“We have to try,” Tamburlaine said gently. “And we’re not the only ones! That’s Sadie Spleenwort over there, with the mushrooms in her hair.” A girl with auburn braids was kissing a giant jackal on the nose and reaching up on her tiptoes to scratch his ears. “She’ll probably beat us, actually. She’s stubborn and sour and stupendous. And Penny Farthing, on the velocipede!”
September looked and saw the little girl she had met on the back of a wild velocipede the first time she came to Pandemonium. Penny was quite grown now, whooping and laughing on top of her steed while her mother, Calpurnia, sipped a coffee and grinned with pride.
“Ladies and Gentlemen and Everyone Else!” bellowed the Stoat of Arms. Several invisible horns sounded, shattering the merry noise into a hundred million pieces, leaving only quiet behind. “Welcome to the Cantankerous Derby! Let us all get this over with as soon as possible for I am already bored with every single one of you! Please behave yourselves while Mrs. Grandiloquent Cockscomb, the Royal Bookmaker, commences the Reading of the Odds!”
A gorgeous old basilisk wearing deep black sunglasses hobbled forward, carrying a book nearly as large as herself, which was no small feat, as Mrs. Grandiloquent Cockscomb was a scaly reptile the size of an igloo. Her orange-and-violet-feathered tail rose up even farther than her head, which looked very much like the head of a stegosaurus September had seen illustrated in one of her history textbooks.
“After conferring with the twenty-one members of the Society of Probability Paupers,” began Mrs. Cockscomb in a reedy, raspy voice, “I am honored to recite to you, gloriously gathered Fairylanders (and Others), the Hallowed Odds. The Paupers prefer to begin with the winners: We find Madame Tanaquill favored to take the crown at two to one, followed by the Marquess and Queen Mab at three to one. A surprising upstart rising up the rankings—Gratchling Gourdbone Goldmouth comes in at four to one, and old Hushnow close behind. Now, on to something more interesting! We are offering generous odds on Thrum being effervesced into his constituent atoms by lunch, the Blue Wind snatching the crown and hiding it for not more than three years, but not less than two, causing three-quarters of a revolution in Pandemonium, and that bloody great wombat unraveling completely before all is said and done. Please see myself or one of my Lamblers to place your bets. Gold and silver not accepted—today we are taking foreign currency only! Human dollars, pounds, rubles, drachma, et cetera, chimeric lodestones, kneecaps, or firstborn children, but only nice ones, let’s not have a repeat of the Bleakness Cup incident!”
The Stoat of Arms sighed with relief. “Thank you, Mrs. Cockscomb. And now, may I introduce the Racemaster, who will, if everything goes swimmingly, make sure I never have to see most of you again!”
The horns sounded again. A-Through-L hid his head under one wing. September and Saturday clapped her hands over their ears—and when they uncovered them again, they were alone.
The Plaited Plaza stood empty, not a single long-dead monarch, waving dryad, or pastry seller remained. No Stoat of Arms, no Mrs. Cockscomb, no scrap-yarn wombat, nor even one solitary spot from the tail of a Leopard.
And no Aroostook.
The sun still beamed overhead; the fountain still gurgled pleasantly; the grass on Gingham Green still sparkled with yesterday’s rain. But September, Saturday, and Ell stood by themselves in the middle of a suddenly silent Pandemonium.
CHAPTER VI
THE MAN FROM BLUE HEN ISLAND
In Which September Meets Babe Ruth, Acquires a Steed, and Learns a Great Deal About What Lies Ahead
“What’s happened?” Ell bellowed, spinning in a great red circle on the empty cobblestones.
September squeezed her fists together. “Have we lost already? Is everyone else that much faster? Where’s Aroostook? And Hawthorn and Tam and Blunderbuss?”
Saturday wanted to comfort her, but he had no good thoughts to offer. “Maybe we did something wrong,” he fretted. “Maybe we’ve been disqualified. Or the Marquess has done something awful to everyone.”
“Ought we to just … start running? The Ghostloom Gate is open, perhaps that was the starting gun. How are we to know?” September took a step forward, but she was not at all sure of the step.
“Races begin with R,” Ell said mournfully. “I much prefer Dances. And Fairs. And Ball Games.”