September woke to the smell of mushrooms all around. It was a warm, comforting smell—and leaves, too, Autumn leaves, and deep, dark dirt. She opened her eyes: All round her rose tall black distaffs wound around with fuzzy silk and wool and fleeces, all colored as Autumn woods are colored, red and gold and brown and pale white. They crowded close together, fat and full, like pines and firs.
The moon peeked shyly out of the clouds above. Only one moon. September lay in a little clearing. Many parchment-colored distaffs had left their fibers all over the forest floor like pine needles. In the corner of the clearing sat a lady. September brought her hand to her throat, searching for her wound, but found only smooth skin. She sat up in the crisp night and looked into the eyes of a lady sitting on a throne of mushrooms. Chanterelles and portobellos and oysters and wild crimson forest mushrooms piled up high around her, fanning out around her head. September knew that lady. But this time she was not herself made out of mushrooms, but simply a vast, impossibly tall woman dressed in simple black—the last member of Lye’s tea party, who only comes too early or too late. Death.
“Good evening, my lady,” said September, as she had done long ago, when her death was small.
“Good evening, September,” said her death. “I am sorry I could not make it in time for tea. But you seem to have done well enough without me.”
“Not well enough. You know, I really thought I would win. I thought … I thought I would have been a good Queen.”
“You would have been a good many things. I should know. The Country of Would Have Been is my home.”
“You’re so big,” September breathed softly in the dark.
“I told you once: When I am distant and far off, I seem small to you. But when I am near, I look ever so tall. Would you like to come and lie in my lap? I will sing you to sleep, if you are tired.”
“I’m not.” But September walked over to her death anyway. “I’m not sleepy at all.”
“I’m glad. It would be very awkward for me if you died just now,” said Death, and folded September up in her arms warmly.
“What? I thought I was dead.”
“And I thought I said I was near. Near, not here. Not certain. You know, I always think somehow people will listen when I talk, but they never do.”
“But I felt the poison. I felt the barb in my throat.”
“Do you feel it now?” Death’s dark dress rustled in the Worsted Wood.
“Well, no,” said September, touching her throat again.
“That should have been your first clue.” Death chuckled. “I haven’t gotten to do this often. Forgive me, I am enjoying it so much.” The lady in black looked pointedly at September’s feet. She followed the dark gaze of her own death.
September was wearing a pair of rich, soft green hunting boots. She had never seen them before in her life.
“What’s happening to me?” She searched the face of her death and found only mischief there.
“I only ever got to see it once before. A man named Mabry Muscat. He gave his life for a girl he loved. King Goldmouth cut him down and I picked him up again.”
September looked at her legs again. Now, she was wearing green jodhpurs. And green gloves. And a green dress. And her own green smoking jacket. And a green carriage-driver’s cloak.
“The Green Wind told you: The new Blue Wind must steal something from the old one to take her place. The Red Wind must be bested in single combat. And the Green Wind … whoever gives up their life to save the old wind blows green and bright through the world on the back of a Leopard.”
September laughed. She touched her long hair—it had gone a deep, wonderful green.
Death curled September into her great long arms, so long that they swallowed up all the green of her into shadow. And in the moonlit half-world of the Worsted Wood, Death began to sing September Bell awake.
Go to sleep, little skylark,
Fly up to the moon
In a biplane of paper and ink
Your wings creak and croon,
borne aloft by balloons
And your engine is singing for you.
Go to sleep, little skylark, do.
CHAPTER XXII
WINDS OF CHANGE
In Which Everyone Arrives at Their Destination
September opened her eyes. All she could see were clouds streaming by and a sky so blue it dazzled her. All she could feel was the beating of a Leopard’s fierce, thundering heart beneath her.
“Hullo, Imogen,” the Green Wind said to the Leopard of Little Breezes.
“Hullo, September,” said the Leopard to the Green Wind. “I solemnly swear I will never bite you.”
The Green Wind laughed. “I don’t mind. I know a wombat who has quite a philosophy about biting.”
“So do I,” purred the Leopard of Little Breezes. “She’s just down there.”