Museum of Magic, page 12
“Emmi!” Puck shouted, and there was a desperate edge to his voice, as if he, too, realized that the only person on Earth who knew what they were going through was the other.
Emmi bounded toward Puck’s voice, barely able to see him. She got fleeting images of winding paths over craggy cliffs, but there was no sign of humanity.
What would happen if I just stopped here? The thought filled her veins with ice; Emmi didn’t want to know.
Instead, she grabbed Puck’s waiting hand and together they charged toward the last remaining light. It was a pale ghost of a glow, but they reached it before it faded to nothing.
That same rushing feeling, the jolt in her gut, the lurch in her stomach. Emmi blinked. It was, somehow, even darker now. The salty air was replaced with the scent of petrichor; the crashing waves sounded more like a bubbling brook streaming over rocks. The other place had been rocky; this place felt softer. Damp earth under her feet. Moss covering the roots.
“Where are we?” Emmi asked in a shaky breath.
“We went through at least two portals,” Puck said. “We could be anywhere.”
“What time is it?”
“What day is it?” Puck asked. “Or, rather, what night?”
Emmi turned in a slow circle. Her eyes were adjusting to this darkness, but all that meant was there was no sign at all of the wills-o’-the-wisp.
“Do you see anything?” Puck asked, his voice an urgent whisper.
He meant with her magic. “No,” Emmi said.
She was scared, even if her voice didn’t shake. She wanted to grab Puck’s hand, to assure herself that this crazy dash chasing after the fae lights had not been as foolish as she was starting to fear it was. But as she reached for him, Puck stepped forward.
“There’s a building over there,” he said.
Emmi’s breath came out shaky, but Puck didn’t seem to notice. She squared her shoulders and followed him.
It wasn’t just one building, but several, all of them crumbling and falling apart. Most of the roofs were gone, the windows nothing but black squares cut in the stone walls covered in moss and ivy.
“Whatever used to be here has been abandoned for a long time,” she said.
Puck made a grunt in agreement, the sound almost lost to the loud brook winding over the stones below. These houses were built right on the side of the brook—or perhaps it was a small river? Emmi headed in that direction and found a clear footpath, well worn. “I think I see a bridge,” she called back, but Puck was too far away to hear her.
The brook created an open spot in the sky that cast a little starlight over the area. Emmi could see the outline of the land. It looked as if a giant had bent down, raking his fingers through the rocks and mud to create the craggy hills. Trees twisted up, full of leaves that clattered in the wind. It was colder now, not bitterly so, but enough for Emmi to wish she had a jacket.
Emmi turned, heading back to the broken-down buildings, and hit a trail marker that had been hammered next to the footpath. Her thigh ached from banging into the wooden post, but her heart soared—they were at least close enough to civilization that the hiking trail could guide them back. Somewhere.
She looked around the buildings, occasionally catching glimpses of Puck, who was doing the same. Emmi wasn’t really sure what she was looking for, but the fae had led her here. There must be something, surely?
She spotted a large stone sunk into the earth near one of the hollow houses, pale white and round like the moon, with cut marks all along the side. She’d seen this sort of thing before—a mill stone.
“Puck?” Emmi called in the dark. “I think we’re near a mill.” It made sense—the water nearby would have been used to operate the mill, but with technological advancements, such mills had been abandoned over time.
“Puck?” Emmi shouted again when he didn’t answer. Her heart thudded; had the wills-o’-the-wisp returned? Had he followed them without her? “Puck!” she screamed.
“Here!” His voice was only a little distant, muffled by the stream and the trees and the broken walls. Emmi let out a sob; the night was playing tricks on her, and she didn’t like how much this all unnerved her.
Before she could wind her way through the broken buildings, Puck popped out from behind a wall. “Emmi? You okay?”
Her hands were shaking. “I’m fine,” she ground out through clenched teeth.
Puck rounded the moss-covered wall and stood in front of her. “You’re trembling,” he said.
“It’s cold.”
“Not that cold.”
Why wouldn’t he drop it? But instead of just shrugging and joking as Emmi had come to expect from the fae boy, Puck ducked his head, forcing her to meet his eyes. Her gaze slid away from his, but before she could step back, he grabbed her shoulders, grounding her, his thumbs running over her skin.
“Yeah,” he said softly, “it’s cold.”
And he pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her shaking frame, holding her until the only thing that still trembled was her heart.
After several long moments, he stepped back, searching her face. “Better?” he asked gently.
Emmi nodded mutely.
“Okay, then, come with me!” Puck flashed her a brilliant smile, turned on his heel, and darted away.
A laugh burst from Emmi’s lips as she chased after him. Puck leapt over a rock, around a crumbling wall, and behind the mill buildings, stopping in front of a boulder. “See?” he asked, pointing.
Emmi stepped forward tentatively.
Etched into the rock face was a circular design that wove around itself. Emmi traced her finger over the carving. “It’s like a maze,” she said, wonderingly.
Puck nodded eagerly. “And there’s another one, here.” He pointed to a second labyrinth.
“Is this what the wills-o’-the-wisp wanted us to see?” Emmi asked, her eyes still tracing over the design. It was impossible to tell how old the petroglyphs were, but the edges were worn by both weather and time. They date back to the mill, perhaps the seventeenth or eighteenth century, or they could be remnants from an ancient tribe, millennia old. The petroglyphs seemed archaic; it was the same sort of weaving-lines design Emmi had seen on Celtic art.
Puck shrugged. “It could be this, I guess. Can you sense anything with your magic?”
Emmi took a deep breath, trying to center herself. Between falling through portals and falling into Puck’s arms, it was hard to focus. But as she stared at the lines carved into the rocks, a flickering, trembling glow rose through the stone, highlighting the circuitous path of the petroglyph maze. Emmi gasped, stepping back, and Puck grabbed her hand, squeezing her fingers, reminding her that he was there.
The light in the carving on the rock grew and grew, burning as bright as a bonfire. Emmi staggered back, eyes widening despite the pain the bright light caused. Even Puck could see the magic now, the fire-like luminescence growing, forming a shape. The light burned into solid curves—shoulders, arms, a torso, legs.
From the center of the maze emerged a woman with fire for hair and flames for eyes.
And she was staring right at Emmi.
The Knight of Cups, Again
invitation, love, and emotion
The woman standing before Emmi seemed to be made of fire. Flames licked her head like hair, and her skin was deep black, as if made of charcoal. Occasionally, Emmi got a glance of bright, orange-red beneath the black, glowing embers in place of muscle, lava in place of blood. The woman wore no clothing but had no shame nor even seemed aware of her nudity. She was smaller than Emmi had first perceived, short and slight, but the woman stood with her shoulders thrown back, her chin tilted up as if everyone else was beneath her.
The woman’s eyes, flickering with firelight, turned from Emmi to Puck. She opened her mouth, but rather than any words coming from her lips, she spoke in a language that sounded like fire popping and crackling. There was rhythm and cadence to the sound, and Emmi was fairly sure the woman spoke a language, just none that any human had ever voiced.
Puck got on one knee, bowing his head to the woman. “This is one of the ancient beings,” he said, flicking his gaze to Emmi. “Joan the Wad.”
Emmi stood awkwardly. She wondered if she, too, should bow or curtsy or something, but the fae woman completely ignored her. She seemed entranced by Puck, running her hands over the back of his head, flames falling like raindrops from her fingers and sizzling in his hair.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” Emmi muttered. The fae—Joan the Wad, apparently—completely ignored her.
Puck spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Queen of the Cornish Piskies. ‘Wad’ means torch. You’ve not heard the rhyme?”
A torch brought light. Fire light. That explained the woman’s appearance and also her connection to the wills-o’-the-wisp that had led them here.
“‘Jack-the-lantern, Joan-the-wad,’” Puck said, his voice lilting into a sing-song tone, “‘that tickled the maid and made her mad. Light me home, the weather’s bad.’”
Jack-the-lantern…as in a jack o’lantern. The tradition was reserved for Halloween in America, carving pumpkins into ghoulish faces and lighting them with candles, and Emmi had always heard the legend started in Ireland. But Cornwall was on the western side of England, not that far from the Emerald Isle, and if the story could cross the Atlantic, surely it could cross the Irish Sea as well.
Joan fawned over Puck as he stood up, making fond noises that sounded like a crackling campfire. For his part, at least, it didn’t seem as if the little licks of flame falling from Joan’s fingers burned him.
“She seems to like you,” Emmi muttered.
Puck didn’t act as casually unconcerned as he usually pretended to be; this was someone important, that was clear. But he said, “It’s not so much that she likes me. She just likes my elements.”
“Your elements?” Emmi asked.
“She’s fire and water. So am I.”
Emmi frowned at that, unsure of what it meant. Puck didn’t seem to manipulate fire. But…he did make portals with ash. He’d attacked the first hunter with wind, but…
Before she could ponder on this, Joan shifted her attention to Emmi. She opened her mouth, smoke mingling with her popping, crackling style of talk. Emmi wasn’t sure what the Queen of the Piskies was saying, but she certainly seemed angrier than when she’d been petting Puck’s hair.
“Why is she mad?” Emmi asked, daring to steal a glance at Puck.
“She says she’s seen you.” Puck frowned, clearly struggling to translate the strange language into something Emmi could understand. “When you look through the veil to see beings on the other side, sometimes the beings on the other side look back at you.”
Emmi shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. She’d been watched? Her powers were in her ability to see, but she’d never noticed anything seeing her. “How does she watch me without my knowledge?”
Joan closed her lips. Her eyes seemed to flare brighter as she stared at Emmi.
Beyond her, deep in the forest, lights flickered, golden glows extending into the trees. Emmi turned as more and more lights popped up—over the river, up the craggy hills, scattered over the horizon. For one moment, the entire night was illuminated by the wills-o’-the-wisp.
Wills-o’-the-wisp, piskies, pixies, whatever they were called, they were hers. Joan’s. The queen. The ancient one. They were her eyes in the dark, and there were hundreds, thousands of them.
In a blink, every light went out. Darkness flooded the forest. Only Joan still burned.
The queen opened her mouth again, the sound of a roaring fire emerging.
“What did she say?” Emmi asked Puck urgently.
“She says, ‘What do you intend to do, witch?’” Puck translated.
Emmi’s heart thrummed in her chest. She had always known the fae were dangerous, but it was easy to forget that danger around Puck. But Joan? Joan was wild magic, as vicious as a forest fire.
“Tell her,” Emmi started, but Joan opened her mouth, a sizzling scream bursting out. The queen, it seemed, was tired of speaking through Puck. Joan opened her arms wide, fingers splayed, and fire erupted around them. Although she was several feet away from Emmi, the fire created a barrier encircling the two of them, leaving Puck and the forest on the other side. It was hot, bright, and painfully frightening.
The queen demanded an answer. From Emmi’s lips.
“I just—I’m trying to save my grandfather,” Emmi stuttered, aware of the pleading tone in her voice. “And, I think I can help. To protect. Like—”
But Joan did not want Emmi’s words. The fire raged higher, hotter. Emmi stumbled backward, her hair singing. The cage of flame tightened around the two of them. Sweat streamed down Emmi’s skin, stinging her eyes. Raw panic ripped through her, and she wanted to make a run for it, dash through the wall of fire and throw herself in the cool river. But instinct kept her rooted to the ground. This was not a simple fire; this was fae magic. Stop, drop, and roll would do nothing.
Emmi was trapped.
So she faced Joan, Queen of the Piskies, and looked into her too-bright eyes of flame without flinching, even though it hurt.
The walls of fire, ever so slightly, seemed to burn a little less hot.
Joan had called Emmi a witch, and she knew she could see magic. If Emmi could not use her voice, she needed to use her powers. She let out a shaky breath and forced her eyes to focus on the flames, to see beyond the pain. Light flickered with shadows. It was mesmerizing, watching the flames leap and pop, bounce and…melt. Shift. Change into shapes.
Within the fire, there was the form of a human girl. Of Emmi. The flames rose and grew and—there. Beside the fire-Emmi was a tiny form of Joan, shrinking and cringing in front of Emmi. Emmi shook her head; that was all wrong. She was not some powerful being forcing the fire queen to kneel. Before she could blink, Emmi watched as the little fire figures shifted, the looming shape that looked like her growing smaller and smaller as the fiery Joan rose, turning into an inferno that forced the avatar of Emmi to submit.
“Not that, either,” Emmi muttered, watching. She may not be an ancient fae who ruled the pixies of Cornwall, but she also wasn’t going to cower.
The shapes shifted again, the large, flaming Joan shrinking down as the meek Emmi grew. When they were equal in stature, neither of them towering over the other, Emmi turned to the real Joan. “That,” she said. Unwittingly, she raised her hand to point.
Those flames did not burn her.
Joan—the real Joan—nodded. The two avatars disappeared into smoke.
The queen accepted Emmi’s promise that they would speak to each other as equals.
All around Emmi, throughout the circle of flames, more figures popped up, dancing around them. Emmi struggled to focus on the different scenarios playing out—she could recognize some of the shapes in the flame. There were several images of her, all doing different things, often with others. Some people she knew, some she did not.
And there—her grandfather!
Emmi made a little startled cry and started to reach for the image of her grandfather, but the flames sputtered and sparked, and this time, they burned her. Emmi snatched back her hand, forcing her powers to focus.
There were three images circling around that area of the fiery barrier. One showed Emmi as a queen, a crown like sun rays bursting over her head. At her feet, all manner of beings, human and fae, knelt. Emmi could not tell if the beings were worshipful or fearful of her as a queen, but she didn’t like that image. Her gaze slid to the next one. Emmi stood with a complete witch bottle, casting her arm out, sending protective bubbles over the land like her ancestor had done.
Unbidden, Emmi’s hand started to raise. Wasn’t that what she wanted—to make a witch bottle and protect the world as Elspeth had? But the bubbles…they protected, but they also caused harm. Emmi thought of the Cat Sìth, trapped at Holyrood. And Agnes, an echo of her former self, unable to leave the bubble.
The image melted into her grandfather, and a tiny flame-made image of herself standing beside him. Without a single doubt, Emmi touched that image.
New scenarios melted into the fiery wall. This circle of images seemed focused on Hunters. The first showed Emmi hunting the Hunters. She rode an enormous wild stag, and she brandished a spear. Behind her was an army of fae, eagerly declaring war against the Hunters.
Emmi glanced at Joan, the real one. Was it her imagination, or did Joan seem to smile at the idea of Emmi leading an army of fae to get bloodthirsty revenge?
Emmi clutched her hands together and shook her head. Even if the Queen of the Piskies wanted her to choose that fate, it was not what she wanted.
With a crackling huff from Joan, the image melted into a different one. Now the avatar of Emmi wore a black cloak. She held a sword that seemed oddly shaped—and she pressed it against a fae boy’s throat.
“No, not that either,” Emmi said aloud, shaking her head.
Another image bloomed in the blaze. Emmi stood before a Hunter, but she held a shield. Was it literal or symbolic? Emmi wasn’t sure, but that was an idea she could get behind. She didn’t want to kill the Hunters, but she did want to protect herself and others against them. She touched that image.
Joan seemed a little less pleased, but she waved her hands. The flaming wall was smaller now, the heat still uncomfortable but far more bearable. Through the flickering light, Emmi could see the real Puck.
He watched worriedly from the side, unable to help. Emmi wasn’t even sure he could see her. But she could see him.
And then she saw another version of him, one made of flame. This one crawled on his knees toward Emmi, his hands raised and pleading. Emmi shook her head.
She did not trust Puck, but she didn’t want him to beg. It felt wrong. He should—
Before she could complete the thought, the image shifted. Emmi squinted, unable to discern what was being shown to her. It looked like Puck, but…monstrous? Flames dripped down his body like mud, clinging to his skin. His face was melted and grotesque. The little fiery image was still recognizable as Puck, but…not.
