Under Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 2) - Page 52

“Yes, you will be freed from the shackles of your internment at the Unthank Home, no longer forced to clean, scrape, and assemble minuscule yet inordinately expensive machine parts. Join another orphanage! Find your long-lost auntie Myra! Do what you please; on top of this, whatever money I manage to gross in the harnessing of this vast swath of natural resources, I will cut you in fifteen percent. In a trust fund, under your name. Accessible only by you. Your reward for having helped in such an enormous scientific and cultural breakthrough. How’s all that sound?”

The girls gave no answer. They were all looking straight ahead into the wild of the tree line.

“I’ll take your silence as consent,” he said, holding up one of the white boxes. “Now, Rachel Mehlberg, please take hold of one of the coils of twine and begin walking. Good luck and Godspeed.”

Rachel gave a final look to her sister before she began to walk. Elsie saw her eyes through the strands of her black hair; they were bright and scared. “Rachel,” Elsie said, “I’ll find you.” Rachel shuddered and turned away from the group. Taking up the frayed end of the twine, she began walking into the woods.

CHAPTER 12

The Uninvited Guest

The Long Hall was filled to the brim with revelers when Prue arrived at the party. A simple jug band had set up in the corner, and they were just bearing down on a frenetic tune: a grizzly with a washtub bass thumped a propulsive beat, and a girl with a banjo sang something about the long and lazy Balch Creek. Prue stood in the doorway briefly until someone waved her inside and offered her a steaming tankard of spiced cider. She was still perplexed by her meeting with the tree and the strange young Yearling; it wasn’t until Curtis had arrived at her side and had smacked her affectionately between the shoulder blades that she was able to shake the feeling.

“Hey,” he said, “welcome to the party. Now this is the way to celebrate an incredible life.” He raised his own tankard in a toast.

Several partygoers were clearing away tables from one end of the hall for a dance floor; a boy was scattering sawdust on the worn floorboards as the younger me

mbers of the party gathered around excitedly. Prue smiled and took a sip from her cup; the warm liquid seemed to pour itself through her every vein, bringing much-needed heat to her cold and tired limbs. Suddenly, she heard her name being called. She turned to see Sterling Fox standing before her, an unhappy look on his face.

“Prue McKeel,” he said. “What are you doing here?” He then shot a glance at Curtis. “And you! Bandit Curtis! You’re supposed to be keeping her out of sight in your little camp.”

Curtis was speechless; he turned to Prue for support.

“It’s nice to see you, too, Sterling,” said Prue.

The fox glared.

“It’s okay,” she consoled. “We’re safe. We’re fine. We had to come see Iphigenia, to see the tree.”

Sterling, at the mention of the Elder Mystic’s name, looked down sorrowfully into the pewter mug he held in his paw. “Gods rest her soul,” he said. “I know she wouldn’t go in fer that claptrap, the gods and all, but I say it anyways. Gods rest her, she was a lovely woman.”

“Yes, she was,” said Curtis, hoping that the fox’s dour mood would distract him.

Sterling’s stern tone was renewed. “But that don’t change things a bit,” he said. He gave a worried look over his shoulder before whispering, “That was her instructions. Keep the kid at the camp. Simple and plain.”

Prue interjected, “It’s not Curtis’s fault. It’s me. I couldn’t stay put. I can’t explain it, but I felt Iphigenia’s, you know, passing. I felt it. And then I felt the intense pull to come to North Wood, to see the tree.”

“Well, did you do it?” asked the fox. “Did you see the tree?”

“I did, yes.”

“Then get back to that bandit camp. On the double. We can find you horses to ride if need be.”

“We will,” said Curtis. “We promise. Let us just get our bearings and rest a bit before we start back.”

The fox looked at the two children out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he relented. “All right, then,” he said. “Just tonight. Then I want you out of here come morning.”

“Got it!” said Prue. Curtis waved to the fox and dragged his friend away toward the warmth of the fire.

“Come on,” he said. “You seem exhausted.”

“I just need to sit down for a second,” said Prue.

A bonfire blazed in the stone hearth, and Prue took a seat at one of the benches surrounding it. Curtis plopped down by her side. The joyous revelry of the party was broken here and there by groups of people consoling one another in hushed, warm tones and smiling through their tears. A drawing of the Elder Mystic, rendered lovingly in pencil, had been set on the banquet table on the far side of the room. Garlands of green and white bulbs, the first of the season, were laid around it. On the other side of the fire pit, Septimus was in the process of regaling some lady rat with his version of the Battle for the Plinth. She was smiling shyly. Prue and Curtis stared into the yellow flames.

“What’s up?” asked Curtis.

Prue rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know. I just had a sort of weird interaction. Trying to figure it all out.”

Tags: Colin Meloy Wildwood Chronicles Fantasy
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