Flames and Frying Pans, page 5
“Jester?” I looked down at my miniature poodle.
His jaw fell open in a doggy smile, and his tongue hung out slightly off-center.
“See?” Mom said. “He wants to go.”
Jester’s tongue swiped over his entire face in search of egg molecules.
I rolled my eyes. “Sure he does,” I said. Then again, if it gave Mom courage, Jester couldn’t be too much trouble. “Okay. Fine. The dog can come.”
My mom leaned down to Jester. “You’re coming, too! You hear that, little boy?”
Jester, clueless but enthusiastic, jumped up on his hind legs and kissed her face.
There were multiple known entry points. Gramercy Park was the one we had used at first, but after all of the ways between our world and theirs had opened, the one in Riverside Park became the go-to for sheer convenience.
We would need one of the Gentry to take us through. Since Berron was the only one who spent any amount of time outside the Forest of Emeralds, that meant I needed Berron.
While Mom bustled off to finish getting ready, I texted the Prince of the Gentry. What’s up, Your Highness? Couldn’t go straight into demanding things. I mean, I could, but if I started low-key, I had somewhere to build to.
A few minutes later, he replied. I’m at the Museum of Arts and Design.
Is that the one on Columbia Circle? I wrote back.
They have this glass flamingo goblet I’m really into, he said.
I typed quickly: Don’t steal it.
A pause. Then: Why not?
I sighed and put the phone down, rethinking my life in general, then picked it back up. Because I need you.
I didn’t know you cared, he replied.
Shut up, I typed. I need you to take me and my mom through to Poppy.
He sent a selfie next to the flamingo goblet. A flamingo formed the stem and supported a trumpet-shaped pink glass vessel on its head. Lit from behind with pure white light, it beamed in a kitschy, cheerful way.
Lovely, I wrote.
Me, or the goblet?
I debated the flattery before I went ahead and sent it: Both. Now can you please stop drooling over expensive breakables and meet us at Riverside Park?
So you’re actually introducing me to your mother?
I closed my eyes and took a breath, then reopened my eyes. Needs must, as Poppy would say. Behave, I texted.
It wasn’t until ten minutes later, when I was getting ready myself, that my phone dinged again, with his response: Where’s the fun in that?
We bundled up for the cold, including a little jacket for Jester, and headed out.
At Riverside Park, the fallen leaves had drifted to the sides of the pathways like windblown confetti after a parade. We followed the broad, paved pathway north to the 91st Street Garden.
You would think that the garden would have fallen into a restful sort of decay, fast asleep until spring—but in fact, it was so carefully managed that even deep into autumn, it was wide awake with green plants and colorful flowers.
“Oh, my goodness, elephant ears! Japanese beautyberry! And that’s billygoat weed right there,” she said, pointing to a fluffy, light purple flower. She rubbed her gloved hands together with delight. “Who takes care of this garden?”
“The Garden People.”
“The garden people?”
“No, really—that’s their official name. They’re volunteers. They each take care of a plot.” I leaned on the fence railing and searched for a plant I could identify. Mostly I just called them that red one, or that green one with the funny-shaped leaves, but with my mother around I had to try harder. “Are those… mums?” I guessed wildly.
She beamed. “Zelda! You know what a chrysanthemum is!”
“You taught me well,” I replied, hoping she didn’t ask me to identify a single other plant, because I couldn’t. Thankfully, I was saved by Berron’s approach. “Oh, good,” I said as he walked up. “You aren’t carrying a stolen flamingo glass.”
“Who said I didn’t drop it off at your place on the way?”
“You don’t have a key.”
“Keys, bah,” Berron said, waving away the minor inconvenience of locks. “And is this your lovely mother?” he added, fixing Mom with a smile.
“Mom, this is my friend, Berron. He helped renovate the shop and make the furniture for it. Berron, this is my mom, Effie.”
Mom patted her hair. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Berron draped his arm over my shoulder and gave me a side-hug that turned into something more like a side-earthquake. “Do you know what your daughter did?”
“Berron, I don’t think we need to get into all that—”
He gave me another shake to shut me up. “She’s so modest. If your daughter hadn’t intervened, some very bad things would have happened to the people I care about. I know if she’s that special, you must be something special, too.”
My mother giggled. “I like this one. You can keep him.”
“Mom, I’m not keeping anyone—”
“Mother knows best,” Berron said, patting my shoulder before releasing me. “Now, shall we enter the garden?” He unlatched the gate and held it open.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Mom said. She took quick and dainty steps down the pathway.
I leaned close to Berron’s ear. “Stop buttering her up.”
“It’s not butter if it’s sincere,” he murmured.
I rolled my eyes and let Jester drag me further in.
Berron looked up and down the pathway adjacent to the garden, making sure no one was in sight, before hurrying after us. “It’s all clear,”he said.
The garden was laid out in a simple rectangle surrounded by a low black fence. A brick path, straight as the Manhattan grid but only wide enough for a single person, cut the space down the middle. The path led to an open space, square-shaped, like a patio. Everything growing in the garden was no taller than shoulder height, making it easy to see in and out.
“Are we supposed to disappear from here?” my mother asked. “Wouldn’t that be a little suspicious to the people walking past?”
“That’s what Berron was checking,” I said.
Berron caught up and held out his hand to my mom. She took it, bouncing slightly in anticipation.
I took her free hand, forming a chain—Berron, Mom, me, and Jester—and looked around one last time. “We’re clear. Go.”
Berron continued along the path. It felt less like a path and more like a runway now, though we weren’t running. The plants seemed to pass us by quicker than we were walking, blurring like an Impressionist painting in the Met. Colors merged and melted. The air sang with golden magic. Our shoes struck the brick path until suddenly they didn’t, going soft and quiet over a springier surface. Only then did new surroundings rise up around us, replacing the low garden plots with towering trees, a soaring leafy canopy, and unfamiliar birdsong.
“Oh, my,” Mom said, coming to a stop and gazing around with wonder and a touch of bewilderment.
“Welcome,” Berron said, “to the Forest of Emeralds.”
Jester immediately set about sniffing the ground like it was his job.
Mom gripped my shoulder, steadying herself. “Where are we, exactly?”
“In the Forest of Emeralds, like Berron said.”
She let go and shot me a look. “I know that, Zelda, but where are we? Did we walk right off a map?”
Berron jumped in. “More like we’re on another map, underneath a map of Manhattan. Or on top of it. I’ve never been quite sure about the positioning.” He beckoned her forward and guided her to the top of a low rise.
Mom stood straight, listening carefully and surveying the land as Berron pointed out the relative locations of familiar tourist landmarks to their counterparts in the realm of the Gentry.
“Remarkable,” Mom said. “All my life, I never imagined…” She swept her hand to indicate the landscape.
All of it green and rich, a far cry from what it had been on my first trip. If only she could have seen what it took to restore it. All of us, in our own ways, bending the magic to bring an enchanted forest back to life. I was proud of what we’d done. “Still want to get rid of your magic?” I asked.
“Of course I do,” she replied quickly. “I was just remarking on how impressive this was.”
I nodded, unwilling—for once—to argue. Magic was nothing to take lightly, I’d learned.
As beautiful as it was, if you let it into your life, it might never let you go.
7
We walked down from the grassy ridge toward the Fortress of Apples, which rose like a stone wedding cake from the great apple orchard that surrounded it. A hushed wind ruffled the leaves and made the apples sway, filling the air with the scent of fruit.
In front of the fortress, an archery target had been set up. At a distance was a wooden rack with two bows, and two quivers filled with arrows. There was no one in sight—unless you counted Sybelia the horse, who peeked around a trunk and whickered at the sight of us. Her coat shone, and the dappled galaxies on her side shifted as if the very universe was expanding and contracting with each breath.
Georgiana the wolfhound loped out from the orchard.
Having spotted his favorite horsey friend and his enormous roommate, Jester lunged at the end of the leash.
I reached down and unclipped him. He couldn’t come to harm here, not in the Forest of Emeralds, where every being would look out for him. The Gentry spoiled him even more than I did.
He bolted to Sybelia and play-bowed, like he would to another dog. Sybelia danced lightly on her hooves, and Jester responded in kind, dodging left and right excitedly, with happy barks. Georgiana ran around them in circles, her shaggy tail flying.
“Whose horse is that?” my mother asked.
“That’s my horse. Sybelia,” Berron said.
“And is that your castle?”
Berron sketched a bow.
“Oh, my.” She elbowed me sharply, probably thinking it was subtle.
“Ow!”
She gestured with her head toward the Fortress, as if I’d never noticed it before and needed to be prodded to realize there was a giant stone structure in front of us.
“Mom, what on Earth are you doing?”
She rolled her eyes.
I knew what she was doing. She wanted me to take note that here was Berron, a seemingly nice fellow—if not entirely human—and here was a castle that belonged to him, and why couldn’t I put two and two together and simply lock him down without further delay.
I sighed. Between this, and Daniel being such a nice boy, I was tempted—again—to put my mother on an airplane.
Voices carried from the distance: Poppy’s round, clear British tones, followed by the low, rich murmur of the Princess of Arrows. They emerged from around the curve of the lowest level of the Fortress of Apples, Poppy carrying a large mug that steamed.
“Zelda!” cried Poppy. “And Zelda’s mum! Oh, how delightful.” In her hurry to approach, whatever was in the mug sloshed over the rim and pattered on the grass.
The Princess of Arrows, more stately, did not hurry, but a warm look of welcome brightened her serene face.
“Mom, you know Poppy, of course. And this is Berron’s sister, the Princess of Arrows.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mom said. She leaned close to me and spoke quietly. “Do we shake hands? Do I curtsy?”
The Princess of Arrows held out a delicate hand. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Mother of Zelda.”
“Please, call me Effie. And do you go by… Princess?”
“I am called the Princess of Arrows.”
My mother paused, as if waiting for something more. “No name?”
The Princess of Arrows looked momentarily at a loss.
Berron jumped in smoothly. “Our ruler goes by their title.”
“Oh, my goodness—I’ve offended you,” Mom said. “Look at me, putting my foot right in my mouth!”
“It is not so,” the Princess of Arrows said, stepping forward and slipping her arm through my mother’s. “I am not offended. Indeed, I am most pleased to welcome you to the Forest of Emeralds. May I offer you some refreshment? The Fortress of Apples has anything you might require. Do you care for sapphire-berry punch, Effie?”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Then you must try it. And as we walk, you must tell me of all your adventures in the city of New York.”
They strolled away through the apple grove, the Princess of Arrows’s golden dress trailing behind her.
“That went quite well,” Poppy said.
“What, did you think my mom would freak out or something?”
“No.” She took a long pull from her mug. “Yes.” She eyed Berron speculatively. “Speaking of titles, what’s your title?”
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Princess of Arrows,” Poppy said, gesturing toward where my mother and the Princess had wandered off. “Prince of…?”
“I’m afraid it’s just ‘Prince of the Gentry.’ Although I do have a tree.”
“A tree?” I said.
“The Prince’s Tree.”
Poppy and I traded looks. “Care to elaborate?” I said.
“It’s in a valley not far from here. It’s an unusual tree, with a split trunk—almost like it has two legs—and a sort of a nook where you can sit against the trunk and think. I spent so much time sitting there that everyone started calling it… well, you know.” He smiled.
I had to admit, it sounded exactly like Berron to have his very own royal tree.
“Oh, look, there’s your mum!” Poppy said. “Yoo-hoo! Over here!”
My mother appeared to have completely changed her clothes. Her sensible fall outfit had been replaced by billowing bronze-colored robes that fluttered and sparkled with tiny gems. She held an enormous goblet and alternated sipping with one hand and gesturing animatedly with the other as she and the Princess of Arrows approached.
“Zelda!” my mom cried. “Have you tried this”—she leaned toward the Princess of Arrows and placed a familiar hand on her arm— “I do declare, I cannot remember the name. Bumble-berry?”
“Sapphire-berry,” the Princess of Arrows said.
“Sapphire-berry!” my mother repeated, triumphantly, releasing Berron’s sister’s arm with a friendly pat. “Have you tried it?” she asked me again.
“No…” Her eyes certainly were sparkly. Was it the clear, almost prismatic light of the Forest of Emeralds?
She swayed gently, causing her robe to ripple like slow-breaking waves on Sparkle Beach.
Ah.
My mother was ever-so-slightly tipsy.
I shot Berron a look.
“Don’t look at me,” he said.
The Princess of Arrows beamed goodwill like sunshine. “It is considered most hospitable to offer guests a relaxing refreshment upon their arrival. Sapphire-berry is the traditional drink of welcome.”
My mother took another sip and smacked her lips.
“I see,” I said. “Berron didn’t offer us any when we first got here.”
“What, like I needed a drunk Daniel tearing up my room?”
“Drunk?” Mom said, straightening up with all the dignity of a tiny Southern woman. “No one’s drunk. I am merely”—she hiccupped—“relaxed.”
I held my hand out for the cup, intending to try it but also to get it away from her, since we had fire magic to try out and I didn’t want to be flamed like a creme brulee. “May I?”
She steadied the goblet with both hands and passed it over.
I took it, eyeing each of the others in turn, not sure what I was in for. Then I touched my lips to the rim and tilted the goblet.
The scent hit me first. Something like blueberries and blackberries, with an herbal, minty edge. The juice flowed across my tongue, slightly sweet, but bubbly like champagne. Suddenly my mind filled with long-forgotten memories of golden light, puffy white clouds, and warm breezes from long-ago Florida beach vacations. Lost sensory impressions of the warmer months wrapped me in sapphire-berry-induced bliss. “Whoa,” I said.
Mom reached for the goblet.
“Hang on a second.” I took another sip. Sun-heated grass beneath my feet. The soothing drone of bumblebees. Sea salt in the air. I licked my lips involuntarily, almost sure I could taste the beach and wasn’t just remembering it. “You’ve been holding out on me, you two,” I said, pointing to Berron and the Princess of Arrows.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“Like it? I wish I could bottle and sell it!” I peered into the cup and realized I’d only left a sip. My cheeks warmed. “Here, Mom. Finish it off.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking the cup. She tossed it back neatly. “Mm-mm. That’s just lovely!”
The Princess of Arrows took the empty goblet and looked gratified. “It is one of our seasonal brews.”
“There are more like this?” I said.
She nodded. “Oh, indeed there are. You must return to us many times, my dear friends, to sample them all.”
“We should be back several times,” I said. “Mom needs to practice her magic.”
“Oh, yes,” my mom chimed in.
I blinked at her. This was my mother, the same woman who—barely an hour ago—declared she was too old for this and should probably pass off her magic to someone else, if possible.
She gave a tiny shrug, almost sheepishly. “Why not? Especially if it involves such charming people,” she said, gesturing to Berron and the Princess of Arrows. “And such delicious beverages.”
“Fine,” I said. “If the Gentry and their drinks can get you to try out your magic, I’m all for it.”
“Right-o!” Poppy said. “Shall we begin?”
I looked around. “Where are the dogs? I’d kind of like to know before we start slinging fire.”
Poppy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Georgiana! Yoo-hoo!”
“Jester!” I called.
Nothing.
I tried again. “Treat time!”
That got them. With an answering woof to guide me, I spotted them toward the top of the Fortress of Apples, standing on the green grass spiral that wound its way around the structure. They dashed around and around, pink tongues flapping in the air as they ran, all the way to the bottom.
