. There was the sound of cloth sweeping over the uneven, smooth rock of the kitchen, presumably because she’d moved. “Surely not, you’re a lord.”

“Er—not really, actually,” Castil said, sounding a little flattered. “I, ah, don’t come from around here; I come from an ecclesiastical form of government, so I suppose I’d be the same level as a lord when it comes to changing government systems.”

So he is foreign, Wednesday though, satisfied at last with her discovery of where this mysterious young gentleman came from.

“Ah, so it’s ruled by a church?” Willow sounded politely interested, with the slightest hint of what seemed to be scorn tugging at the corners of her voice. “I haven’t seen one of those for a very long time. I daresay that you’re all right with the church as a ruler?”

There was the shifting of feet, probably Castil. “Um, well, the church is a bit hard to describe, I guess I’d just say that it’s a bit like a council with its own type of religion—it’s magic, you know.”

“But of course,” Willow said wearily. “As most things are,” Castil agreed, though Wednesday could hear the smile in his voice. There was

the dull clank of something wooden against a metal pot’s rim. “Porridge? I added all sorts of things—I’m not too bad, if I do say so myself.”

“May I see the spoon?” “Sure.” There was a funny sound that Wednesday couldn’t quite describe. “Oh,” Castil said, sounding a little shocked. “It’s great, you’re right,” Willow laughed a little, sounding pleased, though maybe more with herself

than Castil. “You need to have higher self-esteem. It’s really quite good. I’m guessing you added honey, and maybe some spices?”

“Yes,” Castil said. Wednesday could tell that whatever that funny sound had been, it wasn’t anything good, causing him to close off from Willow. “If you don’t mind, I need to excuse myself…”

Light footsteps started heading towards them. Winter, still looking terrified and a little fascinated, pulled Wednesday down another hall and waited for Castil to pass. Wednesday just barely peeked out; the shadows were sufficient to hide her face. Castil slipped past the other hall, looking agitated, and as though he’d witnessed something not quite right.

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Chapter Five“The coast is clear, hurry up. The porridge is getting cold, and it’s delightful; you’re missing out,”

Willow said, lowering her voice slightly. “Winter? Wed? You there? Hurry and get your behinds out here, I don’t have all day, and this is...mmmm.”

Winter peeked out first. She was kneeling, instinctively, out of nerves, and her mostly unpinned hair dripped in silky coils on the carpet. “Willow?”

“Come on.” Winter scampered out, leaving Wednesday thinking in the shade. What was that funny noise, and

why had it set Castil off so suddenly? None of it made sense, unless…unless Willow had done something weird and inappropriate, like kiss—

No, Wednesday told herself firmly. This was no time to think of such things. Still. It bugged her. “Let me try some,” Winter’s voice said. “Get a bowl first, you.” There was a clink of porcelain, and a long pause. “Mmm, this is so good. I never knew that regular men could cook so well,” Winter said. Finally, Wednesday couldn’t take being left out of the rain, and she scuttled over into the kitchen.

She’d forgotten to wear shoes, and the cold stone tiles of the floor burned icily against her bare feet, yet somehow hot at the same time. Willow and Winter were leaning against the counter, eating out of bowls with spoons, a large metal porridge pot next to them. The pot still had steam drifting out of the top. There was a delicious smell in the air, something like cinnamon and nutmeg and rosemary, honey and pumpkin. Wednesday inhaled, and felt the scents soothe her nervous senses.

“Oh, so now you’re coming,” Willow said, swallowing. “Well, grab some if you like, but at least leave enough for me to have a few more bowls. I wouldn’t want all this nice porridge to go to waste.”

Wednesday reasoned that scientifically, if she ate it, it wouldn’t be going to waste, but she understood what Willow meant.

Using the big wooden spoon in the pot, Wednesday located a bowl and spooned some up. The porridge was a light golden-ish color, sprinkled with tiny shredded bits of something that she supposed were the spices. Its heat wafted upward and warmed her cheeks. For a moment Wednesday just stood there, enjoying the honey-drenched fragrance of it.

“Wednesday, now, you better not be stealing it all,” Willow warned her. “’M not, Willow,” Wednesday said offhandedly. She was still puzzled about what Willow had done to

unseat Castil like that. Castil. What was she…Oh, so you yourself are on first-name terms with Lord Seigfried now? she mentally berated herself. It

was improper to be using his first name without permission, but…the fact that Willow was doing such a thing so casually already had her teeth on edge.

Apparently, Winter was thinking along the same lines as well; sucking her spoon until it shined, she turned to Willow and said, “Well? What could you possibly do to make a poor young man flee like that? I do hope you didn’t do anything brazen. Father really does care about how you act, Willow.”

Willow shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m not telling. It’s none of your business, anyway. Surely you wouldn’t be thinking of what I did?”

“I should think,” Wednesday said, uncharacteristically bravely, though her voice was still soft, “that you would act a tad more respectful if I were you, Willow; Cast—Lord Seigfried is here as a guest, and we

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wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea of how father’s little girls act, hm?” Willow cheeks flared pink. “You have no right to tell me what to do.” “Simple suggestion, Willow, that’s all,” Wednesday said with a light shrug. Her heart was in her

throat, pounding incessantly, but she wouldn’t let it show. Trying to steady her shaking hand, she spooned up some of her porridge and swallowed. The warmth traveled down her throat, leaving a soothing, smooth feeling behind. It calmed her instantly. “Why—why don’t you tell us what you were doing to scare off Cast—I mean, Lord Seigfried?”

“Well,” said Willow, a sly smile twisting her rose-red lips, “if you must know, I can tell you on one condition.”

“Name it,” both Winter and Wednesday said sharply.“You two,” Willow simpered, fluttering her eyelashes and studying her fingernails idly and delicately,

“have to somehow find a way to get Cassius to marry me.” Wednesday’s hand smacked the counter so hard it stung. “What kind of proposal is that?” she

almost yelled at Willow. “One look at you, Willow, and I know that you’re up to something—what are you doing, messing around with two men at once? They’re almost as young as we are. How old can they be? Fifteen? Sixteen? And you, Willow—what are you playing at? This is no game.”

“Do not assume what I am doing,” Willow said calmly, turning her spoon in her porridge. “You have no idea what I am doing, for you have no business in my mind. I can marry who I want to marry.”

“And for whom are you marrying?” Wednesday demanded. “Surely it isn’t for Father. You can imagine how he’ll feel when he realizes that you are directly disobeying the given laws of a young woman—do you want that?”

“I actually agree with Wednesday for once,” Winter snapped peevishly, though she threw Wednesday a dirty glance. “Why, Willow, must you act so brash for a young lady ready to marry? Your naiveté is shockingly plain. And you dare to go forth and prance around highly as if you are not sporting some ugly blotches on your conscience—how can you stand the shame? You should be mortified of your behavior, Willow. You’re Father’s precious beauty, but even that cannot earn you a gentleman’s true love if you treat others inferiorly.”

True love. The two words rang in Wednesday’s ears, causing her chest to tingle. Winter was right, she thought, there was no room for love if a heart was already full to the brim with connivance. But you never knew with Willow; her true motives were always well hidden beyond a person’s reach.

Willow was wearing a scowl now. “Well listen here, Winter, I don’t care what you think, but like I said the evening before the New Year’s Festival—we are princesses, we have free reign, and we should very well be able to use it at will. As you’re eldest, I can’t tell you off, but there will be a day when I get you back…of course, we might as well be all together reunited by then.” She turned her spoon over again in a rolling motion. “However, that is beside the point. Do you agree to my terms or not?”

Winter crossed her arms grudgingly. “As long as you aren’t going after Castil, I swear to your terms. But only if you aren’t playing two young men at once.”

“And?”Willow was looking pointedly at Wednesday. Wednesday couldn’t help it. She ground her teeth in frustration, staring daggers at the tabletop.

She did want to know what happened, but the fact that Cassius would be Willow’s in this agreement was enough to make her hesitate. She did know that Cassius was someone she hardly knew, and that she had no idea if he was who she wanted, but something in her heart told her that Cassius was the right type of gentleman for her. He was young, nice, dashing, and simply amazing. Then again, her heart also told her that

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Castil wouldn’t be a bad choice either…The seconds ticked by.“Well,” Willow said loftily, “if Wednesday doesn’t agree then Winter doesn’t get the secret either.

So I guess if you’re not going to agree, Wednesday, you’re going to be letting your eldest sister down.” There was a note of venom in her voice that let Wednesday know that what Willow was thinking was far beyond letting Winter down.

“Wednesday?” Winter said softly. Wednesday didn’t respond, her fist aching from the clench of her fingers. “Wednesday, look at me,” Winter said again. Wednesday tipped her chin up, looking Winter straight in the eye. “What is it, Winter? I’m not going

to give up my conscience and agree to Willow…”“Wednesday,” Winter repeated for the third time, still looking at Wednesday steadily, “you will

agree to what Willow wants, won’t you?” That’s when Wednesday felt it. In the suddenly echoing quality of Winter’s voice. Magic. Winter’s magic ability.

It was like a vacuum. Wednesday fought against it. She wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but Winter was using her magic—the kind that a person could use only when of age. In the back of Wednesday’s mind, away from the pressing suffocation of the magic, she realized dimly what Winter’s of-age magic was.

Persuasion. The way it affected her was devastating. Pressing in on her from all sides, getting dizzy, Wednesday

tried to draw in a breath to clear her head and clear away Winter’s magic, but as if she was breathing in a pillow, it brought searing pain. She couldn’t even scream. Clutching the nearest object for balance—the countertop—Wednesday tried to fight against it, but the magic swallowed her up in a great burst, succumbing her. The pain dissolved suddenly, leaving a blank but yet aware feeling.

“Wednesday, you will agree to what Willow wants, won’t you?” Winter said again, her voice still echoing as if from far away.

And though Wednesday’s mouth was dry as sandpaper, and she didn’t want to say a word, she heard herself saying, “Of course I will.”

Willow, still twirling the spoon in her porridge as if she had no idea what was going on, grinned. “So both of you promise that I will marry Cassius as I wish, and that you two will not steal him away? Me. Cassius. Correct?” “Yes,” Winter agreed sweetly.

“Yes,” Wednesday heard herself say. Willow smiled. “Splendid. All right, I will tell you what I did…” As Willow calmly lay her spoon on the cold countertop, taking her time and wiping a bit of porridge

from the edge of her mouth, Wednesday felt the magic lift off of her, meaning that Winter knew that there was no turning back now. With a sudden gasp as she realized exactly what had happened, the sequence played through her mind on full speed—magic suffocating her, Winter making her agree, knowing now that the only person Cassius could ever be with was…Willow.

“Are you okay?” Willow said lazily, noticing Wednesday’s gasp. “I—I—” Wednesday saw Winter giving her a pointed and meaningful look, and Wednesday knew

that she couldn’t back out of this. The swearing contract was fulfilled, and there was nothing she could do

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about it. And Willow had no clue that Wednesday hadn’t been acting of her own free will. If she had been alone, and if one of her sisters wasn’t a persuasion-controlling evil, Wednesday

would’ve screamed. She would’ve cried. She would’ve tracked Winter down and yelled at her, demanding justice, shrieking that how dare she use such a cruel magic on her, promising revenge. But now, in the presence of her sisters, she knew well enough that she couldn’t do that. And so she forced the internal pain down, and steadied her voice.

“No, Willow, there’s nothing” was her faint response. In her conscience, she knew that there was no true reason for her to act this way over Cassius. A

near stranger. Someone she’d only really realized existed this year, hardly a day ago. But still, something told her that Cassius wasn’t just a regular person. He wasn’t just passerby. She would see him again.

“Well,” Willow said, sounding maddeningly superior, “what I did was…I licked the spoon.” Everything about Cassius was suddenly wiped from Wednesday’s mind. She dropped the rim of her

bowl, which she had been holding up a bit, letting it slump. Winter’s own spoon fell from her hand as her gaze flew to the gently steaming pot by Wednesday’s elbow, where the handle of the wooden spoon was poking out the top. The shallow metal ladle of Winter’s spoon clattered against the worn stone floor, ringing at a high pitch as it vibrated.

“You w—” Wednesday hadn’t gotten any farther than the first word of her vehement exclamation before Winter had sprung from her chair, across Wednesday, and seized the wooden spoon; holding it up by the stick, globs of honey-seasoned porridge slowly starting to slide down the handle, she stared piercingly into Willow’s green eyes; misty green against bright green.

“Shame to the family!” Winter spat, stepping even closer to Willow so that they were almost nose to nose. “Disgraceful—completely misunderstanding the rule of a woman—there was always something different about you, Father always thought that you were an exception to the rule—oh, I should have known as soon as you fell for that fool Cassius—”

But now Willow was fighting back; “Don’t you dare insult Cassius! You have no idea what he’s like—he’s a completely different person than you would think! He’s perfect for me; oh, you wouldn’t have a clue, because you aren’t in love with him, you think that you’re too high and mighty for any gentleman because you’re the eldest, you’re the lady-like one, the one who always acts like a lady, but I don’t care! As a princess I should do whatever I please—”

“EXCEPT FOR NOT FOLLOWING THE RULES OF A LADY! That is basic etiquette, Willow, and one thing every sensible girl knows from birth is that you don’t lick anything in front of a gentleman! Especially not a spoon that everyone is using! So undignified—this, Willow, is what I think of you-!”

Wednesday gasped, jumping to her feet; there was a harsh sound as Winter drew her hand back and slapped Willow across the face as hard as she could. Willow screamed at the impact, staggering back. She had tears streaking her face now, and she ran off, skirts tangling around her legs, yelling something unintelligible back at them, her screams echoing through the whole palace. Winter held her hand; the sting from slapping Willow was quite strong. She was glowering venomously after Willow.

“Winter—I don’t think that’s—that’s exactly what—” Wednesday clutched at her sister’s arm, eyes pleading. Her voice came out trembling and concerned, and for a moment she wondered why she was doing this for Willow—harsh, judgmental, haughty Willow, who had mercilessly taunted and poked fun at Wednesday her whole life—but then Wednesday knew why. They were sisters, after all. It was only natural for them to protect each other, no matter how separated they seemed, no matter how wide the gap was from the outside. “Don't be so hard on Willow. You—you know how she is...she's more...more lenient about the rules than...than you are—”

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Winter, without even a glance at Wednesday's expression, shook her off.“Wednesday,” Winter said in a voice so soft and deadly that Wednesday took a step back, her eyes

frightened. Winter’s own steel gaze softened a bit, and saddened into a cloudy jade color, darkening slightly, as she looked at Wednesday. “I'm sorry. But I have no use for a sister who won’t follow the rules.”

Willow’s throat was dry and aching, and her voice hurt from screaming. She ran down the hall as fast as she could, and once her legs had tired and she could run no more, she curled up in a ball at the base of the stairs leading to their room, on the polished ballroom floor, and sobbed hysterically. Her cheek throbbed and burned from where Winter had smacked her, but that physical pain couldn’t compete with the ache of her heart. That slap meant that Winter didn’t think of her anymore as a dignified girl, as part of their family. Winter was always the strict one, the maidenly one, the one who always acted like a perfect lady, and looked like one, too. It felt sorely unfair to Willow, who had the looks of a lady but not the soul. She pulled her hair out of its arrangement of pins, and the long, wavy wisps of her red-blonde hair cascaded to the floor in a glossy curtain, like willow leaves in the breeze. Her sobs subsiding, Willow took a lock of the hair in her fingers and hated it, cursed it for being so beautiful. If she were built more strongly, and was faster and not as doll-looking, she was sure she could get by without being a lady. But with her slender frame and her fine features, it was easy for anyone to assume for her to be a quiet, well-mannered girl. The fact was that Willow wasn’t elegant. She wasn’t ladylike, she wasn’t quiet, and she definitely was not well-mannered. Willow thought about the evening before, when she had seized Cassius’s arm so possessively at the festival, and her face burned with shame.

Who knew beauty could be a curse, she reflected irritably. She thought of Jewel, the Goddess of beauty, and mentally screamed at her, too. Even though she’d already been warned by Daelynn that they could hear her, she didn’t care. If Jewel appeared right in front of her right now and changed her appearance to that of a wrinkled old woman, Willow wouldn’t mind. Well, perhaps not that extreme, she decided.

As if reflecting her unruly, upset mood, she spotted the clouds outside the ballroom windows drawing together, closing over the sun entirely and casting the entire ballroom in deep shadow. Even though no light came through, it was still high enough visibility for Willow to see the ballroom door opening hesitantly, and the form—though not very distinct—slipping in as quietly as a shadow.

It must be Father, Willow thought, mortified that Father might’ve heard her weeping. But it wasn’t Father, and as the figure drew closer in the near darkness she realized who it was with a great familiar rush of joy and nervousness and relief.

“Cassius!” He knelt down beside her, face worried. “Something not well with you, Princess?”Instinctively, Willow corrected him, as like at the festival, though it was not exactly a maidenly thing

to do. Well, who cared? She wasn’t ladylike, and Cassius still liked her. The thought cheered her up. “It’s not Princess. It’s—”

“—Just Willow.” He gave her a half-crooked smile. “Yes, I remember. My apologies. Anyhow, what is bothering you at this time, Willow? The morning should be a time of peace.” “Oh, Cassius,” she drew in a breath, wiping dried tears off her face. “It's...it's nothing.”

“Surely it's not nothing, since I heard you screaming running down the hall.” Cassius studied her face, and his eyes alighted on her cheek. Willow wasn't sure what it looked like, but she had a feeling it wasn't very pretty. Sure enough, Cassius leaned in and brushed a finger over her cheekbone, his forest green

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eyes filled with touching concern. “Willow,” he started slowly, “what happened to your cheek?”“N-nothing,” Willow hiccupped. “Now, don't be telling me it's nothing.”Willow threw her hands up in surrender. “All right. It...that's because Winter...Winter smacked me.”

She gingerly touched the mark on her face. “Oh, my. The skin's all tight and shiny. It's like when I accidentally rub my arm too hard on the carpet, and it...it burns me.” She let her hands fall to her lap. “Don't worry, Cassius. It looks much worse than it feels right now.” She tugged on his arm, and he sat down next to her, the two of them silhouetted in the bare light, shadow against shadow. Willow's dress was pooling around her in clouds and lumps, and she patted them down. “Why are you here, anyhow? I thought you had to leave, after...after the festival, you know.”

“Well, I...um...happened to still be around,” Cassius said uncomfortably. “I did see that your family is harboring another guest, no?”

“Oh, that's Castil Seigfried,” Willow said, thinking of the almost delicate-looking dark-haired young man. “Really, Cassius, he's only about as old as you are. Or me. Wednesday accidentally fell on him.” She giggled. “Oh, she's such a clumsy wretch.”

“Now don't be so mean,” Cassius protested. “Your sister seems nice enough—though I have experienced her falling on a person firsthand.” He changed the subject. “Anyhow, why would Winter slap you? Did you do something insensible?”

“No,” Willow protested. “I don't know why. I just told her something over a bowl of porridge and she suddenly had a screaming fit. Then she slapped me, and it hurt. She doesn't trust me anymore.” More tears filled her eyes, and she tried to brush them away, but they became caught on her eyelashes so whenever she had her eyes open she saw tiny beads framing her vision. Willow blinked several times, but one tear escaped down her cheek. As it rolled over the spot where Winter had hit her, it stung, the salt reacting with the irritated skin.

“Ah, so you're saying she was the insensible one,” Cassius clarified. “Yes,” Willow murmured. She curled up next to Cassius, and he sat there soothing her, stroking her

hair, comforting her, for as long as she wanted. It felt good.

Father didn’t show up until noon, an extremely unlikely thing to happen with him. Wednesday could almost believe it was a blue moon. Tired and with shadowy half-circles under his eyes, he trudged into the kitchen with the speed of a sloth as Winter and Wednesday watched him while they did lessons by themselves. Wednesday guessed that he had been completely oblivious to the entire Winter and Willow episode, though Willow’s screams should’ve woken up the entire palace. But strangely, almost everyone was still asleep—the maids, the servants, all of them out cold from last night’s drama.

Thinking of Willow made Wednesday’s eyebrows knit slightly, and she put down her lesson papers and set her quill in the bottle of ink quietly, eyes watching it darkly as it gently swung back and forth due to the curved tubular shape of the rachis. Winter didn’t put her quill down, but her hand paused, poised over the sheet. A drop of ink dripped off the tip and flecked her paper.

“’Morning, Father,” Winter said breezily. Father pulled himself up a chair and frowned as he noticed the steaming pot of porridge, the aroma no doubt pervading his senses. Winter had put the spoon Willow had licked in the sink and fetched a new one. Every time Wednesday glanced at the sink, she flinched

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involuntarily. The inhumanity of Winter’s act had been shocking. Maybe Willow wasn’t the worst one in the family after all, Wednesday reflected glumly. She’d never seen Winter so agitated. But Winter was the one who was always demanding about following the rules, dancing correctly, even sitting correctly. Wednesday experienced frequent pains in her abdomen, which usually caused her to hunch over slightly. Over the years, she had developed a bit of a bad posture, and she always made an effort to keep her back straight whenever Winter or Father was around. With Willow, it didn’t matter. Willow didn’t care one bit.

“Did one of you two make this?” Father inquired, poking the spoon into the pot and pronouncing himself satisfied before ladling up a bowl.

“No,” Winter said briskly, apparently hoping to avoid the question of who had made it. Neither Winter nor Wednesday wanted to admit to a guest making breakfast. “Anyhow, Father…everything is going smoothly with you, is it not? It’s quite late in the morn already; perhaps you should hurry and tend to your work business, no?”

“Always organized and precise, aren’t you, Winter?” Father said affectionately. He frowned and glanced around. “Where is Willow? Shouldn’t she be doing lessons with you two? Or is she skiving off once again?”

Wednesday blanked. Neither of them knew where Willow was.“Oh, she said she couldn’t concentrate and was going for a quick walk in the gardens,” Winter said,

apparently thinking quickly. “You know how she is. She just left; you just missed her. But no matter, I’m sure she’ll be right along. It’s quite stormy-looking outside, and I think she’ll be right in. It was a little walk just to clear her head. She just loves the gardens.”

“She went for a walk with her lesson book?” Father asked. He must have observed that Willow’s things weren’t spread out on the table.

“Actually,” Wednesday finally spoke up, “I think she did.” It was an odd thing to say, but Wednesday decided wholeheartedly that it was better to make little sense than to hesitate for a long time and give one’s self away. “She’s probably up on that bridge of her studying that lesson.”

Father looked at Wednesday as if he were just noticing her presence. “Did she?” he mused, swallowing some porridge. “Well, we all know that Willow despises grammar. Have either of you seen Lord Seigfried today?”

“Um, no,” Winter lied, obviously uncomfortably.“No matter,” Father said, shaking his head and scooping up the last bit of his porridge and standing

up. “All right, girls. I have official business to do, so just skip any questions you don’t know and we can go over them later. I shall see you at tea. Do not be late, all right?” He swiftly exited the room without an answer, obviously feeling more awake.

As soon as Father was out of eyeshot, Winter sighed so hard that she threw her quill down and made a medal-sized blot of ink right in the middle of her paper. Wednesday picked up her quill and continued her lessons. She didn’t want to look at Winter.

Winter sighed again, a low growl in her throat. Her eyes were fiery and her cheeks had two bright rose red splotches on them. The remaining ink in her quill was seeping out, making a tributary on her topmost paper. If the ink continued oozing, it would bleed through the rest of her papers, and Father would not be pleased. Wednesday commented on this, but there was a tremor in her voice when Winter flicked her quill off the pages. Ink spattered across the table.

“Don’t protest any more, Wednesday,” Winter warned, having one of her rarer temper flares. Willow had dubbed them ‘insult storms’ because during her rage, Winter would rant, tirelessly and remorselessly, hurling insult and abuse with no end at whoever was in front of her. “You should just keep

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quiet and do what you’re told. Now, you didn’t used to be so talkative, did you? I liked your old self better. Oh, but what am I saying? You’ve always been far too useless to Father, to Mother, to me. You were born in Bliss’s birthmonth of patience, Wednesday, but these days you’re just overly irritating because you’ve forgotten how to bide your time. We can’t have that, can we?” She twirled her quill between slender, pale fingers, a smirk crossing her usually kinder and mature face. “Run along, now. I know you’re about to cry and I don’t want your tears all over me, not at this hour.”

Winter was right; Wednesday had barely enough time to struggle to her feet before the flood of tears spilled down her cheeks—fleeing like the wind, she ran as fast as she could out of the kitchen, her sobs almost inaudible but choking up in her throat, building up. Her feet carried her faster than she had thought they would and she almost ran smack into a door but righted herself, pinwheeling her arms as she, momentum from her almost-fall still carrying her fast, burst out the door and finally fell in a heap at the entrance to the gardens when she could run no farther with the short ragged breaths not sufficient for her poor lungs and the burning in her legs, for she was not used to running at such speeds. Hair in long tendrils over her face and splayed out in a fan over the dirt, usually white face splotchy pink with streaked tears, dress tangled in her legs, she let herself cry herself out, until there wasn’t a single tear left in her. As she cried, her tears followed the contours of her cheekbones, curved around her jaw, and dripped to the ground. Birds were unaware of her situation, a few stragglers fluttering overhead as they headed south. They greeted her with echoing cries, but their voices were so much more joyful. And they should have been; they were on a trip to someplace warm, without anything to stop them—they were free in the sky. Wednesday wished she could fly away with them; to fly away from all the rages warring in her home, the abuse she faced from her sisters every day.

She was always crying. She must have cried at least three times in the past two days. Wednesday hated crying; it snatched away what little she had of a complexion and made her eyes wildly vivid, to the point of being reminiscent of a cornered animal’s. Willow had always helpfully commented that after Wednesday cried, she looked a bit like a raccoon because it always left shadows around the set of her eyes. “Stop crying so often,” she would admonish. “I don’t want a raccoon for a sister.”

Normally, Wednesday felt upset and sad at the thought of being a raccoon, but now she hardened her resolve and sat up, flinging hair out of her face. Her hair was a tangled nest, her skirts were torn and frayed at the edges from tripped and falling, and there were still damp spots on the ground from when she’d cried herself out. Now it was almost noon, and Wednesday was amazed at how quickly time could pass when one was thinking of her woes. The ground was cold, and, putting a hand tentatively to her cheek, she realized that she was cold, too. She wondered if her lips were blue yet, or if they were only purple. Whatever the case, she needed to get up.

Wednesday picked herself up, feeling cold and empty and a bit hungry from crying. She didn’t see how crying could be as exhausting as when Willow dragged her onto a horse and forced her to do equestrian racing with her, but it was.

Some daffodils were early bloomers, already opening up their trumpet-shaped sunny blossoms. Wednesday bent down, wiping the last remnants of her weeping off her tear-sticky face, and let the gentle natural perfume pervade her senses, leaving her feeling somewhat fresher than she had before. She moved over to a rose arbor to see if they had started to bloom, but was disappointed—but not surprised—to find that the roses were hardly more than tight buds.

The sky was a roiling, soupy, hazy blue, dotted here and there with a grayish-black dash of and angry dry brush, the exact reflection of Wednesday’s heart. Still, it didn’t stop her from moving from trellis to trellis, admiring the few kinds of flowers that had decided to open early and sighing gently in regret at the

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ones that hadn’t. The gardens were always the most beautiful and glorious in the spring, but Wednesday hardly ever went out in that season because of all the sneezing the pollination caused.

She stumbled upon a rose arbor with one rose, a fluorescent pink, already in bloom, and laughed with such delight that she felt her cheeks warm a little. She reached to stroke its petals, and pricked herself in the process like she did with every rose, but she squeezed the tip of her finger firmly and after a minute or so the blood had stopped oozing. The rose’s petals were soft, and she stroked it lovingly before wistfully moving on. The bright sunlight not hidden by the threatening clouds did nothing to make the air warmer, and her breath created tiny steamy clouds in the air before they faded; but it was all right with Wednesday. She didn’t want to go back into that castle, where Winter surely was, calmly and innocently doing her lessons; where Willow probably was, huddled away and full of anger at Winter for launching such a dark rage at her. It must have been a bad day for Winter, Wednesday thought. Two insult storms in one morning! Winter wasn’t usually so fiery. She was quiet and gentle, much like her name…though she also was regal and cold and rather ignorant of anyone she did not see fit as a partner in marriage.

As she rested herself on a bench with iron railings in curlicue designs, Wednesday gazed up at the swooping rope bridge, outlined in silver against the foreboding sky. It swung, even though there was no wind, strung loosely enough that the ropes could buck like bulls in a storm. Wednesday wondered if Willow was on one of the four bridges right now, or perhaps the central pyramid. It seemed like a place that Willow would go if she was sad. Wednesday recalled the elation in Willow’s face when they had come out at late dawn, and couldn’t understand why she would want to be on that bridge. But that was Willow; daredevil and proud. There wasn’t much else to describe Willow with. Winter, on the other hand, was rather mysterious and clouded.

A shadow fell over her. Wednesday jumped, startled, looking up. Behind her, leaning forward on the bench rail, was Cast—Lord Seigfried. His dark hair was so shiny. Wednesday just wanted to stare at it. He smiled down at her, his aquamarine blue eyes a little clouded with the violet corners a tad troubled, his smile just a little sadder. It was as if he was thinking of a memory, one he didn’t exceptionally want to recall. Wednesday could relate.

“You—um, startled me,” Wednesday said. “Sorry,” Castil said. Wednesday couldn’t help but use his first name. ‘Lord’ just seemed too formal a

title for such a young and sweet person. “I didn’t mean to, Miss—um, sorry, I forgot your name.”“Wednesday.”“Ah, so like the day.”“Yes.”Wednesday focused on his arm, sling off but still wrapped loosely in bandage. “I really am sorry

about your arm, C—” She stopped. “I’m sorry. I keep trying to call you by your first name.”“No, it’s quite all right.” Castil said that often, Wednesday thought. He was always saying things

were all right, even when they were rather dismal. His polite personality made Wednesday feel rude in comparison. “You can use my first name if you like.”

Wednesday almost blushed, but she was determined to hold it in this time. She patted the bench next to her. “Why don’t you sit down?” He sat down next to her, and she continued, “I really am sorry about your arm, Castil.”

He shrugged. “Things happen, Miss Wednesday. I’m simply fortunate enough to have someone so nice as you to fall on me instead of—instead of an old stubborn hag, for instance.”

A giggle of surprised laughter escaped Wednesday before she could draw it back in. Castil grinned sheepishly, as if he wasn’t used to making such comments. “Well, it’s true,” he protested. “It would be much

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harder to talk around you if you weren’t a sweet young lady like yourself.”“Oh, but I’m really not,” Wednesday protested back. “Take a closer look at Winter or Willow.

They’re the ones who get all the admiration—because, well—because they’re the pretty ones, the ones with flair, the ones that aren’t always falling over banisters onto guests.”

Castil raised his eyebrows. “You imply that this has happened before.” He said it as a question.“It has,” Wednesday admitted. “I wish it weren’t true, but last year, on the same day, I toppled over

the banister onto a poor fellow by the name of Cassius Wickerworth.”Castil smiled, humorlessly. “I do hope you two are friends?” There was something tighter about his

voice now. Wednesday wasn’t sure if she’d done something wrong, but she decided to respect his privacy and not dig deeper.

“Kind of,” she replied with a little anxious laugh. “I mean, we hardly know each other. But he was at the ball also. I suppose he left before you were there, but…well, he knows Willow better than I do.” She had a flashback to Willow grabbing his arm, and nearly scowled. Quickly changing the subject, she added, “Anyhow, why are you here, Castil? You could get lost. Our gardens have a maze, you know.”

“At the center, I noticed,” Castil answered with a little smile. “I also noticed some rope bridges and traced them to a pyramid. Are they ever used? They look awfully precarious.”

“That’s what I always say,” Wednesday agreed. “They’re Willow’s. She runs along them all the time. I’m not sure why she would like to be so high up—I’m afraid of heights,” she added shyly. “But—um—well, she uses them. Nobody else does.”

“Is that so?” Castil looked amused at the thought of Willow running around alone on top of the pitching rope bridges. Though right now it was rather serene by its usual standards. “Well. Anyhow, I’m setting off, so I thought I might take off alone. I’d hate to rally all of you up for a good bye. Just thought I’d make it simple and cut out all the unnecessary farewells. But of course, I stumbled upon you and just had to say hello. It doesn’t feel very gentlemanly of me to sneak off without thanking at least one of my hosts,” he added bashfully, with a hint of flush.

Wednesday sat up. “You were going to leave?” she cried. “Alone? You’re arm’s still hurt.” Because of me, she reminded herself guiltily. “Anyhow, how can you be thinking of gentlemanliness? You’re hardly more than a boy, about my age. How old can you be?”

“Erm, fifteen.” “See?” Wednesday said triumphantly. “You’re only two years older than I am.”“By now Elizabeth II would have been married for years.”“Was it Elizabeth II?”“I’m not sure. My history is not very good.”It was so easy to talk with Castil, Wednesday thought to herself, and inwardly smiled. “Mine isn’t

either,” she confessed. “I prefer literature. Shakespeare was a genius.”“I think he was not quite right in the head.”“Well, then he was a not-quite-right-in-the-head genius,” Wednesday said firmly.Castil laughed. “Which is your favorite play?”“Hamlet,” Wednesday said. “Though I feel that Hamlet was a big strange. And why Denmark, I

wonder? At any rate, I feel that he’s quite the interesting character. Though I also like Othello…”“Is that not a game?” Castil asked.Wednesday laughed. “It’s not only that,” she corrected him gently, “though I do believe it is a

game…” She tapped her chin with one tapered finger. “Othello…it’s a strange one as well. And then of course there’s Romeo and Juliet, which is also one of his most fantastic. And yet I also frequently favor A

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Midsummer Night’s Dream, which is one of his most absurd works.”“Aah, they’re all absurd,” Castil said with the frustrated air of one comparing rocks to dirt in terms of

beauty. Wednesday laughed, surprised that she could find such humor in so simple a sentence, and she couldn’t help but let a smile spread across her face, so wide it pushed her cheeks up into the first real smile she’d had in days.

“You know,” Castil said, “I actually enjoy nonfiction literature more.”“Really?” Wednesday said, wondering who could not enjoy a good piece of Charles Dickens over a

textbook. “Just statistical things, actually,” Castil said, thoughtful. “I enjoy politics. And reading about history,

and human development, and generational decline. In fact, I enjoy reading about generational decline very much.”

“Generational decline?” Wednesday tried to imagine her grandfather, who had died before she was born, being the height of a skyscraper, then her father only a building’s height, then her as perhaps a fence post, and her children (who she placed a blank on) the height of a coffee table.

“The habits and disciplinary decline through the family line,” Castil explained, seeming to notice her confusion. “From the immigrant generation to the first generation, and then from the second generation on—they have different habits that tend to decline through the generations. It’s really quite fascinating, especially since the immigrant and first generation tend to be the sharpest, the most bright. And from then on the qualities tend to go down and down and down.”

Wednesday paused, feeling a little hurt. “I’m seventeenth generation,” she said, trying not to sound offended.

This seemed to dawn on Castil, because he said quickly, “Please don’t take that as an insult. I didn’t mean that to be offensive—I mean, I just….”

“Don’t mind,” Wednesday said, shrugging it off. At least Castil was finely attuned to her feelings, and she felt a little glow inside. “Honestly, it’s not always that way, is it? If that were true, then maybe my grandfather would’ve had a little more sense!”

Castil smiled tentatively. “I suppose you don’t hold such a high opinion of his intelligence?”“Oh, his common sense was terrible, just terrible,” Wednesday told him earnestly. “Father told me

that—Grandfather died before I was born. Father said that Grandfather was as clumsy as a horse, and that he was rash and always did things without thinking. Whether it be working or just having fun, Grandfather always chose the least sensible way of doing it. Father told me one time that Grandfather was trying to fit more books in his trunk one day when he was preparing to go away on a trip, and so he put all the little ones in first and then got angry when he couldn’t fit the large ones in.” She smiled.

“That actually reminds me of my own mother,” Castil said with a little laugh. “She would wash the dishes and then stack them on the table, which hadn’t been washed yet; or she would be washing the clothes, get all the dirt off in one tub, and then use the same dirty water to wash out extra soap.”

“I’m sure that’s a very efficient way to do such things,” Wednesday said solemnly. They both laughed, and she went on, “But my Lord, Grandfather. Mother used to say that Grandfather was an interesting specimen—since he was far too strange to be human! Father would recall memories of when he was a young boy and Grandfather would be doing the strangest things. He said maybe Grandfather wanted to be an inventor, since he had so many weird contraptions that probably were household objects that had been melted, frozen, baked, boiled, burned, or all of the above. Sometimes I wish that Grandfather was still alive when I was b-b—” She sneezed, and looked down at herself in surprise, realizing goose pimples were all over her bare arms. “Oh, I—” She sneezed again, and the effort wracked her chest, and she let out a sharp

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gasp. In a single motion, Castil swept his long swallowtail jacket off his shoulders and onto hers, covering

her. His own shoulders were so slender that it fit almost perfectly on her own. The jacket was velvety, and while it was thin, it blocked out the cold like a wall. She looked up into Castil’s face in surprise. He smiled, even though under his jacket, he was only wearing a thin turtleneck.

“Aren’t you cold, like that?” Wednesday asked.“Not as cold as you were, in that dress,” Castil said. “You needed it more than I did. I should’ve

given it to you earlier, but…well…I guess I haven’t mastered that level of forethought yet,” he admitted.“I think you’re perfectly fine,” Wednesday said as he wrapped it more closely around her.

“Goodness, I didn’t realize just how cold I was. Thank you; this is like heaven.” Castil shrugged. “It’s a duty. A real gentleman wouldn’t let a girl freeze to death, would he?”Wednesday shrugged back at him. “But you don’t qualify. You’re not old enough to be really

considered a man at this point.” She was feeling a little bit light-headed from the force of her sneezing, and she gripped the arm of the bench for support.

“I’m not just a boy anymore,” Castil said, oblivious to her discomfort. “I suppose I’m somewhere in the middle.”

“Mmm.” Hairline cracks were fracturing her vision. She decided she really wasn’t feeling well; pressure was building up in her chest like steam trapped in a teakettle, and it was making her heartbeat race. And it wasn’t because Castil was there. She should tell Castil that she needed to get back in… “Castil,” she began, “I…”

Her vision wavered and careened sideways. Hm? I…I feel weak. She was only semi-aware of hands catching her, Castil’s face, framed with his beautifully shiny dark

hair, looking down at her, some noise—a voice?—and then being scooped up into someone’s arms and being carried. She was caught in a half-daze, with Castil’s head the only thing she could really see. The edges of her vision were sparkly, with starbursts of blue. Castil…she thought, a little delirious. He was so pretty. Just like a girl. With that gorgeous dark hair swept over his brow, with jagged edges of ice-white shine, in soft swoops around his face that framed his pointed, elegant jawline and that fine-bridged nose…the most beautiful eyes, that exotic blue-green-grey with the violet rings at the far edge, close to the whites.

She closed her eyes and let him just carry her. Where are we going? she wondered. He must be taking me somewhere far, far away…and she conjured up an image in her mind’s eye, of her perception of what Castil’s home must look like; a large, homey kind of charming farmhouse with a soft-hill sprawling meadow. She imagined sinking into this meadow, such a pretty meadow, and falling into a rich sleep…

Wednesday opened her eyes.She was no longer in Castil’s arms. She was lying supine, and from here she could see the familiar

ceiling of her room, and if she glanced sideways to her left she could see the antique bureau with her medicine bottle, and underneath her she could feel her large, firm pillow. Over her were her sheets. She was back in her room, back in bed. Only one thing was different. She could still feel Castil’s jacket under her back, surrounding her in a warm, ruffled cocoon.

She sat up, and Castil’s jacket fell off her shoulders. No dizziness attacked her. Not a single bit of wooziness was left in her. A glance at the window, on which the curtains had been pulled back, revealed that

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it was almost noon. Wednesday pulled herself out of bed, still clutching the jacket. She felt mortified, as usual, of her

sickliness, and that she had almost fainted in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, all because of two sneezes. She went into the bathroom.

Looking into the mirror, she saw a dreadfully pale face with prominent lashes that sloped downwards and then up as if they were weighed down, lips that seemed unnaturally red in her white face, eyes that stood out, visible dark shadows under her eyes like someone had pasted a film underneath them, her hair like a rat’s nest, all shoved to one side and tangled up in snarls.

“You look like a ghost,” she said to herself. “Lighten up, Wednesday, and get yourself cleaned up.”Splashing water recklessly on her face, she rubbed a towel over it, and ran her fingers through her

loose hair. It was coming unpinned, the pins sticking out in strange places, making her head look prickly as a hedgehog. She made a sour face at herself. Of course, neither of her sisters (or her father or mother, for that matter) had bothered to take out her pins or comb her hair before laying her down on the bed. Oh, well. She didn’t need them to look after her.

Wednesday grabbed a brush and scraped it against her scalp, pulling out any tangled hairs with a wince. She combed out several pins as well, letting them clink to the floor along with coiled strands of auburn. Soon the floor was littered with pins and hair. She pushed them all into a pile with her toes, and stared at herself in the mirror again.

“Oh, now I look like I’ve just gotten out of bed,” she murmured. Her hair trailed to the small of her back, brushed and completely undone. Her face was still pale, but Wednesday didn’t care. She took, with one hand, Castil’s jacket from where she’d hung it on a hook, and with the other hand plucked another rose from the vase sitting on the sinktop. She’d pricked herself once again. How had she done something like that? Frowning, she wiped her hand carelessly on a towel, leaving a thin smear of pink-red, and walked downstairs without bothering to re-pin her hair or put on some stockings and slippers.

Winter was at the central room’s table, calmly working a needle. A froth of yellow silk was coiled on her lap. Willow wasn’t present, and neither was Father—though he would probably be along soon, as it was drawing close to noon and they would quickly be eating some lunch.

Winter looked up when Wednesday came in. “Oh, there you are,” she said, returning to her work, “I was wondering if you were ever going to wake up.”

“It wasn’t that long,” Wednesday said mildly.“It was plenty long, considering that it was induced by a simple sneeze,” Winter said casually, not

even sparing Wednesday a glance.Deciding to ignore this pointed statement, Wednesday sat down at the table. “Where’s Willow?”

she asked, changing the subject. “I honestly have no idea,” Winter said in an offhand voice, concentrating on the silk she was sewing

up. “She returned a bit before you came back in Castil’s arms, but left almost as soon as she came. Then Castil came back. He seemed a little bit flustered that you’d fainted for no apparent reason, and he seemed to think it was his fault. Something about being too cold out there and something about his coat? Then he asked me to fetch Father, which of course I did, and asked him to take you up to our room. And then he apologized again, bid us a quick good-bye, and left.”

“He’s left?” Wednesday demanded, completely forgetting that she was surprised about Winter also using Castil’s first name.

“Yes, he’s left, didn’t you hear what I just said?” Winter didn’t sound happy.“But I still have—he left his jacket!” Wednesday exclaimed, holding it up, dropping her rose on the

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floor. “He’s already gone and he didn’t take it back!”At this, Winter practically flung her silk on the table and rushed over, gathering up the jacket. “Wait

—this is his jacket? He forgot it?”“No, I don’t think he forgot it; I think he left it on purpose. The poor fellow seems to think it’s his

duty to be a gentleman even though he’s only fifteen. Now what should I do, Winter?”“Well, he’s got to come back,” Winter said, very self-confidently. “Don’t worry, Wednesday, he’s

going to come back if I have to make him and then we’ll give him his jacket. Goodness, this is fine material! And yet he still left it, on purpose, too. He must have a very high opinion of you.” Winter scrutinized Wednesday carefully. “At least, that I would think.”

At that moment, Willow came bursting it, breath in a huff, looking completely in shambles with her hair coming down and her face flushed and the flounces of her dress askew. She stopped in the doorway, exhilarated. “Come quick! Oh, you have to come. Mother’s back!”

“What?” Winter’s skirts billowed as she jumped up and ran for the doors. Wednesday hurried after her as fast as she dared. Mother was back? She hadn’t even been aware that Mother had left. Then again, Mother was so busy she didn’t ever have time to have tea with her daughters, or even come to supper. It wasn’t unusual that Mother had left and come back without notice, but still….

Well, at least she was back. The three of them ran out front, Willow all messy—no doubt she’d been running about in the gardens again—and Winter pristine and aloof, and Wednesday feeling like she had still just gotten out of bed with her undone hair and bare feet.

A covered carriage pulled by two bridled Lippizans had pulled up on the front walk. The carriage was a fairly grand thing, a dark scarlet with gold tasseled bordering, and Wednesday knew that the inside was just as fancy. She and her sisters had once ridden in it to a party hosted by the McConnermans. The window facing them was covered by a golden drape so they couldn’t see Mother’s face.

“Mother!” Winter and Willow went sprinting down to the front walk, their faces like sunshine, pulling up their skirts so they wouldn’t trip over the hems. Wednesday quickly followed behind as Winter reached the carriage doors and flung them open.

Mother sat inside, calmly holding her seashell-shaped bag on her lap while the carriageman, who was leaning in the other side’s open doorway, gathered up her belongings to take back up to the mansion. Despite her incessant travels, she was as gorgeous as ever, looking posh in her rich green dress with its matching stylish hat. She looked like a woman playing as Scarlett O’Hara-in-her-curtains-dress with the green and the gold trim, which made her seem all the grander.

“Girls!” she said, holding out her arms, and Winter and Willow tumbled into them. They loved Mother like a mouse with cheese, mostly because Mother favored them (of course) and that she usually brought back expensive gifts for all of them. Mother laughed; a sweet, bright laugh that always made heads in the vicinity turn—especially men’s heads. “Oh, I’ve missed you, my precious gems. All of you doing all right? Willow, darling, you’re looking a little peachy. And Winter—well, elegant as ever, I must say. Wednesday, are you hiding back there?” She craned her head and spied Wednesday hovering on the outskirts behind the heaps of skirts. “Ah, there you are. Well, my girls—oh, my Willow, you really are looking paler than usual. I’m concerned! Has anything happened?”

“No,” Willow said, casting a sideways glare at Winter so Mother wouldn’t see. “Mmm, well just give me a holler if anything’s bothering you, honey,” Mother said, stroking Willow’s

hair. She turned her attention to Winter. “Ah, Winter. You’re growing as fast as ever, more and more beautiful each day—you look like a goddess. Of course, you already did, but if it’s possible for someone like you get even prettier, it’s happened in the time I was away.”

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Winter beamed. “Oh, Mother. I could never be as pretty as you.”“I don’t know about that, now,” Mother chided, touching a hand to her face. “I’m getting old, and I

won’t be the person I once was. All this business is getting to me.”“You still look as young as ever.”“Ah, my dove.” Mother planted a large kiss on Winter’s forehead, leaving a lipstick mark. She

quickly rubbed it off. “Well, get off me, now, both of you! How am I supposed to get home with you two clinging to me?”

Winter and Willow quickly scrambled off Mother as she smoothed her skirts down and ducked out of the carriage with the sound of swishing silk. “Come to the back with me, girls.” She led them all to the trunk (with which the carriagehand was still struggling) and picked up a stack of wrapped gifts with bows, handing a large, cylindrical one to Willow, a rectangular one to Winter, and a heavy but relatively small roundish one to Wednesday. Holding it curiously, Wednesday ran her hand over it. The wrapping paper was full of wrinkles, as if the object inside wasn’t smooth. With the carriageman lugging Mother’s belongings behind, they all started up back to the castle, with Mother chattering the entire way.

“Goodness me, it seems you’ve gotten thinner, Willow. That isn’t a good thing anymore! You’re as skinny as a stick! I’m starting to really become worried about you. Oh, and Winter dear, I hope that you’ve excelled in your lessons with the new course I proposed to your father about? Yes? Ah, I was confident in you, my beautiful. Such a gifted mind! I just realized you’ve changed your hairstyle, Winter. It looks gorgeous like that, separating the gold and the red and the blonde and all the other colors that make up your hair. I love those strands that just drape over. And Willow, your hair is as famous as ever. They’re still talking about you in Yorkshire. Though I notice that you have a bit more curl in it now, and it looks like rolling sea waves, like this one painting I saw on my last travels—just lovely, even if you are a bit disheveled today, but no matter. Now, where’s your father? I need a few words with him! He doesn’t seem to have paid enough attention to you all—and you need attention, growing girls like you. I suppose a man like him wouldn’t understand. He’s so unsocial—no appreciation of artistry, or music, or parties, or drinking, or anything that has to do with all these festive things. The man is so unpredictable! Well, anyhow, at least you’ll have me to talk to. I’m staying a while, my girls, and because of difficulties that are going on in the business world right now, I don’t have much work to do, so I won’t be cooped up all day long, thankfully. Maybe now I’ll be able to spend time with my precious gems, perhaps take a little stroll in the gardens every day, hm? No more being isolated from my favorite beauties! And I’ll be able to have tea with you, and go to parties with you, and have our meals together. Everything’s going to be so much more enjoyable and less lonely with me back. Maybe I’m a little self-absorbed, but, well, a girl can’t survive in life without a little pride, don’t you think? That’s my view on life, at any rate. Now, once we get inside, then we can sit at the main table and you can open up your gifts. Have none of the house decorations have been changed? Ah, good, they have! The way your father redecorated last time was absolutely awful—no sense of style. Did you redecorate this time? Oh, thank goodness. If I see the floral-pattern chair in the parlor one more time, I really do think I am going to explode. Honestly, who would do something like that? I trust you’ve had the artistic sense to put things into the right places. Well, now I’m off-track. But the main table is still in the main room, is it not? Ah, good, that was what I was wondering. As long as that’s there, our house will still feel like our house, no matter if the floral chair is in the parlor. At least none of our family is nonsensical enough to put honest-to-goodness chairs in the ballroom—now that would be a true tragedy. Oh, I’ve missed the gardens. Hopefully no guests have gotten lost in the central maze. And I see that your bridges are still intact, Willow, though perhaps not for much longer. Some of these blooms are early blossoms; though I must say,

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I’ve never seen so many of our daffodils so close to already withering in such early a January. The arbors need some trimming. Honestly, who’s been doing the work around this place? You’d think they were dancing a mazurka instead of cutting with shears. Maybe I can get the work running a bit faster around here; time seems to have slowed down, the efficiency is so low. Don’t you worry; I won’t be working any of you around the clock, my little jewels! All is well now that your mother is back and ready to hustle until everything is perfectly set. Though I may have to leave in April, but even if I do, it will be a very short trip, only a few days instead of a long one like this one. I cannot believe I’ve been gone for three months. All of you have grown so much, fine young ladies instead of older girls now. Almost marrying age, aren’t you, Willow? And hopefully you’ll find someone who suits your fancy soon, Winter. I know how it feels, so agonizing for the choice! You must be dizzy with worry to find a man quickly, but take your time. It’s quality of a husband that counts!”

They reached the door, and Winter pulled it open graciously, as Willow ran ahead to call Father down, with Mother smiling pleasantly as she sailed into the foyer.

“My, my,” she said. “It hasn’t changed that much. Perhaps that’s a good thing. If it was completely changed, well, I suppose it wouldn’t feel like home. Nevertheless, still a nice place, I say.”

“Yes, it’s a nice place,” Wednesday said politely. Mother started to undo the satin ribbon of her hat under her chin. “Of course it is. Where’s that

father of yours, Wednesday?”“Willow’s gone to get him,” Wednesday said, still using her politest voice. “I’m sure he’ll be right

along. Do you need help with your hat?”“I’m not that old,” Mother laughed, finally tugging the bow apart and lifting the hat off, then

smoothing down her hair. Her shiny coffee curls bounced into place around her face, perfectly formed, and she shook her head to let them settle. “Ah, that’s much better. I could hardly turn my head without my hair tickling my neck in that monstrosity.”

“I think your hair’s quite fine,” Wednesday commented. “Really, Mother, I think you should be proud. You’re the only one in our immediate family that doesn’t have red in his or her hair. It’s such a pretty color, too.”

“You’re as fickle as ever,” said Mother, tossing her hat to Wednesday. She caught it in surprise and hung it on the hatstand as Mother continued striding towards the main room. “Trust you to focus on my hair color, my girl, and not my face!”

“Sorry,” Wednesday said quickly, trying to keep up with Mother’s quick pace. Mother was always like Willow—a bit on the different side, easy to take offense, perhaps not what one would call a traditional lady. Mother’s skirts swished around her as she turned into the main room and almost trod on the rose that Wednesday had dropped earlier. Just in time, she stopped short, and Wednesday backed up as Mother’s skirts curled forward and then billowed back.

“Say, what’s that?” Mother said, bending at the knees to pick the rose up.“I dropped it earlier,” Wednesday said apologetically as Mother studied the rose, which was slightly

crushed on one side. “What a pretty color,” Mother said, stroking the petals. “Like spun glass—ah, delicate. Much like

you. You like roses, don’t you, Wednesday?”“Um, yes.” Wednesday placed the gift Mother had given her on the table.“Well, here you are.” Smiling, Mother pulled a pin from her own hair and clipped the rose behind

Wednesday’s ear. Wednesday barely had time to enjoy the feeling of Mother’s silken skin brushing against her ear when Mother turned away, exclaiming, “Oh, George!”

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Father, with Willow trailing behind, came striding purposefully into the hall. His face seemed to light up slightly when he saw Mother—a little less worn, a little less tired. “Esthetique, my darling.” He took one of Mother’s dainty hands in his, and kissed it.

“Oh, you formal old goat,” Mother said, and Willow stifled a snort. “Who said I was an old goat?” Father said, affronted. Winter, who arrived in the main room at this

time, looked taken aback, at this strange statement. Mother kissed him.Father kissed her back.“A pair of love doves, aren’t you two?” Willow said teasingly, hugging her package to her chest, and

Mother winked at her over Father’s shoulder. Finally they broke apart, the girls hanging awkwardly at the edges of the main room, unsure of what

to say at this exchange. Mother sighed and took a seat at the main table, smoothing down her skirts again as they poofed up.

“It’s amazing to be back,” she said as Winter industriously started to clear the table. Father sat down next to Mother, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. “Both my girls have grown up so much in the three months I was away.”

“Your three girls,” Father corrected, looking apologetically at Wednesday. She pushed down the irritation of being “forgotten” by her own mother. Whether Mother had done it on purpose or on accident, she didn’t know, but either way, it displeased her.

“Oh, yes. Terribly sorry about that slip of tongue, Wednesday darling.” Mother held out her free arm to Wednesday, and Wednesday took a seat on Mother’s other side. Mother gave her a little squeeze. “Really, my girl, don’t think I’ve forgotten about you! Now, where’s Winter?”

“She went to go clear some of the clutter on the table,” Willow reported, also taking a seat on the other side of the circular table and primly smoothing down her dress as it billowed up. “You know how she is—she’ll take everything out of this room and dump it somewhere else if we don’t stop her.”

“There’s my favorite unladylike girl,” Mother said affectionately, leaning even more on Father. Willow grinned, still hugging her present. “I know you’re anxious to open that, Willow,” she added. “When Winter returns we can open them. Just like the Christmas celebrations we would have, don’t you remember? The last time I was actually here for Christmas was—oh—goodness, that was some years ago, wasn’t it?—well, I think it was back when you were still a wee chit. Pretty as a painting even back then when you were only as tall as my waist!”

Willow blushed.Winter came hurrying into the large room, still clutching her thin box. In the few minutes she’d been

gone, she not only had successfully cleared the table, but had changed into a better, more respectful dress to show her submissiveness to her mother. She was in stark contrast to both Willow and Wednesday, both of whom were disheveled and rather untidy. Taking a seat a few feet away from Willow, she quickly smoothed her skirts down and placed her package on the table. “Sorry, I’m a little late,” she said sweetly.

“What matters is that you’re here now, dove,” said Mother indifferently. At that moment, the carriage hand came struggling in, dragging all of Mother’s belongings behind him. He dropped them off beside the hatstand and ran off, looking clearly unhappy.

“Ah!” said Mother. “I brought some more gifts back, too. Most of them are in this suitcase.” She hauled a large brown suitcase over. “Still…perhaps you should open those three first, hm?”

“Can we now?” Willow said, wriggling with excitement.“Of course, my darling,” Mother said.

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Without waiting to solicit Father’s opinion, Willow ripped the paper off her cylindrical tin, revealing…a silver tin with a cover. She took that off, too, and peeped inside. Winter was busily taking off her paper, very neatly, so none of the wrapping tore. Wednesday started to unravel the tissue papers off her spherical one.

“Oh, this is so sweet!” exclaimed Willow, tipping the tin upside-down. To the girls’ excitement, out fell a waterfall of colorful wrapped ribbon candies, the twisted kind in bright hues. The plastic wraps crackled as they spilled onto the table.

“Such expensive candy,” Father said, raising an eyebrow at his wife.Mother pecked him on the nose. “Yes, they were, but it’s worth it for my darlings, is it not? They are

for the girls to share.”“Twenty-six…twenty-seven…twenty-eight.” Willow had counted them, poking her finger and making

little piles; equal amounts for her, Winter, and Wednesday. She looked up in dismay. “There are twenty-eight of them. That’s not divisible by three.”

Winter pushed her half-unwrapped box aside and re-counted the candies. “Well, if there are twenty-eight, then we each get nine and there’s one left over. We can give that one to Mother.”

“What about Father?” Willow said, still puzzling over the numbers, trying to find an equal division. “Someone would have to give up one. Then two people would get nine and one person would have eight.”

“Wednesday, hand one of yours over,” Mother clucked impatiently. “It’s a simple candy, girls. And Wednesday can’t have too much sugar anyhow, or she’ll—”

“Suffer from high blood pressure. We know, Mother,” Willow said, rolling her eyes. She plucked a candy from Wednesday’s small pile and pushed the two extra candies across the table to Mother and Father. “We witnessed it firsthand. On Thanksgiving of last year—you weren’t here, Mother—well, we had so much food between us and the McConnermans. And after a bit of casual dancing, then we passed around all the sweets, and each of us had a bowl of that delicious tapioca pudding with a dollop of clotted cream. And then Wednesday had a sort of seizure kind of malady—”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me of that,” said Wednesday, annoyed with Willow for bringing it up. She pushed around her ribbon candies with one finger.

“Well,” Willow said, bashful. “Well, thank you for the candies, Mother.” Mother extended her arm over the table, and Willow kissed her fingertips since they were on

opposite sides of the table. Winter finished neatly taking off the paper on her box, and she opened it to find a dress inside—

nothing like the somewhat behind fashions in _______, but a modern, stylish thing that was all the rage in [somewhere else]. Winter lifted it up in wonder, letting the sky-blue creation swath the table with its silvery, light half-sleeves that succumbed into folds at the elbows, dripping off in an airy waterfall. Colors, various shades of the same family of blue, swept from the dress’s hip towards the floor, curling in seashell waves and tumbling to rest, undulated, at the floor.

“It—it’s gorgeous,” Winter stammered.“A sweet little thing, isn’t it?” Mother said as Winter fingered the lace trimming of the soft corset. “I

thought it’d be just you—pale and perfect and cool as the season you were named after.”“It is perfect, Mother,” Winter said in a hushed voice. She set the dress down on the table, and it

poofed up for a moment, showing the heavy silk crinolines before settling down and pooling silkily on the polished wood. Winter hurried around the side of the table, squeezed between Wednesday and Mother, and gave Mother a tight hug. “I love it,” she whispered.

“And I love you,” Mother whispered back, smiling as Winter stood up and went back to her side of

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the table, still fascinated as she picked it back up and the wispy flounces fluttered to life like ghostly snowflakes.

Wednesday averted her eyes from the beautiful dress and tugged off the crinkly tissue papers on her own gift, and they fell apart, leaving a more-or-less round object on tiny stilts not even an inch tall. The object was frosted glass, with a wind-up handle. Hesitantly, Wednesday turned it a few times before letting go. The handle was surprisingly stiff and needed a good bit of force to do a full 360 degree turn.

The gift tinkled to life, filling the air with a crystalline song in a minor key. It was a song Wednesday recognized—Moonlight Sonata.

“It’s a music box,” she whispered, looking at it in rapture. It was so beautiful, singing in a clear voice.

“It’s a music globe,” Mother corrected gently. “It is a sphere, after all.”They all watched as the music started to wind down—for Wednesday had only turned the handle

twice—and finally clicked to a stop. What a haunting melody, Wednesday thought. The gift was perfect for someone like her.

A loud crackling noise broke the sacred silence after the music globe had finished, and everyone turned. Willow was calmly opening one of her ribbon candies.

“Oh, honestly, Willow,” Winter said, rolling her eyes, but she didn’t really seem upset. Everyone laughed as Willow indifferently popped the candy in her mouth.

“Thanks, Mother,” Wednesday said quietly, giving her a hug as a touch of ceremony ensued, with the girls laughing at one another and Father watching them, bemused.

“You’re welcome, my plucky darling,” Mother said brightly. After a moment, she turned back to Father, taking a small box of chocolates out of her pocket and offering it to him. “Would you like a chocolate, George?”

“I’d lie a chocwut,” Willow said, speaking through her candy, which was mangling her words. It was as if they were seven years old again, which was the year before Mother had started becoming

extremely busy and had no time for them. The girls were all laughing and bright, Mother had her pleasant motherly smile on her face, and Father seemed happier than he had that morning. The entire castle seemed cheerful and ceremonious, and Wednesday preferred it over the gloomy silence that usually dominated it these days, broken only by Willow’s antics.

Mother passed around the chocolates, laughing, and the girls seized them, shrieking with joy. “Raspberries!” Willow cried, grabbing one from the box. “Oh, don’t stuff it in your mouth, Willow—you’re going to choke; oh, come on, how old are you, five?

Ah, cream and chocolate—that’s my absolute favorite!”“Give me the box, Winter!”“Can I have one? Honestly, you two are—”“Yes, yes, we’re children, I know, Wednesday, it’s just plain fun. I’d rather be as childish as I want

now before Mother boffs off to another long trip.”“I wish you could stay forever, Mother!”The girls tumbled onto the carpet of the adjacent library, laughing their heads off and tangling their

hair around themselves, tossing the empty chocolate box around. Wednesday felt exhilarated, laughing with her sisters, feeling as though nothing had ever happened between them and that their life would be serene always, since their family was all together. Even Father was more at ease, the tightness around his jaw and controlled temper gone, leaving, an easy, relaxed posture. Their days had been terse and fitful with Mother missing, and now, now that everything was back in place and would be for a few months, Wednesday was

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glad. She wanted time to freeze, to enjoy the playful, not spiteful, romping with her sisters, with no worries about her health and no teasing from Willow, no glares from Winter. The festive season was at its peak, and this was how it should be.

If only this would last, she thought. Because, of course, it wouldn’t.

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Chapter Six“My lord,” a voice said. The Shadow King wearily turned his head from where he had been staring over his balcony ledge into

the darkness. A woman with sleek, pinned curls and a pure white brocaded dress was standing behind him, looking solemn.

“Aurelia,” he said.Aurelia curtsied gracefully, smooth and perfect. “Is there anything you need to tell me?” he asked, turning around and leaning his elbows on the

banister of the balcony rail. In the Shadow Kingdom, every object was black as night, barely distinguishable from the solid void of darkness that filled this world, so thick it was almost tangible. The only thing that betrayed the dark rail’s form was the faint shading, a slightly darker black than the air, delineating the underside from the polish of the smooth top.

“Come here, my king,” she said, holding out a hand. In the vivid black pressing in on all sides, Aurelia, like the other Goddesses, seemed to emit a faint ghostly light that shielded her from the oozing darkness.

“What do you need?” he said, tired. “I can understand that you are troubled,” she said softly, “and as your guardian, the prime Goddess,

it is my duty to ease you in times of need.”“I’m fine.”“Surely not.”“Well, I am more or less fine.”Aurelia smiled. “Step away from that banister, my lord.”The king moved away, which sent his cloak fluttering behind him, and the banister dissolved into

nothing. It was always hard to think of the substantiality of the Shadow Kingdom, as there seemed to be only one dimension and yet infinite dimensions at the same time, and objects kept melting and appearing. Yet, he knew, if he had indeed been leaning over the banister when it disappeared, he would not have fallen. The “ground” would have risen to meet him. At the same time, what Aurelia was standing on would not have risen. But they were still both standing on the same level.

He had learned that is was much easier to just accept this bizarre world. Three years in this place, which he could not leave unless there was not a drop of sunlight in the outside world, had taught him this much thus far.

Aurelia’s skirts eerily made no sound in the sucking abyss as she stepped closer to him. “My lord,” she said gently. “What is wrong?”

He sighed and sat down on the chair that had miraculously formed at his will, just behind him, and he cupped his chin in his hands. “Honestly, I don’t know, Aurelia,” he said, the timbre of his voice reverberating as the only sound heard for miles. “I just don’t quite feel—right. And it’s not the usual kind of not right—not the kind that comes with living in this dark place. Well—I—hm. It is difficult to say.”

“You still miss the Sunlight Queen,” Aurelia said, her voice low. “No!” The King sat bolt upright. “No, I don’t.”“You know you do,” Aurelia said. “I am the Goddess of compassion, my king, as you know, and

therefore I am very good at reading emotions. Yours are all in turmoil, aren’t they? Both you and I know that you are still thinking of the Queen…how she would smile at you and ask you to do something for her…but, alas, those days are over.” Here she sighed, and the faint glow around her became more diminished, not quite as strong. “You know she is still crying over your fate, my lord? She knows it seems harsh to treat you

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as so…her most faithful servant…but she also knows she had no choice. She cannot show kindness to you now, after you broke the ancient magic that even she has no power over. They were rules written long ago, many centuries before you appeared in the world.”

“You have seen the Sunlight Queen?” he asked, alert.Aurelia smiled bitterly. “I have…ah….paid her a visit, if you will.”“No doubt talking about me behind my back,” the King said glumly, sitting back in his chair.“Well—yes,” she admitted.“I knew it!” The King sat forward, mischief in his eyes. His silky cloak settled around him. “What did

she say? Was it anything good? Or was it bad?”Aurelia hesitated. “Do you really wish to know?”“It was bad, wasn’t it?” he guessed, losing some of his fervor and slumping. He looked up. “Well, tell

me anyways. It’s terrible without any news from the Light, no matter if it is good news or bad news.”Aurelia hesitated again as she spoke, as if they took a lot of effort. “She said…she said she couldn’t

abide you. And that she…has judged and…and condemned you to live here, forever in—in pain as a reminder of—what you did…not only to her, but also to the kingdom; she has already left you to rest in her memories of sunshine.”

The King was silent. “My—my lord?” Aurelia asked softly. A breeze was conjured up out of nothing, and it swirled through them, sweeping the King’s cloak

onto his left shoulder. Aurelia gently took the silk in her hands, undid the knobbly knot, and let the cloak slide to the floor with a whisper. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I was just—hoping,” he said brokenly.“Of course you were.” Aurelia gathered up the cloak and sized him up. He looked so much more

how he used to without it; that sleek river of black over his shoulders. “You may want to rest a little, my lord. All your recent trips to the outside world must have been—exhausting.”

“Indeed,” he said emotionlessly, standing up, and the chair melted away, leaving nothing but space. He leaned forward and the rail he had been leaning on earlier was suddenly there, fully formed. Folding his arms upon it, he crossed his legs and stared out into the sea of blackness.

Aurelia watched him with a detached sort of sadness.A knock sounded on the door (which hadn’t been there before—yet more meddling of substance in

the dimensions of the Shadow Kingdom). Aurelia brightened up a tad.“What is it?” the King said in a low voice in the direction of the door. It opened and two of the Goddesses spilled in; one in a perky butter-yellow dress and one in plain

tawny brown. “Esmeralda. Larissa.” His voice was rather cold. “You have something to ask of me?”Both of them curtsied. Esme was two inches shorter than her sister, and Aurelia was the tallest out

of the three in the room. “My lord, if you’re so dedicated to the Queen, honestly, you should just tell her,” Esme blurted out

as soon as she straightened. “You know I can’t leave this place.”“You could send a letter,” Esme suggested.“Shush,” Larissa said softly, kicking some tangible darkness onto Esme’s slipper.“What good would that do, exactly?” the King said. Aurelia, sensing a stormcloud mood, quickly

excused herself and left, seeming to just fade away. “She has no patience for me. She can’t even—abide me

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anymore, and she—”“We heard what the Queen said; we were there,” Larissa interrupted, though quietly. She spoke in

her soothing way, taking a seat—yet another chair had formed, he realized—and she calmly comforted him. “You know the Queen better than anyone, my lord. She says such things for a reason, and that that point…well, she did know in her heart that she still wished you were with her.”

“And yet she is a woman who tricked me and then banished me.”“Perhaps. The Queen is a decidedly clever yet foolish person, and none of us can understand her

motives.”“Yes, that was exactly my point.”“But she has goodness in her heart, I am sure,” Larissa said, still continuing in her gentle, sensible

way as Esme let her head fall to one side and smiled at him to encourage him. “She let you keep us, did she not?”

“Well…I suppose,” he said reluctantly.“If I had to decide, I would say that you are actually the one who has the most hardness in either of

your hearts. You have to let it go, my lord, and with it…you must also release her. She cannot do anything for you anymore.”

The King’s hands tightened on the banister rail, so hard his knuckles were white in stark contrast to the dark scenery. “I cannot. Not yet.”

“Then so be it,” Larissa said simply, fingering the coarse mended fabric of her dress.The King sighed. “Thank you.”“You’re very welcome.”“Are you saying thank you to me?” Esme asked brightly.“Yes, you too.”“Well, you’re welcome.”“Would you like some hot chocolate?” A black platter with steaming mugs had appeared on Larissa’s

lap. “I’m afraid the chocolate is dark chocolate, black as everything else here…”Laughter.

Early that evening, before supper, Wednesday started hanging up her new dresses in her section of the wardrobe. Mother had brought back an entire suitcase of new dresses for the girls (which they oohed and aahed over) and even a few suitcoats and sleeves for Father (which he looked at, stone-faced). Winter had spent almost the entire rest of the day acting as Mother’s personal servant, running to get tea from the kitchens, asking Mother how she felt, stoking up the fire and giving Mother blankets, all the while smiling angelically. (“Ah, Mrs. Bootlicker,” Willow had whispered to Wednesday when they witnessed Winter mowing down everything in her way trying to get Mother some biscuits. Wednesday snorted.) Willow had sat by the fire, laying out her new dresses, feeling the soft cloth and comparing them to Wednesday’s and Winter’s. She’d traded one with Wednesday; a white one with a lacy corset for a dappled green one.

As for Wednesday, she’d sat deep in thought for a while, thinking how nice Mother was (and yet strict about certain things—lessons, dressing properly, table etiquette, dancing form), though if only she’d had eyes for her. She thought about Mother’s reaction to how the girls had fawned over the young gentlemen, and winced.

Then, to clear her mind, she’d run around in the garden for half an hour, remembering to don a cloak

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and to tie it tight. With the cold stinging air that had freshened her senses instantly and the perfume of the early daffodils, she knew it had been worth it, even though when she’d gotten back the rest of her family had commented on how pale she was, and Mother had pointed out that her hair was coming unpinned.

Presently she carefully laid out on her bed one of the dresses Mother had bought for her, and smoothed it out as the skirts billowed up in a cloud. How had Mother found the money to buy these wonders? They were absolutely gorgeous. Even Wednesday’s (which were smaller and not as showy, to not make her ill health even more of a contrast) were the most beautiful things the girls had ever seen.

Wednesday gazed down at the gauzy dress. It seemed something like the Goddesses would wear—a soft blue thing, like water, with ruffles on the side, and streaks of black that somehow made it seem like a bluebird’s down. The rest of her dresses were the same way—one absolutely sweet white one with black trim, a light green with swoops of white and yellow tassels, rose and lavender and honeysuckle.

Willow burst into the girls’ bedroom as Wednesday was draping her new light green dress on a hanger and hanging it in the pine wardrobe.

“Wednesday, are you coming down for supper?” she asked, bouncing up and down.“Supper already?” Wednesday said, laying down the yellow dress she’d just picked up from her pile

on her bed. “But it’s not even past five yet.”“Well, Mother’s had a big trip, and I frankly can’t blame her for being hungry,” Willow said.

“Anyway, pleasing Mother is a good idea. She says if she’s feeling up to it tomorrow, in the morning she’ll take us riding! In that meadow over the hill that you can see by the east wing—”

“Riding?” Wednesday sighed slightly. “Of all the silly…Willow, you know I’m not a rider. I just fall off like a sack of potatoes.”

“Yes, I know you’re a terrible rider,” Willow said dismissively, waving this away with one hand. “My point is, the rest of us want to go riding, too. Even Father will come if he doesn’t have any business to tend to. You know how busy he’ll be now that Mother’s back and isn’t in work—I say he could use a break before he delves into everything he has to do.” Here she smiled slyly at Wednesday, and Wednesday heaved a greater sigh. Obviously Willow was not going to give this up.

“Well, all right. Just let me finish hanging up these dresses first; I don’t want you to run up here after supper and flop down on my nice new dresses.” Wednesday took up her yellow dress again, fluffing out the skirts and smoothing down the crinolines, and hung it neatly up in the wardrobe so it was bunched tightly against the others, squeezed together to save space but making the skirts stick out at unusual angles.

“Honestly, you are just so neat about everything, Wednesday,” Willow said, plopping down on the bed where Wednesday had just removed a rosy dress. “Mine are still downstairs. I left them on the floor, on the big purple rug by the fireplace.” She suddenly gasped. “Surely nobody will accidentally brush them a bit too close to the coals and they’ll…good heavens!” She leapt up from the bed with a vigorous fervor and fled the room.

“This is why you should be more careful, Willow,” Wednesday murmured in the empty room as she placidly hung up another dress.

A bit later that evening, supper was a very busy affair. From the dining room windows, Wednesday could clearly see the sky, which had faded to only mildly dark—a faint purple tinge at the corners of the heavens and a few stained clouds of two swift dashes of an egg-beater, sharp against the light sky. Storm clouds were gathered anxiously at one side of the rectangle of glass, as if hesitant to show their appearance, and upon inching forward came problems ordinarily found in a shy lass—gently poking forward like a cautious little dove, the running self-consciousness trickling its way into one’s soul, requiring a brave surge that perhaps these clouds did not have—and so they backed up, wondering who had noticed them, and

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peered through the swooping curtain-drapes at the window’s corner and the glass, carefully observing with a strong will to not be noticed; and the manner of them were curiously attracting Wednesday’s attention; a mystic thing, perhaps though reason shows she had seen them because she herself was much like those storm clouds—full of tears, yet shy to be shown.

Serrying around the polished mahogany table—which, while nicked and perhaps not suitable in the image of perfection, was rather charming—all of them were at their veriest jauntiness, almost overly so, while Mother seemed completely at ease without even a slight discomfort. Obviously she had settled in, and cheerfully chattered away about her travels while the rest of them sat bemused at her side; Willow folding and unfolding her napkin, Winter saying “Yes, Mother” every few seconds and hanging enraptured to Mother’s every word, Wednesday staring at the peculiarly shy storm clouds from her seat (from which she could see the entire expanse of the sky through the glass, save for the corners, which were covered by the pulled-back curtains), and Father glancing nervously at the kitchen door, probably wondering why supper was not here yet.

“Why, the times I had in France,” Mother was saying as if announcing she had won the Nobel Peace Prize—and here Winter echoed, “France?!” in a voice of wonder—“Well, they were just corking.” She touched a finger to her cheek. “There was this one delightful French lady who lived just under my floor, and after I had explained I was not a widow and I was just on business—” And Winter gasped with horror at the thought of Mother being a widow— “well, we became excellent friends. Bernadette—that was her name—she was such a sweet little thing, all pink and flowers and cheer. Cheerful disposition, with a smile that could brighten the room—it’s no wonder her husband loves her so. Sometimes it was hard to get through a conversation because her English was somewhat broken and she had a very, very thick French accent—but, all I can say, it was—interesting. A new experience.” Her face lit up, and she shook her head ruefully, making those beautiful cinnamon curls bounce, coils of thin coffee hair all wound up around her chin. Then something caught her eye, and she turned, and everyone turned with her. One of the maids was balancing part of their supper, bowls and spoons stacked in one hand, a covered battered pot with the other. The lid was sideways and a ladle’s handle was poking out.

Winter leapt up and took the bowls from the maid and spread them out—a clatter, and the spoons all landed on their napkins. She then snatched the large pot from the maid and set it with a clunk in the middle of the table.

The maid looked surprised but hurried back towards the kitchen without a word.“This is supper?” Mother asked, looking surprised. “Is this…soup?”“Not quite,” Father said gaily. Before he could continue, the maid returned with a stack of dainty

glasses and a squat pot of what Wednesday assumed was tea. She put them on the table and left quietly, biting her lip.

“What’s that…scent?” Willow said, inhaling deeply. Wednesday sniffed. Something smelled fresh and yet elder, almost as if the sea had been added to their dining room, hold the salt.

“Ah,” said Father. He lifted the lid off the teapot, and a ripple of easy sighs ran through the girls at the smell, as well as a cloud of steam that drifted. “Esthetique…I asked for this to be made for you.” He took her hand. “After all…I do know how much you like the ocean.”

“What is it made from?” Mother asked, holding back her hair and peering inquisitively at the translucent bronze of the tea. Small, wrinkly shapes mottled the bottom.

“It is callitrichaceae,” Father said solemnly, pouring Mother a cup, and then one for each of the girls. “Dicot aquatic herbs—I was fortunate to buy some a few months ago. You had already left at that time, my dear.”

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“Oh, George,” Mother said, teary-eyed. “You’re as romantic and perfect as ever.”“Please,” Willow said distastefully as Mother and Father kissed rather exuberantly. “You haven’t

even tried the actual tea yet!”“It’s the gesture that counts,” Winter said, kicking Willow in the foot (“Ouch!”) and watching Mother

and Father, her expression misty.“Well, I honestly don’t care,” Willow said petulantly, kicking Winter back (no response). She picked

up her teacup and took a sip. “Though the tea is just deliciously light.”Wednesday took a sip as well, burning her tongue. It was. Light and cleansing, leaving a fresh

feeling across her palate. Once Mother and Father finally broke apart, the girls uncovered the large metal pot with interest,

revealing a slumgullion—potatoes cut in thick wedges, cubes of meat, pickled vegetables; all swimming in a heavy porridge.

“Oh, again?” Willow said, flopping back in her chair, sending her hair cascading around her shoulders. “I thought it’d be a little more spectacular, since it’s Mother’s day back.”

Father glared at her, but not really angrily. “Willow, we’re not on the rich side.”“Still.” Willow frowned, then grabbed the ladle and put some in her bowl. The glutinous porridge

adhered to the metal of the ladle and she shook it vigorously to get it off. Bits of stew peppered Wednesday’s bowl, and she cast Willow an exasperated glance, wrinkling her brow. Willow did not see.

“It’s okay, my love,” Mother said, and pecked Father’s cheek. Her squeezed her hand gently in turn. “I love stew, no matter how simple.”

Time was a blur after that. Everyone enjoyed their tea, and exclaimed with how fine it was, and then passed the ladle around and took turns shaking the slumgullion onto their plates. Winter commented on how rich it was, and there were smiles all around as Mother started up another stream of chatter. By this time her voice had become rather background to Wednesday, and after giving New Year’s greetings all around, as Mother dived into recalling her adventures/business trip in Paris, Wednesday missed the exordium because she was too busy thinking of her own adventures at the New Year’s Festival and in the resulting and extremely busy day that had ensued because of it.

Thinking of Castil Seigfried—and his very unapompentic departure—made her feel funny on the inside. He was sweet, feminine almost, with his beautiful glossy black hair and his pretty blue eyes with the violet at the rings and his capability to excuse anything. At the same time, she couldn’t picture a pair of green eyes without an image of Cassius flashing in her mind—his always-tousled cinnamon hair, rakish, sly and yet kind disposition, and especially those eyes, like emerald jade, or peridot. Both of them seemed indescribably similar, as if brothers, and at the same time she couldn’t imagine any two people who were more different and had nothing to with each other.

She wished she had gotten to know both of them better. It wasn’t just that she was curious; she had a determination to understand these two mysterious young gentlemen better, and the fact that she had known both of them directly for less than twenty-four hours—a tiny taste of their personalities—only made her want to understand more, as one does when one samples something delicious, but only just enough to say, “How wonderful this is!” and then burn to enjoy more, and ends up buying it.

She was confident she would see Castil again—Winter had promised fervently that she would give him his jacket back if it killed her. And perhaps she’d see Cassius, too. After all, that very morning, Willow had made the two other sisters promise to get Cassius to marry her (and Wednesday scowled at the thought of Winter’s choking magic of persuasion, which had forced her to agree to Willow’s terms—just because Winter was curious about what had made Castil leave!), and they had no choice but to follow through, since a

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promise could not be broken. It was one of the ancient laws of magic that stretched way back to the flicker of creation, when magic had crept into this world and some godly figure had attached the archaic laws. A solemn promise could not be broken, lest disaster befall one. So (and the thought left a bitter taste in her mouth that she could not wash out with her tea) she would see Cassius when he and Willow were married. The thought did no wonders for her attitude, and she found herself with a severe case of the mulligrubs, and fading into the background while Mother cheerfully prattled on.

“Wednesday. Earth to Wednesday!”Willow was hissing in her ear, kicking her shins lightly underneath the table, trying to talk without

being noticed. Wednesday blinked, surfacing from her stupor, and looked at Willow. “What?” she murmured back, picking up her spoon and digging in her bowl until she had a shovelful of beans and potatoes.

“After supper, do you think we can play some parlor games in the library?” Willow asked as Wednesday tried to fit her spoon of mush in her mouth. “We haven’t played any in so long, what with Mother gone and Father busy and Winter boring and you always sick. I’m the only one with any spirit…but now that Mother’s back, don’t you think Father would agree to play?”

“Perhaps,” Wednesday said shortly, swallowing her food, “as long as we’re not playing statues, or the laughing game. I think that one’s just ridiculous.”

“We could play spillikins,” Willow offered. “It’s not so strange, and it does require thinking.”“Perhaps.”“Is that all you’re saying? Perhaps?”“Well, if you weren’t so stubborn, then maybe—” Wednesday began.“Girls?” Mother broke in. “Is everything all right over there?”“Yes, we’re fine,” Willow said dismissively. She smiled at Mother, her pretty little dimples showing.

“Mother, after supper, could we go to the library, perhaps? Or maybe the piano room? And there we could play some games.”

“The library is under renovation by my hand,” Father said. “We cannot play in there, unless you wish a book’s falling gracefully off the shelf and onto your head.”

Wednesday and Winter giggled behind their hands. Willow kept smiling, though her dimples had vanished. She wasn’t amused at Father’s funning.

“Well, I suppose,” Mother said. “I was hoping to tell you a little bit more about my business in Bellarine—”

“Naturally—” Willow said hastily. “Of course, Mother,” Winter bulldozed over Willow’s voice. “We can stay in the piano room, and

you could tell us all about your trips in Bellarine.” She clasped her hands together, smiling. “I’m sure they’re absolutely thrilling. And I could play a bit of piano to soothe us all, especially such a rambunctious girl as Willow—” She frowned discreetly at Willow, who scowled back. “And after some coffee, once you’re all done, then we can play a little.”

“Oh, joy,” Willow muttered. “Such a showoff.” Winter kicked sideways, giving Willow a warning. “Sounds like you’ve planned everything out, as usual,” Mother said, smiling at Winter and sipping her

tea. Wednesday rolled her eyes at her sisters and helped herself to more stew. It was rich and bursting with flavor, even though it was inexpensive and thrown together.

Winter beamed. After supper, still clutching their dainty cups of the aquatic herbal tea, they gathered around in the

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piano room, a large but relatively pointless room with rather scruffy carpeting, a few old sofas, and two baby grand pianos positioned opposite each other across the room. While Mother seated herself gracefully on the sofa, with Father next to her, Winter took a seat at the closest piano’s bench, and began flipping through her music. Willow, not to be outdone by her competitive sister, immediately flounced to the other piano. Their eyes met, directly eye to eye, over the shiny black surfaces.

“A duet, then,” Mother said hesitantly, using a cheery voice, breaking the bridge of tension that was arching between the two pianos.

Winter looked through her book. “Come Away to the Skies, Willow?”“Mm,” Willow agreed primly, flicking aside a page. She had her hands ready, and, sitting on the

couch, Wednesday could see both of them, positioned carefully with their music in front. The post-supper entertainment was decidedly competitive, Wednesday decided. The rest of them

watched, silent, while Winter and Willow played back and forth, competing for dynamics, articulation, tempo, matching each other. Then, after the duet (“Bravo!” Mother said, clapping), there were solos, Winter better suited to graceful, smooth, soft songs, while Willow dexterously let her fingers fly across the keys in an allegro Prelude in E♭, not to mention many other fast, haunting songs that made Wednesday gut curl and feel like she needed to stand up and run.

After much piano playing (and rendering both Willow and Winter panting and pink), Mother finally composed herself, and began to speak again of her trips, with the two other girls crowding on both of her sides, listening with rapture and squealing with delight whenever Mother said something funny, Father content, all of them crowded cozily together on the sofa. Despite being strict, Mother was a pleasant woman, and she spun her story in her clever, enticing way; yet all her words filtered through Wednesday brain and she could only hear them faintly. It wasn’t that Wednesday was feeling weak or sick; she was just unable to focus. An image of the garden sprang to her mind, and she felt clogged, and that somewhere in her mind the thought was crystal clear: the garden would clear it.

Wednesday excused herself, much to the others’ surprise, and Mother stared at her questioningly but didn’t raise a commotion as she quickly walked out of the piano room and down the hall. From the doorway, a quick right and she was in the gardens, the southwest section. The gardens were a sprawling, low-cut series of untrimmed arbors overflowing with thin lime vines starting to sprout the barest hint of leaves, from where she stood. To her left was a hedge, which in early summer was full of soft blooming lilacs and topiaries bursting with colors. Right now it was a bare, grim green, but she was confident they would start to color soon enough. The southwest section was a rose section, but as none of them had bloomed yet, all that there was for her to see was a threadbare forest of thorny branches, jutting out a sickly green with brown spines. Roses and leaves would soon flourish on those same tangled branches, transforming them into beauties, but currently there were still only thistles. Lattices were placed, alternating with the hedges and arbors, and each white espalier only had snake-like dead vines clinging, but by the time spring arrived, morning glories would open and perfume the air.

She had been right. The cold hiemal temperature whipped her hair about, snapping her to alertness in an instant, and she chided herself, not for the first time, for not bringing a cloak. It was still only the evening of the first day of January, and of course the air would be cold. Frost lay in spikes over the plants. The sun had finally succumbed to the horizon line and was gone, and a soothing kind of chilly darkness was enveloping the castle. Even the timid storm clouds she had seen at supper were venturing out, only faintly distinguishable from the dark of the sky. One of them had even dared to sidle in front of the moon, cutting a pie slice sort of shape from its almost completely full roundness. It was almost as if…as if no light were coming through the heavens, despite the moon’s ghostly white glow.

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Something peach-colored, a color that didn’t match the solemnity of the brown and gray, managed to catch her eye, and she turned. At the base of one delicate rosebush, its arms gracefully positioned upwards, was a small bud of a rose that was almost open. Wednesday bent down at the knees to examine it more closely, not caring that her hem was sweeping the dirt and her hair, which was coming unpinned yet again, was falling over her face, and the wind would soon tangle it in the rosebush’s arms if she didn’t step away. The bud was a pretty little thing, nothing special exactly, but still cute and young. The hedge she was kneeling in front of shadowed her entire form, and she felt almost as though she had melted into the darkness.

There was a rustle from somewhere decently near to her—not too close, and yet not too far away. Wednesday froze.

Another rustle, a bit louder this time. Someone else, someone besides her, was walking through the gardens.

Wednesday stood up, looking around, and brushed her hair behind her—Pain yanked her scalp. She stifled a yelp, whipping around to see if anyone had grabbed her hair, but

there was no one. She looked down and realized that the rosebush was the culprit, clutching a coil innocently.

“You—” Wednesday gritted her teeth and bent down again to disengage her hair from the thorn. Meanwhile, the rustling was getting closer. Not in a menacing way, but just as though someone were taking a stroll, not particularly caring what they bumped into, such as trees, or bushes, or hedges, even. Wednesday couldn’t imagine taking such a clumsy walk, though, and she wondered if someone was drunk. It was a possibility.

If someone were drunk, then she needed to get out of here. The wind gusted and moaned. Just as Wednesday freed her hair, another tendril became ensnared.

She glared at the rosebush, which was placidly waving in the breeze, and started to tug the lock of auburn free. The steps were still approaching, still at an absent-like pace.

They stopped. Wednesday furiously jerked at the hair and it tore free with a shock of pain through her head, and it

left a few long strands in the hands of the bush, which fluttered them teasingly. Triumphant and still holding the ends, Wednesday stood up—

—And found herself face to face with a gentleman. “Oh!” Wednesday backed up quickly, and her skirts, blowing forward in the wind, caught in the

rosebush again. She and the young man locked eyes over the tall rose hedge arbor, and she started, recognizing that black silk cloak so long that it brushed the floor, the hood over his head that cast shadows over his face, the silver watch he was holding, letting it dangle by the chain from his fingertip.

The Shadow King.Wednesday yelp-screamed as reality flashed in her mind. She tried to run, but her skirts were still

tangled in that one annoying rosebush, and she stared up at him, caught. He stared back, as surprised as she was.

She couldn’t see his face. His long hood covered everything but his facial features, and the shadows seemed to just cover the rest of him, obscuring it. Only the gleam of his eyes was visible, but even those she couldn’t make out the color.

Time halted and they stared at each other. The pocket watch ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

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“Oh…” Wednesday whispered.Then time sped up again, back to normal speed, and her mind screamed, He’s dangerous! Get away

from him! Now!Wednesday wrenched at her skirts and they came free, and she fled. She dove through the topiaries

and bushes and ran. Her shoes went clicka-click every time they hit the ground, and the sound overwhelmed her ears as

she sprinted, her feet taking her to somewhere she knew not, and she half expected the King to give chase; hair streaming in back of her, she was carried by her feet far away from that section of the gardens, tearing off and panting, her breath a white cloud, breathing so quickly the cloud was almost opaque, and her heart trilled in her chest and almost shocked her with the force. Her legs gave way several minutes later and she crumpled, landing hard upon the dirt, her knees colliding with the ground—and she just fell over, letting her head smack, her hair a waterfall and falling to the ground with her. She was curled up on the frozen ground, and she felt icy, with a burning sensation, and yet her heart still shrieked and drumrolled, tearing along like a train, out of control, and she gasped for air. Her eyes stared into the black sky straight above, and she closed them, terrified that she would see the Shadow King leaning over her.

He—he—the King! He was here! In the gardens!Her eyes flew open. The Shadow King had been in their gardens! She’d seen him! And yet—in the

moment, when she’d seen—he had been—shocked. And—unexpected—and—and—Wednesday pressed her hands to her head so hard her forearms hurt from the pressure. Oh—oh—

oh! The fact that he had been here—and maybe still was—that was—Calm down, she thought, closing her eyes again. Calm. Calm. Calm! “It’s okay,” she whispered aloud, tears starting to well in her eyes. They rolled over her cheekbones

and down towards her ears. “It’s okay. He—he’s not here. He’s not going to hurt you—”A thought occurred to her and the color drained from her already-drawn face. What if he hadn’t left

when she’d run? What is he had come to—to hurt her family? What if he had come to kill someone?Wednesday sat up so abruptly her vision dissolved into colorful stars for a moment. Once they had

cleared, she looked around.She was right next to a pyramid-like structure with steps. Craning her neck and looking up, she saw

the top of the pyramid had a rope bridge precariously attached to it, swaying in the wind. Wednesday set her jaw. She had to see if the King was still here. From up there, he would be

unlikely to see her because she was high up, and she would be able to see the entire spread of the greenish-brown gardens. His smooth black form would stand out. Even if she was afraid of heights, she had to know if he was still a threat.

She started to climb up the steps, wobbly.The bridge pitched as she neared it, and it seemed to be more and more flimsy as she watched. Her

determination wavered. Was it really necessary to walk on that…thing? She imagined scurrying on the wooden boards, and it suddenly giving way, and shivered. Sometimes it was better not to consider the possibilities.

Finally she was at the pyramid’s top, and she eyed the rope sides and coarse planks of the bridge suspiciously, dubiously. She placed a tentative foot on the first plank, then put some weight on it.

The bridge held.Wednesday hoisted herself up onto the bridge and grasped the ropes, biting her lip to keep from

crying out as the entire thing swayed back and forth in the wind, and she felt as if her stomach were rising up and trying to fit through her esophagus. Slowly, she inched along, trying not to look down but at the same

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time trying to look to see if she could still see the Shadow King. The bridge was holding firm, not exactly what one would call steady, but not as fragile as it appeared. Her confidence growing, she moved along a bit quicker, and, after a deep breath, dared to look down.

It wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. Like that morning Willow had dragged her out onto the bridge to witness the magical sunrise, from her point on the rope bridge she could see the mass of the northwest and southwest gardens, and even some bits of the central maze. The bridge was a narrow path in front of her, and she could see, to her left, that swoop of the bridge, and another to her right. As the bridge had been designed, all four of the pieces of the bridge would meet in a sort of X shape in the center, directly over the heart of the maze.

The air was freezing cold, and she rubbed her arms, wishing it were more like summer. She daintily moved along the length of the bridge, warily eyeing the shadowy grays and greens below, trying to catch sight of a black-clothed figure. She saw nothing but trees and arbors, and the occasional yellow splotch of a row of early-blooming daffodils. Wind blew through her hair, tangling it, and she absently tied it up and pinned the entire thing into one large blob on her head. She could fix it later.

A thin fog started to settle, and drops coalesced on her skin. She grimaced and brushed them away, peering through the mist as she continued to smoothly slide along the length of the bridge. The wind was starting to die down, and it wasn’t nearly as wobbly anymore. She was almost at the center, where all four bridges met. Was he not here anymore?

She looked down and saw herself, with a strange trill of fear, or maybe exhilaration, now over the green hedges of the maze, which in summer were in bloom with brilliant flowers. Even though the fog was settling in, she could already see the X at which the bridges connected in a cross.

Perhaps he had gone. That was the best-case scenario, Wednesday thought, relieved, as she reached the center. She now had four paths she could take; the one straight ahead, two that were perpendicular, and the one she had just come from. She hadn’t seen the King the entire way.

Looking up at the moon, which was now not only half-covered with clouds but also with wisps of fog, she remembered that when she had eavesdropped on Aurelia and the King, Aurelia had mentioned a curse, and that he had to be careful. Wednesday wondered what that curse was. Surely it was not that he couldn’t interact with human beings, since he and Wednesday had met face-to-face hardly half an hour ago. What could it be, then? If it wasn’t something that restricted him from being with people, surely he would come into the human world more often—it had to be depressing in the Shadow Kingdom, all black. Well, all black was what the history books said. The fog was now as thick as the stew they had had for supper, and Wednesday could hardly see the ropes that were the bridge’s handholds.

“I suppose he left,” Wednesday said to herself, aloud, and she was thankful. “So you were looking for me, my lady?” The roguishly amused voice behind her was dulcet and as smooth as velvet. Wednesday whirled

around.Standing casually behind her…was the Shadow King.

***

Wednesday tried to scream, but her throat constricted. It was too hard.“Honestly,” he said. His voice was soothing as honey. “I was just taking a walk. It’s nothing to be

afraid of.” The fog and the shadows made it harder to see him than ever. “When you’re me, it’s not easy to

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have down time.”Wednesday whimpered. “Don’t be so scared,” he said kindly. His trailing silk cloak whispered on the boards behind him,

sometimes flowing into the thin spaces between the strung planks. “I…” Wednesday felt faint, as if she’d danced a hundred polkas. She took a deep, shuddering breath,

and tried to find the rope railing behind her to steady herself. But she was in the crossroads of the bridge, and there was nothing but space. She grabbed at the rope on the sides and felt its presence steadying, somehow.

He started forward, but Wednesday yelped.“Don’t come near!”The King stopped. She wished she could see his face, his expression, to see if he was trying to be

helpful or menacing. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll stay put.”“Only…” Wednesday struggled with her speech, since the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears was

so loud she couldn’t think. “What are you doing here?”“Here?” His voice was so blasted nice. And so young, too, by the sounds of it. “Taking a walk, of

course. Just to clear my head. Unless you mean up here on the bridge, of course, which would be because I was wondering if you could point me the way out, since I’m lost. But, ah! From up here you can see everything, and I don’t need directions, eh?” He laughed quietly. “Also, I thought I’d given you quite a scare—”

“You did!” Wednesday blurted out, her heart still trying to leap out of her mouth.“So I thought I’d come up and apologize.” There was a glint of white in the shadows of his face, and

she supposed that he had smiled. “This is a strange place to be, is it not?” He took in her hair, which was no doubt a mess of pinned, unpinned, and sloppily re-pinned auburn coils; her pale face; her frightened green eyes; her dress, which was torn at the hem, with her bare arms covered in goosepimples.

“Um…yes.” Wednesday started to back away, slowly, trying not to be noticed. He clicked open his silver pocketwatch, closed it again, and kept clicking it, seemingly absently. “You

may want to go inside, my lady. I’m sure you’re frozen to the bones.”“I can’t. Yet.” It was hard to explain. Wednesday felt as if that now, now that she was starting to

calm down, if she returned to that stuffy piano room with Mother’s voice taking up all the space and her sisters squeezing round her, she would end up running back out again.

“Then perhaps you should warm up?” He put his watch away and offered her a black teacup (which Wednesday knew for sure hadn’t been in his hand a second before) with steam rising from the top, and Wednesday cautiously looked in it. The beverage was as black as coffee, as well as the same color of the cup and saucer.

“Is this safe to drink?” she asked dubiously, trying not to sound rude. “It should be. Unless you’re allergic to hot chocolate.”“This is hot chocolate?” Wednesday said, frowning into her cup. It was black, too black, and didn’t

smell sweet.“Dark chocolate,” he said. Suddenly, he too also had a steaming cup, which he took a quick sip from

before adding hastily, “Sorry, I don’t usually drink it with sugar.” And then, magically it seemed, he had a small black jar, which he handed to her.

Please don’t let his sugar be black as well, Wednesday prayed, grim. The sugar was indeed black, though it was transparent, like regular sugar. A quick taste confirmed

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that it was just as sweet and harmless as real sugar, and Wednesday, still dubious, shook a pinch or two into her cup.

“Sorry,” she said, looking up, “I don’t suppose you have anything to stir—?”He was already handing a small black metal spoon to her, not even looking as he took another sip

from his own cup. Wednesday stirred her quietly. Clink, clink. He had already known. But how? “Sorry, I’m not a good conversation starter,” he said suddenly. It was strange, being so close to him,

drinking hot chocolate—well, possibly hot chocolate—with him, and yet she couldn’t even see his face as his cloak pooled around him. A bit creepy, actually.

“Er—that is—all right,” Wednesday stammered. She lifted her spoon from the hot chocolate—which was strangely thin—and took a deep drink. It was delicious, definitely chocolate, with the taste of sugar melting over her tongue—and yet there was something different. It must have been the bittersweet dark chocolate flavor. The chocolate warmed her instantly, and she stopped shivering.

“This is good,” she said, smiling tentatively over the rim of her cup. She was unsure what to do with her spoon, but as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a fizzy sensation in her palm, looked down, and realized it’d dissolved in her hand.

“Good heavens,” she said softly.The Shadow King drank the rest of his hot chocolate and heaved a deep sigh as he set the empty cup

down on his saucer. “Some things are nice about the Shadows,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice. Then it turned sorrowful. “And some things are not.”

“What’s it like, over there?” Wednesday said, hoping to engage him in conversation in fear that if she waited idly, he would get an urge or kill her or something.

“It’s hard to think about it,” he admitted. He seemed so…human. Nothing like the strange, unearthly descriptions in her and her sisters’ textbooks or fantasies. “Not just because it really isn’t a happy place, but also because…” He sighed gently. “Well, it’s hard to understand how it works. That’s how I can sort of…manipulate and create things subconsciously. Like this.”

“Like—?” Wednesday suddenly noticed the wrapped candy stick that had appeared in his hand. Unlike most of his possessions, this was not black, but white with orange stripes that followed the contours of the stick. “That wasn’t there before, was it?” She also realized, with a start, that his empty teacup was gone. “How do you do that?”

“It’s complicated,” he said simply, pressing the stick into her hands. “Harder to create things in this world, but not everything has to be black here. In the Shadows, everything is black, and it’s just hard to see any dimension because it’s so dark…and…and there seem to be dimensions that don’t exist there.” He hesitated. “Ah, well, even I don’t understand it. Some things will be mysteries forever.”

Wednesday finished her chocolate. “I suppose they will,” she said lamely, unsure if she should comfort him or not. At that moment, that clock tower rumbled, chiming nine. Both Wednesday and the King started, and Wednesday said, “It’s just the clock tower. Chimes the hour every day.” “Is that not a bother while trying to sleep?” the King asked, sounding skeptical. “I honestly don’t know,” Wednesday said, shrugging. “Both my sister have said that I sleep like a rock. Or a pig. Or a tree. It really doesn’t matter; I just sleep really soundly. I’ve never been bothered by the peals after I’ve fallen asleep. Perhaps the tower doesn’t chime after ten? No, but that wouldn’t make sense because I heard it at the ball,” she muttered, more to herself than him now. Then she looked up. “Sorry for my mumbling.”

He waved it away and clicked open his pocketwatch again, and Wednesday realized that it was not

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black. “If everything you have in the Shadows is black, what about your watch?” she inquired as politely as possible, gesturing at it with her head.

He glanced down in surprise, as if he hadn’t noticed he was playing with it. “My watch? Oh. It was…a gift.”

“A gift,” Wednesday echoed. An absurd picture popped into her head with the notion of this phrase, and she imagined a bizarre pitch-black room with vague-formed people giving birthday presents to the King. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right, but she didn’t want to prod.

“I’ll be late if I don’t hurry,” he said, clicking it shut and tucking it away. “I still must apologize for giving you such a scare.” Here he sank into a deep, graceful bow, and upon straightening snapped his silk cloak out behind him—for it had been curling about him and dripping through the bridge cracks—and smiled, his white teeth flashing in the moonlight. “Good night, my lady.”

In an instant he was gone. Wednesday hadn’t even realized that he’d left for a few seconds, and, when bringing it to mind, she couldn’t quite remember how he had disappeared. It wasn’t as though he’d vaporized, had he?

She was still trying to untangle her thoughts about his leave when she let her head droop downwards, and saw that unlike her spoon, her empty teacup and saucer were both still clasped in her hands. They hadn’t disappeared. A thin, gritty ring of chocolate sand encircled the bottom, and with a shock, she saw words imprinted clearly in the empty center circle, on the bottom of the teacup, barely distinguishable in the fine black porcelain.

It’s yours, the imprint read.

“Rise and shine, missy,” Willow’s voice said bossily.Wednesday brushed auburn tendrils off her face. The simple motion of her arm made her feel

nauseous, and she felt creaky and rusty, the way she always did after a sleep. She was lying on her back with her pillow sideways, her covers falling off the side of her bed, and the curtains were pulled aside so bright, pretty light filtered through.

Unfortunately, that same bright, pretty light was flashing right in her eyes. Wednesday winced and moved her head sideways.

Willow was sitting on her own separate bed, and Wednesday could hear water running in the bathroom, so Winter was probably washing up. Willow was already dressed, pretty in one of the casual dresses Mother had just given to her the previous day; dark green with little frills. It contrasted well with her fiery golden-red hair, giving her a festive, Christmassy look. Her hair was still unpinned, and she looked feisty, beaming down at Wednesday with an almost sly look.

“My goodness, you still sleep like a corpse,” Willow said, tugging a red-clogged hairbrush through her long, wispy hair.

“Corpses don’t sleep,” Wednesday said, her voice a little slurred and hitched. Waking up was always the worst for her, since her body had been still and limp for an entire night. In fact, recently, she’d been spending an awful lot of time in bed, and it didn’t do any wonders for her temper.

She pushed herself up and winced as her elbows twinged, and she almost heard the creaking noise of unoiled joints as she sat up with difficulty, feeling dry and sickly as usual, but much better than she had on the evening of the New Year’s Festival.

She’d returned last night after hot chocolate with the Shadow King, and her family had still been

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arranged cozily in the piano room, with Mother still blathering about her travels and making cheery, bubbly comments that bounced around in Wednesday skull, with nothing registering. After five times of Mother asking her a question and she not responding in the slightest, Father suggested gently that she head on to bed, assuring her that it was late. Wednesday had protested only mildly faintly, but Father had insisted (and so had Willow, insisting rather that Wednesday was quiet and unremarkable as a vase in the corner of a room, and therefore creeping her out), and, after pressing a hot cup of water into Wednesday’s hands, he’d shooed her up to bed. None of them had noticed Wednesday still firmly clasping the teacup and saucer, keeping that hand half hidden in her skirts. After reaching the bedroom, she’d rinsed it out and safely stowed it in her drawer, and then undressed, cleaned, put on her nightgown, and fallen asleep before even ten minutes had passed, completely exhausted from her fright in the evening with the Shadow King.

She’d dreamt about him that night.She had been running through a forest, trees with sinewy black trunks and ominous silver leaves

leering down at her, with something vague and dark that Wednesday couldn’t quite recall chasing her down, and then suddenly the King in his eerie black cloak had appeared, shadowed as usual, and he had teleported her to the Shadow Kingdom, a vast black place with soupy, roiling haze. From there he proceeded to lower his hood, and at the precise moment he was uncovered, she’d woken up.

“So, guess what, Wednesday,” Willow said with the air of someone holding back excitement, tossing her hairbrush aside and started to pin up her hair.

Wednesday, now fully sitting up, took a swig of medicine from her bottle. There was no denying that it had soured—and inexplicably so—and she frowned at the sticky label on the side to check for expiration. It was set for February. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway,” she said, quietly replacing the bottle back to its former place on the bureau.

“Mother’s taking us riding today,” Willow singsonged, drifting to the vanity so she could pin her hair correctly.

“It’s going to be absolutely dreamy,” Winter said, exiting the bathroom. She was wearing an immaculate riding outfit of stiff, starched black, with her pretty strawberry and blonde hair neatly pinned up against her head. Her matching feathered hat was tucker under her arm.

Willow whistled, scooting over so Winter could have a quick peek in the mirror before pushing her out of the way. “Where did you get that beauty?”

“Mother,” Winter said simply. She eyed Willow’s green one, and frowned. “Why do you get the green one? This black one makes me feel like I’m in mourning.”

“I have a white one, but it’s an older one,” Wednesday said, finally mustering the strength to drag herself out of bed. Her legs almost gave way when they touched the floor, but she inhaled deeply and steadied herself. It was just walking, after all. “You can borrow it if you like, but it’s not as fashionable as yours.”

“Yours will be too small,” Winter said cuttingly, fluffing up the stiff petticoat of her riding dress. “Anyhow, it might be dirty…you know, Mother said she saw bringing some of her friends along…some of her gentlemen friends, that is.” She blushed faintly. “You know that she wants me to get acquainted quickly, being an older girl now and all…”

Willow stuffed her last pin into place as Wednesday headed for the bathroom. “Maybe that’s for the best, Winter,” she said before she ducked into the bathroom. “I hope you find a gentleman you like.”

Winter muttered something but just shook her head. A fresh vase of small roses sat in the bathroom. None of them were larger than tightly closed buds,

and Wednesday sighed. If only spring would come sooner! Then the roses would be in full bloom, beautiful

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in their spreading colors and furled petals, delicate centers and a most delicious scent, and they could have rich, full roses every day. A flower that was completely open was rare these days. New Year’s had definitely qualified as a rare occasion.

After cleaning herself up, and then putting on her riding habit, Wednesday returned to the bedroom, looking into the vanity, and sighed as she studied her reflection. The white outfit was chiffon, with bits of somewhat frayed lace, but it was still a nice white color and the hat didn’t have any of the fake flowers or ribbons coming off. The stark white betrayed her bright auburn hair against her deathly pale face all the more, and she gently rubbed a forefinger over her eyelashes, wishing they were longer like Willow’s. A tiny ringlet of ginger-brown was untucked, and she poked it up behind her ear, hoping it wouldn’t blow out while she was riding.

Wednesday was not a fan of riding. Ponies were pretty, but she hated the snuffly straw smell, and ever since one horse had stepped on her foot (thankfully she had been wearing hard shiny boots that day), she hadn’t liked their hooves, either. The whole rocking sensation as they cantered did not improve the feeling of her stomach-churning at all.

Still, perhaps if she wasn’t feeling well, she could just stay with Mother (and the gentlemen guests, she reminded herself) and watch Willow and Winter ride.

The girls trooped downstairs at half past eight. This was a bit of a mistake on their part, as Father was picky about timeliness (which, oddly enough, was not a habit shared by the usually more-strict Mother), and he sat at the dining room table, eating his corn muffins and sausage with a grim face. Mother was coaxing him that it was holiday break—a half-truth—and that the girls weren’t to blame.

They quietly sat, knowing that they were not to blurt anything out to Father, and as Winter and Willow silently bickered over the corn muffins and butter, Wednesday helped herself to a boiled egg and ate.

“It looks like all of you are dressed and ready to go,” Mother said crisply, with a smile. “Right after breakfast we’ll set out and meet some of the gentlemen at the tailor’s, and then we can head to the field. The gentlemen are here on…business. I thought it would be a perfect chance for you girls to have fun and for me to finish some things at the same time.”

Winter dropped her half-spread corn muffin on her plate with dismay. “You’re still working, Mother? I thought you were done and taking a leave.”

“Some things are never completed on time,” Mother said pleasantly, spreading orange marmalade over a slice of scratchy bread.

“Where are we going for riding?” Willow said around her crumbly muffin. “It’s winter. There can’t be any good fields.”

“I daresay it’ll take a while to get there,” Father said suddenly. “You girls mind your mother, now.”Winter dropped her muffin again. “You are…not coming?” she asked. “No.” Father calmly speared an egg and ate it, not looking at them. “With your mother taking a bit

of a leave, and having not much work, I am carrying it temporarily. She will resume in a few months, but for now, I am handling paperwork inside. You girls are free to play.”

Wednesday looked at him seriously. Father had never been good at handling stress. His hair was graying a bit at the temples and his eyes had more lines around them than she remembered. Even the notion of stress was making him stressed. She shook her head slightly and sighed.

“Sorry?” Father said.“What?” Wednesday was confused.“Did you say something?” he inquired, in his calm, impassive way.“No,” Wednesday said, still confused. He must’ve heard her sigh and thought she had said

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something. She cut her bread into little squares and drizzled honey over them, avoiding his eyes.There was a strange sort of silence, in which Willow glanced around as if she were unsure if it was

out of tension or awkwardness. “Well, I’m done,” she said, standing up and smoothing down her riding habit. She primly took her

plate to the sink and dumped it in, then came and sat back down. “Why is the mood so frigid? I feel as if there’s something I missed out on.”

“It’s nothing,” Wednesday said, looking away from Willow’s face. Seeing Father’s green’s stare, it reminded her of Cassius’s eyes catching her at the festival, and she clenched her teeth to keep a blush from rising to her face.

“If you say so,” Willow said indifferently, trying to arrange her hat on her head backwards. Winter rolled her eyes and jammed it on Willow’s head the right way before returning her attention to her breakfast.

Wednesday focused on Mother instead, who had gray eyes—which was a strange mix with cinnamon hair but was from her wild ethical heritage—and noticed that Mother had been more subdued that usual that morning. Mother was a rule-follower, but bubbly and always cheerful at that, and today her pretty face was more shadowed than it had been yesterday.

“Is something bothering you, Mother?” she asked quietly.Mother smiled rather wearily. “Such efforts do affect one eventually, Wednesday. My aumildar is

being most difficult—”“Rotter,” Winter muttered under her breath.“And therefore…well, I suppose you could say I am now showing the strain. All the hard work from

the past years is catching up to me and taking its toll.” She brightened a bit. “That’s why we’re going riding—so we can all loosen up a bit.”

“I don’t think they need it, Esthetique,” Father said affectionately. “They’ve just been to a festival, after all.”

Mother narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t think that I don’t know the peculiar events following that festival.” Her gaze flickered in Wednesday’s direction, and Wednesday guiltily remembered falling on top of Castil.

“If you insist,” Father said airily, finishing his food. “Well, I do insist,” Mother said. “The girls haven’t seen me in over…oh, I don’t even remember how

long ago it was. And even then I had no time to spend with them. They’re already almost ready to be married, George—especially you, Winter—and doesn’t it seem proper that they recognize their own mother better before they leave our household?

“That reminds me,” she continued, pushing aside her plate and fixing all the girls with a slate-gray stare. “I wanted to tell you—you had better marry rich, girls. So pretty—that shouldn’t go to waste. And coming from this household…though minor in the grand scheme of the monarchy, we are a royal family. Maybe it doesn’t seem important to you, but as a young woman, each of you should marry richer than our family. It’s only proper, and it will bring prosperity to our house. It’s never too late to gain more money,” she added thoughtfully, her business mind kicking in.

“We know, Mother,” Willow said plaintively. “I’ve already found someone I like.”“You aren’t of age yet; hush.”“I think…” Winter hesitated. “I think I have actually found someone that I…will consider marrying.”

She spoke the words with great effort, as if it pained her to admit that she was good enough to be married to mere man.

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“Ooh, who is it?” Willow teased.“You wouldn’t know him,” Winter said loftily. She turned back to Mother, who was watching her

with admiration and encouragement. Father sat beside her, stony, and Wednesday could almost hear the gears turning in his brain as he tried to work out when Winter had seen someone she enjoyed. “I saw him at the festival…and he is rich, of course,” she added hastily as Mother opened her mouth to say something. “He’s a lord. I talked to him a bit…not much, of course…”

“His name?” Mother inquired, eyebrows raised. Winter opened her mouth, then closed it, face hot. The entire family was hanging on to her every

word—Mother intrigued, Father impassive, Willow excited, and Wednesday bewildered at this sudden turn of events.

Winter pushed another bite of muffin into her mouth. “What, you aren’t going to tell us?” Willow demanded, slamming her hands on the table, and

Mother admonished, “Willow!”

Winter shrugged, eyes down. “He’s my business.”“Winter,” Mother said tersely, “I need to speak to you about some—things tonight when we come

back.”Father’s perplex became more pronounced to the point of being a frown. “You are leaving now?” he said. “Without an answer?”Mother merely smiled and gently pushed Willow towards the doors, then tugged Wednesday and

Winter to their feet and shooed them out also.Wednesday glanced back, and saw that Father was staring at them in disbelief, before Mother, with

finality, closed the door on him.

It wasn’t Wednesday’s business to poke around in Winter’s love life, but as Mother urged them into the scarlet carriage and had the carriage man lash the horses, she couldn’t help but wonder who it was.

At sixteen, Winter was reaching the height of her marrying age, and she was also becoming prettier and prettier every passing day—which was preposterous, seeing that she was about as beautiful as a girl could get. Whoever she had in mind was in luck.

Willow nagged at Winter. It was obvious that Willow loved gossip and these playful stories in which she could dreamily spin tales about what Winter’s children would look like, or how bossy Winter would be as a mother. After various mixed methods of begging, teasing, threatening, ignoring, arguing, indifference, bribing, and guilting (all of which produced absolutely nothing for her efforts), Willow lapsed into a sulky silence, before declaring for unknown reasons that Winter was jealous and assuming an all-knowing air that made Wednesday want to thump her.

Mother peeked out of the curtained windows, sighing gently every so often and seeming lost in her own thoughts.

Wednesday arranged her hat, trying to avoid Willow and Winter. This was near impossible, considering that all of them were together in the carriage, but the seats were roomy and Wednesday scooted as far away from them as she could.

Mother signaled to the driver to pull up for a moment in front of the tailor’s, and Wednesday curiously poked her head out of the small square window, interested to see the gentlemen Mother was discussing business with. Winter and Willow stopped their silent staring contest and scrambled to the other

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window; Willow claimed it first and Winter shared Wednesday’s window with her. The tailor shop was a homey, chunky sort of wobbly brick building with an old-fashioned charm, and

it was located centrally in town, therefore being a popular place to meet with other people. The actual tailor, who was a pleasant older woman with an equally pleasant chatter, often sent guests who were waiting for others into the back, where a sort of inn’s lobby-like place was set up. Wednesday knew because once she had waited for Willow there, and it was nice and smelled of leather and starched linen.

Mother stepped out of the carriage, smoothed down her dress, and directed the girls to stay inside before heading up to the door and knocking. The tailor’s assistant opened it almost instantly. There was a trading of words that none of the girls could hear, and then Mother graciously moved inside.

“Look, there’s a carriage parked behind ours,” Willow murmured. Wednesday craned her neck to the right and saw that a modest carriage was indeed sitting there a few ways away, vacant.

“It doesn’t look like it’s someone important’s,” Winter muttered. Wednesday privately agreed. The carriage wasn’t as grand-looking as their own, and it seemed a little rickety and crooked. Yet it was fairly large. Wednesday figured it must be rented, a large one to hold all the gentlemen Mother was dealing with, and she smiled faintly. The tottering rented carriage had its charm.

A few minutes later, Mother exited the tailor’s, this time with a short line of solemn-looking gentlemen following her. In a flurry, the girls withdrew their heads from the windows in embarrassment, and yanked the curtains closed before any of the gentlemen were close enough to see distinct faces.

“Ha, we were just spying,” Willow whispered excitedly as the sound of feet on the ground drew closer, and the girls knew the gentlemen had reached the carriages.

“Is that something to be proud of?” Winter hissed, red in the face, but still trying to peek out a sliver of window still visible at the corner of her drifting curtain.

“…and have a safe trip.” That was Mother’s voice. There was a polite murmuring of men’s voices, and the clicking of a carriage door opening, and a sharp snap of it closing a few moments later after the gentlemen had presumably all filed in.

A second later, the door of the girls’ carriage unlatched and Mother smoothly climbed in, taking a delicate seat.

“What happened, Mother?” Willow said in an excited but convincing imitation of someone who had not been peeking out the carriage windows.

“They are ready; their carriage is following ours. As soon as we reach the field, they will start up discussion of business with me.” Mother was cool as a spring breeze.

“What are they discussing with you?” Willow pestered. “We are currently trying to strike a deal to gain enough money to repair some of the shabbier bits of

the castle,” Mother said. “Father may have told you that we are renovating?”Wednesday recalled Father telling her this, some time after the festival; when exactly, she wasn’t

quite sure. An image of her sitting in bed, meekly sipping hot water, sprung to mind—ah. He had said this when he came to talk to her after she had fallen on Castil. Who you don’t like, she reminded herself automatically. This, of course, made matters worse, as now she could only think of him.

“Anyhow,” said Mother as the carriage lurched, then started moving again, “it is none of your concern. You can take your pick of ponies when we reach the pasture, hm, girls?”

“Yes…” The rest of the ride was a rather solemn, quiet one. Willow peered out of the curtains, looking back

and trying to catch a glimpse of the trundling, awkwardly large carriage tailing them, but apparently she hadn’t found anything worth discussing, for she simply sighed, folding her lace gloves in her lap, and stopped

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looking. Wednesday didn’t feel bold enough to stick her head out the window and ogle the carriage behind, so she accepted Willow’s semblance of disappointment and hoped Willow wasn’t just pretending she hadn’t seen anything.

It had possibly been a good but quite silent half an hour’s time before Wednesday dared to poke the fluttering curtains aside and merely glance out—but as she had expected, there was nothing interesting. On her side was a park, with a pretty little lake that was currently a pale, icy blue and birch trees that ordinarily would be leafy but were bare, their naked arms shivering in the gentle whisper of a wind. Very few people were out and about, and Wednesday sighed, watching the landscape swiftly pass by, but not really looking anymore.

She remembered the last time she had gone riding. It had been a spring from over two years ago, a pleasant breezy day with the long grass of the pasture blowing sideways in the zephyr, and the horses’ long manes and tails undulated while they, unconcerned, sniffed the girls’ hair. The ride had been nice enough, with the gentle gusts and the soft, sweet meadow smell of fresh earth, but the pony had had a mind of its own, and it cantered in a most carefree manner across the field, and promptly stopped following Wednesday’s tugs and yanks on its mane, and soon had lost itself in a nearby neighboring forest. And then Wednesday had become seriously scared, and had cried and begged the confused pony to go back, but it wouldn’t budge and shied away when she tried pulling it.

Her sisters had found her in good time, for they had seen her pony galloping across the grass before it’d disappeared. Still, it had taken her an hour to get over the event, even though Winter and Willow had rolled their eyes and left her in their room.

The memory wasn’t exactly something Wednesday wanted to be reminded of. Still, she had higher hopes for this ride, especially now that she was older and had more sensibility about these kinds of things. She paused, wondering what had happened to that pony, and sighed gently. Perhaps, if she had a good mind and a sharp sense, she would be able to enjoy this time round.

“You know,” Willow said, startling Wednesday out of her stupor—and Winter, who had previously been staring at the window curtains in deep thought, also jolted awake out of her half-daze and looked at Willow with rapt attention. “I think that…when I’m of age…” And at this time she directed her words at Mother, who watched her with a still and mild kind of vacant coolness. “I don’t think I’ll…need to wait. As soon as I’m of age—and who knows when that’ll be—well, I…”

Willow blushed. A sinking feeling crept down Wednesday’s chest, and she knew what was coming next. “I think,” Willow continued, trying to control her stammer, “I already know who I want to marry.”

Mother twisted her gloves in her lap, as if trying to maintain her composure by taking it out. “And…” Willow hesitated. “With your permission—and his and his family’s of course—would that

be…er…possible?”Winter gazed at Willow, her face a mask. Willow glanced at her for a moment, blushed beet red, and

stared fiercely at Mother. “Wednesday and Winter agreed with me, earlier, yesterday morning,” Willow added quickly.

Wednesday started to protest, but she remembered, bitterly so, that it had been true; that morning, she recalled, had been the day Castil Seigfried had made them porridge for breakfast, and Willow had licked the spoon—and the resulting questioning of Willow that had followed required the two other sisters to promise Willow’s hand to Cassius, with Winter using her persuasive magic to force Wednesday to agree to Willow’s terms. Winter had seemed completely oblivious that Wednesday had mixed feelings about Cassius, and apparently she had nothing going for him whatsoever, since she’d immediately gave her word to Willow about Cassius’s marriage.

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Mother pursed her lips. “It is…unusual,” she said after a moment. “But not unheard of, I’m sure. We may be able to arrange something like what you’ve asked if we know a bit more about the gentleman you desire.”

“His name is Cassius Wickerworth,” Willow supplied helpfully. Mother arched an eyebrow, smiling thinly. “And?”“Er…he’s a thread spinner,” Willow added thoughtfully. “But he’s very eloquent, and a very good

dancer!” she snapped as Mother looked incredulous. “What is his position?” Mother asked. “Does he play the piano? The organ? The violin?”“Of course!” Willow bristled. A moment passed and she paused. “Well, actually, I don’t know. I’m

sure he does, though, since he’s so good at everything—I just don’t know where he gets all his talent from! Here I am practicing away every day, and someone like him, who has to work, is even better—now that’s admirable, I say.” She lifted her chin, pink blooming in her cheeks.

Wednesday groaned inwardly. Why did Willow have to blather off to Mother about Cassius? That was…awful. Now she was sure he would never spare her a glance—especially with someone like Willow in his vision. She wondered if, at this very moment, Cassius was thinking of Willow. And then the picture was hard to bear, and she wondered instead if Castil was thinking of herself.

Mother stroked her gloves absently. “Perhaps,” she said softly, deep in thought. “Perhaps.”Winter went back to staring at the curtains. Wednesday watched, bored, as Willow lapsed into a solemn but also somewhat pleading silence, and

when Willow made no further attempts to ask Mother about Cassius, she eventually turned her attention away.

She wasn’t sure how much later, but somehow she managed to drift off to sleep.

“I love wildflowers,” Wednesday said, standing ankle-deep in the swaying green reeds and inhaling deeply. The perfume of the delicate, bouncy sprigs filled her lungs, and the clear air filled her lungs, cleansing them, and her hair streamed behind her, for some reason unpinned.

“I knew you’d like it, Wednesday,” Desdemona said behind her, beaming. Wednesday turned around, a look of bliss on her face. “I can’t believe you’ve gone to such lengths to

create some place as beautiful as this. You’ve done so much…it makes me feel inadequate.”Desdemona smiled knowingly. “Well, I must confess—it’s not just for you; I love flowers and ponds

as well. You know how I am—solitary, always hiding—”“In short, like me?” Wednesday offered.“Yes,” Desdemona agreed. Wednesday’s older cousin was just as slight as she was, with a kind of unearthly beauty. Her honey-

blonde hair was long and drifty and beautiful, strands flowing in the wind, falling in gentle curves around her delicate face, with her hair pulled back, though not bothering to be pinned. Her skin was pale, but not a sickly kind of pale like Wednesday’s—instead, a beautiful, pristine pale, like porcelain. Desdemona was wearing the dress in which Wednesday had seen her last—a gorgeous gossamer creation, with many layers all pinned up at the hip—as well as a sparkly purple shawl and a thin circlet tilting sideways on her head. At fifteen, Desdemona looked younger, and from a distance, with her pretty waist and beautiful form, one would think she was as lovely as Willow. The one thing that shattered Desdemona was her eyes—pretty but fatefully two-tone: one dark blue, cobalt night; the other, a pale amber that was somehow distant, as if a faint reflection. Most people avoided her because those eyes would scare them, and consequently

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Desdemona was always given a wide berth, and nobody knew that she was sweet and harmless, and by all means just as human as any of the Fontana family.

Desdemona’s hair streamed. Like Wednesday’s, it was unpinned. She moved closer to Wednesday. “I wish…I wish I didn’t have these eyes,” she said mournfully, but not with a bitter tone.

Wednesday smiled sadly. “Most people just don’t recognize you for who you are, Des.” She looked straight into those clear two-tone eyes, which she had long lost her fear of. “You’re just as gorgeous as Willow—even more beautiful, actually, since you have that purity and poise that Willow lacks.”

Des squeezed her arm gently. “Those are comforting words, Wednesday. I know that you yourself have doubts about your self-image.”

Wednesday sat down in the grass and hugged her bare feet, her hair sweeping forward and draping over them. In front of her, the spread of Desdemona’s family’s back fields lay, a vast plain of waving green grasses dotted with wildflower blossoms and reeds and cattails that ringed small ponds that were fractured with constant ripples as the long stalks bent and brushed the water’s surface. “I try not to think about it,” she said in a low voice, shrugging. “You never know. One day I might suddenly break free of the strange illness that always holds me, and I’ll be more beautiful than Willow!”

Des plopped down next to her. “You’re so upbeat, Wednesday. I don’t know how you do it. I suppose I’m just selfish, always wallowing in my self-pity. It tends to curdle that way, when you only have a sister who’s engaged and no one else to toughen you up.”

Wednesday shrugged again. “If you want to think about it that way. Winter and Willow don’t exactly use torture devices on me, you know.”

Des cracked a smile.“So when’s Lei’Anne getting married to Mr. Gildrane?” Wednesday said coaxingly. “I haven’t heard

any news about them for months. In fact, where is Lei’Anne right now? My dear cousin Lei’Anne, getting married soon, and all of a sudden, when I come over just for a day or two, she’s gone.”

Laughing, Des seemed to be more at ease. “Lei’Anne isn’t getting married for a while. They still haven’t confirmed anything of the date or anything of the sorts, actually. At this snail rate, she and our favorite Gilbert Gerdrane won’t be married until Lei’Anne’s, oh, twenty-five or so.”

Wednesday laughed. “Twenty-five? Lei’Anne’s out of her mind.”“Ah, well, she never was quite right in the head,” Des said seriously, and the two of the doubled over

laughing, the hems of the dresses tickling each other’s legs in the breeze. Once their laughter had subsided, Des regained her composure. “So—yes, er, yes, they’re—getting

married, but right now they’re still only engaged,” she said, fighting for a straight face. “Right now, Lei’Anne’s out, and of course Mr. Gerdrane went with her—oh, I just have to call him Gilbert, saying Gerdrane is even stranger than his first name,” she blurted out, and Wednesday started laughing again so hard she almost choked. “Um, yes, well, naturally Gilbert went with her. Where, I don’t know—” And as Wednesday looked a little concerned, Des immediately reassured her. “Oh, it’s just me who doesn’t know, Father and Mother know, obviously. I didn’t really care as to where Lei’Anne is tromping around, she frankly goes too many places for me to remember. I could create a logbook, if you like,” she offered with a straight face, before she couldn’t hold back her broad grin any longer, and Wednesday responded to it with enthusiasm, fighting so hard to hold onto even a little bit of composure so hard her cheeks hurt with the effort.

“Where are your mother and father, then?” Wednesday asked. Her own family wasn’t too familiar with Desdemona’s, as her father George and Des’s father Jerry hadn’t been close.

“Oh, well, Mother’s inside,” Des said, using a very modest voice, “making potato soup.”

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“You had to dismiss your cook?” Wednesday asked, startled. “No, no, nothing like that!” Des said immediately, and Wednesday saw a blush rising to her cheeks—

Des’s family was rather poor, of a slightly lower class than Wednesday’s, but the thought of sinking that low was offensive to her. “No—Father’s just been in a rather—bad mood lately, having to organize everything with Lei’Anne’s marriage with Lei’Anne not even paying attention—and Mother—just his favorite dish—”

It was clear that Des was flustered at the idea, and Wednesday immediately felt a pang of guilt: how could she have accused Des’s family of having to dismiss their cook? The thought was very low-class indeed, much lower than the level Des’s family was at.

“Sorry,” Wednesday said abruptly, and Des cut off her anxious rambling. “Ah, well…” Des hesitated, tugging at the hem of her dress as it floated on the wind around her

ankles. Both girls were barefoot. She bashfully ducked her head. “Things happen.”Wednesday wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but she was glad Des wasn’t holding anything

against her. While their families weren’t frequent with each other, she and Des were best friends—or cousins, rather—and it was very rarely they argued. Like any self-respecting pair, they would argue, of course, but the occasions on which this happened were so infrequent that around each other, both girls would usually forget how to argue, as they were so agreeable with each other.

“Well…” Wednesday was unsure how to continue their once-pleasant conversation, and the silence felt exposed, barer than usual.

Des stood up. Her eyes were a little steely, and the pale amber one had a distinctly inhuman look in it. “Wednesday,” she said, “do take a turn through the thicket with me.”

Wednesday knew what the thicket was. Des’s family of Fontanas had a small glade in back, farther than the reedy pools and springy flower fields, and it was pretty, if not a little eerie and unearthly. She clumsily scrambled to her feet and followed as Des turned without another word and started to briskly walk towards the copse.

Once they reached the clumpy underbrush with strings of pale vines and blooming, unnatural flowers, Des took off at a light run, hair a swift blonde river coursing on the carrying air, her skirts flattened against her legs by the wind. Wednesday started to run after her, feet sinking into the mossier grass and then onto pine needles littering the floor as Des disappeared into the undergrowth. Wednesday tried to keep up, but Des’s hair kept flitting in and out of view around tumbled thistles and crumbly branches with clinging lichen, and eventually, after a few minutes of attempting to keep track of where her cousin was, she couldn’t follow Des’s path at all.

Wednesday shaded her eyes from the sun filtering in palmy strips through the leaning, soft fronds that sheltered most of the thicket, and she leaned against a sturdy old maple while she caught her breath. Des was nowhere to be seen, and she couldn’t hear Des’s footsteps either over the whispering wind. Vainly, she tried to scale a tree but achieved only gaining four feet’s height before the biting rough bark hurt her hands and she slid down, plucking her skirts free from the peeling outer layer of the pine.

The wind hissed through Wednesday’s hair, and she solemnly gazed around. The murmurs of the breeze began to mutate into a eldritch, ghostly sort of low hum, and as she looked around frantically, her surroundings began to morph, the light bending and the shadowy weeds and plants changing shape, curving together to form a new place—above her, the towering fronds thickened with slithering noises and blocked out more of the gentle, protective light; staring down at her with weeping, tragic faces, waving in the howling gusts that were building up; they pressed together to form an impossibly high wall, surrounding her on every side and trapping her—the trees were skeletal and stared at her with gaping eyeholes, and every gleam was one blade of a million swords that had once been reeds—the wind was shrieking, a tortured sound, and

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beneath it was an beastly chanting of horrible creatures that she knew not—she flinched and shielded her face as something went hurtling past her—a wave of shadows with ghastly faces were bearing down, swallowing everything up in a snap—Wednesday screamed as the jaws opened wide and tossed her like a rag doll; there was a flash where she glimpsed a figure, a black silk river over his shoulders—

“Wednesday! Wednesday? Wake up, please!”Wednesday blinked, her eyes snapping open. Mother, Willow, and Winter were all peering down,

their faces shadowed as Wednesday blinked quickly in the light, trying to clear her vision.“Wednesday? What’s wrong?” Mother asked. “I—” Wednesday was confused. A moment ago she’d been in the thicket…oh, it had been a dream,

she realized. Another thought occurred to her; that it had been ridiculous that she had not noticed it had been a dream before, and the idea of her being so boneheaded that she didn’t even know the difference between reality and a dream—or a nightmare, really, she reflected—made her wince inwardly. She’d never really been with Desdemona, and she’d never gotten lost in that thicket, and the woods had not come alive and eaten her. “I—it was just—just a bad dream,” she stammered. “I fell asleep.”

Willow slouched back onto the seat, hugging a cushion. “You gave us all heart attacks, Wednesday!” She glared. “Thrashing about and then suddenly screaming like a tea kettle—what exactly were you dreaming about? You never have been a violent sleeper.”

Wednesday paused, digesting this. It was true—her sleep had always been silent, her breaths not even making any noise, and she would

stay in one position, rock still, for the entire length of her slumber. She remembered the dream she’d had this morning, walking through the silvery forest, and the Shadow King lowering his hood. Then, this dream: she’d seen, for just a moment, a figure in a silk black cloak. It was the second dream/nightmare she’d had of the King in a single day.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I suppose—I suppose it was just a particularly bad dream, then.” She shuddered, thinking of the ghastly leering thorns and plants, and the monstrous shadow beast that had gobbled everything up, and the low, foreign-tongued chanting. It truly had been a particularly bad dream; she wasn’t lying about that.

The others went back to sitting quietly, only occasionally shooting Wednesday quizzical looks. She pressed her palms to her no doubt flaming cheeks, trying to hide her embarrassment of being frightened by a mere dream spun by her own mind. She patiently stared into space as the carriage bumped and jostled over stones and dirt, gently tumbling them all.

Willow seemed to be bored to tears. Her lips were pursed tightly, and the longer they waited in terse silence, the more tightly pursed they became. Finally, she couldn’t seem to hold herself in any longer. “How much more time until we get to the fields?” she blurted out.

“Just a short while longer,” Mother said, who was reading a thin book titled “Striking Impossible Deals Under Pressure: A Manipulative Guide”. She didn’t even look up and turned a page while continuing, “Perhaps fifteen minutes?”

Willow groaned, raising a hand to her head, and fell over backwards onto Wednesday’s lap. Wednesday ignored the soft weight of Willow’s head crushing her hat and the dainty waves of roan hair curling over her dress, resisting the urge to yank on Willow’s hair, hard.

“Buck up, Willow, it’s not the end of the world,” Winter said impatiently, snapping her fingers in front of Willow’s face.

“I hate boredom,” Willow complained petulantly. “I should’ve brought a book, like Mother—but I hate reading. And you can’t draw or practice piano or dance in a carriage!” The last word was emphasized

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with scorn, and Wednesday closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Willow was driving them all up the wall—a scowl settling on Winter’s face, Mother’s lips pressed thinly as she stubbornly read, and Wednesday on the verge of telling Willow to shut up—but Willow didn’t care.

“Well, you could sleep,” Wednesday said, pushing Willow’s head off her lap, “just don’t sleep on me. I’m tired enough of you without your head on my knees—they’re getting numb. Why is your head so heavy? It’s like you carry rocks in there, honestly.”

“Because I’m smart, so I have a big brain, and therefore it’s heavy,” Willow retorted smartly, sitting up. Her hair was all flung to one side and her hat sideways, and she busily untied the ribbon and started to comb through her hair with her fingers.

Wednesday rolled her eyes and turned away, leaning her elbow on the window ledge and resting her jaw on her arm, staring at the curtains and the little tiny bit of outside she could see, rolling by. Willow was a pain, which was why Wednesday normally disliked Willow the most—but at times, such as when Winter had an insult storm, Winter could be the menace. They both had their ups and downs, Wednesday thought glumly, and stared without really seeing.

The dream-nightmare had been quite disorienting to her, and the fact that she’d acted out of the ordinary made it no better. The transformed thicket had been frightening and garish, the air noisome with the thick, musty scents as shadows overwhelmed the teeth-baring plants. It had started out a pleasant dream, being in the fields behind Des’s house and talking together, they way they usually did, Wednesday thought, and she was unsure why her mind had turned to such frightful events. Most of the dream had been true, from what she could remember. The last time she had seen Desdemona had been half a year ago, at Lei’Anne and Gilbert Gerdrane’s engagement celebration.

Jerry Fontana and Cheri Wallace were Desdemona and Lei’Anne’s parents, and Jerry was Father’s cousin, meaning that Desdemona and Lei’Anne were cousins with Wednesday and her own sisters. Lei’Anne was seventeen, and had just been engaged to Gilbert Gerdrane. Wednesday didn’t know much about Lei’Anne’s fiancé, but Des had told her that Lei’Anne and Mr. Gerdrane—or Gilbert, rather, as they preferred to called him, because of his unfortunately silly-sounding surname—had known each other for a fair amount of time before they had been engaged. Desdemona was two years younger than Lei’Anne, and while the two were on quite good terms with each other, Lei’Anne didn’t spend much time at home, and therefore she and Des didn’t talk together, or really do anything together.

When Wednesday and her family had gone to the engagement party, if not a little hesitantly, she and Des had been excited to see each other again, as they were best friends. The two of them would disappear into the sprawling fields in back of Des’s family’s country home farther down south, laughing together and running through the cheery grass, dipping their toes in the shallow natural pools. It had been a nice visit, as far as Wednesday could recall—for she didn’t remember the details of the actual party, only her time spent with Des. Upon departure, they had sadly said good-bye, promising to visit again as soon as their parents would let them.

Des was the clearest non-immediate family member in Wednesday’s mind. She knew, of course, that Lei’Anne was Des’s sister, and who their parents were. She also knew, a little more vaguely, Father’s sister Elizabeth Fontana, and she also knew that she had some other cousins, too, traveling down the family line from Charles Fontana, Wednesday’s great-grandfather, who with his wife Mary Zübelle had had four children, one of which was Wednesday’s grandfather George Fontana. Wednesday’s own father was George the Second.

One of Charles Fontana’s children was Anna Fontana, who married Gordon Ebenezer (or someone of a name that was similar—Wednesday wasn’t sure if she’d had the name correct) and had Reyna Ebenezer,

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who in turn married Damien Corell and had four children, all of whom were Wednesday’s cousins. It was a hard family tree to keep straight, even though a tapestry depicting the generations including Wednesday’s generation was hanging right in the foyer. Not only did she have Lei’Anne and Des as cousins, but there were also Anna, Lance, Brielle, and Luka Corell. She didn’t even have the thinking capacity to extend to her aunts and uncles, grandfathers, grandmother, and into the greats, and she probably had some great-aunts, second or third removed cousins, and great step-fathers in there as well.

She’d seen the Corells at the engagement party. If Father wasn’t familiar with Jerry Fontana, then he was on bad terms with Damien Corell, the father of Anna, Lance, Brielle, and Luka. Wednesday hardly knew the four siblings that were her somewhat-distant cousins, only knowing that Anna was the eldest, down to Luka, the youngest—but she wasn’t sure of their ages, or their personalities, or anything about them in particular. Every time there was an invite to an event in which the Corells would be attending, Father would say no, quickly. Wednesday could only guess that he and Damien Corell weren’t exactly best buddies.

Still, she was curious about her four relatively unknown cousins, and hoped that they would visit soon, now that Mother was back. Mother loved parties and fun, and Wednesday couldn’t see her turning down an invitation just because the Corells were there.

As if she had been listening in on Wednesday’s thoughts, Mother suddenly snapped her book shut, demanding all three girls’ attention. “Girls,” she said, “I can’t believe I forgot—you do know that your grand-aunt Lady Anna Fontana’s birthday is this month, the twenty-sixth of January?”

Willow frowned from where she’d been tying the ribbon on her hat into a dainty bow under her chin. “Who’s Grand-Aunt Anna Fontana?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” Winter muttered, “but a few years ago.” She raised her voice, addressing Mother. “Isn’t she the lady who married this German Ebenezer gentleman and their family line trickles down to the Corells?”

“Who are the Corells?” Willow said, acting stupid. Mother gave her a little frown, and nodded at Winter. “Yes. We will be going to your grand-aunt

Anna’s birthday celebration—she will be turning sixty-six, I believe…”“How do you remember all of this?” Willow muttered under her breath; she was often cranky when

bored. “And so,” Mother continued, ignoring Willow, “your cousins the Corells will be there…and I believe

your other cousins, Desdemona and Lei’Anne, will also be there.”The girls perked up. While Wednesday and Des spent time together, Willow and Winter absolutely

adored Lei’Anne, who acted much older than she really was but had a good-natured, motherly air. “Will Lei’Anne be there, since she’s getting married to Mr. Gerdrane soon?” Winter asked, stiffly

ignoring Willow and Wednesday silent giggles at the sound of Gilbert Gerdrane’s last name. “I believe so,” Mother said, now rummaging through her bag, “though it hasn’t been confirmed—

say, have any of you seen the invitation?”“No,” they all said together. “Well, never mind that, then,” said Mother, pushing her purse onto the seat beside her. “The point

is, it will be a more grown-up celebration, as it’s for your grand-aunt and not for youngsters like you—and I expect you all to be mature and know your limits, and to take care of yourselves? We’ll be going to the Corells’s house, and they are a fine family; I expect you to dress smartly, and to be nice to everyone, especially the Corells. While I know you three have not gotten to know them very well yet, it’s all the more that you play nice, and this is an excellent opportunity to recognize them.” She looked seriously at them, gray eyes solemn, and though a touch of a dimple and smile were across her face, they could tell Mother

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wasn’t playing. “I expect you to know all of their names, at least—” Willow groaned audibly and Winter kicked her boot. “Not to mention their ages, and how their family is doing. As to who else will be there—well, I had it written down, but I seem to have lost it.” Mother looked flustered. “Anyhow, I know at least that your grandfather George will be there, his wife Lucia, Anna Fontana and her husband Gordon Ebenezer, their daughter Reyna, her husband Damien Corell, and their four children—Anna, Lance, Brielle, and Luka, I believe. There are probably a few others that you won’t know—oh, and of course Desdemona, Lei’Anne, Jerry, and his wife Cheri will be there, also.”

Wednesday head was reeling from the names. She’d lost Mother after “grandfather George.” Apparently, her sisters felt the same way; Willow closed her eyes hard and gritted her teeth, and Winter had a look on her face that was part fear, part elation, and part violent shock.

“Say,” said Willow. “Say, if I ended up not liking one of my newly introduced cousins—”“You will,” Mother said firmly.“But let’s just say I didn’t,” Willow pressed. “As in, not at all. Would it be every so out of the

ordinary that a very large vase, perhaps, fell off the stairs onto one of them—or maybe, though the Lord forbid this ever happen, one of their drinks was switched with wine or brandy…”

Mother frowned at her. Willow was grinning, playing dumb. “I’d say that I, for one, wouldn’t be fooled,” Mother said finally, knowing Willow was just playing.

She leaned over and kissed Willow’s forehead, her dimples showing. Wednesday stared out the window, smiling inwardly.

The riding field was nice, Wednesday thought, but nothing like the picturesque fields behind Des’s house in her dream.

After maybe ten more minutes’ riding along in the carriage, which bumped more and more as the ride continued as the roads became less smooth, they had stopped, and the carriage man had pronounced them arrived at the field which Mother had expected for the girls to ride on.

Wednesday pushed aside the curtain, looking at the field. She supposed it wasn’t easy to keep a field green, no matter how faint of a green, in January, and that by winter standards the field was very well kept, but she couldn’t help remembering the sprawl of the pretty waving flower-speckled grasses in the dream, and in her chest there was a sense of anticlimax.

She glanced back from where her head was barely protruding from the rectangle that was the window and saw the rickety, awkwardly large carriage that held all the business gentlemen pulling up behind them, slowing down with the faint creaking of its bouncy wheels. The horse tossed its head and looked back at Wednesday. She quickly pulled her head back into the carriage.

“This is the field?” Willow asked, gazing out of the other window. She sounded excited, but controlled. “How come I don’t see anyone? Or any horses?”

“We passed the stables with the owner already; we’ll have to walk back a bit to reach your precious ponies,” Mother said, smiling. “It’s hardly a few paces, though—all right, out, now all of you, and go and have fun. If you get out and turn around, you’ll see the little wooden stables, and there should be a gentleman and his wife there, preparing the horses.”

Willow scrambled out; hurriedly tightening the bow of her hat under her chin, Winter quickly spilled out after her. Mother smiled at Wednesday, and she reluctantly opened the door and stepped out, smoothing down her skirts as they crumpled over the threshold of the carriage as she got down, and blinked in the bright light, taking in the little field.

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It was more a pasture-ish thing than a real field, Wednesday realized, taking in the neat little fences, and the short trimmed grass. Through the faint green of the mostly yellower meadow, she could see spots of dry earth, pale from frost, and Wednesday shivered slightly at the cold. Though it was warm for a January, the chill still settled into her bones and stayed there.

Willow was already taking off towards the little house-like structure that Mother must’ve meant. Winter glanced at Wednesday, and the two of them ran after Willow, skirts flattening against their legs in the breeze.

As it turned out, the owners of the stables were very nice people, a middle-aged couple with children, all of whom had already left to begin their families. Willow and Winter looked through the rows and rows of well-behaved, groomed ponies blinking at them from their neat stalls while the stable owners stood back and let them choose their own horses. Wednesday shyly averted her eyes every time she passed the couple, and wondered if there was a gentle horse who would fit her personality.

“Hey—hey, Wednesday, come here!”Wednesday looked up from where she’d been stroking a small tan pony’s forelock. Willow was

gesticulating for her to come over, and she crossed the break in the rows of stalls and came to stand by Willow, trying to not breath in the thick horsey scent that made her nose wrinkle.

“What?” she said.“Don’t you think this horse would be great for you?” Willow said brightly, tossing back her head to

clear the strands of hair falling in her face. She smiled at the ginger horse in the stall, who was quietly watching them without a sound.

“I don’t know,” Wednesday said cautiously. “Have you decided on a horse yet, Willow?”“I’m looking for a big one,” she said, sounding a tad disappointed, “but I haven’t found one that suits

my fancy yet. I think tan coats on my ride flatter me, hm?”“I saw a tan horse back there,” Wednesday said, motioning to the far end of the stable, where

Winter was wandering, “and he might be big enough for what you’re looking for—but they probably don’t have very large horses, you know that Willow, right?” she added anxiously as Willow stared down the wooden planks with fierce determination.

“Well, naturally,” Willow said, without really comprehending what Wednesday had just said, and she started down the aisle.

Wednesday turned her attention back to the creamy horse Willow had recommended for her, who nuzzled her hand contentedly. She pulled back; its lips were soft and a bit damp. The horse looked down at her with large dark eyes and flicked its tail back and forth, pressing against the side of its wooden booth. Maybe Willow was right, Wednesday thought, and she unlatched the lock on the front of the stall and crammed her hat on her head.

Wednesday followed Willow’s lead at a light canter, the stiff cold breeze blowing her hat back on her head so precariously she felt as though it would fall off any second. In front of her, Willow’s horse galloped forward, Willow’s hair bouncing with each hoof beat, riding habit bunched at a square angle on either side.

The cream pony followed Wednesday’s lead excellently; a gentle thing with an understanding of her frailty, it kept its footfalls smooth as possible while keeping the ride enjoyable, and for one of the first times she’d ever gone riding, Wednesday felt content. The sound of the horse’s hooves seemed to echo as it hit the cold ground and sprang off lightly; it was as if riding in a boat, bobbing and sweeping along, slightly

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rocking, and Wednesday could almost imagine breathing in the salty air of the sea as the breeze, conjured by the speed of her horse, stung her nose and throat with the cold.

Willow turned, and her horse skittered sideways for a moment on the frozen dirt before curving around in an almost crescent manner; Wednesday copied her and led the creamy pony in an arc, and it responded to her thoughts, bounding with sprightly steps, and Wednesday broke away from Willow’s path and spotted a gleam of black up to the right; Winter was riding at a fast, straight gallop—Wednesday urged the horse after her. There was a quick scramble over a large rock that was half-embedded in the dirt, and they cantered around as one as Wednesday caught up to her eldest sister and they matched each other step for step, with the wind whipping their cheeks rosy with cold, and their throats cold and scratchy; and yet Wednesday didn’t find it unpleasant as her faithful, lovely steed turned in perfect unison with Winter’s, and the two girls, side by side, rode in a race track, with Wednesday on the outside, in a wider turn, and Winter neatly clipping her bend at every opportunity. They rode in a dizzying pace, and Wednesday felt fresh as she had never been before, feeling a shrill fluttering in her chest mixed with excitement and exhilaration.

Winter made a sharp cut to the left, and Wednesday didn’t turn in time; instead, she let her movement carry her in an arc to the right and she peeled away from Winter, free riding against the wind. A slight tug on the reins, and her horse galloped in a large circle, and Wednesday caught a glimpse of a cluster of people gathered at the far edge of the field—Mother dealing with the gentlemen.

Everything is perfect, Wednesday thought. It was true. At that moment in time, if she could have frozen the second, everything was perfect—beautiful scenery, open heart, joy rushing through her ablaze. She couldn’t have thought of anything more…idyllic.

Well, except for maybe Cassius. Or Castil. Wednesday loosened her grip for a second, her mind suddenly reeling with the idea of her two

angelic gentlemen, and at that moment a blur darted across her path. She barely had time to register the blur of auburn hair before her horse whinnied, kicking its front legs up, jolting back in a startle as Willow drove straight past them, and as it bucked, the reins were flung from Wednesday’s loose grip, and she was tossed through the air.

Wednesday watched sourly as Willow and Cassius danced alone on the ballroom floor. It was nauseating, she decided, seeing the two of them entwined perfectly into one another, gazing

into each others’ eyes, that perfect touch of a smile that graced both their lips. Her own lips went thin as she stared angrily at Willow for stealing Cassius away, and though it was undoubtedly odd that a thirteen-year old as she herself was completely preoccupied with wondering if he liked her or not, she couldn’t help it.

Willow’s hair was streaming behind her. She danced with easy grace, Cassius matching her perfectly, and as they drew closer, Wednesday could see the clear emotion in their eyes. She didn’t like it one bit.

A minor chord on the piano struck the air, sending a harsh jerk of pain through her skull. Wednesday opened her eyes, confused. She was lying half on her back, half on her side, curled up slightly. The ground was flat-packed dirt

with dribbles of crackly frost, and an infinite sky was a zone of blue ahead. Faces were looking down at her with partial concern, partial mild annoyance.

Her head throbbed and pulsed, and she felt as if her ears and the inside of her head were both hot as a furnace.

“Thrown off a horse, now weren’t you?” Winter said drily, but sounding somewhat relieved at Wednesday’s revival.

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Wednesday groaned and massaged her head. There was a splintery pain in her knees and a few spots on her side that suggested the cream-colored horse had bucked her off and she had landed hard. “Why am I always the one who gets injuries?”

“Because you’re dumb and can’t handle a thing,” Willow said, grabbing Wednesday’s elbow and hauling her to her feet. “Get up now; that cold is going to seep into your bones and stay there permanently.”

Stars were bursting in her vision. She wobbled, and Willow seemed to realize that Wednesday probably needed a bit more time after being launched off a moving animal to recover before she could walk properly. Winter held onto Wednesday shoulder so she wouldn’t topple over.

“Where’s Mother?” Wednesday murmured vaguely, to none of them in particular. “She’s going to get the carriage man,” Winter said. “You fell off, and Mother and all the others saw,

and she was terrified, so she ran to get the carriage and possible some piping hot tea, and she says that we’re going home as fast as possible.”

“You messed it up for us,” Willow said, cranky and childish.Wednesday decided not to point out that Willow was the one that had startled her horse and made

her fall off, seeing how grumpy Willow was. She could be so puerile, only thinking of her own pleasantries and wishes, not giving a rat’s fart about anything else. Instead, she clutched at her sisters as they helped her slowly and crookedly to reach as close to the edge of the field as they dared. None of the gentlemen were in sight; it looked as though they had all run over the hill bend with Mother to do as much as they could for Wednesday. She felt a rush of gratitude. The horses were also gone from the field, and she suspected, as she heard soft clattering from the stables, that the owners were struggling to put the horses away.

Guilt trickled through her. She always messed things up. “You have a lot to answer to when we get back, missy,” Willow said as they stopped, waiting for

Mother and the carriage and the gentlemen. Breezes ripple through their hair, and Wednesday hadn’t even realized until that moment that her hat was squashed sideways, dropping down to the back of her head. “We only got in ten minutes of riding for that long wait we had…and now we have to ride it back…”

Wednesday tuned her out.“Therefore,” Winter supplied helpfully when Willow paused, “you need to be quiet, Willow, and stop

being so annoying. Honestly, I’ve never seen someone who whines as much as you do.”“And I have never seen as much of a boot-licker as you are,” Willow quipped in response.

Wednesday’s head was buzzing, and the pulsing was getting louder. The girls’ voices were, at the same time, getting fainter and fainter as she listened. Her consciousness was seeping away, and the last thing she remembered was Willow’s voice uttering callow words, “As I was saying, we’re going home, but this isn’t over, I hope. I’ll have to get Mother to take us again another time.”

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Chapter SevenOver the next few days, Wednesday was ordered to stay in bed as much as possible. Sitting in bed all

day long left her grumpy as it made her joints stiffer than usual and every movement hurt. Her sisters ignored her occasional complaints, and she eventually stopped talking to them about her predicament altogether. Not that they spent much time up in the room with Wednesday, anyway. The doctor had said Wednesday was suffering from an unknown something-or-other that Wednesday didn’t even attempt to pronounce, and that he said a week or so of regular bed rest was all Wednesday needed to recover completely. She felt perfectly fine and after two days, her head didn’t even hurt anymore, but every time she tried to sneak downstairs or down the hall to get some fresh air in the gardens or run around in the house, one of the family caught her and shooed her to bed.

So after a week and a half, she was bored out of her mind and her nerves frayed to the point of snapping. Mother insisted on her still doing lessons, and after hours of Wednesday struggling with break downs under memorizing poems and literature, Mother had relented and given her an etiquette book to study instead. Wednesday had discovered that the etiquette book was excellent for fending off insomnia. Ten pages of reading about smelling salts and fan tatting techniques and she was out cold.

Not only that, but after her lessons, there was nothing to do. This bored Wednesday so much she was almost tempted to do more lessons. She reread all her novels seven times, memorized the first five pages of each, recited hymns, and tried to play games. Unfortunately, there was no one to play the games with, as the room was vacant all day except for when her sisters came to sleep, and she couldn’t find an interesting one to play by herself. She tried drawing, but it was hard for her lines to be neat when she was drawing over her lap and the poufy covers. She’d even asked Father and Mother for ideas in the rare snatches of time when they came up, but all Mother had supplied was a pot of tea and a reminder to take her medicine and look at the etiquette book, and Father had given her a copy of the Fontana extended family tree and said memorizing it would be a good idea as they were going to Grand-Aunt Anna Fontana’s birthday celebration on the twenty-sixth.

This particular day, Wednesday was sitting in bed, twitching her foot to try and fight off the pins and needles pricking the pad of her heels and toes, with the family tree in her lap, eyes closed, trying to remember everyone.

“Grand-Aunt Anna Fontana, currently 65. Married to Grand-Uncle Gordon Ebenezer. Their child is Aunt Reyna Ebenezer. Married to Uncle Damien Corell. Children: Anna Corell, Lance Corell, Brielle Corell…er…” She fought to remember the youngest one’s name. Something that started with an L? “Luka Corell,” she said suddenly. “And Lance and Brielle are twins…? No, not twins. They’re…”

Her mind was foggy. The entire week and a half, the skies had been getting progressively bluer in richer shades, and the air had been slowly warming. That morning, it had rained out, and amid the faint drip-drop of water tumbling off a swaying bare tree branch outside the window, it was humid and sluggish and felt absolutely nothing like winter. The window had been shoved open for fresh air, yet the air inside the bedroom was fresher than the ugly thickness of the rain-induced clamminess outside, but Wednesday, sitting up against her pillow, was too lazy to get up to fold the glass panes to one another and snap the latch.

The circulation of the air was in slow motion, the sky outside sharply blue against the heady dampness that clogged the room, and Wednesday longed for nothing more than to be outside, sitting in the shade, taking tea and muffins with her family and admiring the flowers and trees that were no doubt starting to flourish in the steadily warming weather.

Wednesday let her head fall back, and it hit the wall with a thunk that made her wince. For a

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moment the pain resonated through her head, and she waited for it to pass, then sat up, putting the family tree aside, and reached for her bottle of medicine.

The bureau had become a bit cluttered over the past week and a half, since her family would come up and leave pots of tea and coffee and hot chocolate and cups, but would never come to take them back down. To her dismay, there were no clean cups left, and each had a circle of grit at the bottom. She didn’t want to use a dirty cup for medicine, and she frowned, irked.

Clutching the glass bottle with the medicine in one hand, she leaned over to the other side of the bed, where the dresser and the vanity were, three drawers; the top Wednesday’s, the second Willow’s, and the bottom Winter’s. Wednesday never kept much of anything in her drawer, as she stored all her clothes in the pine wardrobe on the other side of the room, and so she rarely looked in, only to see scraps of old drawings and reminders, old ink bottles, pens that didn’t work, candles worn to the nub. She never had the heart to toss any of it, and over the years the clutter had built up slightly. She tugged on the handle, keeping one hand on the mirror so it wouldn’t fall, and pulled the drawer open to see if at one point, by any chance, she had put a clean cup in there.

Among the little stacks of corner-crinkled papers and bits of wax sat the black teacup, pristine and in perfect condition, sitting primly on its little black saucer. She had forgotten about that, and she lifted it out, smiling. The obsidian cup was smooth and unchipped, and she remembered thoroughly washing it. The imprinted words on the bottom of the cup were clearer than ever: It’s yours.

The memory of the unusual hot chocolate party with the Shadow King on the swaying bridge was so strange that she felt a foolish smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It had been wildly bizarre, and the more she thought about it, the less she could believe it hadn’t been a creation of her frenzied imagination. If she had been rational, she wouldn’t have dared drink anything he offered her; she would have run away on the bridge. But it had been real. A dream wouldn’t have been that sharp, no matter how wild the idea of her experience had been.

Wednesday measured out the amount of medicine, wrinkling her nose as the bittersweet smell of the thin, syrupy amber liquid, and poured it into the black teacup. The translucent amber medicine, showing through to the black underneath, was a little more than disconcerting. She closed her eyes before tipping the cup over into her mouth, the cool glazed rim touching her lip.

She swallowed quickly. The taste of bitter herbs covered her tongue and she rolled her tongue around her mouth to get rid of the taste, then swung her legs out of bed to rinse the cup out. No use in letting the medicine stick to the nice cup. She could’ve cleaned the other cups, too, but didn’t feel like going to get them….

Just as she stopped at the bedroom’s bathroom door to turn the handle, something strange happened. The cup grew heavy in her hand, and she glanced at it, alarmed. The thin coat of medicine that was sticking to the cup was swirling, the amber color starting to glow and make shimmery trails within itself, like oil. The transformation wasn’t solid; it was an illusion that looked like liquid, filling the cup rapidly, and then one shimmery amber drop fell to the ground.

It started to spread, making a puddle. Wednesday stumbled back. The one drop had quickly broadened out to create a thin, unreflective pool three feet across. The edge of the puddle was only a few inches away from the hem of Wednesday’s dress.

She stared, frozen with a sort of fascinated terror. The heavy added weight of the illusion in the cup still clutched in her hand vanished, and the shimmery illusion in the cup did as well, leaving just the ordinary black cup, with the medicine still clinging like maple syrup to the side. But the gleaming amber pool on the floor was still there.

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For a fleeting moment, all Wednesday could think of was how hard it would be to clean up. Then she remembered it was an illusion. Suddenly, words were smoothly appearing on the surface of the pool, as if someone had used their

finger and drawn little letter paths through the illusive liquid, but the words remained clear against the amber puddle.

You discovered it after all.Wednesday almost dropped the cup. Was there a ghost, writing on the mirage? She was still frozen

in place with utter curiosity that she couldn’t resist. She’d discovered something. You discovered it after all. But what had she discovered?“What did I discover?” she whispered, unable to move her feet, or her gaze from the pool. The words promptly sank and melted into the puddle. Wednesday flinched, thinking that something

was going to rise up out of it; a spirit, or a ghoul. Instead, more words were appearing. You discovered the way my teacup works. I thought you would never remember it, I had to wait so

long. “Your teacup?” Wednesday couldn’t get her mind around that. She was talking to a puddle, which

had just answered her question. What did I discover? she had asked aloud, and it had just replied to her. In writing. On a mirage puddle that had once been her medicine in a teacup. “Your teacup—I’m talking to a puddle, for heaven’s sake—you’re the Shadow King? A puddle? You’re a person, and also a puddle?”

The words dissolved. New ones appeared. The handwriting was smooth, easy, legible. If the King was writing this, he seemed to be in no hurry. I am not a puddle, thank you. Using my cup, you can talk to me this way…through this illusion. It is my way of connecting to you…though, yes, the one who is writing this to you is indeed me, the Shadow King.

“You can hear me?” Wednesday whispered, terrified.Not all the time. Only when you use the cup this way. When you clean the cup, the connection is

broken. “I’ll keep it dry, then,” Wednesday said shortly, all of a sudden irritated by the King’s nonchalant

choice of words and style. “Why would I want to talk to you?” No reply. The words dissolved.Wednesday stepped away from the pool. Her heart was thudding along fast, and she was trembling

slightly. She stumbled a little bit as she maneuvered around the illusive puddle and into the bathroom, where she thoroughly cleaned the teacup out, rubbing her fingers in it to make sure not a single drop of amber medicine remained. The imprint on the bottom of the cup was still there.

When she exited the bathroom, the pool had disappeared, without any trace or sign that it had ever been there. She poked a foot at the spot it had been but felt nothing. The King’s message about washing the cup clean had been true.

As she shakily sat down on the bed, staring at the cup in her hands as a water droplet she had missed when drying rolled down the smooth, glossed sides, she considered throwing it out the window. In all the novels she read, when a girl hated something given to her by a man, she would pitch it away as far and as hard as she could and it would never be seen again. She rose, holding the handle of the dainty black porcelain, and reached the window ledge. Humid, sticky air seemed to cling to her skin as she looked uncertainly at the expanse of still-cold landscape bathed in baby greens and silvery-brown dirt. The cup and saucer made a soft clink as she set them down on the windowsill, wondering if she could toss them. That’s what a strong-willed main character would have done, as she hated the connection.

But Wednesday couldn’t bring herself to do it. As much as she was afraid of the Shadow King, and as

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much as she didn’t like how every time she used the cup he would talk to her using a mirage of a puddle, it was an object of too much fascination for her to throw away. The cup was obviously magic, and it had been granted to her by the unearthly king himself. And what if she wanted to ask him about something again? (However unlikely that seemed, Wednesday reasoned that there was always room for a what-if.) Her technical, practical side was telling her emotional side the logical thing to do, which would be to not throw the cup away.

She reluctantly retreated from the muggy-aired window back into the even more stifling room, brushing her hair into a single waterfall over her shoulder. This was by far the hottest day or winter they had had. Hopefully the air would become a tad drier by the time Grand-Aunt Anna’s birthday came around. She couldn’t see a picture of Willow staying still while they sat in a circle at the Corells’ (whose house she imagined as a sort of modest townhouse) saying greetings in this weather.

After shoving the teacup back into her drawer, Wednesday plunked down on the bed, feeling too tired and dumb to do anything of use. The air in the room was as sultry as it was outside, and she grabbed a stray ribbon from the bedstand and messily tied up her hair up on her head to try and relieve the heat that was trapped between her tumbling hair and her neck. There was nothing interesting to do, and she played with the paper bearing the family tree before wearily returning her attention to its contents.

“Jerry Fontana, father of Lei’Anne and Desdemona Fontana…”Wednesday recited the names of as many family members she could grasp while her mind wandered

in a sort of partial doze, and she wasn’t even noticing who they were anymore. Her eyes glazed over as they stared unseeingly at the family tree.

The teacup mirage could have been just a clever trick of her own fancy, couldn’t it have been? After all, there was no reason for the Shadow King to have wanted to contact her, and there was no way she had been brazen enough to talk to him rudely. Maybe it had just been a strange fantasy. The muddling heat was turning her brain slowly to mush in her head, and there was a faint bitter taste on her tongue that had been the medicine, still lingering on her palate. Loud, angry noises were coming from downstairs, voices filtering dimly through the floor and into her room. She couldn’t hear what they were saying; everything was too vague, but she heard the clear exasperation coming through. Winter’s voice joined in the din but quickly went silent. Willow was clearly the head of the argument, and her yells rebounded off the walls, obviously screaming herself sick. There was a deeper voice of Father that also died away after a few sentences, and then the crisp cool voice of Mother sharply reprimanding Willow in a pause of silence. Then the shouts started up again, and Mother’s voice disappeared from the fray. Wednesday heard the entire exchange as if watching a film. Footsteps were marching up the stairs, getting louder as they reached the landing, not being particularly careful about how loud they were. Wednesday’s first thought was an image of Willow, cheeks flushed an angry pink, storming up to sulk.

There was a genteel knock on the door. Wednesday felt so befuddled she didn’t even realize that someone was knocking to come in before it opened and Mother came in, regal and pretty. Her lips were pressed tightly together to the point of being close to white, and there was definite tension in her rigid posture. Still, she forced a faint smile when she saw Wednesday slumped in bed, studying the family tree with glazed eyes.

“How are you, darling?” Mother asked, fluttering over in a sweep of white brocade and lace. Her shiny coffee ringlets curled upon her movement, and Wednesday stared at them dreamily. Mother felt Wednesday’s forehead, which was no doubt damp with the cold sweat of the illusion of the teacup and the sheer drowsiness of the day. “Are you burning up? No, you’re fine…you seem so distracted today, dear. Is

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everything all right?”Wednesday mumbled a reply of which she knew not. Mother raised her eyebrows and proceeded to

sweep to the windows, snap them closed, and hurry back to Wednesday’s bed. “You must be very hot, dear,” she said, “as you can’t even think. How would you like to take a walk with your mother? Ease your mind, hm?”

Wednesday felt drowsy, but of those last few sentences, she had understood the words “walk” and “mother,” and it shook her awake slightly. Walk? Taking a walk? Perhaps they would even be able to walk through the gardens, which must have been dewy at this time, dripping with silvery drops and sparkling in the hazy sunlight with its own kind of magic.

“Give me a moment,” Wednesday said. Her voice came out soft and timid, and she was irritated as her arms and legs felt ridiculously stiff after sinking into the bedsheets. She pushed herself out of bed, walked quietly to the vanity in the bathroom, and started to pin up her hair properly. Mother took a seat in the fat green armchair between Wednesday’s and Winter’s beds, and ran her hands over her brow, looking weary.

Wednesday screwed up her face as she examined herself. In the mirror, she was as pale as ever, and her hair was twisted up clockwise instead of counterclockwise, as Mother preferred it. She twisted a loose strand around her finger, wishing it’d magically float on top of her head, and finally tuck it behind her ear in hopes that Mother wouldn’t notice.

“You are doing all right?” Mother said as Wednesday came out of the bathroom and immediately flopped down onto her bed.

“No,” Wednesday said, and, realizing that if she lied down she would mess her hair up again, she stumbled to her feet. A small squiggly figure and sparkles floated across her vision, and she blinked, touching a finger to her temple. She felt sleepy and stupid, but her mind was so sharp her senses picked up on the tiny, miniscule ridges of her finger pads over the smooth skin of her face.

Mother steadied her, leaned her against one of the grooved wooden poles of the four-poster bed—though the hangings were sadly absent, as the bed was secondhand and the hangings had been so moth-eaten she had asked Father to take them down—and she gave Wednesday a pat and headed for the bathroom. Wednesday wasn’t sure what exactly Mother was doing in there, and she absently ran through her hair; her fingers came away with curly strands of crinkly auburn draped over them, and she twisted them in her hands.

She only had to wait for half a minute—enough time for her dreamy thoughts to clear and for her body to start functioning. The Mother came out of the bathroom, something in her hands, and she opened them to show Wednesday a dried flower. She pinned it in Wednesday’s hair with a smile, dusted some powder on Wednesday’s face, and paused as she looked up and down at Wednesday’s dress.

Wednesday’s eyes flickered down, to the faded azure color of her dress (which opposed her auburn hair magnificently), to the slight tears that riddled the hem, and the worn threadbare bits on the sleeves. Mother clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

“Why didn’t you put on one of the dresses, I have you?” she asked, a stern note in her voice.“Sorry,” Wednesday mumbled. “I’ve been in bed for over a week…so I haven’t had much time to

show off any of the pretty dresses you gave me. It’s not like I’m attending a party…”Mother held Wednesday at arm’s length and studied her critically. Then, suddenly releasing her,

tightly wound corkscrews coiling like springs around her shoulders, Mother abruptly strode across the room, indicating that Wednesday should follow.

The house, for the most part, was vacant, Wednesday thought as she tailed Mother down the flight

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of stairs and onto the main level. After the sudden brouhaha of the argument she had heard from when she was upstairs, now everything was eerily silent. Wednesday wasn’t sure where they had gone—if Willow had stormed from the house, or it she was in a different empty room taking her frustrations out. Father was also missing from the central room, but a mug of warm coffee was still on the table, steaming, with condensation collecting on it. He couldn’t have been gone long. It was manifest to see where Winter had gone after a quick look around the room; there was a scrap of paper on the table, with her graceful handwriting gliding over it, bearing the words “out to play.”

“What exactly was that argument about?” Wednesday asked Mother as they walked straight through the main room and towards the front entrance to the gardens. “I heard it upstairs.”

Mother’s lips pursed. She didn’t say anything. Wednesday thought it best to not pursue the subject.They passed the main doors to the outside. Wednesday blinked as heavy, sticky air attacked her

skin. The heat was a smoky dreariness that was a depression in her soul, a pit scoped out by the stifling manner of the climate. Each branch of the trees was suspended in a glistening clear fluid like gel, which would roll in slow motion in miniature baubles to the edge of each spidery limb, save for the drops plopping in a pattern much was drumsticks falling upon a glockenspiel, and would bend the branch as it dipped downward which would spring back up once the silver droplet of gloss had slipped off. Wednesday paused, fascinated, and watched these miniscule wonders moving with their quiet purpose, so unlike her without any ideas of where she was going or her lack of deliberateness. The entire front lawn (which was currently a faded gold Bermuda grass, and would green by late spring) was sparkling as if dipped in shards of glass. Trees, as weighed down as she with their armfuls of dew, bent and occasionally shivered in their bare skin as they dripped forth the condensative water. They sky was heavy and pressed in, a rolling mass of pale gray. It wasn’t a harmful gray, but the mild tendency of one who was merely shy but had a large presence that drew the eye. Behind the smokiness was a weak sun shimmering with the force of only a small lantern.

“Are we going to the gardens?” Wednesday asked the stoic Mother, wondering what use this walk could be without the pleasantries of the bare flower bushes and hearty pines and firs nuzzling against her at all times, for even in this sticky weather the gardens would be bliss.

“Yes,” Mother said after a length pause. “Do not be hasty, Wednesday, for arrival, as we have much to discuss and you have a great chance of not enjoying it.”

Discuss? Discuss what? Wednesday wondered, and pondered why she wouldn’t enjoy it, and strangely enough, for a fleeting moment, she pictured herself talking to Mother about who she wanted to marry. But then she tossed the thought aside; of course Mother wouldn’t be thinking of an underage girl’s marriage fancy while she was so hurriedly trying to secure a husband for Winter, though it was more than unfortunate for Mother that she didn’t even know who it was Winter fancied.

They passed by the front gates, which Wednesday eyed apprehensively. A week and a half ago, a somewhat rickety, rented carriage had been parked out there, until she been bucked off the horse and the gentlemen had all beat a hasty retreat. The gate was a bit creaky, and had bits of rust freckling the edges, but was still a grand sign of the house. The Fontanas called their house a palace since Father was technically a minority king, but the house wasn’t much of a palace, except the unusual bell tower planted on top of the house. As houses went, theirs was a large one, granted, but it wasn’t a real palace. Father tended to refer to it as a mansion rather than a palace. To Wednesday, “mansion” sounded plenty as exquisite and fancy as “palace,” so she simply tried to no talk about the house at all. For what Father called a mansion, the interior of the house was rather sparse and had little furnishing. From the outside, despite the whitewashed shells embedded in the left side and ivy climbing up the irregularly shaped stones that made up the right wall, the house looked almost sad and dreary, the windows usually plain and dark and the lawn never trimmed

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correctly.It hadn’t always been this way. When mother stayed, before she had taken up her busy political job

that seemed to drain years from her youthful figure, the gardens hadn’t been the only enjoyable place in the house besides the kitchen. The wrought iron gate had always been kept clean, the arbors and grass in the front lawn always neatly clipped. At night the windows always glowed with a mellow gold light, and the house seemed homier and less traditional, less historical. After Mother had left and afterwards spent so little time at home because of her job, Father hadn’t taken care of the house, and now it seemed faded, a rusty artifact exposed to the air. Wednesday hoped that now that Mother was back, with the promise that she wouldn’t be leaving for a while, that the house would once again be in order. Without Mother, the rigid, firm frame the house leaned upon had slowly crumbled, molding and eroding. Now she was back and the iron frame could be reinforced. At least, that she hoped.

She had been following Mother with a sort of confused impression and plodding gait that one often sees in spaced-out children, and it surprised her as she startled back to reality and out of the past that they had arrived at the hedges and the arches with encircling vines, which would blossom into foxglove and bleeding heart flowers once it was the proper season. Mother had come to a halt, hands on her hips, dress hem rustling as she slightly shifted from foot to foot, as she frowned at the hedges.

“What exactly has your father been up to?” she murmured. “No trimming. No tending. No nurturing…” She tore her gaze away and forced a smile to Wednesday. While Wednesday had known that Mother wasn’t happy with the argument with Winter that Wednesday had heard from upstairs, she was nevertheless rather surprised and even feeling a strange tug of guilt seeing clear emotion in Mother’s eyes. Mother usually kept her temper hidden away, stored somewhere deep inside her, and the girls had learned, during the periodic times when Mother stayed as they had grown up, that Mother had no fear, that she felt no pain, that she did not have that fountain of anger in a person that everyone has, which bubbles and roils when a fire is lit underneath the soul. Seeing penetrating emotion in Mother’s face felt almost alien and detached to Wednesday, for it was something she had grown up not knowing that Mother had that inside her, just like the rest of them.

“What’s wrong, Mother?” Wednesday whispered, clutching a hand in her skirts. Mother’s smile dropped from her the same as the dew had from the trees: gradually but very clearly.

She looked away, and Wednesday almost believed she saw a silvery tear forming on the pretty coffee lashes. Mother didn’t respond. She took a controlled breath and said, “Now, Wednesday, before we reach the stone arbors where we can sit and talk, I’d like to ask you how well you have been getting along with your sisters.”

This surprised Wednesday, but she knew what the answer was supposed to be, and she politely replied. “We’ve been getting along very well, Mother.”

“Have Winter and Willow been getting along?”That was as far from the truth as Wednesday could tell, seeing the arguments Willow and Winter had

had over breakfast made by Castil, and she knew that there had been a tense sort of silence between them ever since. Tempers had run high between the two, and they talked rather stiffly to one another with the courteous, detached air strangers use with one another. ‘Getting along’ was on a different level of family that the two girls had broken apart over.

“The feeling is mutual,” Wednesday finally managed. “I see,” said Mother, but she didn’t really seem to see. The reply had been perfunctory. There was a moment where no sound was heard. “And?” Wednesday prodded, unsure of what the

response meant. Mother leaned against an arbor, shawl wrapped around her tightly, suddenly looking wearier than

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Wednesday had ever seen her before. “No, Mother, really, what’s wrong?” Wednesday said. She had never had to cope with this situation,

to try and comfort other and ask what was the matter, and the fact that it was Mother scared her the most. “What happened during that argument that has made you so, so despondent?”

Mother glared at her and Wednesday immediately knew that Mother wasn’t keen on the subject at that moment. There wasn’t real anger in her eyes, though. It was more like pain and sorrow of a degree that burst from the inside and pressured until it broke forth in a rushing torrent. That was a pain that Wednesday had never experienced before in her life, and she somehow doubted she would feel this pain in everyday action. It wasn’t an outer pain, one that caused her stomach to hurt or her head to throb, or a mental pain, which clogged her brain as she tried to think, but a spiritual pain, which damaged the most.

Wednesday swallowed. Mother’s gaze softened. She averted her eyes and held out her hand. “Come, Wednesday.”

Hesitantly, Wednesday took Mother’s hand, clutching tightly and reveling in the experience of being close to Mother. Mother led her past the overgrown hedges and deeper into the garden. Wednesday followed her blindly. She was so close to Mother, so unlike she had ever been before. Mother had never paid much attention to any of them, Wednesday least of all, and this new experience delighted her, eclipsing the wondering of what had bothered Mother before.

Finally Mother paused, and Wednesday, looked around, realized where they were. In front of them was a narrow corridor with walls made of stiff hedges, dark and beckoning. The depths were impenetrable. On either side of the thick, blocky opening was a huge, solid hedge, closing the opening of the central garden maze off from the rest of the gardens.

“Surely we aren’t going in there, Mother?” Wednesday said, slightly inclined to disagree with stepping into that scary place.

“Of course not,” Mother said impatiently. “Really, my dear, can’t you ever stay quiet and let your Mother pause for breath without spewing questions?”

“Oh—” Wednesday blushed, hurt at Mother’s harsh words. She went quiet. After a moment, Mother started up her stride again, and Wednesday bustled after her.

Mother stopped with a very purposeful finality at the edge of the gardens on the northeast side, just shy of the fruit trees and instead halting at the rows of evergreens, all of them dusted with white powder and semi-clear frost that had formed over the winter and was now rapidly melting in the humid weather of the day. Wednesday was surprised that the frost hadn’t completely melted already, but in this corner of the gardens it was a little less hot, and the evergreens enjoyed the fractional shade of the leafless, bare fruit trees that would sprout in spring, so she supposed they were just lucky. Wednesday didn’t dare say a word as Mother just stood there for a while, but eventually she started to grow impatient and fidget. Mother didn’t do anything. She simply looked, not at the dark tree needles, not at the drops of dew soaking into the mulch, not at the gauzy sky.

Right when Wednesday was going to politely ask Mother if something was bothering her, and if she wanted Wednesday to fetch a cup of tea, Mother spoke up.

“Wednesday,” she said quietly, “I am quite sure that you often stay away from your sisters when they aren’t hospitable to you.”

Hospitable? I suppose that’s the nice way to put it, Wednesday thought dryly. She nodded.“Then…” Mother tugged at the fringe of her shawl. “I don’t suppose you like to spend time around

them?”There was something about her demeanor that Wednesday couldn’t quite place, but she knew it

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wasn’t right. Mother was always forthright and cool, and never timid or skirting around the edges of what she wanted to say, the way she was doing now. Over the years of glimpses of Mother dealing with others, Wednesday knew that one of the best ways to open Mother up was to talk or provoke. Deliberately provoking Mother was, granted, not a wise choice, Wednesday realized with a feeble smile, but first of all, if it meant Mother breaking out of this vague mood, that was worth it, and two, Wednesday was tired of waiting for Mother to say something.

Wednesday stripped off one of her gloves and picked at the pine needles that were prickling her shoulder. “Cut to the chase, Mother,” she said curtly.

“Very well,” Mother said, “but this is your first mistake.”Mother saying this was very bizarre, Wednesday couldn’t help thinking, as she had done nothing,

and what mistake could she possibly have made in one simple sentence’s time? Before she had gathered enough courage or time to ask, however, mother spoke up again.

“Tell me, Wednesday,” she said, keeping her gaze carefully blank, “are you progressing in that etiquette book of yours that I have lent you?”

Wednesday’s breath left her in a huff. She didn’t mean to snap, but her temper got the better of her, for it really was a dreadfully steamy day, and Mother had been secluded and strange, and this led her to believe that there was something important to discuss rather than this. “Are you really bringing that up now, Mother?” she demanded. “You decided to take me out here, and walk me around, just so you could ask how I’m doing with my etiquette? Well, I must say, it’s been very effective—I haven’t had trouble falling asleep anymore!”

Mother didn’t take the bait. “Second mistake,” she said calmly, in a flat voice. “But never mind that. Onto something else—if you haven’t been studying that ‘effective’ etiquette book, what exactly have you been doing for the past week and a half?”

“Oh, talking to myself, of course,” Wednesday said dryly, finding herself in a horrible mood all of a sudden. “Wait, I forgot! I’m supposed to be nice to my sisters, right? Of course, I was talking to them instead, because they just adore spending time with me in that stuffy room, trading insults, dueling with deceit.”

“It isn’t wise for a child to insult her older siblings, dear,” Mother said, still maintaining her composure, with not visible restraint that Wednesday could see. In a way, it disappointed her, and she strived to prod Mother’s temper further. Mother continued. “Why would a viper call attention to her eggs when a mongoose is in the house?”

“How does that have anything to do with what we’re talking about?” Wednesday said, exasperated. Her glove was clenched in her hand.

“Wednesday,” Mother said with sudden uncharacteristic gentleness that she was caught off guard. She reached out and, very gently, touched a finger to Wednesday’s elbow. It was then Wednesday realized that she was trembling violently, and Mother’s touch soothed her like a teaspoon of honey. “I don’t mean to make you angry, darling,” she said. “In fact, I’m trying to help you without being too obvious about it. A touch of subtlety—”

Wednesday was already overriding her. “Trying to help me?” she echoed in disbelief. “What, by asking me how I’m doing with my sisters, and how I’m using that sleepy etiquette book? How exactly is that helpful, Mother? Or is your version of the word different than mine?”

Mother smiled sadly. “Wednesday, I know that you’re excited to marry. It’s easy to see in your eyes. But I can’t outright train you to be a perfect bride, not with having to help Winter. Granted, I don’t treat you equally, I’ll admit it, but marriage is a serious thing. I’m trying to give you hints, my little rose. That first mistake of yours—when you have a husband, he might like to take his time, wander around, pay little

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attention to what you’re giving him. Telling him to ‘cut to the chase’—” She made quotation marks in the air with her fingers around the words—“isn’t the best thing to do. He’ll be angry with you, my dear.

“And then I asked you about the etiquette book—to represent a given topic. You diverted to topic, and if you do that to what your husband wants to talk about, he won’t be in a good mood,” Mother continued as Wednesday stood there, all anger gone, replaced by a sort of riddling shock and skepticism. “Lastly, even after he has provoked you further and further, then when he asks you another question and you start to take your anger out, especially if you take it out on your family…that strikes a chord, dear.”

“I don’t have anyone else to take it out on,” Wednesday said, all the temper draining out of her. She slumped against the fir, ignoring the prickly spines digging into her arms. She pushed back her hair and took a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing the glove in her hand. Mother was watching her carefully, and Wednesday wanted to avoid her gaze, instead focusing on the worn lacy edging of her glove.

“I know, sweetheart.” Mother now had a faraway look in her eyes. She didn’t say any more.

Mother made no more attempts to help Wednesday in her lady studies over the next few days. Wednesday assumed this meant she was on her own, and the day after and the day after the next she immersed herself in her studies, reading the book willingly. She only fell asleep twice. She also hadn’t seen any real sign of Willow or Winter. Father, in the times he came to visit her, said Willow was shut up in the piano room, bitter and aggravated, writing countless letters, though to whom he knew not. Winter was suddenly fussing over every aspect of her own appearance, from a single strand of hair out of place to a piece of lace tucked into the sleeve of her dress. She occasionally stole upstairs to the room and took the mirror off the vanity, then went back downstairs without a single glance at Wednesday. But Wednesday didn’t mind. She was often too sunken into her work to notice these infrequent visits. While the before heat and humidity faded away into a sharp crisp freshness, and Willow and Winter began to venture outside without thick cloaks or shawls, Wednesday stayed in the room under the rectangle of light constantly beamed through the window glass, surrounded by files she had borrowed from the library and books she’d reserved and the journals stuffed with notes that Mother owned from when her mother had taught her how to be a good wife. Wednesday was determined to learn to be the best wife, in compensation for her health. Even after Mother and Father and the doctor all told her she had no more need for bed rest, and that she was free to move about, Wednesday no longer felt the yearn of freedom that she had before that walk with Mother. She stubbornly sat on her bedspread with notes scattered around her, bathed in the warm fragment of sunlight, and only pausing from reading for meals or a drink.

Every time she took a swig of her bitter medicine, she would recall the amber mirage, and would sit and think about that, wondering if it had all been just a strange dream induced by the fizzy heat of that day. Though it nearly strangled her to wonder about reality, and how absurd it would have been if it really was real, she never dared put her medicine in that special black teacup again. It sat neglected in the corner of her drawer, and every so often when she opened up the drawer to search for a scrap of paper or a new quill, she would see it and abruptly snap the drawer closed.

It wasn’t exactly that she dreaded the Shadow King’s company. He was plenty frightening, yes, and she always had this nagging feeling that if she didn’t keep him entertained, he would kill her or something, but he was just so kind. Whether or not he was simply putting on a show and a fake face, as to that she was unknowing, but kept herself ignorant, for she believed that if she knew he just thought her a plaything, she would never be able to think about him in terms of humanity again.

She had never before thought of him in terms of humanity, until that night on the swaying, foggy

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bridge, and she didn’t want to lose this new delightful view of him. Therefore she kept it tightly clasped in her mind, being very careful as to where her mind traveled whenever her absent mind drifted to thoughts of him in his silky puddle of a black cloak, his hood, the mysterious silver pocketwatch that had been given to him and the amazing way he could just—create things. He had been so nice to her on the bridge, she could almost believe—if she closed her eyes—that he might have been Castil, treating her kindly.

But then her thoughts would also turn to remembrance of that unforgettable night when she had seen him and Lady Aurelia in the gardens, where he had easily flirted with the idea of using a girl so thoughtlessly, so inhumanely. His topsy-turvy personality gave Wednesday headaches enough without her usual deteriorative body.

He was just so hidden in the umber of his kingdom and personality, and all of him shrouded in a sort of secretive solemnity that gave him the unearthly god-like quality which made him so revered. There were some times—like the spying in the garden—at which Wednesday could see him, brimful of power and authority, cold and quiet and dark. But there were other times fragments of a more copacetic figure would protrude through, and Wednesday could see him as a person, not as an avenging, murky murderer as he was portrayed in books. Who was he, really?

And his face. Wednesday had replayed every image of him she had in her head, like a slowed-down film, but never had she seen his face. And while it frightened her that she had been talking and drinking hot chocolate with someone whose face you couldn’t see, for this was rather creepy (if one thought it through), she found the memory oddly pleasant. As she couldn’t see his face, she had thought of at least one hundred faces one of which he could possibly have, from tawny eyes and dark hair to blonde curls with a straight nose and blue eyes. She had also fantasized about him having green eyes, but what with the uncommonness of green in eye color, she decided that that thought might not be plausible. Not that blonde curls were the picture of the Shadow King. There was a reason the word ‘shadow’ was placed, and not just because he was lord of the Shadow Kingdom.

And while she paused, she would realize that she was thinking about him again, and would hurriedly keep working and sorting through her etiquette files.

Winter continued to be cool and vain, and showed no more signs of outbursts or magic. She would occasionally sit by the porch with Mother, the two of them chattering away animatedly as they sewed dresses and traded hats.

Willow’s ever-present solecism didn’t change, and while she fared rather well for a girl through a slap by a sister and an argument, her silences became more often heard and they in themselves were sour and curdled the mood. Her rebellion was also ever increasing, which made both Mother and Father nervous as Grand-Aunt Anna’s birthday was rapidly approaching. Willow didn’t seem to care. She would shut herself up for hours and painstakingly write line after line of perfect penmanship. Wednesday was never able to steal a look at what she was writing, but once she glimpsed Willow burning a sheaf of papers in the oven fire, before Willow gave her a measuring stare and Wednesday scuttled off.

Father and Mother were always together, and Father seemed less tired. Mother seemed less tired, too, though she wasn’t all that tired before. Mother was always moving, always going, always doing—well, something that kept her occupied for hours, whether it was work or fun or relaxing. Often enough Wednesday would see Father and Mother curled up together in the sitting room, or together at the dining table giggling like children as they fed each other bits of jelly, or snuggled up together in bed reading the same book. It was cute, Wednesday thought, seeing her parents regress to childhood as they saw each other and smiled, though at the same time she wished a little bit that they would pay more attention to the definite tensions ringing between the three sisters in the house, and less to each others’ fancies. But who knew?

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Maybe that was what love did to a person. Days passed and the biting cold peeled away like an outer skin, revealing a most pleasant coolness underneath. Father and Mother still reminded the girls to take cloaks out whenever they wanted a walk, since it was still somewhat chilly, but mostly the girls didn’t heed their advice and crept out to enjoy the fresh air. Spring was only weeks now. In the times Wednesday pulled herself away from the books, she would twirl around in the gardens, delighting when she saw new flowers starting to slowly creep from their winter shells. She was always alone in these solitary gardens frolics, but she didn’t mind as Winter and Willow continued to be frosty towards one another. The two of them continued to bicker like an old married couple while Mother and Father turned a blind eye, and Wednesday didn’t care much for the arguments. Sorting out a fight between Winter and Willow was like trying to dig your way to the center of the planet with a shovel.

And so the time leisurely passed by. Wednesday, when she wasn’t studying up on etiquette—which she really should have reserved for Willow—or having fun in the gardens, sat in the bedroom with the windows letting in fresh cool air and wrote letters, formally the way all of Mother’s notes had taught her, first to her close cousin Desdemona about really nothing in particular, then one to each of her Corell cousins. After all, they were going to their house, and she felt that it would be rude not to have said anything to them except on the day of their arrival. Also, she thought privately, she wanted to practice her penmanship after discovering a delightful sample of swirly script in one of Mother’s books and deciding she liked this handwriting. She whiled away hours and entire days doing nothing, writing, smiling out the window, studying and poring over large volumes with glee, or sitting outside as the dew gathered on the tree leaves and collected enough weight to drip off.

The day before they were due to leave for the birthday party, a seriousness settled over the household. This seemed to drive Willow crazy and she spent much of the day outside instead of packing, with Mother yelling at her periodically to get inside and be a lady, et cetera, et cetera. Wednesday didn’t blame Willow at all because she herself felt exasperated as Winter was busily bustling up and around, perfecting everything, badgering Wednesday about her appearance and testing her to make sure she knew every rule about supper etiquette and curtsying. This felt unfair as Wednesday thought herself a better dancer and therefore curtsier than Winter, but the girl just wouldn’t be hindered. Mother, on the other hand, seemed to approve of Winter’s annoying behavior and invited Winter up into her room, where the two of them sat in front of the vanity and discussed how to best style their hair for the next day.

It was four in the afternoon when Wednesday was in her room, trying to fit more books in her suitcase. She heard the bell tower chime, sending a slight tremor through the floor from the vibrating timbre, and counted the four heavy dongs in her head. She paused in her packing and cast a glance out the open window that was letting in a brisk wind, and saw the reason it was picking up was that clouds had obnubilated the view of the sun that usually tempered the grouchy transition from winter to spring. From downstairs, her voice carrying outside and up back into the window, Wednesday heard Mother yelling again for Willow to come inside, and she grimaced once she looked around the girls’ room and saw that Willow’s bed had only an empty suitcase resting upon the spread. Mother would have a cow. Wednesday stood up, wincing as her back, sore from bending over her things, twinged. She crossed the room, opened the drawers and wardrobe, and tossed a few of Willow’s nicest dresses over the suitcases to make it look like she had packed some. While she was rifling through the three-chested drawers by Wednesday’s bed, she opened them rather absently and heard the clear clink of what may have been breaking porcelain. She peered into the drawers and saw that her own drawer had made the noise, and she spotted the black teacup overturned from its saucer, lying on its side among a gentle clutter of papers and quills. Panic seized her heart as she thought wildly that it had broken, but when she gingerly handled it she realized the noise had only been it

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bumping against the side of the drawer when it toppled. Wednesday sat back on her heels, relief washing over her nervously thudding heart.

Maybe it was time to contact the Shadow King again. She wasn’t particularly fond of speaking with him, especially through a magic teacup which seemed too far-fetched and silly for someone like herself, but she had to admit the thought that she was special unlike any other girl—having the ability to talk to the King at will!—was an inviting prospect.

Sighing, Wednesday walked around her bed to the other side where the bureau with the bottle was. She hadn’t taken her medicine for the afternoon yet anyway, and if she didn’t want to feel like a creaky old man by bedtime, she had better take it. Her fingers closed around the cool glass bottle and she blandly poured it into the teacup, not really paying attention to the robotic movement, and drained the bitter remedy in one large swallow. Then she clasped the cup more tightly in her hand and waited.

Nothing was happening. Wednesday felt idiotic, standing for no apparent reason, holding a dirty teacup.

“Fool,” she murmured to herself. And it was true. Who was she to think that she actually had had a connection in the first place? He could have just been playing with her—and that was what it seemed, obviously, the thought a bit crossly. Oh, raspberries. I don’t know what was up with me and being all excited, but certainly there is nothing to be excited about in a teacup glazed in med—

Then the teacup suddenly felt weighted, and Wednesday almost jumped back. The amber mirage with the oil-on-water sheen was gauzily filling the cup at rapid speed, before a drop fell over the side and the amber pool spread into existence. The weight in the teacup and the mirage inside it vanished, leaving only the shimmery large puddle on the floor at her feet. This time Wednesday felt calmer as she looked into it.

“Hello,” she said. The words began to appear, smooth as ever, graceful and swoopy. Greetings. And here I was

thinking you were not willing to converse with me. Wednesday could almost hear the hurt tone in his words. She blushed slightly, feeling heated.

“Well—I mean, wouldn’t you feel strange talking to a teacup puddle?” she demanded. “I really shouldn’t be talking to you, since—well, what if my sisters came in? And then I—I would have a lot to explain,” she stammered, cursing herself for being so caught off guard by the display of emotion.

Now she could almost hear amusement. Sorry, my lady, I didn’t mean it like that. Your sisters would question you about this, no?

“Well, of course,” Wednesday said, flustered. “Winter would faint. And Willow would badger me for hours.”

Willow? The word was written quickly. She could imagine sudden alarm. “Yes, she’d the second eldest,” said Wednesday casually, though inside she was eager to know more

about why the Shadow King had picked Willow’s name out of her words. “Why, do you know her?” she asked, purposefully keeping her tone innocent in case he could hear the exact sound of her voice.

No…of course not. The name just strikes me as unique.“Mine isn’t unique enough?” she said, rather dismayed.I did not mean it like that. You are twisting my words.“And you are accusing me,” Wednesday said playfully. She suddenly felt as though it was much

easier to talk to him, especially through the teacup connection. There was no creepy looking-at-him-but-not-seeing-his-face, no dread that he might kill her out of the blue if he saw fit. In fact, this way, it was almost as if she were writing letters, but without the cramping of the hand and with a much faster reply. A new sensation, she found it fun and interesting. Then again, maybe it wasn’t wise to tease the Shadow King as

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such. Wednesday tried to keep a smile from tugging the corners of her lips up, in case, by some strange chance, that he could see her expression as well.

I already said I didn’t mean it like that! Stop being mean. His words were childish and funny, and Wednesday couldn’t hold back a smile.

“I’m being mean? Perhaps it’s that my sight is acting up, but you should see your writing from my end,” she said, walking around the circumference of the elliptical pool.

It is incredible that someone with a personality of your caliber would be teasing me so, his words said mournfully. He really was good at projecting voice into his writing to her, Wednesday thought, or maybe he was somehow putting the feelings into her head.

“Oh, so now it’s a ‘personality of my caliber,’ I see…” She scowled at the puddle. “Are you saying that I have no personality? And don’t say that I’m twisting you words again!”

But this time you really are. Take a listen at what you just said and tell me truthfully that you didn’t twist my words.

“I didn’t,” she protested. “It was you who originally said that ‘personality of my caliber’ statement. Honestly. Stop acting so petulant and admit that you’re making fun of me, and the only reason I can’t tell why is because I can’t hear the expression in your voice.” She didn’t add that she could hear expression plainly in his writing, but who was to say that he was faking that? He started to write more—You’re the one being petulant, but all we are bantering right now exactly what we said to each other half a minute—but Wednesday heard footsteps loudly approaching up the stairs, and she knew she had no more time.

“I have to go,” she whispered, and waited for the puddle to dissipate. But then she remembered that she had to wash the teacup clean before it disappeared, and panic overwhelmed her. She fled to the bathroom and frantically washed the cup as fast as she could. She was just shutting off the water and grabbing a towel to dry it when she heard the door to the bedroom open with a click.

Pause. Wednesday wondered if whoever had entered the room had seen the puddle, and fervently hoped not, because they would think that she had spilled medicine all over the floor.

Then, “Wednesday?” It was Willow’s voice. Wednesday poked her head out of the bathroom, scared to see if she had made it in time. Willow

was staring at the floor…but there was only empty space there. Wednesday almost sighed in relief. She sidled out, casually holding the teacup by her side in an effort to inconspicuously keep Willow from noticing it, and crossed the room.

“What is it, Willow?” Then she realized that Willow was probably wondering why there were dresses strewn over the suitcase and hurriedly added, “Oh—I put some dresses in your suitcase so Mother wouldn’t have a seizure if she came up and here and you hadn’t, um, you know—packed yet.”

Willow didn’t say thank you, which was a typical Willow thing to do. She was still staring at the patch of ground where the puddle had been. It occurred to Wednesday that Willow might have caught a glimpse of it as she came in, but as it wasn’t there anymore, that Willow had probably decided that it was just a trick of her imagination. Even so, Willow was curiously watching the floor as though the puddle would appear again in her vision.

Wednesday shifted uncomfortably. “Willow?” Willow didn’t say anything. Eyebrows arched regally, she swept past Wednesday and to her suitcase.

Wednesday looked at her carefully, trying to keep her face blank. After more than half a minute of awkward silence, where Wednesday idled about while casting

glances at Willow, Willow finally spoke up.

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“Wednesday, have you ever had a time where you hallucinated?”Well, that’s a very obvious question, Wednesday thought dryly of her own health. She was about to

tell Willow this when Willow scoffed like she had realized it was a stupid question. “Never mind,” Willow said. She started sorting through the wardrobe. “Make sure Winter doesn’t

come up here, Wednesday. If she sees me not done packing yet she will be utterly displeased, even more than Mother. Sometimes I think Mother likes Winter best. As if there should be a choice between her and me!” She stuck her nose up in the air. Wednesday paused by the door, keeping one eye out for the telltale dainty footsteps of Winter, but all was calm downstairs. Willow continued packing, ever so often studying a dress and putting it aside or cramming it in her suitcase.

“If you stuff them like that, you’ll put wrinkles in them,” Wednesday said timidly. Willow ignored her, per usual.

Wednesday craned her neck and peered out of the sliver of the window she could see. Sunlight was dreamily pouring in and lighting up the faint particles of dust floating around in the bright gold cone. If she concentrated hard, she could see a bit of the front walk and even a corner of a rosebush that might lead to the gardens. She saw a flicker in the corner of her vision, and realized it was golden-red, actually Winter returning from a brief respite from her daily work of preening herself to perfection. Winter was a vain soul. Wednesday had never once heard Willow worry about her looks, perhaps because she was the most beautiful of all, but Winter was an entirely different story.

Soon she heard the front door open and close, and footsteps increasing in volume as they approached. Wednesday returned her attention to Willow. “Winter’s coming,” she said calmly.

Willow threw a jasmine dress on her bed, where the air-catching silk ballooned in a bell shape before the skirts settled down over her covers. “Well, she has nothing to complain about me,” she said haughtily, “my suitcase is full to the brim with dresses and whatnot.” She frowned over a pair of satin slippers. “Do you think we’ll have any time to possibly dance there?”

“I suppose it’s pos—” Wednesday was cut off as Willow went on in regular Willow fashion and broke in, “I suppose I will bring them just in case; it never hurts to be prepared. Some of these Corell cousins are girls, correct? Well, they must have some kind of interest in dancing. I especially like the sound of that younger girl—what’s her name again?”

“You mean Brie—?” Wednesday began, but once again Willow went on as if she weren’t there. Wednesday was distracted, however, by the entrance of a rosy-cheeked Winter, who had appeared in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

“Are you all ready to load your suitcases?” she demanded. Her green eyes fell upon Wednesday’s closed suitcase, which looked as though it couldn’t hold even a penny more, and ended staring at Willow’s open one still on the bedspread. “Willow! You aren’t done yet? And how many dresses are you putting in there? We will only be there for three days! Have you packed a whole weeks’ worth?”

“No, I haven’t,” Willow said staunchly, pink flaring up on her porcelain face. “And you shouldn’t be talking, Winter, I bet my cup of tea that you’ve at least three bags.”

“Well—who cares if I do?” said Winter, blushing. She pushed Willow away. “Let me see that.”And so it was that Wednesday watched, half bemused and half amused, as Winter starting going

through Willow’s pack, tsking and tossing out unnecessary things. It really was amazing how much Willow had managed to fit in that one little suitcase of hers, Wednesday thought, in comparison to her own, with just a few dresses, the now very-treasure etiquette book, and her copy of the family tree. Father had assured her that the Corells would be happy to provide anything they required. “They are family, after all,” he had told her. Wednesday felt reassured that she needn’t pack to the extremes Willow had, as she watched

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Winter lift out an intricate hairband with ornate silver swirls. Since she had studied the tree so much, she knew that the Corell children were Anna, Lance, Brielle, and Luka, and that Anna and Brielle would most likely have anything they needed. Though, reflecting back on it, she hadn’t known much about their qualities or personalities, but that was to be discovered by experience, she supposed. People did read others differently. She watched Winter throw out a large, gauzy dress which Mother had obviously supplied Willow with. Willow snatched it out of the air before the fine material fell to the floor.

“Honestly,” Winter snapped at Willow, “You would think you were vacating the house with the amount of things you brought. A hairbrush? For heaven’s sakes, Willow, don’t you think that either Anna or Brielle would have one to spare?”

Wednesday held her breath. She knew that Willow was perfectly capable of too-innocently asking Winter who either Anna or Brielle were, which would set Winter off like a firecracker. Thankfully, Willow stayed silent, obviously fuming as she carefully lay the gauzy dress in an extra space on her bedspread.

“Go put your suitcase in the carriage, Wednesday, stop ogling me,” Winter said sharply. Wednesday jumped, feeling guilty. She quickly grabbed her suitcase and started to carefully take it down the flight of stairs while moving swiftly so she didn’t have to hear Winter rant at Willow about her awful items of choice. That was torture enough in itself.

Downstairs was empty. Mother nor Father was out and about, and Wednesday wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d seen them in the gardens while lugging her briefcase to the large carriage already waiting by the roadside. Up close, she could see it was a fine carriage, perhaps not as fine as the one Mother liked to ride in for large events, but spacious and comfortable nevertheless. Still, she was rather irritated as she hauled the suitcase into the back. Carriage rides always made her feel ill, and it was just terrible when the horses were hot and smelled slick and tired. Paired with the promise of a warm day, Wednesday gloomily thought of how sweaty the horses would be. Regular horses had a musky enough stink, but with the heat and the exhaustion of pulling the family across the province, they would smell positively malodorous. She groaned and pushed the thought away, firmly focusing on better prospects.

She paused for a moment, catching her breath after throwing her suitcase in, and then hurried back up to the house, holding her skirts up so they wouldn’t drag. She could hear Winter chiding even from down the stairs, she thought crossly. Loudly clattering up the steps to announce her presence, Wednesday arrived in the room, where Winter continued to toss objects out, though at a significantly slower rate.

“Look at this,” Winter said to Willow, and even Wednesday’s eyes widened as Winter tugged out a huge, well-creased ballgown with huge swoops of silk and looping curls of taffeta, pearls flattening enormous poofs of gauze. Winter snorted. “I’ll bet my buttons that Mother was the one who gave this to you.”

“Well—so what if she did?” Willow said, annoyed as she snatched the gown back. Wednesday had no idea how that fit in her compact leathery case, since it was approximately twice the size, but she supposed that those wrinkles hadn’t appeared out of thin air. Willow certainly knew how to maximize space.

Wednesday quickly recovered her poise and went to sit on her bed as Winter continued, complaining all the while. Wednesday was started to get fed up with the way Winter constantly whined and spewed her streams of criticism, and she could tell that it was starting to slowly irritate Willow, too.

“And you shouldn’t have put so many gowns in your case, anyhow,” Winter continued, while Wednesday burned to throw something at her. “They’re all full of lines—”

“Winter, oh, do stop, please,” Wednesday said furiously, flopping back on her bed and clasping a pillow to her chest.

Winter didn’t even look up as she frowned, examining the remaining contents of Willow’s now much slimmer traveling pack. “I suggest you go for a quick walk in the gardens, Wednesday,” she said, though not

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unkindly, tossing out another dress to Willow. Willow caught it, looking disgruntled. “It’s going to be the last time you see them for a few days, and I know how fond you are of it. But take a shawl—you can borrow mine,” Winter called quickly after Wednesday as Wednesday grabbed the thin shawl from the wardrobe and wrapped it around her shoulders, and flounced back downstairs. Her dress had a train in the back composed of several long loose strips fluttering in the back over her crinolines, and they dragged on the steps as she skittered down the half spiral, one pale hand on the banister for support. She spotted a glimpse of Father’s shoulder in the study and swept past quietly, not wanting to disturb him. Father looked too immersed in his paper to notice her going by anyhow. She took a cut through the main room and trailed through the grass to reach the garden, the cloth dragging and picking up loose pieces of yellowed grass. She was too lazy to hitch her skirts up again. The roses were forming tiny compact buds no larger than spice drops. Wednesday bent to see one better. Her movement made her hair slip over her shoulder and the plait got snagged in the spiky thorns of a bare rosebush. She realized, with a start, that this was the place she had met the Shadow King face-to-face. Her mind flitted to the black teacup and she briefly thought about bringing it with her. That stupid teacup just wouldn’t leave her mind, she though grumpily, and yanked her hair free with a penetrating glare at the evil bush.

The rosebush waved.

“It’s very well for them to invite us, but can’t they have the decency to pave their roads?” Willow snapped irritably as the carriage bounced again and finally stopped short as the horses slowed and took a quick break to catch their breath.

“Honestly, I feel as though I’m being baked in the fireplace,” Winter complained while still retaining a dainty air, looking through her reticule for a fan and flapping it in an effort to keep cool. The sheer fabric stirred the heavy and air, and Wednesday leaned in closer to Winter so she could also revel in the relief that the fan offered, however little protection it was. Even Mother looked flushed. Father stoically sat in his calm way, occasionally ruffling his hair and shedding his coat and layers until he was only in sleeves and a waistcoat. None of them had expected the day to warm so suddenly. In truth, they were traveling south, as the Corells lived farther down in ______ than Wednesday and her family did, but only for a quarter league’s length and certainly not enough space for the cool air to become a furnace.

Wednesday absently twined the window curtain around the rod so the window could let in a bit of air, but it wasn’t much help. She could see outside, though. The horses were panting. Even their strongest buck was looking worn, and the sun gleamed off the sweat glazing all of their flanks. They had paused on the side of a country road, where few other carriages passed, and Wednesday was feeling ill from the long trip. She turned away from the window. “How much longer?” she asked weakly. “There’s quite a stirring in my stomach that does not bode well with the rest of my system.”

“Hang on to your queasiness for a moment, Wednesday dear,” Mother said, also removing her fan and fanning quickly in a ladylike way, her usually porcelain pace pink from the heat. “Just another quarter mile.”

Wednesday leaned over, hugging her stomach and trying to fight away the sick in her stomach. She’d been dealing with the urge to dry heave within ten minutes of the beginning of their journey, and it had not been a pleasant sensation and was equally unpleasant now. She had held it in quietly as the scenery changed from the neat suburban settings of her home to the gray slate of the city, melting into dwindling roads and meandering paths that quickly began to sprout trees all around, mottling the ground. The flat paved streets of her home had been replaced by bumpy gravel that was unforgiving terrain towards their

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carriage wheels, and it didn’t exactly help Wednesday. Soon the dirt had given way to pine needles and an evergreen canopy, and then after that short passage more rough gravel. Grass began to spring up like a strange wild weed; Wednesday had never seen so much open, untrimmed grass in one place. The flatter land draped into contour slopes that overlapped and created waves of varying green shades in the distance.

“Really,” Willow went on, flinging her hair over her shoulder and clearing it from her skin in an attempt to cool off, “I’ve been bumping along this annoying road, absolutely helpless while it tosses me up and down like I’m in a river gorge, and I thought the country was supposed to be a nice place to unwind!” She gave dissatisfied huff and sat back. “When those horses start up again…someone should tell them they smell terrible. I feel as though I’m about to faint from the stench of horse sweat. It’s worse than swine.” She wrinkled her delicate nose.

Mother looked out the window. The horses were still taking a rest, and one of them nosed the crisp grass. “They’re more than exhausted, dear,” she said, retreating from the window. “It’s understandable.”

“And yet when I’m exhausted, it doesn’t mean that I have to perspire,” Willow said, though not snappishly. “And even if I did perspire, it wouldn’t smell quite so horrendous, I’m sure.”

“They are horses,” Wednesday reminded her, though her stomach agreed with Willow.“Hush now, stop complaining,” Father admonished. “We’re almost there, and our hosts are

gracious…most of them.” He sounded a little dour. Wednesday knew that he’d met the Corells before, and she wondered who was the exception. Father usually got along with most everybody, and it fascinated her, in a sort of horrific way, that someone would be haughty enough to not be decent, or at the very least polite, to Father.

The carriage driver smacked the horses lightly with the whip, and the carriage grudgingly started moving again with the chilling sound of wheels grinding against the large pieces of uneven dirt. Wednesday shuddered, resisting the ill feeling rising in her throat. Father was looking at her, concerned, but both Willow and Winter were too hot and tired to notice. Mother was frowning slightly, but appeared to have spaced out entirely. Wednesday closed her eyes, but the feeling just became worse, so she opened them again and looked determinedly at a fixed point on the horizon over some of the more faraway hills as they trundled along. At some point Winter put away her fan, her arm probably sore, and the heat seemed to shimmer in the air like silken material. In truth, it wasn’t that hot, but the girls had all dressed for semi-cold weather and were steaming in their thick dresses. Wednesday dearly wished that she hadn’t worn her dress with the most ruffles, because each layer trapped the heat in and made a cage of torridity around her legs. At home she would probably have hitched her skirts up, not minding the fuss Mother would have made about showing her ankles and knees, but so close to the Corells’ she didn’t dare. She knew very well, of course, that none of her hosts were about to come up in front on the carriage and peep in for this very reason, but it made her paranoid all the same and she decided against it. Besides, if she had done that, being stuck in the carriage with Mother would almost certainly mean that a lecture would have ensued, and Wednesday knew her two sisters would not appreciate that on such a hot and boring day.

Wednesday was lost in thoughts on this matter when the carriage slowed again. She blinked out of her momentary stupor and saw that Winter had dozed off in a light slumber, that Willow was slipping down in her seat with a tight frown on her face as she picked at her stockings, Mother had taken out her own fan and was briskly fanning herself, and Father was staring at the wall, apparently lost in deep thought. Now they all awoke from their various states of boredom and poked their heads out the windows. Wednesday craned her neck so she could see the outside just as the carriage pulled up to the hilltop.

“Wow—” All the girls gasped together in synchronization as the carriage came over the crest of the hill and paused for a moment to let them take in the grand scenery. Mother stopped fanning herself and

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smiled as she looked out of the window, excitement sparkling in her eyes. Even Father took it in, his eyebrows raised.

When Wednesday had been told that the Corells lived in the country, she had pictured a sort of charming cottage or farmhouse with a large grassy pasture and lots of trees and shade, with maybe a few horses, sheep, or such and such, the sort of things that she’d seen on her way here. She had not imagined this amazing picturesque landscape below her.

The Corells’ house was a huge house made of red brick on two sides with thick, graceful green ivy swirling up on end and wrapping around the corner of the house. There was a wraparound porch of polished white wood with a screened gazebo stretched over the entire length to offer protection from the sun. On another side was a wall made of seashells and fragments of glittering crystalline rock mortared together, giving it an ocean-like and breezy quality. The back of the house was constructed from wide wood planks the same creamy shade as the porch floorboards, and a semicircular window of shining stained glass forming a picture of a white swan wading peacefully in pure blue water let in glimmering streams of golden sunlight that complemented the window tints. The house was roofed with smooth, pretty tiles that scalloped over each other like large scales. Windows were placed on the sides of the house, which was surrounded by an orchard of maple trees, majestically swooping weeping willows, and various other green-leafed trees. Wednesday looked a little harder and spotted some small, colorful blebs against the foliage, nestled in leaves, and she realized that the Corells must have owned some fruit trees. The trees eventually gave way to bushes and then to rather abstract rows of waving flowers in bright colors, and a long path wound its way around the front of the house and through the trees. Round the bend of the house Wednesday spotted an elevated patio with a faded veranda and a courtyard that appeared to be set up with mullioned glass tables and elegant wooden chairs.

The entire house was set in a valley created by three surrounding hills of faint green that made the house appear insignificant, but even from above Wednesday could see the grandeur, the detail, the rendering that made the country home more than a simple dwelling.

“I had no idea….” Winter’s voice trailed off as she took in the landscape, absolutely astonished. Then a slow smile started to spread across her flushed face. “This is brilliant!”

“I don’t know how a family could get such architecture here out in the country,” Mother murmured to Father. Father smirked, replying, “You would be surprised what old Damien Corell can do.”

Willow was staring out the window, her face alive with anticipation. She rested her elbows on the windowsill and folded her arms, delighted. “I decided when I grow up, my house must look exactly like this,” she declared imperiously. Wednesday rolled her eyes inwardly, but she was too fascinated by the beauty of the large house to be truly irritated with Willow.

Even from inside the carriage Wednesday heard the carriage driver chuckle lightly. He gently smacked the horses again, and they started down the moderate slope of the hill, taking care to not gather speed. The wind cooled Wednesday’s face, and she enjoyed the quick respite from the stifling heat that had oppressed them all day. Willow even went so far as to even whoop out loud, resulting in a loud noisy hushing from Mother. Father merely smiled. He caught Wednesday’s eye, and Wednesday grinned at him. She could hardly wait; what an amazing place to stay!

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Chapter Eight“Wednesdaaaaaaaaaay!”Wednesday’s cousins and all her other relatives who had already arrived came out of the huge

country home hardly seconds after the carriage had halted near the front walk. Up close, the foliage was even more impressive, as was the house. Wednesday spent quite a while admiring the regal oak-and-glass front doors in their respective patterns and the lovely patches of alternating light and dark that shaded the winding way.

The large group of people, headed by Desdemona, had poured out of the magnificent front doors, opened the large gates that Wednesday somehow hadn’t seen earlier, and crowded in a chatter around the carriage, helping them out, taking suitcases, and basically taking care of everything and giving the carriage driver an extremely easy time, as the hosts were doing everything that he should have done. Wednesday stepped out of the carriage, beaming, as Desdemona threw her arms around her and they embraced tightly. She also heard cries of “Lei’Anne!” from her two sisters and a rustling of skirts as they rushed to their older mature cousin, and Mother and Father were talking pleasantly to the older folks.

In the midst of all the babble, Des somehow made it quiet and calm right between Wednesday and her, as Des drew back slightly just so they were looking at each other, heads tilted slightly down to give themselves some privacy.

“It’s lovely to see you again,” Des said sweetly. Her amber eye gleamed as she shifted her head and her eyelashes caught the light and cast it across her entire visage.

“Same here.” Wednesday was glad to see that there was no trace of the cold version of Des she had met in that awful nightmare. “So you’re all right? Everything going well?”

“As well as it could be,” Des said with a soft laugh. “Everyone’s fussing over Lei’Anne. She and Mr. Gilbert Gerdrane will be getting married any time now.”

It’s just like it was in the dream, Wednesday thought. Except less foreboding. She smiled brilliantly and threw her arms around her older cousin again, burying her chin in Des’s long white-blonde hair and breathing in the sweet flower scent Des always carried due to her perfume. “I’m so glad that we’ll be here together,” she said, her voice muffled by the streaming hair in her way.

Des gently detached herself from Wednesday. “I’ve been here for half a day, and it’s been wonderful. This is my first time meeting the Corells—”

“Also mine—”“—And they’re such a nice folk.” Des turned and stood up on the toes of her boots and surveyed the

small throng of tightly knit, eagerly chattering people. “Oh—look at them.” She settled back down on her feet. “They’re just hanging at the edges—they’re quite shy until you get to know them, and then they’re so familiar and friendly that you can’t help wondering if you’ve met them before—or more like if you’ve been living with them for years even though it’s only been a few hours! Not in a bad way, of course,” she amended quickly, taking Wednesday’s arm. “Let’s see if I can introduce you before there’s a formal introduction. They really believe in first impressions,” she confided, while Wednesday nodded, absorbing all this information. “Hm…where’ve they gone? Oh, I think they’re taking all your things inside. Well, you’ll meet them later, then,” Des said, sounding disappointed.

“It’s all right. There’ll be plenty of time for that,” Wednesday said. She was feeling apprehensive about meeting these people, especially because of Father’s comment in the carriage. “Anyhow,” she went on, “this is a brilliant place. I had no idea that such a grand dwelling existed in the countryside!”

“That’s what I had been thinking when I came this morning,” Des said, opening her eyes wide. She

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smiled. “This place is like a living dream. I’ll take you on a quick tour if they don’t. The scenery is amazing, like something straight out of an artist’s palette, and there are so many fun places inside the farmhouse. I think it’s very lucky that they live here!”

“Are the Corells nice?” Wednesday was still worried, even though the landscape calmed her.“Yes, of course!” Des paused. “Well, more or less.” She moved closer to Wednesday and bent

slightly to breathe in her ear. “Mr. Damien—that’s Missus Reyna’s husband—well, he can be obnoxious. But really it’s Lancelot Corell who gets on my nerves all the time, and I’ve only known him for half a day—”

“Desdemona!” Des’s mother called. Des looked up and grimaced. Mrs. Cheri Fontana, one of Wednesday’s aunts, was waving her daughter over.

“Sorry,” Des apologized. “I’ll have to talk later. You know how my mother is—”“Desdemona!”“Coming, Mother.” Des raised her eyebrows at Wednesday and drifted off.Wednesday couldn’t help smiling as she watched Des leisurely make her way over to Mrs. Cheri

Fontana. Des acted all pouty and rebellious, but she had a sweet, sweet heart. She turned to survey her crowd of relatives, all of whom were talking and laughing together. A few of the people she didn’t know. Most of them she had vague memories of; she recognized their faces, knew she had seen them before, but knew little or no else. With the Corells added to the rest of their families, Wednesday assumed they had quite a large group. She thought about how large their dining room had to be to fit all of these people; but with such a grand house, it wasn’t that hard to imagine. She grinned inwardly. The house was probably some sort of old castle that had been refurbished. No country house that she had ever seen had looked so…royal. It was staggering, actually.

Wednesday walked about, saying polite hellos to the older folks and greeting her younger relatives more intimately. She still saw no sign of the Corells. Des had said they had gone inside to take their things up to the rooms, but Wednesday was half eager, half uneager to meet them. Des had given her some information that Wednesday wasn’t sure was good or bad. Apparently both Father and Des held this Damien Corell in low opinion. Wednesday wasn’t ready to meet Lancelot Corell either; Des made him sound like a wild reincarnation of the devil. Anyone who could get on Des’s nerves had special talent, and it wasn’t necessarily a good one.

Lei’Anne, Des’s sister, greeted Wednesday coolly, while Winter and Willow trotted after their glamorous older cousin like guard dogs. “It’s nice to see you again, Wednesday,” Lei’Anne said with her trademark detached tone. “You’re looking well.”

“I have to say that I feel much better. It must be the atmosphere,” Wednesday said with a tight smile. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Lei’Anne, but rather that she didn’t fawn over her like Willow and Winter did. They worshiped Lei’Anne with all their being. Why, Wednesday didn’t know. Lei’Anne was about as full of emotions as a gargoyle.

Speaking of Lei’Anne, Wednesday hadn’t seen her fiancé Gilbert Gerdrane around. She supposed he must have not been invited, and she had to suppress a laugh.

“So you’ve been feeling better lately?” Lei’Anne said, cool as ever. “Not so sick?”“No.” Wednesday kept her sentences polite and clipped. Lei’Anne nodded, making loose waves of her mousy brown hair flutter like ribbons, and swept off.

Willow and Winter hastened to follow while Wednesday stood alone, feeling foolishly triumphant for some reason.

She said her greetings, accepted comments of “You look healthy!” from her older relatives, and generally smiled politely and made small talk, every so often glancing over to look at Des. She and her

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mother were engaged in conversation. “Look at you,” Wednesday’s grandmother Lucia Fontana said, pinching Wednesday’s cheek. “My

little darling, you’re still so pale. Like a crescent moon. You need to eat more!” Then she started going on and on about the rich dishes her cook could make. Wednesday’s grandparents on her father’s side were extremely rich. That was fortunate, since they were so old they could hardly move, so they had servants left and right.

Grandfather George, whom Wednesday’s father was named after, smiled in his slow elderly way, with the wrinkles and lines in his face creasing and his eyes squinting. “I’m glad that you’re here, Wednesday,” he said, stiffly patting her shoulder. His joints were probably hurting. Wednesday gave him a gentle hug and he laughed in a wheeze. “Good young lady,” he commented to his wife Lucia.

“Of course she is,” Lucia agreed, smirking. The two of them gave new meaning to “old married couple.” Wednesday grinned and pulled away from her grandparents.

She greeted Jerry and Cheri Fontana, Des’s and Lei’Anne’s parents, with respect, and introduced herself demurely to Elizabeth, Wednesday’s aunt on her father’s side. She had never met Mrs. Elizabeth before, and pleased to greet the kind woman.

She didn’t see the Corells anywhere, but decided that they must be shy, just like Des had said.After a great deal of introductions and talking, as the families started to drift towards the doors of

the huge house to go inside, Des caught up with Wednesday again.“Know everybody now?” Des teased Wednesday as she watched Mrs. Elizabeth walk away. She

knew it was a lot to remember.“Well,” Wednesday admitted, “it helps that I studied my family tree.”Des raised her brows. “Did you now? I didn’t think of doing anything like that. No wonder you don’t

look freaked. My head was completely buzzing from all the names.” She shook her head ruefully. “Still, I’m glad that you came prepared.”

“Me too.” Wednesday looked around as a light breeze picked up. The families were gathered at the front doors, filing in and talking. The sky was becoming rather cloudy, not soft clouds but more threatening, dark clouds like a storm was approaching. Wednesday was glad when they stepped over the threshold into the spacious reception room of the Corells’ grandly furnished home. Rain made her hair fluffy if she wasn’t careful, and it was a surprisingly unpleasant feeling for wisps of auburn to tickle her neck and drive her to the edge of insanity.

Wednesday held Des’s hand gratefully as she looked in delighted awe around the almost imposingly large room they had just come to. Chandeliers, modest ones, were everywhere, dripping with frosted glass. Soft armchairs, thin and easy carpeting, an area with shelves for boots and a rack of satiny indoor slippers on one wall for the women, rows of boots on the other wall for the men. Wednesday cautiously followed her cousin as Des removed her modest boots and took a pair of slippers.

“The Corells designed the system so no mud would get tracked in the house,” Des explained, picking up on Wednesday’s confusion about the shoe-changing. “Here—slip your boots off and this pair is for you—” She removed a silky pair of white slippers and handed them to a baffled Wednesday. Des stepped into her own comfortable footwear and visibly relaxed. “It’s odd at first to change shoes every time you go in and out,” Des admitted, “but it’s much more comfortable this way. The Corells are geniuses for coming up with this. I wish I had that kind of money at home….”

Wednesday agreed with Des the second she had laced up her pair of shoes. It felt almost as though she wasn’t wearing shoes, like walking on feathers. She was almost tempted to look down to see if she was even wearing shoes. She walked around in circles to get used to the airy feeling. Around her, Willow and

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Winter were trying out their new footwear as well while Lei’Anne patiently waited for them to get over their awe.

“Come on, you haven’t even seen the good part yet,” Des teased as Wednesday couldn’t help a smile spreading over her face. She tugged on Wednesday’s arm. “Let’s go through the house, see if we can find the Corells. It’s too bad they’re not here in the open waiting to greet you. Though I don’t miss Lance Corell at all.”

“Is he really terrible?” Wednesday asked. She remembered Des lamenting about Lance earlier.“He’s only fourteen, well, fourteen and a half as he likes to brag, but he has such an ego. And he

cares nothing for manners,” Des said fervently, rolling her eyes in disgust. “I met him with the rest of his family and the first thing he said to me was, ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’”

“How rude!” Wednesday huffed. She had a deep-seated hatred for people who poked fun at Des’s two-tone eye color.

“And that’s not the least of it,” Des went on earnestly as she took Wednesday’s elbow and they drifted away from the clog of people in the reception room. “He’s such a lady’s enemy. He told Lei’Anne quite frankly that her décolletage was too low. She started seething so badly I was afraid she was going to slap that cocky smile right off his face—oh, I think he enjoys irritating us. He’s grated my nerves to wit’s end even though I’ve only been here for a few hours.”

“Oh.” Wednesday felt worried. All the comments Lance could make about her! And they likely wouldn’t be very encouraging ones, either, from what Des was saying.

“Don’t worry,” Des said comfortingly, placing a placating hand on Wednesday’s shoulder. “We can stay away from him. And the rest of them are nice. Anna Corell—she was named after Grand-Aunt Anna, whose birthday we’re celebrating—she’s nice. Brielle’s also nice, but I think she’s more like a second Lei’Anne than anything. And Luka…he’s so shy. The second I looked away he was up the stairs with a book in hand.”

“Oh,” Wednesday said again. In her mind, she was already thinking that Luka must be a lot like herself. She wondered if there was a potential friend to be made here, but the thought of befriending a boy in that sense made her shy and nervous.

“As for Mrs. Corell—I mean Mrs. Reyna, as she asks me to call her—she’s quite nice, too, if not a little indifferent. Mr. Damien is probably second worst after Lance, but he’s not too bad to my face…” Des went on, turning her head this way and that, going on in a ramble. She kept looking around as though she was hoping to see someone.

“I still hope that I can just avoid the influx of adults here,” Wednesday confessed as they passed through a magnificent room with glimmering wallpaper that shone like silver. She saw a grand piano and knew instantly that Willow and Winter would want to claim it. She mentioned this to Des.

“They had better not,” Des said with a little laugh. “That piano’s Brielle’s. She wouldn’t be afraid to murder anyone who touched those ivory keys. You wouldn’t believe how protective she is, but that piano was so expensive. And she’s a good player, of course, but she doesn’t have that rhythm that she needs to truly express herself. It’s always this stiff sort of flowing…it’s not quite right.” She suddenly stopped, and Wednesday lurched forward before settling back. “I forgot something, Wednesday, I’d better go back and get it. I’ll have to catch up with you again later, okay?”

“Okay,” Wednesday said, slightly confused.“Thanks. You’re the best.” Des dashed off, brushstrokes of hair coming loose.Wednesday wandered about, enjoying the beautiful structure of the house, leaving Des behind. The

detail put into the home was frightening almost, but mostly ethereal and beautiful. One room was grand, full

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of swooping window-curtains trimmed in silk and tulle and lace, rife with embroidery and preciously stained with fresh colors. Another room was charming with miniature belle epoch arches crossing like latticework overhead and pale, beige-like paint. Wednesday had never admired a house so much before. It really was quite beautiful. Wednesday wondered where Des had gone and what she needed to fetch. After her disappearing, Wednesday went on, and ventured through four rooms before coming to an octahedronal wall corner and pausing.

Wednesday sort of was hoping she would run into one of the Corells, because she was interested in meeting this Luka Corell, because he seemed to be most like her based on Des’s description.

Her wish half came true. She turned the corner, admiring the octagonal paneling laid into the walls, and had to back up quickly so she didn’t bump into a figure who was coming around on the other side.

To her chagrin, the figure was not Luka Corell, but instead a slender but rather short young lady in an expensive-looking dress, who could only be Brielle Corell, the younger Corell daughter.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Brielle said. She immediately struck Wednesday as very cool, very polite, and slightly haughty. Brielle held herself in a way that broadcasted her opinion: I am superior. Bow your heads to me and I will not cut them off.

“No, it’s my fault,” Wednesday apologized, feeling intimidated by Brielle’s strong, unwavering gaze. Her gaze wasn’t a glare, but it was quite deliberate.

“It’s all right. I don’t hold grudges for small things like this,” Brielle said sweetly. She held her chin high up, and even though she was slightly short, Wednesday knew that Brielle was the ruler here. She was the one with the beautiful aura and regality. Brielle studied Wednesday with her levelheaded gaze. “You must be…?”

“I’m Wednesday Fontana, daughter of Esthetique and George Fontana,” Wednesday recited. “My sisters are Winter and Willow. I don’t suppose you’ve met them yet?”

“Oh, Lei’Anne has told me a lot about your sisters,” Brielle said, smiling with her lips pressed together. It looked slightly painful, ad Wednesday unconsciously found herself trying to copy her without even knowing it. It made her lips hurt, and she quickly relaxed her mouth, hoping Brielle hadn’t noticed. “Your cousins Lei’Anne and Desdemona are precious,” Brielle went on. “And from what I’ve heard, you lot are lovely as well.”

“And you must be Brielle.”“Oh, yes. I’m terribly sorry we haven’t been introduced,” Brielle said, still smiling that unusual smile.

It made her lips pale from rich red to faint pink. “Mother was planning to formally introduce at supper.”“It’s fine. I love your house,” Wednesday said politely.“That’s sweet of you. I feel as though it can be sort of…ah…pressurized. I do rather like to hang

outside. The honeysuckles have a delightful scent, but I’m afraid they’re not in season yet,” Brielle said, raising her eyebrows. Her paternal tone made Wednesday’s fingers tense of their own accord. “We do have quite a mansion, and I might add that we built it ourselves. And of course my sister Anne Corell gets to inherit it, but I do have a share in the income, I believe.” Brielle started going on and on, which made Wednesday nervous for no apparent reason. She hadn’t imagined that Brielle would talk about her inheritance before even explaining her family.

“And I think even Luka receives a bit of land,” Brielle finished. She was still smiling pleasantly, unaware of Wednesday’s discomfort. “Oh…forgive me for keeping you. You must have some things you need to do before supper.” She started to turn away.

“Actually—” Wednesday hesitated, and Brielle paused, her expensive skirts swirling around her legs before they settled. “Actually, I’m not sure where my—where my family’s things are. I feel awful having to

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ask you, but—”“Oh, hush. Don’t bother with formalities,” Brielle said, turning back around. “We took your family’s

things up to the third floor, by the south side. I hope you’ll be comfortable there. Follow me.” Wednesday hurried off as Brielle set off at a brisk pace, trying to keep up with her cousin. “The third floor isn’t the nicest floor, I’m afraid, but it’s plenty nice. You see, Anna created the design for the third floor, so it’s not amazing, but I did plan out the designs for the fourth floor. There’s quite a beauty up there and you can go visit the floor if you have time, assuming you don’t get lost.” They passed through a tiny room so exquisitely hung with tapestries that Wednesday almost stopped in the middle of the floor. Brielle kept going to a gilded spiral staircase that looped regally above the other floors. “Now we can go up this case. Lance and Luka designed the pattern and layout of the second floor.” She sniffed in disdain. “Boys. They have no sense of style!”

“Well, I’ve heard some about Luka,” Wednesday ventured out bravely.Brielle stopped. Wednesday almost ran into her and grabbed the rail so she wouldn’t fall down the

stairs. She blinked, but Brielle just gave her another thin, sweet smile, and said with deliberate insouciance, “Well, of course you have. And you’ve probably heard more about Luka then the rest of us, right? He is quite a fellow.”

“Of course not,” Wednesday said carefully, realizing she was walking through a minefield. “I’ve heard about you, of course. How you play the piano like an angel.”

“I do,” Brielle said, continuing back up the stairs. “I should, anyhow. I’ve been playing for seven years and from the beginning I had a natural talent.”

“Yes, of course,” Wednesday said, mentally thanking Des for mentioning Brielle’s piano. They reached the top of the staircase, where another continued. She wanted to see the second floor, but she only caught the rich carpeting and smoothly carved wooden tables on the landing before she had to hustle after the quickly moving Brielle.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like Brielle. Brielle was nice, if not a little prideful, but she seemed a bit like a second Lei’Anne like Des had said. Brielle’s brio was intoxicating almost, and her cool manner paired with her supersweet chattery personality made her a different sort of personality than Wednesday had expected. And Des didn’t seem very sincere or genuine about any of her actions or what she said. Not to mention she was hugely ambitious.

“Lance wants to run for Parliament,” Brielle kept talking, perpetually speaking. “He’s ridiculous. I’m surprised Lance has any friends, that attitude of his is so annoying. I want to give him such a slap that he’d fly right out of the window! Lei’Anne doesn’t hold a very high opinion of him, either, I can tell that—”

Oh, great, Wednesday thought dully. Yet another girl who idolizes Lei’Anne.“—but when you have to live with him, you sort of get used to it,” Brielle chattered, climbing the

staircase so fast Wednesday wondered if she was going to hyperventilate. She felt light-headed from the speedy circular climbs. “I just tune out his incessant complaining. One day a few years ago, I counted how many times he complained in one day. The total was some twenty-one times! That’s incredible. I say, is it even possible to complain more than that? Well, no, of course….”

“Willow can,” Wednesday puffed out as she went up the stairs with Brielle. They reached the landing, and Wednesday had never been more thankful to reach flat flooring. Brielle started leading her down the hall at a rather slower pace. Wednesday already knew that every time she and her sisters attempted to find their way to bed, Wednesday would be hopelessly lost. “Willow complains about everything under the sun. She’s not like a real lady, naturally, but she’s so defiant. I think every other word that comes from her lips is a complaint.”

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“She complains more than Lance?” Brielle’s pace slowed drastically so she could see Wednesday eye-to-eye. Her plucked, thin eyebrows were arched incredulously high on her forehead. Her indefatigable speech suddenly became clipped off on each word.

“Maybe,” Wednesday answered, thinking she would have to be more careful when she defied Brielle in the future. She had to tread carefully again. “You’re probably right, of course. I’m probably just…making Willow seem worse than she really is.”

“Lance complains the most,” Brielle said firmly. She turned a right and opened a beautifully carved and polished wood door, pushing it open and displaying a huge room with interior wall segments, a room so large it looked almost like a small house in its own. “In you go. We put all your things in the bathroom. Enjoy, all right? I need to run. Supper’s at eight!” She closed the door behind Wednesday, leaving her befuddled in her temporary home.

“I can’t believe this.” Wednesday looked around. She really needed somewhere to sit down, but she wasn’t sure where. She was standing on a large, luxurious rug so soft she could feel it through her indoors satin shoes. There was a wall facing her, on the left wall was a small room, across from that closed-off room was a wall section with what looked like a miniature kitchen by it. And in the middle of the room was a dainty circular table with chairs. She had no idea where to go, especially since the room was so huge. Was it really just a room, or was it an entire floor by itself?

She peeked into a few other “rooms,” reveling in the beauty of the house. Despite the discouraging facts and remarks Brielle had made about the second floor, it was as stunning as anything Wednesday had ever seen. She made a mental note to go and see the fourth floor, apparently Brielle’s pride and joy. She wondered if she could convince Father and Mother to let her design a floor, too. They had plenty of extra space available.

Wednesday was touring the bathroom, marveling at its glamour, when she heard a tap on the hallway door. She quickly ducked out of the bathroom and opened the door a slit, her eyes meeting both the rich carpet and a pink-cheeked Willow, whose hair was coming loose and her breath in little puffs, with her sparkling eye and flushed cheek, smiling broadly, her pretty little dimples showing on either side. Despite the fact that she looked rather tired, Willow looked like a little porcelain doll. Wednesday opened the door wider and beckoned her in.

“What’s the story, Willow? You look absolutely exhausted,” Wednesday said, stepping back as Willow swept in. She glanced out the beveled glass windows. A brilliant sun, framed by the trees and glinting through the diaphanous shrubbery, snuck a peek back at her as it started sinking slowly. She turned back to Willow, who was thoroughly investigating and making a brisk inventory of their quarters.

“This entire place is breathtaking, isn’t it?” Willow said, lovingly running her hand along the beds in the “bedroom,” which was really a set of beds and bureaus set off behind a half wall partition. “And these slippers are so comfortable.”

“Slippers…? Oh.” Wednesday had almost forgotten about the different shoes she was wearing. They were so light she didn’t understand what they were made of. Surely it was silk, blended together with air. She had never felt so fine a material before.

“Lei’Anne’s been taking me and Winter around, but Winter went off somewhere, and Aunt Cheri called Lei’Anne and Desdemona back, so it was just me. But I did meet Brielle. She’s such a darling, don’t you think?” Willow said, in a dreamy mood as she sat down on one of the bedspreads and turned her eyes down so her lashes were covering her eyes.

“Brielle? I do suppose,” Wednesday said doubtfully. “She is sweet.”Willow hopped up, back onto her feet, and headed to the window. Wednesday trailed after. “I also

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met Aunt Elizabeth. I’ve never met her before, you know; she’s Father’s sister.” Willow gazed out the window, then unlatched it and pushed it up and out. A fresh and startlingly brackish breeze whistled past them, ruffling the girls’ hair and making their dress skirts billow like sails. “Have you met her?”

Wednesday stared out the window, captivated by the view. “Hm? Oh, I met her earlier.” She tore her gaze away from the scenery and set about exploring their quarters again. “I have such a hard time thinking of this as a room. It’s almost like a flat. A small one, of course, but really, I could live in this one room if I had all the supplies.”

“If you were willing to cook and do your clothes and all that yourself, of course, hm?” Willow said indifferently, striding over.

Wednesday winced. “I meant in size,” she said stubbornly as Willow looked at her skeptically.“Mmm. Of course.”“Anyhow,” Wednesday said, willing to change the subject, “how did you find your way up here

without getting lost? Did Brielle direct you?”“Well, yes,” Willow admitted, “but I think I know the route now. It’s just a quick turn up the stairs,

down the hall, left and then straight and then left again, and then skip the next right and up the stairs, turn to the right at first opportunity—”

“No, that can’t be right,” Wednesday said, having remembered something different, despite her lack of understanding of the house layout.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter what you think,” Willow said, brushing the comment aside. “By the way, dear sister, have you explored downstairs? Our little room here is truly exquisite, but down on the lower floors there’s much more to see. Brielle didn’t lead me very far, only directing me up here, but Lei’Anne took me for a quick go-by of her favorite places earlier, and she has good taste. If you want, I can try and lead you around, since I’ve nothing else to do but snooze.”

“That’s comfortingly, as well as a lovely suggestion on your part, but Des already claimed that right,” Wednesday said lightly, hoping her response wouldn’t agitate Willow. Willow shrugged, fingering the stems of the assorted flowers arranged in a vase on the windowsill.

“Whatever you please, Your Majesty,” she said, grinning as she snapped an iris clean under the calyx. “I might suggest that you go see the atelier. It’s Luka’s, you know, the youngest one, but granted, he has some degree of talent.”

Wednesday perked up at the thought of Luka Corell. The younger child was still a mysterious and quiet figure to her, and she saw him as a potential friend, sharing the same interests as her, after all. Willow slightly tilted her head to one side, studying Wednesday’s face.

“You haven’t met him yet? What’s that look on your face? You don’t fancy him, right?” Willow teased lightly, grabbing a pillow off of one of the beds in the bedroom section and tossing it at Wednesday’s head.

Wednesday flinched as the pillow glanced off her shoulder. “Stop it! And no, I don’t fancy him. I’m just curious since he’s so closed off.”

“You can say that again,” Willow said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you? I’m so bored and I need a task….”

“No thanks. Supper’s at eight, by the way, if Brielle didn’t tell you,” Wednesday added, diverting the subject before Willow could grab onto the topic of touring again. She was curious, though; curious about the Corells and their odd family, especially mysterious Luka, not to mention the ones she hadn’t met yet; and curious about the atelier Willow had been talking about. Yet she was reluctant to press her sister for more details in fear that Willow might again take up the idea of leading Wednesday around like a little dog. She

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seated herself on a wicker chair and reclined back in contentment. “Come on, aren’t you going to do anything interesting?” Willow wheedled. “I might as well go back

downstairs if there’s nothing to do here.”“If you move that table you can practice dancing on the main floor,” Wednesday suggested, nodding

her head at the dainty round table and chairs set up in the middle of their enormous quarters. Willow wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to. It’s so hot, even inside. Dancing will just make me

perspire, and I absolutely hate perspiring.” She was altogether as gauche as Wednesday had ever seen, but the heat seemed to have made Willow weary and irritated at the same time, and Wednesday did not feel inclined to be in the vicinity of a crabby Willow.

“All right. You can go and see Lei’Anne,” Wednesday suggested politely.“She’s busy. As is Desdemona,” Willow added just as the question arose on Wednesday’s tongue.

“And even if I wanted to, I don’t know where she went. Off with her mother, somewhere.”“Well, I don’t know then,” Wednesday decided. She wandered into the bedroom past the wall

partition and sat down lightly on one of the beds, hugging a pillow to her chest. Finally she lay back down, staring at the ceiling. “Go back downstairs. Are you willing to call me when there’s supper?”

“No,” Willow said stoutly. Wednesday heard a creak and a swish of skirts as Willow rose and headed for the door. “You have to come yourself.”

“Fine, fine.” Wednesday waved a hand vaguely. She drifted off in a half doze after she heard Willow leave. The bed was so comfortable, nicer than

the ones at home. She was starting to think this was her home, this enormous mansion farmhouse in this charming agrestic land. Truly she’d only been here less than half a day, but she was rapidly growing accustomed to the scenery outside, and the soft coziness of the house that didn’t seem to exist in their gloomy and grayer home.

Some time later, as Wednesday sank through layers of silky dreams, she was startled awake by a tap on the door, and nearly lurched off the bed. Opening the door to a slit, she peeked out, looking into a bright blue eye framed by impossibly long lashes. Brielle’s eye.

“Oh! It’s you, Brielle.” Wednesday leaned away from the door.“Yes. I came up to fetch you for supper. Is everything okay? Why are you holding the door shut?”

Brielle asked through the tiny crack.“Oh, I’m sorry.” Wednesday quickly opened the door wider. Brielle was standing there, and she

looked Wednesday up and down. “Brielle, is it already suppertime? Did I miss something?”“Oh, don’t fret, you aren’t late,” Brielle reassured her. “But you will be if you don’t hurry. Come on,

I’ll take you. What do you think of your room?”“It’s delightful,” Wednesday admitted, following Brielle out into the hall and closing the door behind

her. “I just hadn’t expected it to be so large. The room could be a miniature house all on its own.”“That’s good,” Brielle said with a touch of relief. “We were thinking we’d maybe missed something.

We were trying to make it as close to a little home as possible, because I do know that this grand place can be rather—stifling. It’s a lot to take in.”

“You can say that again,” Wednesday joked, picking up her skirts slightly as the ruffled edges caught on the carpet. Her steps made no sound on the floor. “I’ve never thought that there would be such a nice place in the countryside. Before coming here, I had rather expected a charming but sizable cottage with lots of grassy field space.”

“Oh. Well, you were mistaken,” Brielle laughed. “I’m telling you, you’ll have a jolly good time here all the same. And we do have a great deal of empty space. Good for having tea or riding horses. Do you

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enjoy riding?”“Somewhat,” Wednesday said, recalling her last time riding, which had resulted in her falling off a

horse and having to stay in bed for over a week.“We have a few horses,” Brielle said as they descended sets of stairs. Wednesday didn’t focus on the

decorations anymore. She could always explore the manor more thoroughly when Des took her around. “And I do love riding. I’ve met some amazing horses here, especially the mares, who are just so beautiful and sweet. So, you feel like you can go riding later? I’d love to get to know you better. Especially since we’ve had only a brief meeting with each other.”

“It seems fine with me,” Wednesday replied, only slightly uneasily. She was intrigued by Brielle’s unusual personality. At first she had come across as not only unusual, but domineering, but she could see through Brielle’s pompous outlook and saw a fine little lass inside. “But really, with such a grand house, do you really have need to pay attention to your lawns?”

Brielle smiled. “The fields are the best part, because they’re completely natural.”“So, you have an appreciation for wildlife?” Wednesday inquired.“Most definitely,” Brielle said, looking at Wednesday sideways. “From your tone, I suppose you do

also.”“That’s exactly right,” Wednesday agreed. “Finally, something we have in common.” She felt a little

bit plain wearing her homely skirts while Brielle had donned that incredibly rich and beautiful swooping silk and satin work of art. “I love roses, mostly, but I also have an affinity for other flowers and water.”

“Mmm. Roses?” Brielle took her arm to help Wednesday down a tricky spiral staircase. “I love snowdrops. And crocuses. Usually I can’t decide which ones I like better…but, of course, bodies of water are beautiful. We have this crystal clear stream running through our land and it’s just so lovely, especially in the summer when Anna and I go out together over there and dip our toes in the water when no gentlemen are around.”

“Des—cousin, you know—she has some pools of water on her family’s land. They live farther south than we do, so they have more land space,” Wednesday explained. “But not as far south as you and your family do.”

“I’d love to take a look there,” Brielle said. “But I’d rather take you to the stream. I know it’s deathly hot here, while up north where you live it’s cold to a degree I can’t imagine—but usually it’s not so hot down here. We’ve just gotten a terrible heat wave recently, and I don’t know why, but all of us are suffering.” She smoothed down her skirts as they reached a landing and began making their way down winding halls, with Wednesday mindlessly trailing after.

“It sounds beautiful,” Wednesday said wistfully, thinking of the shimmering heat outside. “It is,” Brielle said with a childish grin that reminded Wednesday of Willow’s. “Well, then you’d better take me there soon,” Wednesday teased, poking a finger at Brielle’s hair.

Brielle grinned and batted back at Wednesday. They reached a very nice pair of French doors outlined in mahogany-color wood and filled with panes

of engraved opaque glass. Brielle pushed them open without a second thought, and Wednesday trailed after inside.

“Oh, my dear girl!”Wednesday barely had time to take in the people gathered around the table before someone swept

her into a tight hug. Startled, she staggered back, and the woman held her at arm’s length, beaming into Wednesday’s face.

“Oh—dear,” Wednesday stammered.

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An olive-skinned woman with shiny dark brown hair tied up in spilling swirls was smiling widely at her with slightly distant, light blue eyes. She affectionately patted Wednesday’s cheek while all the people at the tables flocked around her and Brielle, starting to chatter.

“Umm—oh. Might I ask—?” Wednesday began in confusion.“Wednesday, meet my mother Reyna,” Brielle said, taking Wednesday’s shoulder possessively and

gesturing at the older woman. “Mother, meet Wednesday.”“Ah.” So this was Mrs. Reyna Corell, Brielle’s mother. Wednesday smiled apologetically. “I’m so

sorry, Mrs. Corell. I didn’t recognize you—it’s a pleasure to meet you—”“Please, don’t apologize,” Mrs. Corell laughed. “It is I who has been avoiding you, rather—I’m afraid

I can be slightly nervous about first encounters—and please, just call me Miss Reyna. ‘Mrs.’ is just too old for me.”

“Oh. Well, thank you,” Wednesday said rather awkwardly, glancing at Brielle.“Don’t be overwhelmed,” Brielle murmured as she steered Wednesday past Miss Reyna. “Mother’s

a real homely woman, and she’s awfully chuffed about meting you and your family, so she can be a little—engulfing, if you would say.”

“Hmmm.” Wednesday searched the sea of faces for a familiar one. She spotted Winter and Willow chattering with Lei’Anne, who was looking politely bored as she drifted back to the dining table. Des was sitting rigidly next to Lei’Anne, but when she spotted Wednesday, her eyes lit up, especially the amber one. Des’s mother and father were holding each other’s hands and softly murmuring to one another.

Wednesday’s parents were seated together at the table near the head, where there was an empty seat that was presumably for Miss Reyna and her husband. (All the younger ones were seated near the other end of the table to show them their place, of course.)

Miss Reyna hovered behind Wednesday like an overprotective hen. “Ah—Wednesday, my dear, I suppose you already know Brielle—down there at the other end of the table is my eldest daughter, Anna, named after your Grand-Aunt Anna Fontana, of course. And then over there’s my eldest son, Lance—don’t mind him. He’s a little—er—arrogant, and I apologize for his behaviors—”

Wednesday caught Des’s eye, who gave her an “I told you so” look. “—Of course you already know Brielle, or so it seems—and over there is my youngest, Luka—Luka,

stop hiding and lift your head—” Miss Reyna swept past Wednesday in a swoop of rich silky skirts and started fussing over her son.

Wednesday craned her neck to see if she could catch a glimpse of her potential new friend, but all she could see was a shock of pale brown hair peeking out from behind Lei’Anne’s neck and shoulder.

“Come and sit down, Wednesday,” Brielle said, pushing Wednesday towards an empty chair that was probably for her. “We can introduce you later. I’m starving, and it’s almost five past eight.”

“On time, aren’t you?” Wednesday teased lightly. She took the seat next to Des, and Brielle sat on her other side.

“So, you’ve found a new friend, haven’t you?” Des said, bumping Wednesday’s arm with her shoulder. A strand of her wispy blonde hair slipped from her tightly woven hairstyle and onto Wednesday’s arm.

“Oh, yes indeed,” Wednesday grinned, pressing her lips together wryly as Des gave Brielle a shy wave. “You know, that’s a nice hairdo,” she added, gesturing vaguely at the twisted-up sleek swirls and buns of Des’s pale blonde locks. “Did you have that earlier? I didn’t notice.”

“No…Lei’Anne forced me into a chair and made me sit still while she did it. She said my previous one wasn’t fit for such an occasion.” Des shook her head in mock disgust, casting Lei’Anne an amused look over

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the table. Lei’Anne appeared to not notice, but Wednesday wasn’t sure. “Mmm.” Wednesday looked around, studying the formal dining room. She was more than

impressed, as she was with the rest of the country manor. While Brielle started up a conversation with Des, Wednesday tuned them out to survey their supper spot.

The room was long and fairly wide, spanning a generous amount of space. Most of the room was taken up by the polished dark-wooded rectangular table that extended to nearly both ends of the room, rounded on the ends. The table was set with engraved crystal plates with glass flowers imprinted on the edges, and linen ivory napkins were set out with silver cutlery. There were enough settings for all of the guests—that was, to say, all twenty of them. As Miss Reyna calmed down and took her spot, everyone who had still been hovering around the French doors came drifting back to their spots. The chairs were luxurious gold-lined creations with clawed feet, the seats made of soft maroon velvet.

Around the table Wednesday’s gaze traveled, from herself to Des on her left, then to Lei’Anne, Luka, Willow, Winter, Missus Elizabeth, Wednesday’s father George II, her mother Esthetique, Mr. Damien Corell near the head of the table, Miss Reyna, Grand-Aunt Anna, her husband Gordon, Grandfather George I and his wife Lucia, Des’s parents Mr. Jerry and Mrs. Cheri, Anna Corell (the oldest Corell daughter), Lance, and Brielle at the foot of the table on Wednesday’s right.

Wednesday found herself staring curiously at the Corells, since except for Brielle and now Miss Reyna, she had not seen any of them before. Mr. Damien, Miss Reyna’s husband, was tall and rather strapping, somewhat middle-aged with sandy trimmed hair and cold blue eyes. He was talking to Miss Reyna with a touch of a smirk in his smile showing from underneath his thin mustache.

Anna Corell, the eldest Corell daughter, looked to be in late marrying age and was considerably less attractive than her father or even her mother, having inherited Miss Reyna’s chocolate hair but her father’s eyes, though more subdued than Mr. Damien’s. She had a pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose and was staring lost in thought out a window.

Second eldest was Lance, looking almost uncannily like his father but with brown hair that was slightly lighter than his mother’s, about the same color as Brielle’s hair. He also had the sharp cold blue eyes and the unmistakable trace of smirk on his lips as Mr. Damien’s, though seeing an adult’s expression on the fourteen year-old’s face was rather disconcerting.

Of course, Brielle was very pretty, with her flowing brown curls and long eyelashes framing blue eyes. Wednesday sent her a smile and received a sunny grin in return.

The youngest was Luka Corell, somewhat of a mystery to Wednesday still. He was sitting quite still, staring down at his crystal plate with his head slightly ducked. His pale brown hair, lighter than Brielle’s or Lance’s, spilled over his forehead, rather looser than his brother’s. His blue eyes matched Miss Reyna’s, a little bit distant, as though he were conjuring up a fantastic dream in his mind.

“Wednesday? Wednesday, are you listening to me?”Wednesday became suddenly aware of Des tapping her repeatedly on the shoulder. Starting, she

glanced at her friend. “Sorry?”“Is something wrong?” Des followed Wednesday’s gaze until she found its end. A grin spread across

her face. “Oh, I see. Ogling Luka Corell like a peasant lass, are you? I don’t suppose you’ve found someone who suits your fancy, eh?”

“Don’t speak like that!” Wednesday playfully slapped Des on the shoulder. “No, I don’t! Why does everyone think that I fancy Luka? Goodness sakes, he’s only twelve, isn’t he? Still a while to go?”

“Ah, well, you do keep staring at him, you can’t deny that,” Des said with a very posh manner.“You have no shame,” Wednesday teased.

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“Coming from you, I don’t know what to expect,” Des returned with equal verve.“I’m oh so sorry to interrupt your lovely conversation,” Lei’Anne snapped waspishly from Des’s other

side, automatically cutting off the conversation, “but could you please quiet down! A few of us are trying to be civilized here.” She glared pointedly at the two of them and subtly moved her shoulder to indicate Luka, who was sitting next to her.

“Ah—yes, of course,” Wednesday said awkwardly as Luka cast her a curious look. “I’m sorry, Lei’Anne—we should’ve been a little quieter.” “A little?” Lei’Ane huffed. From behind Luka, Willow made a face at Wednesday that clearly indicated her opinion of Wednesday had plunged even further. Winter was sitting haughtily in a way that made Wednesday feel she was held in very low regard at this moment. “Oh, stuff it, Lei’Anne,” Des said good-spiritedly. “Silly girl.” Lei’Anne turned away with a huff. Wednesday leaned in to Des. “You don’t suppose he knew we were talking about him, do you? Luka, I mean? That’s mighty embarrassing.”

“You could’ve thought it prudent to keep your voice down,” Des said, stifling a laugh at Wednesday’s expression. “Honestly, Wednesday, someone in Paris could’ve heard you. I’m sure he did.”

“Oh, dear. I hope he doesn’t get the wrong idea of me,” Wednesday said, pushing her lower lip up into a pout.

“Don’t worry about it,” Des said distractedly, checking a clock that was situated neatly in one corner of the room. “My, it’s almost past eight now! What in the world are the Corells thinking? I’m starving to death in my corset, and feeling faint besides.”

“Now, now,” Wednesday consoled her. “I’m sure Miss Reyna and Mr. Damien are just late diners.”“Call it that if you must,” Des said. Wednesday nodded, satisfied. “That I do.”“Now, Wednesday, you aren’t in the place to voice your opinion—”“Des, you are quite the lady!” Wednesday laughed. “So much for the great Desdemona Fontana—”“Ha!” Des declared aloud. The amber in her eye flared as she grinned at Wednesday.“Girls, hush,” Lei’Anne said irritably for the second time. “I’m losing my patience, now.”“Yes, exactly,” simpered Willow from three seats down from Wednesday’s, lifting her chin and

staring Wednesday down. “Please, shut your trap.”“Willow!” Winter admonished. “Why exactly are you angry at me, now?” Willow glared. Wednesday rolled her eyes. “Willow, that should be an unspeakably easy answer. Now just mind

me for now. Hopefully you’ll be in a more decent mood after supper…?”“Wednesday, you too,” Winter said, clicking her tongue at both of them. “Lei’Anne’s wiser than all

of us as well, so you’d do well to heed her words.” She glanced at the head of the table, where most of the adults were seated. “Though I do wonder how long supper will take….”

The French doors swung open and a number of maids with platters and carts emerged into the room amid clouds of steam, heads bowed demurely. Mr. Damien looked up, and Miss Reyna waved the maids over to start dishing out the appetizers.

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” Des grumbled. “It’s about time. My stomach must be touching my spine now.”

“Don’t say that; it gives me the shivershakes,” Wednesday reprimanded, having just experienced a mild shiver.

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“Do forgive me.”There were enough settings for at least six courses, and the platters of appetizers appeared meager

upon the vast tableclothed surface of the oblong dining table. Wednesday stared in surprised delight at the tiny rolls wrapped in delicate spring leaves, and the delectable light bruschetta drizzled in sweet sauce. It smelled delicious and inviting, and it was only then Wednesday truly appreciated the art of food.

“So! May I have everyone’s attention?” Everyone’s heads swiveled as Mr. Damien stood up, clasping his hands together. He smiled around

at the all, but the touch of smirk in his face became more pronounced, so it rather appeared that he was smiling evilly. Wednesday had to avert her eyes to keep from laughing aloud. Des glanced at her sideways and Wednesday subtly shook her head, biting her lower lip hard.

“I must apologize for the lack of timing,” he said pompously. “However, it is with pleasure that I invite the family to share supper with our family, so that we may all bond together. I do know that there have been several first-time meetings, and that you all are probably anxious to celebrate Mrs. Anna Fontana’s birthday—” He nodded respectfully at the placing near the head of the table where old Great-Aunt Anna was sitting hunched over with wrinkled hands, smiling placidly as Mr. Damien inclined his head towards her. “But just in the spirit of showing off, I hope that you will enjoy your stay of our house and of course, meeting our family. We Corells are generally hospitable, so do not hesitate to ask us of anything if you need something. My daughters Anna and Brielle and my sons Lance and Luka will be all too happy to help you, I assume,” and here he sent them all a pointedly withering look, “and of course for more serious matters, Reyna and myself will most likely be around.

“Now, with all that business done with, I would like you to enjoy supper, starting with our appetizers. Please, serve yourself, and don’t be shy to take anything.” Mr. Damien smiled charmingly, though the smirk ruined it slightly. “After all, there are obviously no manners in this house, judging from our ridiculously spoiled children.”

“Now that’s a little unfair,” Brielle murmured. “Though he’s right on the mark with Lance.”“Ooh, I know, right?” Des chimed in as Mr. Damien sat back down and there was a general hustle

and bustle as the guests were all exclamations as they tried the light foods the Corells’ cook had prepared. Wednesday smiled, glad that shy Des was finding a new friend. It was about time.

“You eat this sort of feast every day, Brielle?” Wednesday asked Brielle as Wednesday and Des stared at the enormous platters of appetizers in front of them.

“Why yes, I’ve gotten quite used to it,” Brielle said indifferently, filling her plate with small appetizers that looked like paintings. Wednesday supposed rich people like the Corells could afford to have their food made to be pretty. She watched curiously as Brielle also took some strange kind of roll cut in the shape of a blooming lotus.

“You sound so casual when you say that,” Des said from Wednesday’s other side as she blinked at the overwhelming choices in front of her. “And these are just for starters!”

Brielle shrugged. Wednesday didn’t think it was affectation that was making Brielle so casual, but she couldn’t be sure.

Des leaned over to murmur in Wednesday’s ear. “So many choices. I don’t know what to try!”“Just take a little bit of everything, then,” Wednesday said, laughing nervously. She felt exactly the

same way as Des did. All in all, it was a lovely meal. Wednesday did her best to try everything, but with all the variety the

Corells offered, there was no way she would be able to fit even a teaspoon full of each dish into her stomach, especially since her corset limited her ability to stretch.

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That afternoon, everything was done extremely en règle, with everything neat and lined up and very much in order.

Wednesday woke up to a strange thing: pitch blackness. As far as she could see, everything was dark—not the kind of dark as in nightfall, but dark as in

nothing could be seen.But from the corners of her eyes, she could see the unpinned tendrils of her auburn hair, framing her

face. She could see the quick, tense rise and fall of her chest in her dress, pale against the dark surroundings. They weren’t just regular dark surroundings. Everything was the exact same shade of dark, flat and yet depthed, one-dimensional and infinitely-dimensioned. She couldn’t see any foreground or background, or anything in between. Everything was foreground, and everything was background.

Wednesday felt as if she were floating. She didn’t feel solidity under her feet, or under her back—and, she wondered, with increasing anxiety, it seemed she was lying down, but there was no bed under her, or covers pulled to her chin.

Immediately, she realized that she was lying on a bed, which she knew she hadn’t been on before, and in her limited span of vision (which pointed up) she noticed the covers that were now over her. The covers were the same color as her surroundings—black—as was the bed, delineated only by the faint supple shading that was slightly lighter than everything around her. The all-blackness triggered a memory from a few months ago—a figure in black silk, sipping hot chocolate, telling her about his black creations in his kingdom.

The though made her sit bolt upright, pushing the covers off her as if poisonous.The Shadow Kingdom. Her heart pulsed, and she stared at the pools of her draping hair collecting in coils around her.How had she ended up here? She was sure it was the Shadow Kingdom, but as to how—as to that,

she had no idea. The void of pure blackness, with no visible sky or round or any material or tangible matter—no, it had to be the Shadows. With a sudden frightened look at the bed she was sitting upon—which, though comfortable, now scared her a bit—she impulsively swung her legs over the side, afraid to be in contact with it but even more afraid that upon stepping on the darkness that she considered to possibly be a floor, or the lack thereof, she would fall straight through.

Her legs dangled over the side of the tall bed, and it was impossible to tell if there was a solid floor or an abyss. She reasoned that if it was indeed an abyss, the bed would not be supported, but it was hard to tell with magic, as such a place as the Shadow Kingdom was, with its perplexing dimensions and rules. It was worth a try; hesitantly, she poked her foot downwards. To her immediate relief, her toes met a floor almost instantly, where the bed connected with the black void; and upon pressing, it was firm and solid, and plenty sturdy to hold her weight. She hopped off the bed.

Under her bare feet, the “ground” was smooth and cool, as was a ballroom floor-and this surprised her and yet pleased her. Her hair, unpinned, swept behind her, and she boldly stepped forward.

Looking back, she caught a glimpse of the bed and covers melting away, as if they had been part of the flat, immeasurable blackness the entire time.

“This is incredible,” Wednesday whispered to herself. Her heart was hammering in her chest, a blacksmith hard at work. She touched her face, her hair, to make sure that she was solid, and not melting into the dark like the bed. The thought scared her and she pushed away thoughts of disappearing and being

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lost forever. It was strange being able to see herself, clear as day, as if a miniature sun were shining down directly on her, but with everything else dark.

There were not features in her surroundings, making Wednesday feel as if she were standing in a spotlight beam on an empty, darkened stage. She was fascinated by the kingdom but now not scared—except for thoughts of her sudden melting away, all of which she had shoved into the back of her mind—and it intrigued her that there was yet—everything. She now understood why the King had said it was hard to think of the Shadows in terms of reality as seen by the ordinary world.

She walked around a bit. If she closed her eyes hard, nothing felt different than if she was standing on the ballroom floor back in the castle, at home. It was a plain place—not boring, but not a physically interesting as, say, the gardens.

She had scarcely thought of wishing for the gardens when she noticed she seemed to have been on soft soil this entire time, and she saw solid black hedges with prickly grass and bushes with raven flowers. Though, she was absolutely confident, that a few seconds ago she had been on smooth, unmarked floor, not this peaty soil—though it was nice—and that the low hedges and the arbors with black flowers had not been there.

It was as if…as if the Shadows were listening to her thoughts and according aligned her surroundings for her, she thought, flexing her toes in the dirt under the soft pads of her feet. But everything was still black, and if Wednesday unfocused her vision, there seemed to be nothing—no flowers she’d just made appear, no hedges. But only if she unfocused her vision—as soon as she opened her eyes wide, they were still there, sitting there plainly, with no perfumey scent or rustling of the wind through branches.

Walking around, feeling more confident of this place, Wednesday kept moving, wondering if she went enough, she could find something besides black. The place was devoid of sound, except for the soft noises of Wednesday’s feet and the overly long trim of her dress sweeping the ground whenever she took a step.

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