Dahlias and roses and macadamia flowers burst from the walls in brilliant colors and deep, rich chairs and sofas lay all round, no higher than the throne, piled up with pillows for comfort. On one chocolate-colored sofa sat a troll in a leather jacket, and on either side of him lounged much bigger trolls—a magician named Hemlock and an enchantress named Hyssop, with their son Hawthorn squashed in the middle, quite, quite beside themselves with wonder at having found each other. Hemlock had made sure to scoot the sofa close to the window, so he could look down at the Barleybroom docks and see the fine pirate ship on which he and his wife had hitched a ride after that ridiculous wombat told them to come to Mummery, they must come, they must, no matter what. In a raspberry-colored chair sat a wooden girl, quite burnt, but smiling. Bits of green wick curled from her fingers, her eyebrow, her knee. A tree may come back from the flames many times, and the Matchstick Girl thought she looked rather rakish with her crisped bark.
September’s mother stood by the window. She wore a bright, lovely dress of orange brocade and her long hair was braided with gold. She wore a fur cape not so very different from the ones at Brandeis & Sons. She fidgeted, and though she hadn’t told anyone, she still had her sensible jeans on beneath the gown, in case more running was called for. Owen, September’s father, lay on a chaise so that his leg would not ache—though truthfully it felt better this morning than it ever had. He looked like he had only just come home from college. The color rode high in his cheeks. Aunt Margaret wore her favorite dress, trailing white silk with a belt of opals and a high fur collar. A rather pretty young woman with short dark hair sat sprawled in a blue chair with her feet up over the arm. She wore sunglasses and smoked a long churchwarden pipe.
A-Through-L stood at a long, empty bookshelf the vines of the Briary had thoughtfully made for him, set into the deep wall. He had put aside his turnip watch and got proper spectacles. He put The Mystery of the Blue Train on the shelf. He took it off again. He put it back. He could not decide.
And on the throne of Fairyland sat a proud and beaming scrap-yarn wombat, wearing a crown of blue tongue berries and silver stars. The throne was a new one, extra-wide and made of the same night-stuff as the shops of Wom. Good Queen Buss surveyed all with a satisfied look on her woolly face.
“Hello,” said September shyly.
The room erupted. Susan Jane broke several new land-speed records getting to her daughter and wrapping her in a long, hard hug full of worry and wonder and the old terror of a child’s empty bed. Owen kissed his girl’s hair and squeezed her tight.
“But how? How could you possibly be here?” September tried to say from under their squeezing. “Where did you come from? I thought I’d never see you again!”
“As if we couldn’t find you, wherever you hid,” said her father, kissing her hair.
“Mom, oh, Mom, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry … don’t be mad, please!” September was crying in big, breathless gulps. “I thought I wasn’t ever coming home. I thought it was over. I thought you’d never know where I’d gone. And I’d never know what happened to you.”
Susan Jane held her daughter. She laughed over her green hair. “We thought you were dead. We saw you fall. Your heart … you weren’t breathing. Oh, Tem, adventures are well and good but do try not to get killed again! I couldn’t bear it!”
September’s father clung to his wife and his daughter, laughing and crying. “How could we be mad? Look at everything you’ve done!”
“Everything?”
“My girl,” her mother said proudly. Her father stood as straight as a man who had never been to war, and his leg didn’t pain him at all.
“But how did you escape Tanaquill?” September protested. “Where is Saturday? Is that a crown, Buss?” And then the squeezing grew much heavier, for a Wyverary added his heft to it. They all said her name so many times she began to think of changing it.
Blunderbuss gave a little wombat howl of triumph. “Too right it is! I’m Queen! Good Queen Buss! Actually, I’m Tobacconist. Met that Jacquard lady, she let me pick and I wanted to be a Tobacconist so I am! I’ve already chewed up a few laws—the Spitting Ceremony’s Tuesday! All of Wom is coming and most of Fairyland! Well. Not Mallow. Lye’s got her for safekeeping. Forgiveness is forgiveness but I’m a practical wombat. They say they’ll send their best luckfig tarts. She and Lye have got the ovens going again in that daft bathhouse of theirs.”
“Oh, calm down you … you goofy-face,” Ell said, blushing furiously. It had taken all of his strength to say I love you in Wom. “Technically, September, you won,” A-Through-L explained. “Ajax said so, once he recovered from his shock. Oh—don’t worry! He’s quite all right. He’s only little on the inside. A Dandy, like he said. Tanaquill only nicked him. You brought the Heart of Fairyland to Runnymede Square. You won the throne. But then you died. And Saturday had collapsed again—the smoke, you know, very bad for ocean-folk. And the grief. And I … I was in no state. I couldn’t see anything but you being dead and Death begins with D but I couldn’t bear it, I couldn’t. So the crown rolled off your head and knocked up against Buss. Last wombat standing.”