Pook the goat bleated at her return, twigs sticking out between his large yellow teeth. Auld Nancy, Desdemona Cork, and Sylvanus were sprawled on the ground. But where was Phinaeus Moon? Perhaps he had already gone, back to the city. Well, indeed, Grayling thought, we have no need of him, good for nothing but gawking at Desdemona Cork.
She cleared her throat and said, “Do you recall Auld Nancy clearing the smoke away from her with a small rain shower?” Her companions nodded. “I do wonder, if a little wet rid us of a little smoke, might not a lot of wet extinguish a lot of smoke?”
There was silence as her listeners struggled to understand just what she meant, and then “Aha!” from Auld Nancy. “Indeed,” she went on, lifting her broom, “I shall call up rain.”
Sylvanus stroked his beard. “The girl may have the right of it, but rain would likely be too scant. To banish the demon of smoke and shadow would require a great deal of water and no way to avoid it.”
“I was thinking,” said Grayling, “of the sea.”
“The sea, the sea,” the others murmured as they looked at her and each other.
“We have followed my mother’s grimoire all this way,” said Grayling. “The force was summoned to gather the grimoires and guard them. Although Pansy’s gatekeeper has been removed, the force must guard them still. If we find some way to take my mother’s grimoire, will the force not follow to retrieve it, as it was created to do?” The others looked at each other and bobbed their heads in agreement. “We could then throw the grimoire into the sea. The smoke will pursue it and be extinguished. Might that be an answer?”
“It might,” said Auld Nancy, “but ’twould be most dangersome.”
“No matter. I, Phinaeus Moon, shall find the grimoire for you and hurl it into the sea,” said the young man, returning with a load of wood in his arms. “I would be the hero of this adventure.”
Grayling shook her head. “Nay. You cannot sing to the grimoire nor hear it singing back.” She looked at frail Auld Nancy with her aching bones, sweetly scented Desdemona Cork with her frivolous enchantments, and white-bearded, wise, but ineffectual Sylvanus. Though they each had a portion of magic, the grimoire would sing to none of them. Only to Grayling. Only to her.
“I fear it must be me,” she said.
As Phinaeus Moon started a fire, the others nodded somberly. Who else indeed. I must, she repeated to herself, I must, though every part of her wanted to run, to hide, to disappear. Instead she curled herself near the fire and tried to sleep. A biting-cold wind arose from time to time, but whether it was natural or a sign that the force was protesting her plans, Grayling could not say.
XIII
rayling watched the sky lighten from murky dawn to the bright blue of a fine autumn day. The sky should not be blue this morning, she thought, but cloudy, dark, and ominous.
She stirred the embers of the fire and sat beside it, reluctant to face what was to come. One by one, the others woke, stood, and stretched, until only Desdemona Cork still lay on the ground, curled around herself like a puppy.
She raised her head. “I am sore afraid,” she said. “For myself, for Grayling, for us all. This is nothing I can enchant away.” Auld Nancy dropped creakily down beside Desdemona Cork and took her hand.
“What if she does not succeed?” Desdemona Cork asked. “What if we all are rooted? I can almost feel my skin harden into bark.” She shuddered.
It proved the seriousness of their plight, thought Grayling—the bold and bossy Auld Nancy, who mistrusted enchanters, bringing a measure of comfort to Desdemona Cork, no longer arrogant and assured but doubtful and in need of solace.
Grayling inhaled deeply. She would do what she could—for her mother, for the other rooted folk, for all those in peril. Taking the sleeping Pook, once more a mouse, from her pocket, she asked, “Will one of you safeguard Pook while I am occupied?”
Phinaeus Moon, with a small smile, reached for the mouse. Pook, however, would have none of it. “Nay, mistress,” he said with a squeak, “this mouse shall go with you.”
“Ah, you are still compelled by the binding potion,” said Grayling. “Perhaps Sylvanus can counteract it.”
“Mistress Gray Eyes,” said Pook, “in truth the binding potion wore off long ago, but still this mouse will go with you.” He clambered up to Grayling’s shoulder and settled himself against her neck with a soft huff.
Grayling’s heart grew warm. Mice were not known for their loyalty, but here was Pook, facing danger with her and for her. Loyal as a mouse, that’s what people should say.
Sylvanus muttered some words over Grayling and sprinkled her with mint leaves to bring good fortune. Auld Nancy struggled to her feet, joints cracking and creaking. “Have a care, child,” she said as she smoothed Grayling’s hair and her skirts. “See you don’t trip as you run, and come right back if the deed seems too fearsome.”