Storybound (8 page)

Chapter 11

S
now was sitting on a swing in the Wottons’ sorry excuse for a backyard. It consisted of a narrow plot of land covered with concrete on one end and badly pruned shrubbery on the other. A bluebird landed on her shoulder, chirping becomingly. Snow brushed it away. She counted it a lucky weekend when she didn’t have to return to the Wottons’ house. Seeing her cousin in school was bad enough. Living with his family was worse.

She pushed off with one foot as Horace came out the back door, bringing his practice sword with him. Dressed all in black, as usual, he looked like the poster child for Horror Hollow. His hair stuck out in all directions, firmly fixed in place with whatever stuff was giving off that awful smell. He spent most of his time at home running through moves for Weaponry. Badly. Snow watched him swipe at the air. The weight of the sword nearly spun him all the way around. He caught Snow watching him and sauntered over.

“Bet you’re wishing you stayed back at school for the weekend,” Horace said, and stuck the tip of the sword in the ground. “Oh, no, wait, that’s right. Peter Merriweather isn’t there, is he? Can’t leave if your little boyfriend’s still there, can you?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Not now. Not ever.” Horace leaned against the sword.

Snow stuck out a pointed boot and kicked the sword out from under him. He collapsed onto the ground.

Like I have a choice. About either thing.
Peter had taken Una home with him, and the Wottons always told her when she had to go home for the weekend and when she could remain at school. She leaned down to help Horace up. He scowled at her and returned to his poorly executed Weaponry practice.

The bluebird was back. Snow swatted harder this time.
Peter Merriweather.
He was the first student who had talked to her when she came to Perrault. She had been sitting alone in the Woodland Room. A girl named Harriet had almost sat with her but continued on when a group of pretty Village Girls called to her. Which was when Peter had appeared with a cup of cocoa and introduced himself.

Things had been okay after that. She saw Peter in class, and twice he had sat with her for lunch. And then there was the practical. She had asked especially to be paired up with him. Professor Edenberry said it was unusual, that official policy frowned on preset practical teams. But teachers always responded well to her particular brand of cajoling. A few sad tales of being afraid, of not wanting to fail, and the well-placed mention of her mother’s name. It had been so easy.

But everything had gone wrong. It was supposed to be perfect, the experience that would cement their friendship. Except Peter was in a bad mood that first day and had teased her about her dress, which of course meant that she clammed up and barely managed to form two sentences that night at the campfire. The journey was hardly better. By the end of the practical, she half wished the dragon would attack her.

Snow dragged her feet on the ground. She really didn’t care that much about failing the practical. What bothered her was that there would be no more shared lunches. No more telling jokes in the quad. No more study breaks in the Woodland Room.

Horace was heading back to the house. “By the way, my mom said to tell you that Mr. Elton’s here for tea.”

“Elton?” Snow wished she could bring Horace’s sword in with her.
Horrible man.
Always lingering in the quad or on the forest path. Asking after her mother. Everyone knew Mr. Elton was in love with her mother. And they all laughed at him behind his back. Sometimes Snow laughed, too, but mostly she just hated him. Hated them both actually. She had managed to evade him most of the term, but now he had her cornered.

Snow hurried around to the front of the house. Maybe she could sneak up to her attic room and climb into bed. If Aunt Becky thought she was ill—

The front door opened. “Where have you been?” her aunt said as she propelled Snow into the parlor. “Mr. Elton has been waiting to see you.”

Snow followed her into the cramped room, where her aunt sat down and began pouring tea from her best teapot. “One lump of sugar or two?” Aunt Becky’s red skin pulled taut over her angled cheekbones as she smiled coyly at Mr. Elton.

“One will be fine, Becky. I’m much obliged.” Mr. Elton patted the sofa cushion next to him. All of a sudden the room felt stuffy and close. Snow sat down on an old rocking chair as far away from Elton as possible.

No one said anything for quite some time. Mr. Elton sat sipping his tea. When he raised his cup, he stuck out his pinky finger, and Snow stared, transfixed by the fat ring that encircled it. It wasn’t until her aunt thrust a teacup into her hand that Snow realized she was supposed to talk to Elton. Snow glared into her cup and buttoned up her mouth. Her aunt would just have to be disappointed.

The silence grew. “Are you having a nice weekend, Ms. Wotton?” Elton finally asked Snow.

“Very.” Snow took a swallow of scalding tea.

“And your charming mother? Have you seen her lately?”

Snow thought of the excruciating hour of stilted conversation and forced pleasantries that made up teatime spent with her mother. “We had tea together this morning.” Snow dropped another cube of sugar into her cup. Whatever Snow felt toward her mother, there was no way she was going to satisfy Elton’s nauseating curiosity by talking about her. Snow raised one eyebrow. “We don’t exactly get along.” It had taken years for Snow to perfect her uninterested drawl, but she had found it well worthwhile. It totally killed a conversation. Which, with some people—with most of them actually—was very desirable. Slowly, slowly, she tapped one fingertip on her teacup. “Was there something else?”

It had the intended effect. Mr. Elton cleared his throat. “What about Una Fairchild? Have you noticed anything unusual about her?”

Besides the way she dressed?
Probably not what Elton’s looking for.
“Look,” she said. “I already agreed to be Una’s roommate. What more do you want from me?”

Elton tucked his free hand into his tiny waistcoat pocket. “Yes. Well, I’d like you to note anything out of the ordinary. We just like to make sure all our . . .
transfer
students are adjusting well.” His smile looked painted on.
So Elton didn’t buy Peter and Una’s story either.
And now he wanted Snow to spy on Una
. Fat chance.
Snow wasn’t about to do Mr. Elton any favors.

She set her tea down and smoothed her hair, retying the scarlet ribbon. “I’m sorry, Mr. Elton, I’m awfully busy. Una and I don’t see each other very often.”

Mr. Elton tilted back his cup to get at the last of his tea. “Are you sure about that, Snow?” he said in a too-pleasant tone.

“Quite.”

Mr. Elton’s cup clattered into the saucer. He looked displeased.

Snow’s aunt stood. “Snow, please help me with the tea things.”

Snow knew that this was code for “I need to talk with you
now
.” She followed her aunt’s severe form into the cramped kitchen. The tray hit the counter with a slam.

“You ungrateful girl!” Aunt Becky’s volume was controlled, but only because Elton was in the next room. Aunt Becky snapped her fingers at the kettle, and Snow took it over to the sink. Her aunt’s demands followed her. “After all we’ve done for you—to insult the Tale Master! To turn down such an opportunity for official favor!”

Snow silently pumped the water into the kettle and placed it on the stove.
Right. Because you’ve done so much for me.

Becky Wotton was nothing if not determined. She moved in close to Snow’s face, so close that Snow could feel the warmth of her breath. “Who do you think has paid for your bread and butter all these years? Didn’t we take you in when you had nowhere else to go? Haven’t we cared for you as one of our own?”

Snow schooled her face to impassivity. Sure, they had paid for her food.
And I never hear the end of it.
And they had given her shelter, if the drafty attic could even be called that. The mice and birds who shared the space had been more of a family to her than her uncle and aunt. She hated them both—hated everything about them, from her uncle’s stingy ways to her aunt’s annoying desire to impress everyone. But she hated her mother even more, for leaving her with these awful people, for abandoning her into their care without a word.

Becky’s mouth was moving, but Snow tuned out her voice, waiting for the storm to pass. She wished Horace were there. Despite his bullying, they shared a sort of twisted camaraderie, and he had a way of stopping this sort of thing before it got too out of hand.

“If you don’t do this, girl, if you don’t give him the information he wants,” Becky said in a near whisper, “you’ll have seen the last of us. It’s off to your mother you’ll go, no questions asked.”

Snow considered. She knew that her mother wouldn’t put her up in the dorms. She would make her live in the cramped flat. What would that be like? All their time spent in awkward silence like the Saturday teas? She weighed that against the freedom of Grimm Dorm and the occasional weekend at the Wottons’. Snow already had a summer job lined up. She meant to repay every penny they had ever spent on her. Staying here probably meant, what, five weekends with the Wottons? Snow tried to act as if it didn’t matter. “Fine. Have it your way,” she said. “It’s no big deal anyway. It’s not like I care what happens to my roommate. But if it’s that important . . .”

Becky looked incredibly satisfied, so much so that Snow almost changed her mind. Almost.

“What can I do to help, Mr. Elton?” she asked when she returned to the room.

Mr. Elton clapped his hands, his mustache bouncing with the effort. “Excellent, Snow. Excellent.”

Chapter 12

T
ell me more about your family, Peter,” Una said as they made their way through the forest. The autumn air, crisp and clean, weaved through the tops of the tall pines. The leaves on the maples were changing colors, muddy greens turning into brilliant oranges and reds.

“Well, I’m the oldest. Bastian and Rufus are next. They’re ten and seven.” He rolled his eyes. “Oliver, my youngest brother, is four and just beginning to think he’s old enough to be off at school. And then there’s Rosemary, the baby.” Something rustled around in the underbrush, and the sound carried through the woods. Peter continued. “My parents, of course. And Trix, my favorite of them all.” He smiled. “She makes the best cinnamon rolls.”

“She’s your cook?” Una asked.

“Cook and housekeeper all rolled into one,” Peter said. “I’ve been thinking. Let’s wait until after dinner to talk to my parents. That way we can get them alone and tell them everything that’s happened. Until then, we’ll just go with the transfer-student bit.”

Una nodded. If his parents turned out to be weird, she wasn’t going to tell them anything, no matter what Peter said.

When they reached the bend in the road, Una stopped and gazed in wonder. Below them, a valley spread out with sheltered houses and patchwork fields dotting the land. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Which one is yours?”

Peter pointed at a snug house nestled amid a grove of silver and white birches. “We call it Bramble Cottage,” he said.

“The name fits,” Una said, feeling a smile wipe the worry from her face. If the Merriweathers were anything like their house, Una thought they would get along.

Up close, Bramble Cottage was even better. After turning in at the gate, Peter and Una made their way past an old orchard with its proud rows of bent trees silhouetted in the late afternoon light. Beyond the orchard was a mellow wood fence made up of mossy logs that tottered on each other, and, beyond the fence, a lovely front garden. Broad sandstone steps led the way up to the house itself, and Una had to stop and look at it for a minute before she was ready to go in. The building was shingled with weathered gray wood, and the gables that poked out in just the right places were trimmed in white. Smoke puffed merrily out of two chimneys, filling air with a campfire smell. A lantern with a thick candle hung over the front door, which was painted a willowy blue, but Peter pointed toward the back.

“We never use the front door,” he said, and Una followed him around the cottage. She could make out a grassy lawn that stretched off into shadowy woods behind the house. From the open back door delicious smells were seeping out, and her stomach rumbled.

“Welcome home,” Peter said, leading the way inside.

Trix, a tiny, wrinkled woman whose white hair was pulled up in a severe knot at the back of her head, shooed Peter and Una in. Before Una knew what had happened, she found herself tucked into an armchair in front of a blazing stone fireplace in one corner of the welcoming kitchen. Herbs that smelled like summers past hung from the rafters of the angled ceiling. Pots bubbled on the old-fashioned cast-iron stove across from her, and a large worktable took up most of the kitchen. A delicious-looking cake sat on one end, and mixing bowls and measuring spoons on the other. Trix wiped her hands on her apron, flour covering her up to her elbows, and went back to kneading her bread.

“And who would this be?” she asked in a reedy voice.

“I’m Una, Ms. Trix. Peter invited me home for the weekend.”

“There’ll be no
Ms. Trix
ing for me, little one. Just plain Trix is fine, and what do you be thinking of Bramble Cottage?”

The kneading stopped for just a minute as Una said, “Why, it’s just lovely. Do you know, it’s what I’ve always imagined home to be?” Trix went back to her vigorous pushing and pulling of the dough. Una took this to mean that she had answered satisfactorily.

At that moment, a side door was flung open, and two breathless boys fell in, pushing in front of each other and clamoring for Trix’s attention. “Just a wee bit of cookie before dinner, Trix, that’s a nice lady,” the one with a curly head of coppery hair said.

The smaller one began to coax too. “Trix, you know you make the best cookies ever, honest.” His blue eyes looked even larger behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. The wheedling stopped as soon as they saw Una and Peter. The two boys exchanged mischievous looks, and the one with glasses hopped over to Peter and Una.

“Let me guess,” Una said to the smaller boy with a smile. “You must be Rufus.”

The boy scowled, and his curly-haired brother skipped over to poke him in the ribs. “
I’m
Rufus,” he said. “This is my big brother Sebastian.”

Una hoped that she hadn’t embarrassed Sebastian, but before she could apologize, Peter introduced her.

“This is Una, my friend from school. She’s here for the weekend, so be nice to her.”

“Ooooh,” Sebastian crowed, “Peter has a
girlfriend
.”

Una opened her mouth to protest.

“Don’t bother,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “It’ll only make it worse.”

The boys began skipping around the room, chanting, “Peter and Una sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” until Trix gave them each a cookie and told them to be quiet.

Una liked Trix even better after that. Una helped her set the dining room table, taking pains to make sure the dishes and silverware were all neatly lined up. At the last moment, she stepped out to the back flower bed and picked a little bouquet of yellow roses to set in the middle of the table.

“Just right, my dear,” Trix said, carrying in a tray full of good things.

Una liked Mr. Merriweather at once. He gave her a firm handshake and said, “Glad to have you,” when Peter introduced them at the table. He was tall, and his dark hair had gray over the ears, and blue eyes peered out through glasses that looked just like Bastian’s. But it was his crinkly, deep voice that made her believe they really were happy to have her.

Mrs. Merriweather made Una feel right at home. Her thick auburn hair was piled high on her head, and her brown eyes looked cheerful as she gave Una a big hug. “Welcome to Bramble Cottage, dear,” she said as they all sat down to eat. In that moment, all the pretending and trying to fit in, the tiresome efforts to act like she belonged in Story, melted right away.

Una sat between Peter and Oliver, a chubby toddler who tugged on Una’s sleeve to whisper little secrets all throughout the meal. “I like your eyes,” he told her in his whispery voice, and Una kissed his fat cheek. The only Merriweather she hadn’t met, Rosemary, was asleep in the nursery. The food was delicious, and Una polished off two helpings of fried chicken and asked for a third slice of the freshly made bread.

For most of the meal she sat back and watched Mr. and Mrs. Merriweather. They weren’t exactly how she had imagined her own parents would have been, but they were close enough to make her look at Peter with fresh eyes. What would it have been like to grow up in a household like this? To have true brothers and sisters and
life
filling and overflowing every room? Rufus and Bastian were sharing the ridiculously unfunny jokes they had made up that afternoon. They kept trying to trump each other, acting out each punch line with abandon, until the entire table had dissolved into tears of laughter.

“They would be funny, dears,” Mrs. Merriweather said, gasping, “if they weren’t, well,
not
. Funny, that is.”

When they had finished eating, they moved into the cozy parlor for dessert. Trix brought in the beautiful apple cake Una had seen earlier. Una took tiny bites, trying to make the treat last. When the younger children were sent to wash up, Peter gave her a significant look. Una’s heart sped up. She liked the Merriweathers. What if they hated her because she was a WI? But before Peter could say anything, Mrs. Merriweather came over to Una and sat next to her on the couch. “And so you’ve been Written In, my dear?”

Una and Peter shared looks of amazement.

Mr. Merriweather looked at his wife. The firelight flickered off his glasses. Both of their faces were very serious. “Peter,” he said. “You should have told us. Una has been in grave danger.”

Peter’s mouth hung open. “How did you know?” he finally managed.

“That’s not important,” Mr. Merriweather said, but Una thought otherwise. Had they heard the news from Red or Mr. Elton? She tried to imagine how the Merriweathers could possibly be working with the Tale Master as Mr. Merriweather asked his son, “Have you told anyone?”

“No one,” Peter said. “Well, Sam, of course, but none of the professors.”

Mr. and Mrs. Merriweather exchanged glances.

“But someone else knows,” Una said. “And she told Mr. Elton.” She watched the Merriweathers carefully as Peter described what he had seen in Elton’s office, but they seemed genuinely surprised. Either they were very good actors, or they must have heard about her some other way. Everyone sat in silence for what seemed to Una like a long time. Mr. Merriweather got up and walked over to the mantel. He leaned against it and stared into the fire.
Why won’t they say something? Anything?
Una could feel the fear rising up in her, choking the back of her throat. Even the encouraging squeeze of Mrs. Merriweather’s soft hands could not make her feel brave again.

Peter said, “But Elton and Red don’t know I heard them.” He looked from one parent’s face to the other. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Merriweather said, but the creases on her forehead gave her away. Una was about to tell them about the scroll Peter had taken from Elton’s office when Mr. Merriweather turned and looked at Peter.

“And could someone please tell me how my son came to be serving detention in the Tale Master’s office?” he asked.

Una decided to leave out the bit about the scroll. At least for now. Peter started off well enough, telling about meeting Una, but as he got to the part about the exam review panel, his voice grew faint. Apparently, there really was no good way to tell parents about a failed exam and a term’s worth of detentions.

At least Mrs. Merriweather seemed sympathetic. “Of course you couldn’t have passed given the circumstances, Peter.”

Mr. Merriweather wasn’t so forgiving. “Don’t fail another,” he said sternly. “When’s your next examination?”

“Wednesday. For Villainy.” He fidgeted with his collar. “I’ll do better.”

Mr. Merriweather spoke to his wife as though Peter and Una were no longer there. “This all seems very suspicious. Why in the world would someone Write Una In through an Advanced Heroics exam? And why is Elton hiding it from his Talekeepers?”

Una didn’t think he really expected anyone to answer, so she said, “But who could have Written me In?” She ended her sentence with the question mark she felt was plastered on her forehead. “What’s going on? Can you tell me? Please say that you can help me.”

Una felt tears well up even as she asked the questions. She hadn’t realized how much she had been counting on the Merriweathers’ help. Somewhere deep inside she had expected everything to change once someone besides Peter and Sam, someone in charge, someone grown-up, knew. But the tiny shake of Mr. Merriweather’s head, the pity in his wife’s eyes, and the fear she couldn’t shake off—more than anything else, the fear—shattered Una’s last hope that everything could be taken care of.

She began to cry.

Mrs. Merriweather handed her a lace handkerchief and said in a soft voice, “We can’t tell you why you were Written In, Una, or even how. But we will certainly try to help you.”

“You did right to hide her from the Talekeepers, Peter,” Mr. Merriweather said as Una dried her eyes. “I can’t imagine the uproar finding a WI would cause. All the fearmongering and the new ‘protective measures’ the Talekeepers would introduce.” He snorted. “And then they would whisk Una off to wherever they take those who disagree with them.” He walked over to Una and smiled down at her. “But we’ll keep you safe.”

“You can be sure of that,” Mrs. Merriweather added. Una looked from one to the other, and this made the tears come all the more. They were being so kind to her, and here she was a perfect stranger.

Una wiped her nose with the handkerchief and said in a shaky voice, “Do you have any idea why someone would bring
me
to Story? I’m just a girl.”

Mr. Merriweather gave his wife a cryptic look. “I don’t know, Una. Not for sure. But I have some friends who might be able to help. I’ll do my best to find the answers to your questions while you’re back at school.”

“Can I just stay here with you?” Una asked.

Mrs. Merriweather patted her hand again. “We’d like that very much, but I’m afraid it’s impossible. At this point, if we do anything out of the ordinary, it will raise Mr. Elton’s and his Talekeepers’ suspicions, not to mention this Red person.” She stood up and smoothed her skirts. “At any rate, I’m glad to hear you’re in the dormitories. You’ll be safer in a more conspicuous place. I don’t think the Talekeepers would dare kidnap you from there for the outrage it would cause among the other parents.”

“Is that what happens to the people the Talekeepers don’t like? They get kidnapped?” Una asked.

Mr. Merriweather squeezed Una’s shoulder. “Now don’t you worry, my dear. Nothing of the sort will happen to you.”

Una nodded.
But you didn’t answer my question
. Just then Rufus and Bastian bounded into the room with their littlest brother in tow. “Ollie wants a Tale,” Bastian said. “But we’re in the middle of a pirate battle.”

“’S’okay,” Rufus said. “We can stop.”

“He’s just saying that because he has to walk the plank,” Bastian said.

Mrs. Merriweather smiled at her sons. “All right, leave him with us. Come here, darling,” she said and gave Oliver’s downy head a kiss as she sat him on her lap.

Mr. Merriweather excused himself and followed Bastian and Rufus out of the room as the others settled in for the Tale. Peter sank back into a chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, his foot twitching impatiently. Una drew her legs up under her and settled in.
Finally.
Hearing a story was the next best thing to reading one.