Unwritten, page 7
“Ugh! You’re both impossible.” Emma snatched the pouch and waved it in front of Beatrix’s face. “You’re not in a position to say no. We need the money. The guilds didn’t leave you a welcome bag with shampoo and conditioner. What makes you think they’ll spring for your legal costs? And how do you expect to dress without cash? You’re begging for a makeover.” To prove her point, she wrinkled her nose while taking in the dried-up mud in Beatrix’s jeans and the mystery stains on her shirt. “You didn’t pack clothes for this trip, did you?”
“I’ll figure something out. Maybe—”
“It is not mine,” William said. “If that’s what worries you. It’s from your uncle. You can consider it an advance on your inheritance.”
“I don’t have any uncles.”
“You can’t be sure of that, can you?” Emma said.
“If my uncle’s giving me money, why is it you delivering it?” Beatrix pinned William with her stare. “Why are you even involved with my stuff?”
“I told you,” William said. “I made an oath. So you’d better get used to having me around. Whether I like it or not.” He followed that with a look of disgust that would have seemed arrogant if not for the squeezing of his shoulders that followed it. “But don’t worry, I have to keep my distance, so I’ll avoid you as much as possible.”
Beatrix decided that, no, it wasn’t a matter of mood. William really was an ass. And she had no interest in having him ruin her excitement of the Zweeshen.
“Don’t exert yourself on my behalf. Oath or not. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Not without funds,” he said with a glance toward the coin bag.
“Beatrix, for goodness’ sake,” Emma said. “Just take it. Please.” Her voice grew pitiful. “Drafts are quite poor. Accept it. If for nothing else, so that you can share.”
And under the girl’s pleading, Beatrix’s resolve crumbled like a matchsticks model. She didn’t know anything about his world after all, so it made sense to follow their advice. Even if she’d never admit that to William. “Fine. But I’ll pay it back.”
William inclined his head in a nod-bow and walked away so fast one might have thought Beatrix was infectious.
“Wonderful.” Emma slipped her satchel’s strap across her chest, grinning. “I don’t have your scruples. I’ll be delighted to spend your money for you.”
7
JANE
Navarsing University consisted of three dozen buildings attached to each other by covered galleries and skybridges. With an abundance of turrets and spires, it spread, multiarmed and medieval-inspired, over grounds that faded into woods to the north and the ocean to the south and west.
“What’s to the east?” Beatrix asked.
Leaving the guesthouse behind, Emma led them along a gravel path that circled a pond, past a grove of dogwood trees and a pergola where a head-scratching variety of flowers bloomed in midwinter.
“To the east is the Yellow Road,” Emma said. “Everything of note lies along it. Right now we’re heading to the Market Square in the center of campus. And before you begin barraging me with questions, we’re on our way to meet people whose job’s to answer everything.”
“Sounds great,” Beatrix said, stifling a laugh. “People I can torture with questions.” After taking off her jacket, she draped it over her arm. Not cold enough to crystallize the humidity, the air had a muggy quality. “I have so many things to ask. I mean, look at this place.”
“First things first.” Emma strode into a walled rose garden full of roaming sculptures that were “stretching their legs,” as Emma put it, and would return to their immobile work after their break. They murmured “excuse me” when they bumped Beatrix by accident, their walking clumsy from disuse.
“The priority is to get you bound. The rest can wait,” Emma said as they reached the farthest edge of the extensive garden. “As of right now, you’re quite vulnerable, so the sooner we get that done, the better. This way—shortcut.”
Emma sounded like Grandpa with his vague warnings. “Vulnerable to what?”
The young girl lowered her voice. “Don’t call evil by naming it. It’s out there. No need to be anxious, though. The guilds have special means to protect their members. That’s the main reason for the Bounding. On top of keeping track of taelimns and where they belong.”
Beatrix thought something about that concept seemed wrong. But she kept the assessment to herself. She focused on observing everything around them, trying to take it all in. To convince herself that, indeed, she wasn’t in a dream.
They sneaked through a door hidden behind wisteria and poured out onto another path, this one with purple gravel. The gardens spread out around them, terraced in picture-worthy perfection except for a few black vines that crept in between wrought-iron benches.
“To get you bound,” Emma said, “we’ll need Prologs.” She pinched her skirt to lift the hem and skipped a couple of times. “That’s where we’re heading now. Prologs are the source of all wisdom around here. They will answer all your inquiries. That’s their main role—to be experts who help new taelimns understand the rules.” Emma sighed in a self-important way. “I didn’t get Prologs. Or any kind of welcome. So I’m excited to live vicariously through you.”
Beatrix laughed. Emma’s joy was contagious. It reminded Beatrix of Grandpa. And if Prologs truly were that knowledgeable, they could prove a boon for her quest to decipher the letter. They might know what May the Words meant, what the map was, even how to find Mary.
Wearing a smile at that thought, Beatrix bit into a pastry from the stash they’d received in the kitchen before setting out. “These are amazing! Here. You need to try one.”
Emma shook her head. “I only eat at a table.”
“Come on, you can’t miss this.” Beatrix offered a phyllo braid with sparkling jam, holding her hand out until Emma softened and accepted the treat.
When the girl nibbled off a corner, a puff of powdered sugar scattered in the air. Her expression grew mellow. “That’s why! Enchanted fare. We’ve got a variety of Souvenesses. They taste like your favorite memories. This one is A Lazy Summer Afternoon with a Book.”
“They’re beyond good.” Beatrix’s teeth sank into a chocolate-covered wafer.
“That one’s a Rhodosheart. The Pride of Your First Success. I’m so glad the Fantasy Guild has the kitchen rotation this semester!”
“Fantasy Guild? Ay!” Beatrix tripped on one of the weird vines that had slithered onto the path. Up close, they glowed like hematite, and at their touch, a thrumming woke up the monster and brought rust to her mouth. She narrowed her eyes, noticing how their tendrils stretched along paths, clawed up the sides of buildings, and twisted around the arms of statues and lanterns.
“Like I was saying,” Emma continued, “there are twelve genre guilds and many subgenres. You’ll have to ask the Prologs for a full listing. I pity their job with you.” She grimaced but ruined the effect with a smirk.
“So everyone around is a char—taelimn,” Beatrix said more to herself than to Emma.
She surveyed the scene around her. They must be. She’d spotted people in outlandish fashions, a few from bygone eras, and several with nonhuman appearance. Emma had greeted a blue-skinned woman with extra arms for legs and a man with catlike ears. There was a centaur chatting with a Narnian-sized badger, and an albino cyborg flirting with a fairy, but almost everyone ambling through the streets looked ordinary enough. Scratch that. Perhaps not the Aztec with the feathered headdress and the T-shirt that read: “Don’t mess with me. I am a God.”
“Everyone’s a taelimn,” Emma said. “Either a student, a worker, or a short-term tourist. You can’t stay in the Zweeshen otherwise. One can tell which guild they belong to by their wristbands.”
Now that Emma pointed it out, Beatrix noticed the thick band everyone wore around their right wrist. In several materials, colors, and styles, all they had in common were the badges that adorned them. She identified at least eight variations, although she couldn’t see details from the distance. William had one too, she realized. Thick black leather. In her bedroom, she had thought it an odd adornment.
“You’ll get one too,” Emma said. “Once you’re bound and connect to your book.”
Beatrix wondered what style she’d receive, and a sunny excitement ran through her at the idea of being part of this world. Bound to her book, to all the taelimns that came before her, as Emma had explained. It can’t be. I can’t be a taelimn. This is unreal. The now-familiar mantra rang in her head, punctuating her thoughts like a metronome.
“It is real,” Emma said, reading her mind. “You should just accept it. The wristbands are a sign of your Bounding guild. Even I have one.” Emma lifted her arm to show off a thin band with a shining dragon-like design. “It’s paper, mind you. Temporary. Because I’m only a Draft. But at least I’m legal.” She shuddered. “If they hadn’t bound me within twenty-four hours of arriving, I would have been forced to leave. And since my world isn’t finished…” She drew some runes in the air before mouthing, “Devoured by the Fogges.”
Beatrix’s brow furrowed. It was the third time she’d heard the term. “What are the Fogges?”
“No, no.” Emma shook her pink-haired head. “I will not do the Prologs’ job for them. You better add that question to your list for them.”
“Fair enough,” Beatrix said, laughter in her voice.
Soon they reached the heart of campus, where larger buildings loomed, the crowds grew thicker, and the gravel turned into cobblestone. But even though the hedges, mature trees, and geometrical flower beds were left behind, the strange vines continued into the busy streets. The more Beatrix watched for them, the more she noticed them. Sometimes thick as branches, sometimes spider-vein thin, they curved around street signs, the legs of benches and restaurant chairs, and the Moorish arches of the clock tower, as if their black threads were knitting together the landscape. “Emma, what are those weeds?”
“Beg your pardon,” someone said, and Beatrix stepped aside to let an old gentleman pass.
She was jolted as recognition struck, even though she had never seen him before. “Was that—?”
Chewing on her last bite of pastry, Emma nodded. “Yes, the incomparable Mr. Scrooge. He must have come ahead of the Monsters Ball in a few weeks. Lots of tourists around the Zweeshen this time of year for that reason. He’s a huge philanthropist, organizes the Out of Print Benefit Gala every year.”
Beatrix couldn’t help but laugh. The thought was effervescent: she’d met her first true character. No. That wasn’t right. The first one she’d read about. The experience was both more exhilarating and less life-changing than expected. Like growing up.
“He didn’t look like the usual depictions.” Doughier and older, in fact. How had Beatrix known him?
Emma read her mind. “If you’ve encountered a taelimn in a book, your souls have touched, and you’ll recognize them. Did you notice the girl who gave us the Souvenesses in the kitchen? She’s a famous taelimn too, a third parlor maid in Wuthering Heights, no less.”
“I did think she looked familiar,” Beatrix said.
“Oh, wonderful!” Emma picked up her pace. “We’re here. See that park across the street? The Prologs will meet us beyond it.”
With determined strides, they set out toward the park, Beatrix’s mind spinning with the possibilities of meeting characters in real life. Halfway through the green space, she froze. A few feet to her left, under a gazebo surrounded by orange trees, a girl was pointing in her direction.
“Come on,” Emma said.
But Beatrix didn’t move. She stood, her cheeks pulsating with heat.
“It’s her,” the girl said in a tone that didn’t bother to be discreet. Six friends dressed in puffy 50s swing dresses gathered around her, next to a bench that kept expanding as more people sat on it.
“Illegal trash,” the girl shot with a disgust Beatrix had seen repeated on dozens of other faces. One of the girl’s friends bent to mutter, and the leader dropped her head back and let out a glittering laugh.
Inside Beatrix, the Furie leapt, its tongues of fire lapping. The whispers surged in indignation.
Another group huddled to her right, staring and murmuring. The snippets of their conversation whizzed in a language she couldn’t understand. Their spite was universal.
“Go back where you came from.” This voice carried more vitriol and originated behind her. It belonged to an ancient man who stood by a billboard with a “You are here” arrow. “Leave! You don’t deserve to be here.”
“Emma, what’s—?” Beatrix’s question died off as someone interrupted her again.
This time, she spun around fast enough to catch an eight-foot, fox-faced woman in maroon pants spit sideways. “You shouldn’t have come,” she muttered before veering off to the opposite side of the street.
Even the monster yelped now, while a cannonball of memories opened a hole in Beatrix’s chest. She inhaled, trying to repress a shudder.
Please, not again. Not here too.
She was scarred from the overexposure to insults like these, that weren’t deadly and yet, sharp like needles, left tiny splinters under the skin that never healed. She didn’t know if her exhaustion or her dismay was worse.
“Bloody kitchen busybodies!” Emma murmured mind to mind. “They must have told you’re an Unwritten. Up, chin up, ignore them.” She lunged forward, and the brightly dressed girls shrank as she stuck her tongue out and mock-punched her hand. Emma scanned the scene, eyes fiery, hair orange-red, baring her teeth like a wild imp. “Nobody gets away with attacking my friends.”
Beatrix’s surprise replaced the self-pity.
Now she had a little-sister-friend.
With a temper.
A few hundred yards later, Emma pulled on Beatrix’s sleeve. “There!”
A trio consisting of two girls and a tall gladiator bantered by a gate with a golden crest.
“Prologs!” Emma said, and Beatrix hurried in their direction.
One of the girls turned as they approached, straightening away from the pillar against which she’d been leaning.
“Are you Beatrix Alba?” she asked.
“Yes, hi,” Beatrix said, accepting the other’s solid shake.
“I’m Jane.” A couple of years older than Beatrix, she wore shabby leather pants paired with military boots, a cowboy hat, and a brown trench coat—an outfit that, despite being mismatched, appeared natural on her. “And you must be Emma.” A twang sneaked into Jane’s speech, a hint of humor on the tip of her tongue.
Emma nodded.
“We’re excited to meet you, Beatrix,” the gladiator next to Jane said. He was handsome in an impossible-to-ignore way and flashed her a dazzling grin as he extended a hand. His hair was sandy, his eyes a deep blue that lured one in. “I’m Trelius, and this is Neradola.” He waved to include the ethereal girl to his side. “We were just talking about how best to welcome you.”
Beatrix found herself smiling at the Prologs. She’d never had anyone welcome her anywhere.
“Awesome,” she said. “Emma has been telling me all about Prologs. I have like a million questions.”
A look passed between Jane and Trelius.
“We expected someone younger,” the pale girl called Neradola said. She was a dainty figure, with white hair and semitransparent skin.
“True,” Trelius said. “I suppose that rules out an excursion to Hecater’s Sirens & Sylphs Amusement Park as a welcome celebration. Perhaps cloud surfing instead?”
“Oh, cloud surfing, please,” Emma said.
Jane shook her head. “Not today. We have plans.”
“Soon.” Neradola’s voice reflected the rest of her, soft and enveloping like a breeze. Her fluid coat floated, ending in arches, like the wings of a bat. Beatrix tried not to stare too hard at her transparent skin, the way the gate behind her showed through her arm.
Emma didn’t have the same compunction. “You’re a ghost!”
Neradola faced the young girl with a smooth turn of the head. “Part ghost, part fey.”
“And a heck of a healer is what she’s failing to say.” Trelius grinned. “Her race’s known for bringing folks from the brink of death. But Nera’s especially good.”
If she could have blushed, Beatrix was certain Neradola would have.
“That’s impressive,” Beatrix said, meaning it. Why couldn’t her power be something like that?
Emma, who’d been assessing the Prologs with a critical eye, spoke then. “I’m confused. Are you Fantasy or Historical? The sham gladiator costume is throwing me.”
“I told you.” Jane patted the gladiator’s back. “Why would anyone think gladiators wore capes? Worst clothes to fight in. You might not believe it from his ridiculous outfit, but Trelius is a sorcerer.”
“More like an all-purpose magician,” Trelius said. “Sorcerer’s a different level.”
Beatrix wondered if he was humble or truthful.
“Even more reason to drop the Halloween costume,” Jane said.
“I like it.” Trelius smirked, a spark in his eye. He preened, and his magnificent breastplate shone. The shoulder medallions that secured his short red cape glinted too.
“I can’t stand people who show off,” Emma whispered mind to mind.
“He’s being friendly,” Beatrix responded. “And you have to recognize he’s good-looking.”
“Bah,” the girl said, and even inside Beatrix’s brain, she sounded like a disapproving eighty-year-old dowager.
Trelius seemed immune to anyone’s judgment. “I’m Jane’s worst nightmare.”
“Jane despises historical inaccuracies.” Neradola’s voice was cool and husky. As if she were miles away and not invested in her own words.
Trelius shrugged. “Nothing about me is accurate. My artisan had no clue about real gladiators.” His blond hair swooped in a wave that enhanced the shape of his brow. He looked at Beatrix. “Hint, they weren’t taller than five-five. But I enjoy the outfit. Next best thing to a kilt in girls’ imaginations.”
