Storybound (5 page)

“Of course. How stupid of me!” Peter said. “Basic Questing. You arrive at your destination at just the right time—when you need it most. You know, travelers are always bedraggled and footsore and dreaming of home and food, and then they arrive somewhere wonderful.”

The three made their way toward the largest of the red trees. It had a great wooden post out front with crooked letters that read:
YOU HAVE ARRIVED. CONGRATULATIONS ON COMPLETING YOUR EXAMINATION. BIRCHWOOD HALL THROUGH HERE.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “That’s right. But it should say, ‘Congratulations on
failing
your examination.’” Una followed Peter inside a door in the tree trunk and down a round hallway. Everywhere she looked, twigs and branches crisscrossed the walls. Roots sprawled over the cleanly swept dirt floor, which muffled their footsteps as they walked. The air smelled earthy, but Una didn’t mind. Up ahead, she could see the light from Peter’s lantern bobbing along.

Presently, they came into a round room with a low desk planted in the middle. An empty chair sat behind it. “Good,” Peter whispered. “The dorm leader is on his rounds. That’s one set of questions we won’t have to answer.”

“What about the other students?” Una asked. “Won’t they notice me?”

“About seven hundred students live at Birchwood,” Peter said. “The tree’s surrounded by dorms, and that’s only for the Fantasy District. They’ll just think you’re a student they don’t recognize.” He led the way to a dark, low-ceilinged room off the hallway.

Shadowy booths lined the wood-paneled walls. Twisted vines interwoven with small white flowers covered the paneling and gave the whole place the effect of being outdoors. There were tables scattered in the middle of the room and a set of comfortable-looking chairs grouped around a large stone fireplace, where Una saw two dwarves busily arguing.

“This is the Woodland Room,” Peter whispered. A faun sat in a huge leather chair with a mug of tea. Across from him a boy in jeans and a sweatshirt was talking earnestly to a girl in a woolen dress.

“What about him?” Una asked, and nodded toward the boy. “Why is he wearing normal clothes?”

Peter glanced over. “Normal to you, I guess. He’s a Modern. Fantasy folk live here, but some other students come here, too. We all have classes together, and anyway, it’s not like your character type is determined until you graduate.”

“Have you ever been anything else?” Una asked.

“Nope,” Peter said, leading the way to a corner table. “I’ve always known I was going to be a Hero in a fantasy Tale. Just like my father and all the Merriweather men.”

They slid into the booth. “Let’s get some food here, and then we can figure out somewhere to stow you away for the night.” Sam perched on the edge of one of the chairs and told Peter that he wanted a dish of cream.

“Anything’s fine,” Una answered when Peter asked what she felt like eating. He headed off to a counter on the other side of the room, and after a short while returned with a tray of food. Una sipped the hot onion soup. “Thank you,” she told Peter, and dipped a crusty heel of bread into the warm broth. She sniffed tentatively at the wedge of cheese on her plate. It reminded her of Ms. McDonough, who was always eating stinky cheese that made her breath smell sour. But this cheese smelled like cheddar and tasted wonderful.

What was Ms. McDonough doing now? Had she noticed that Una hadn’t returned home from school that afternoon? Did she care? Would she call the police? Una stifled a yawn. Ms. McDonough was probably celebrating, cracking open the special tuna for her cats. No more annoying girl to take care of.

Peter craned his neck and stared intently over Una’s shoulder.

“What?” Una set down her mug of cocoa. “What’s wrong?”

“Professor Edenberry,” Peter said in a low voice. “He was one of my examiners today.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, he didn’t say anything at all at the review panel.”

“But I thought the examiners believed what you said.” Una was wide awake now. “Is he watching us?” she asked, and started to turn around.

“Don’t look,” Peter ordered. “Sometimes professors dine in the dormitories. Maybe it’s nothing.”

Sam made a sound between a sneeze and a cough.

Una sneaked a peek over her shoulder to see the professor and found herself looking straight into familiar gold-green eyes. “The woman looking for her tree!” she gasped.

Peter’s spoon clanked to the side of his bowl. “
You
know a dryad?”

Una whirled back around. “We talked in the station. She sat with me on the bench. I thought she was just some lady who really liked to garden.”

“What did you tell her?” Peter demanded.

“Nothing. I’m not stupid, Peter.”

Suddenly Peter stood, scraping his chair on the floor. Sam shot straight up into the air and landed on the table, wide-eyed.

Peter grabbed Una’s elbow. “We’ve got to get you out of here.” A smile was pasted on his face as he pulled her to her feet. Una glanced back at the other table. The dryad was standing. A skinny man with a cloud of white hair was walking toward their table.

Peter piloted Una toward the door and waved at the examiner. “Nice to see you, Professor Edenberry. Good night!” His voice sounded overly cheerful.

“Mr. Merriweather?” The man said it like he wanted them to stop, but Peter and Una were already halfway across the room. Sam scampered after them, and all three hurried out into the hallway and around a corner.

Peter leaned against the wall. “That was close,” he said.

Una joined him. “Do you think he was looking for me?” she asked.

Peter studied a knot on the wooden floor. Finally, he said, “I dunno. Probably just a coincidence.” But he wouldn’t meet Una’s eyes.

She wanted him to say more. “Is the dryad a Talekeeper?”

“No.”

“How will I know one? What do they look like?”

Peter shrugged. “You won’t know them by looking at them. It’s why you just can’t go talking to everyone you meet.”

“Do you think Edenberry might—” Una began.

“I don’t know.” Peter straightened up. “I’m just sick of answering questions today. Especially about you, okay?”

Sam made his peculiar sneezing sound, which Una suspected was a laugh. “I think there’ll be a few more questions if anyone finds Una in your room, Peter,” he said.

“I’m
not
sleeping in your room,” Una said.

“Good thing I know of a better place,” Peter said. He led them down the narrow hallway past the kitchen, pushed open the last door on the left, and peered in. “Perfect. It’s just as I remembered.”

Una looked around the tiny room. A stale odor filled the air, and stacks of old blankets were piled haphazardly against the walls. A thin layer of dust covered everything.

“I thought you could make up a bed or something with the blankets. I know it’s not great, but . . .”

“Right now I could sleep anywhere.” Una bit back another yawn.

“I’ll try and borrow some clothes for you, too. I’ll bring them to you tomorrow. Let’s meet in the Woodland Room for breakfast.” Once it was all settled, Una gave Sam a scritch behind the ears and said good night to Peter. She arranged a pile of dusty blankets into what barely passed for a bed and climbed under one of them. After she blew out the lantern, her sleepiness disappeared and she lay awake for a long time.

How could she go to class and not have anyone notice? Something was certain to go wrong. And sneaking around trying to find answers about people who had been Written In?
Sounds like a guaranteed way to get caught.
What would the Talekeepers do if they found out? Take her away? Hurt her? And who had really Written her In? The awful Muses nobody liked? She shivered. Una tried breathing in and out very slowly and thinking of pleasant things. She settled on her last and only visit to the ocean the previous fall. After much pleading and groveling on Una’s part, Ms. McDonough had agreed to rent a tiny beach house for the weekend. Una had savored every minute of it. In her mind, she could see the gray sky meeting the cold water that rhythmically lapped against the shore. She imagined standing there, tall and straight, smelling the ocean air and watching the gulls swoop and dive.

“Una,” they seemed to cry. “Don’t be afraid.” She listened to the gulls for a long time, watching the waves and breathing deeply until she finally fell into a restless sleep.

Chapter 7

T
he Tale Master’s study was not a welcoming place. In the middle of the room sat a massive desk, on top of which was a thick stack of papers centered on an old blotter. Two stiff-backed chairs faced the desk, but Peter stood behind them trying not to glare. Mr. Elton leaned back in his chair and squinted at Peter from behind his round spectacles. He held a porcelain teacup, one stubby finger poking through the tiny handle, another daintily extended. A thick gold band encircled the pinky, the flesh puckering around the edges. In the center of the ring a cut red stone protruded, unreadable engravings encircling it. It was a very ugly piece of jewelry.

Elton set his cup down and absentmindedly tugged on the ring. It seemed permanently stuck in the folds of his skin. “So,” he said. “You sneaked your little girlfriend into school.”

Peter felt the blood rush to his face, and he bit back a nasty retort. After a moment of struggle, he gave a sharp dip of the forehead and cleared his throat.

The corners of Mr. Elton’s mouth turned down, and he resituated himself in the squeaky chair. “And you think we should just excuse this kind of misbehavior, do you? You think we should make exceptions for certain students?” Elton’s eyes pinched together every time he said the word
you
, and with the effect of his drooping mustache and slickly parted gray hair, he looked like a very distressed walrus. He scooped a large spoonful of white yogurt from a dish on the desk and shoveled it into his mouth.

“No, sir,” Peter said, staring at the globs of yogurt left on Elton’s mustache. He knew he had to play his part. Anything to keep Elton from asking nosy questions about Una. “Thank you for the opportunity to change,” he said in a strangled voice.

“Quite,” Elton said, darting his tongue out over wet lips. The dregs of the yogurt made his voice sound thick. “The girl. Who is she?”

Peter took a deep breath. He had been expecting questions. “She’s an exchange student. My second cousin’s wife’s sister’s daughter.” That ought to satisfy Elton’s obsession with his family tree.

The light reflected off Elton’s spectacles as he looked up at Peter.

“No blood relation,” Peter said quickly. “Just by marriage. Please, Mr. Elton. You have no idea how much it means to her to study here at Perrault. You have to let her stay.”

“
Have
to?” Elton asked.

“I mean, I need the chance to prove myself to her.” He managed a sheepish smile, and waited for the chatty Elton who talked about young love to surface.

Elton said nothing. Peter tried one more tactic. “It would mean a lot to my family, Mr. Elton. Please.” Peter had no idea why Elton always asked about his family, but maybe his obsession with the Merriweather name would prove useful for once.

“Very well,” Elton suddenly said, clapping his hands together. “This girl may have provisional admittance as an exchange student, provided there’s no more sneaking around. I’m sure I can think of some way for the Merriweathers to repay me.”

There was no way that would go over well with his father. Peter could see it now.
Oh, hello, Mother and Father. Great to see you. By the way, I failed my examination. Oh, and one more thing. One of the Talekeepers you’re always complaining about, the Tale Master actually, helped me, and now he thinks we owe him a special favor.

Mr. Elton folded a cloth napkin over and over into a tiny square. He handed it to Peter, along with the empty bowl and teacup. “Take those out, and then carry on with today’s mail.”

Peter gave a little bow and began stacking the dishes on a wooden tray. He set everything down quietly, just as he had learned back in Movement class last term. They had spent a week studying the posture of those in Service, but Peter hadn’t anticipated practicing what he had learned quite so soon.

He left the room without a word, closing the door behind him, and set the tray down in the hall.
So far so good.
And if this morning’s tasks were any indication, his detention would be mostly spent out of Elton’s sight. Getting his breakfast. Opening mail. Running errands.

Peter situated himself at the tiny desk outside Elton’s study. With a sigh, he began sorting through the stack of incoming mail. Most were pink complaint slips. Some mother was unhappy with her son’s housing in Horror Hollow. Another character criticized the condition of the horses out on the Ranch. Someone else complained that the historical accuracy of Regency Square needed improving. Interspersed with the pink pages were bills and endless memos. He sifted the bills off to one side, crumpled up an outdated menu for the Talekeeper Club, and aimed at the wastebin. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Was it already seven? Peter had counted on another half hour before Elton’s toadies started showing up to work. He glanced at his pocket watch and frowned. It was only half past six.

The outer door opened, and a figure wearing a bloodred cloak brushed by Peter’s desk. The air around Peter suddenly smelled earthy, like a wet day in the forest.

“I am here for Elton,” a rough whisper came out of the hood. The stranger didn’t wait for a response, and the little pile of papers on Peter’s desk fluttered as the cloak swept past. From the folds of the cloak came a pale hand that grasped Elton’s doorknob. Nestled on the last finger of the hand was a red-stoned ring, the twin of Elton’s.

Peter sat frozen in his chair. The room felt like all the air had been sucked out of it. The stranger moved into Elton’s office. The door shut with a thud that shook the floor under Peter’s feet. After that, everything was silent. However much he didn’t like Elton, Peter didn’t envy him that meeting. But then he thought of the moment when he would have to tell his parents about his failing grade in Heroics and the days of detention stretching out before him.
Maybe Elton will get what’s coming to him.

That, Peter wanted to see. He set the pile of papers he was working on aside and crept over to the door. There was an old-fashioned keyhole, and if Peter knelt down and pressed his face up just right, he could peer into the room. With his head so close to the door, the low murmur of voices became clearer.

“. . . it happened last night.”

“But who could have Written her In?” Mr. Elton was blotting his forehead with a handkerchief. “I will bring her here at once. I’ll question her. Torture her. Do whatever it takes, you have my word.”

Peter’s mouth fell open.
They know about Una.
He pressed closer, but he could only see the bottom of the stranger’s red cloak.

“Do nothing. Leave her be.” Peter was surprised to hear a woman’s voice. Her red cloak swished out of sight.

“What do you mean, leave her be?” Elton’s voice was riddled with worry. “She can’t be a WI! That’s impossible!”

“Who are you to say what’s impossible?” She gave a throaty laugh. “I have made the impossible possible.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “And some foolish little girl won’t stop me now.” Peter’s mouth felt very dry. They had to be talking about Una
.

“Can one of the Muses be back?” Elton asked. Peter licked his lips. What could Elton mean?

“No, you idiot! Not the Muses. There is one other, a greater threat than any Muse.”

Elton’s mouth fell open. “After all this time?”

“Time will tell. The girl may lead us to him.”

“But is that necessary?” Elton’s voice sounded stronger now. “Let me have the girl. A WI could change everything. As Tale Master I’m under tremendous pressure from my Talekeepers, let alone the Perrault professors. They question Archimago’s teachings. And there’s more. Books are missing from the Vault. Rumors are spreading. The Resistance is growing.” He balled the handkerchief up. “They doubt us. Nearly every report tells of some underground meeting questioning the Talekeeper administration. My spies say that—”

“None of them matter. When
he
returns”—her voice rose triumphantly—“they will crumble like the others.” The red cloak had swished back into sight. She was standing close to Elton now, but Peter still couldn’t make out her features.

Elton bowed his head at this. “We eagerly await that day.” He glanced up, a wary look in his eyes. “But, my lady, if I could only have this WI.” He twisted his grubby handkerchief greedily. “I can see it now. We could say it was because of the Resistance. That their meddling with the Unbinding brought back a WI, and with her, the evil of the Muses. It would revive all the old fears. And all the problems we’ve been having in the outer reaches of the realm? We can blame them all on this girl, and everyone in Story will love me when I save them from her. The Talekeepers who aren’t with us will welcome my leadership. The Resistance will drop like flies. My colleagues—”

The woman slapped him hard across the face. A handprint blossomed on Elton’s cheek, and he held the handkerchief up to it.

The stranger continued. “Do
nothing
. You wanted to be Tale Master, and I made you Tale Master.” There was derision in her voice. “It’s not my fault the people of Story don’t like you.”

Elton’s face grew hard, but he said nothing.

“When the time is right, I will dispose of the WI. Until then, let her alone. It is by hunting a wee mouse that you are led to its nest.” She laughed. “What can a little mouse do to us? This girl is nothing. The One who Wrote her In is our prey. And this WI will lead us to him. Where is she now?” The woman moved to another part of Elton’s office, and Peter couldn’t see her anymore.

Elton was scowling down at his desk. “Here at Perrault.”

The woman’s voice was muffled now, and Peter pressed closer to hear.

“G’morning,” a man’s voice came from behind, and Peter jumped up.
How long has he been there?

“Just . . . er . . . tying my shoes,” Peter mumbled as he made his way back to his desk. The man didn’t question this, and Peter hurried on. “Are you here to see Mr. Elton?”

“Unfortunately so.” The man was round, to say it nicely, and his face was sweaty from climbing the stairs to the office. He had no hair to speak of, which emphasized his clear, greenish-gray eyes and the skin around them, which was creased with laugh lines. But no one was laughing when the door to Elton’s study opened, and the cloaked figure came out. She said not a word to either the fat man or Peter, and her leaving had the same odd effect of changing the atmosphere in the room.

Peter turned around and stared back into the study. Elton sat slouched in his desk chair. His face looked pasty white. With one hand he dabbed at his damp forehead with the crumpled handkerchief. With the other, he was burning a small slip of bloodred paper over a tapered candle. Elton stared at the small paper curling in the heat, and when only ashes were left, he wiped off his hands on the handkerchief. He glanced up, and Peter cringed. No one, not even Elton, deserved to look that terrified.

But Elton’s countenance quickly changed as he scrutinized Peter. “You don’t have enough to do, boy?”

“No, sir.” Peter studied the desk in front of him. “I mean, yes, sir.” He grabbed the nearest pile of papers and began sorting diligently.

Elton turned his attention to the fat man. “George!” he barked as he stormed into the outer office. “Have you come about the Vault Tales? I told you I wanted each one accounted for.”

“We’re working on it, Tale Master,” the fat man said in a forced voice. Peter sneaked a peek. Neither George nor Elton were looking at him.

“I could have your job for this, George!” Elton said, waving a threatening finger in George’s face.

The steely look in George’s eyes didn’t bode well for Mr. Elton. “Perhaps if you’d let us read the Tales, we could catalog them more efficiently.”

“Nonsense,” Elton said. “The new copies are good enough. You know that the ink from before the Unbinding is unstable. Archimago said that—”

“Archimago said a lot of things,” George said with a frown as he handed several papers over to Elton. “But Archimago is gone. The other Talekeepers want to know why you won’t consider any new policies. What harm is there in reading the old Tales?”

“Harm?” Elton snatched the papers from him. “Only the harm of spitting on the graves of the innocents. Have you forgotten what the Muses did? Why would you seek out the old ways when that age ended in such darkness?”

George’s face turned red, and he cast his eyes down to the floor. “I don’t seek out the old ways, Tale Master. And I honor the memory of the fallen. But you must know that the characters grow weary of the same tired Tales. They are saying that everything is too predictable. They are saying that they would rather not be characters at all than make boring stereotypical Tales.”

“I know what they are saying!” Elton banged his hand down on Peter’s desk, and Peter flinched in his seat. “And they are fools. Nothing good can come of reading the old Tales. Your time is better spent locating the missing books.”

Peter saw George’s fists clench at his sides.

“Oh, I heard all about it, George,” Elton sneered. “The other Talekeepers told me. Three more books missing from your district?” His voice turned sharp again. “Just focus on your job, George. And if you don’t have the accounting to me by the end of the day today, you’ll be fired.”

Elton swiveled to face him and caught Peter staring. “What are you looking at, Merriweather?” His mouth creased into an unpleasant smile. “You’ve just earned yourself an extra detention this afternoon. Next time, mind your own business.”