“Hey! What’s yours, Tam?” Hawthorn asked suddenly. “The old house put out presents for everyone like it’s making up for a hundred Christmases. But I don’t see any paints or books for you. I didn’t even think.”
“It’s the fireplace,” Tamburlaine said softly, sinking to her walnut-wood knees beside the hearth. “Of course, I would like paints and brushes, but the Briary knows what I am. I’m a Fetch. My heart is a little burning coal. I tried to tell you that once, but I don’t think it came out right. Fire calls to me and I call to fire. It was all I could do not to burn the house down when I was little. Not because I didn’t love my house, but because I’m built to burn, and to love things that burn.” She tore her eyes from the blazing glass logs and laughed a little, wiping her eyes. “You all got the sort of things an auntie would give you, if she were specially rich—but me? The Briary’s telling my secrets. Naughty thing!”
Several pots of paint and long pearl-handled brushes appeared guiltily out of the top of a blackberry-bramble sideboard.
Down below the wide windows, September could see the lights of Pandemonium swirling. She could see Groangyre Tower and the Janglynow Flats and even the movie theatre where she and A-Through-L had eaten lemon ices together. Suddenly, glasses and plates rose up out of the table-for-one in the center of the room like apples bobbing up out of a pail of water: a glass of golden-colored milk, a snifter of bright green liquor with emeralds floating in it, and a stack of magenta cakes with coppery butter melting on top.
The Green Wind quirked one green eyebrow. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat breakfast and dinner, as Mr. Crunchcrab had a very busy day being deposed and forgot his flapjacks.”
September smiled at all of them, safe and happy and in one place for once. She looked up at the Green Wind. “Why should I have to eat Charlie’s breakfast? I’m sure it’s gone cold by now.”
“You are the Queen of Fairyland. Everything you do echoes in Fairyland, one way or another. If you do not have the milk of a dun cow, a snifter of liegelime cordial, and a shortstack of magnamillet flapjacks each morning, the Greatvole of Black Salt Cavern will wake from her thousand-year slumber. I only hope we’re not too late!”
September sat down. Pandemonium floated up to her on one side, in smells and in the sounds of a million voices, belonging to a million people she had never met. On the other side crowded round the faces she knew best in all the world, save her own mother and father. Ell seemed very curious about the flapjacks. She sipped the liegelime cordial; she cut into the magnamillet flapjacks. It all tasted like limes and pancakes ought to, and she said so. Certainly nothing tasted like the defeat of a Greatvole.
The Green Wind went on. “And every night for dinner, you must dine upon roast legislamb cutlets, gruffragette salad, and wash it down with hot regicider, or the Wickedest Whale will rise from the deeps and swallow us coast-first. This is the Second Munificent Mystery—as Queen, even your snacks are a spell.”
“Are all the rules about what I’m meant to eat?” asked September between mouthfuls. The moment she finished her milk, the plate before her vanished and another appeared, piled high with glistening blue-black meat, something that looked a bit like eggplant and a bit like eggs, and a wooden mug of steaming cider that smelt of apples and anxious dreams.
The Green Wind laughed and floated up into the air, turning a somersault in the firelit air. “Certainly not!” he cried. “But it is a bit important to avoid Greatvoles and Wickedest Whales, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never met either of those things, but they sound like dreadful houseguests. I’d wager they don’t do a lick of washing up!” agreed Blunderbuss.
The Green Wind stood on his head by the draperies. “Now! Rule the second! You may only oppress the people horridly on Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays, and public holidays. Thirdly, the use of magic mirrors, dragons, and popes is strictly prohibited. Fourthly, you must swim in the Parliamentary Pool one hour after eating every day in order to prevent hurricanes in Brocéliande. Fifthly, all monarchs are required to give two weeks’ notice before any significant act of tyranny. Sixthly, war is like a dress in a department store. It may look very tempting on the rack, but once you’ve got it on it’s nothing but a mess. Seventhly, tax collection occurs on second Fridays. Eight, you may do mostly as you like, but so may everyone else, only you get to do it in a nicer house. The ninth rule is, be nice to Fairyland. She is old and tender of heart and when her feelings are hurt, she cries volcanoes. Ten, you may not abdicate. You may only be deposed, transmogrified, or killed. Or outraced on Thursday, if you’re not careful! And eleven, though this is less a rule than a public service announcement—there is a kraken with a rather unpleasant personality living in the cellar. Good luck!”