“Maybe they didn’t make it for themselves,” Magpie murmured. “Maybe they made it for . . . us.”
“Maybe. And it’s perfect, nay?”
Magpie nodded. It was.
“He’s asleep in a deep place now,” Poppy said.
Magpie’s stomach flipped. “Did the tree tell you where—”
“There’s a school for humans just outside Dreamdark. In the gardens there’s a dry well. That’s where the Magruwen dreams, at the bottom of it, alone and forgotten.”
Dazed, the two faeries stared at each other. Magpie realized she’d had only dim expectations of succeeding in her quest. It hit her now that she was truly going to see the Djinn King, and a shiver seized her.
“In a well,” Poppy said, a sheen of tears blurring her eyes. “The Djinn King! At the bottom of a well in the belly of the world. It isn’t right!”
“Neh, it isn’t. Did the tree say . . . why?”
Poppy shook her head. “Nay, but he did say it’s high time someone had the nerve to wake him.”
Magpie took a deep breath. “I reckon it is.”
“But Magpie . . . you don’t really mean to?”
“Aye, but I do. Come on, I got to go tell the crows!” She stood and sprang from the branch, shooting out through the tickling leaves. “Thank you, Father Linden!” she called as she went.
“Blessings, old Father,” Poppy said reverently to the tree, then opened her own wings and followed.
ELEVEN
Magpie and Poppy snuck around the side of the stage caravan just as the play ended and cheers erupted in the Ring. They slipped in through the back door to wait while the crows took their bows.
The caravan was even messier than usual. Gowns and tentacles were strewn everywhere from quick costume changes, and every trunk was flung open, so the lasses had to leap over them with a lift of wing. “It’s some fright in here,” Magpie said, but Poppy was taking it all in with shining eyes.
“It’s grand,” she said, surveying the glitter of velvets, snakeskins, and manny jewelry that covered nearly every surface. “Is that where you sleep?” She gestured up at Magpie’s little bunk.
“Aye, home sweet . . .” Magpie’s words trailed off when she saw that her patchwork curtain was yanked askew. “What the skive?” she growled, flying to it and not seeing how Poppy’s eyes widened in shock to hear her curse. Her book lay out on her quilt. She always put it under her pillow, and she always drew her curtain closed. She thought immediately of Lady Vesper. Her eyes narrowed and she sniffed the air, detecting in it a scent of intrusion. It wasn’t faerie, though, but creature. And there was a hint of something else, clean as snow and utterly foreign.
“Magpie,” said Poppy, who’d been watching with curiosity as the huntress awoke in her friend. “What is it?”
“Someone’s been in here,” Magpie answered, reaching for her book. She could feel her protective spells were still intact so she was startled when a slip of paper dislodged from the pages. It fluttered to the floor at Poppy’s feet, a trail of light unfurling behind it like the tail of a comet. Poppy picked the paper up and Magpie could tell her friend didn’t see the blaze-bright aura that hung on it, slower to fade than the brief traceries she’d seen that morning flying into Never Nigh. Poppy handed the paper to her and she took it and sniffed it like a feral creature.
The strange pure smell was strong on it. Wary, Magpie turned the paper over and read it, and the ferocity left her eyes and was replaced by puzzlement.
“What?” Poppy asked.
“This wasn’t in my book before,” she answered.
Poppy moved to her side and looked at the paper. It was writ in an elegant script.
Magruwen’s Favorite
To a batter of lily flour, oats, honey, and beetle butter, add:
(1) half walnut shell of fish’s tears
(3) strokes of tangled wind
(1) shadow of a bird in flight
(1,000) years of undreamed life
Stir together with twig from a lightning-struck tree and bake until a porcupine quill inserted in the center comes out clean. Place in a starling’s nest to serve.
“Magruwen!” exclaimed Poppy. “But . . . who put it there?”
“Flummox me,” Magpie said. “I haven’t told anyone but you and the tree why I’ve come!”
“Could the crows have put it here?”
“Neh. They’d just give it to me.”
“A mystery, Magpie!” Poppy said, excited. “And a riddle! What can it mean, a thousand years of undreamed life?”
Magpie puzzled on it. “Undreamed life? A life that hasn’t started yet, that hasn’t even been dreamed up . . .”
“But something you can bake into a cake?”
“Like an egg? There’s a life inside that hasn’t been dreamed up yet.”
“And will never be life, if you crack it into a cake.”
Magpie shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, looking at the strange recipe card. She suddenly squinted and looked closer. “Jacksmoke!”
Again, Poppy looked startled by Magpie’s cursing. Magpie caught her look this time and blushed. “I mean, skiffle. . . .”
“What is it?” Poppy asked.
Magpie opened her book and leafed through it until she found a page marked with an iridescent snakeskin. Her eyes shifted rapidly back and forth between the book and the recipe. “Poppy, look.” Pasted to the page was a scrap of parchment gone sepia with great age, once ripped in half and carefully seamed back together. It read
Hurry home, love, through the
dream-dark glade,
Where moontime beasts lurk
in darkling shade.
Never linger, love,
where the shadows grow.