Elsie tugged on Rachel’s hem again, whispering, “I’m scared.” Her sister brushed her hand away, transfixed by the tense standoff between the bound man and the older kids.
At a loss for another solution, Elsie hit the button nub on the back of her Intrepid Tina doll, a thing she reserved for only the direst of situations. More often than not, the prerecorded maxims from the plastic doll had no bearing whatsoever on the situation at hand, though Elsie had become practiced at applying them creatively to her present circumstances. The charged silence of the room was filled with the doll’s chirpy, mechanical voice: “THE JUNGLE IS A DANGEROUS PLACE. TRUSTWORTHY PARTNERS ARE A MUST!”
The attention of everyone in the room swiveled to Elsie, who was standing slack-jawed by her sister. Never had one of Tina’s suggestions been more apt.
The man in the chair seized his opportunity: “We’re in this together, kids. You hate the stevedores? We hate the stevedores. You hate the Quintet? We hate the Quintet. No need for senseless violence, unless it’s directed at our mutual enemies, right?”
Michael’s intensity seemed to soften. “I suppose . . . ,” he began.
“If we can’t be friends, let’s be partners,” said the man. “The jungle is, after all, a dangerous place.”
Elsie smiled at the man. Nico Posholsky smiled back.
CHAPTER 6
The Maiden Returns
to the Mansion; For the Sake
of a Single Feather
Prue, faced with returning for the first time to the southernmost region of the Wood, to a place she hadn’t seen since the triumphant coup that she herself had set in motion—with the worrisome question of how she would be received hanging low over her head—could only think of her friend Curtis.
They’d parted ways in February, on that cold, rainy night when their goal of reuniting the two machinists had seemed hopelessly dashed and the rain had poured down on them, a humiliating and heavy rain. He’d left her angry and ashamed; he’d also left her to weather the final attack of Darla Thennis, the Kitsune assassin, alone. If it hadn’t been for Esben, Prue would undoubtedly be dead right now (sitting nestled into the plush velvet seat of the bouncing rickshaw, her mind briefly touched the void: If she’d been killed, where would she be? She shook the thought away). Not that she blamed Curtis; their task did seem at a complete dead end and he’d been intent, ever since they’d escaped the underground, to discover what had happened to his fellow Wildwood bandits. Reviving Alexei had been Prue’s revelation; Curtis had only been dragged into the debacle out of loyalty to his friend.
The little radio at her side chimed tunefully, and she found herself willing the best to her friend Curtis, hoping he was finding success in his journey; she couldn’t help but wish that he could be here now, witnessing her return to South Wood. And perhaps there was a little needling insecurity in her mind—a concern that she’d been forgotten or that she wouldn’t necessarily be as safe from harm as she supposed.
The rickshaw hit a pothole in the gravel arterial road; the badger apologized. “How are you sitting back there?”
“Just fine, thanks,” said Prue. The trees flew by like telephone poles. The sky appeared in fits and starts above the conifers’ boughs. Houses were appearing between the trunks, little hovels and homes that seemed to be made of the earth itself, with earthen roofs and white stucco walls and dogwood wattle fences surrounding well-tended gardens. From where she sat, Prue could see the back of the badger’s head; he shook it and gave another glance over his shoulder. She’d lost count of how many times he’d done that since their short journey began. “My wife is not going to believe this. Me giving the Bicycle Maiden a ride on my humble rickshaw.”
Prue blushed. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just a girl.”
“A girl?” shouted the badger, in disbelief. “You’re the one who single-handedly brought down the Svik regime; saved all us common folk from that evil, evil man and all his cronies. Released all those folks from the prison!” He repeated her words: “‘Just a girl.’ Pfft!”
“What’s it like there now?” she asked, her mind still in turmoil over what was to come. “I’ve been away so long.”
“O
h, you’ll find it very much changed, milady,” said the badger. “I’m just a lowly rickshaw driver—I try not to meddle in politics. I’ll say this much: We’re better off than we were under Lars Svik and his lot.”
“That’s good news. Still a little nervous, though. Me showing up after being away so long,” she said.
“Oh, milady. I suspect you’ll be pleasantly surprised. You’re a bit of a folk hero in these parts. You’re immortalized in song, you know.”
“In song?” asked Prue, her curiosity piqued.
“You mean to tell me you’ve never heard ‘The Storming of the Prison’?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“I’d sing it myself, but I can barely carry a tune. Should be on the radio, though. It’s on every hour,” said the badger.
“That’s helpful.”
The badger continued, “I suppose the Caliphs are the only ones you won’t find singing those songs. They say it’s just nostalgia.”
“Caliphs?”