Breadcrumbs?
Shimmering drops ran the length of the log, leading your eye farther into the Slough. Creamy toadstools grew from crevices in the trunk, and in between the crevices were the glittering, glancing mooncrumbs.
“Not breadcrumbs,” I said. “Mooncrumbs.”
Clever Eldric! You had to look very close to see that the mooncrumbs were nothing but dribbles of lime. They glowed fluorescent in the moonlight.
“Quite right,” said Eldric. “That was a test. Your journey is now begun, and remember: Do not return until you have claimed the treasure. Many have sought it; none has returned.”
I followed the mooncrumbs to the end of the log. There they dribbled onto the ground and farther into the Slough.
I followed the mooncrumbs, always the mooncrumbs. They made an enormous, luminous treasure map, looping me along paths, circling back upon themselves, beckoning me across snickleways.
Clever, clever Eldric!
I plunged into a snickleway, into a skim of moonlight, into the dark and ooze.
I disappeared. My feet, my knees, my waist. I sank to my chest. Laughter now, Eldric laughing as I plashed about.
“I shall have my revenge!” I shouted.
Oof, ooze to the chest, hard to push, hard to push, but the Amazon of the Swampsea can push through anything, can scramble out the other side, shake herself, lope on. A crashsplash came behind me; Eldric had leapt into the snickleway. I loped ahead, leaping logs frilled with mushroom pantalettes; sploging through ooze and splat; following the mooncrumbs until they ran into nothingness at a cobweb of roots cupping a bundle of oilcloth.
I waited until Eldric caught up with me. I felt like a kettle on the boil, hiss and steam. This—yes, this must be the feeling of happiness. I must hold on to this feeling.
I opened the oilcloth. Inside lay a small, square box. I opened the box. I sat back on my heels.
I didn’t know what to say. A skylark sang. It was almost dawn.
In the box lay a wolfgirl made of wire and pearls. Gray pearls. Tiny wires, tiny pearls, twisted round and round into the very shape of a wolf, into the very shape of a girl, into the very shape of Briony.
I didn’t know what to say. I clutched the wolfgirl Briony.
“Off we go.” Eldric reached for my hand. His eyes were white and gold. “One of the tricks to being a bad boy is not to get caught. My father will be rising soon.”
I flew to my feet, mucky to the shoulder, he mucky to the chest, his curls flecked with mud, my own hair hanging over my shoulder in muddy rats’ tails.
He wouldn’t have made a treasure for Leanne, would he? And anyway, what Eldric-fidget could possibly represent that tangle of clichés?
Birdsong rose all about as lion-boy and wolfgirl walked home. They were hardly tired. “You seemed ill last week,” I said. “Especially on the night of the garden party. But here you are, quite—”
Quite what? Quite well? Such a feeble word for an electric boy.
“Quite!” said Eldric. “And in tip-top bad-boy fettle. I attribute my recovery to the restful week I spent with Father, reviewing the letters of application from all my would-be tutors, poor fellows. I resent feeling unwell, you know, as I can no longer say I never fall ill.”
We left the Slough for the Quicks. We passed a slurp of green water where an egret stood laughing like a madman.
“It was quite nice, really, spending a week with Father. I hardly wanted to sneak out at all.”
By the time we reached the Flats, a silver eyelid winked from the eastern horizon. It winked the Quicks into emerald splotches and pale shimmers.
We reached the back garden. The gray slate roof skittered up and up to my bedroom window. “It’s going to be harder going up,” I said.
“Mmm,” said Eldric. I felt rather than saw that his attention had shifted. “Do you remember what I said just now?”
I followed the direction of his gaze.
“That it was quite nice spending a week with Father.”
The garden door was ajar. Father and Mr. Clayborne sat on the stoop, waiting.
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Eldric.
18
Sticks and Stones
We sat in teams of two. Eldric and I at one side of the dining room table, smelling of plant squish and rotten eggs. Father and Mr. Clayborne at the other side, smelling of strong tea and leftover sleep.
It brought to mind the day Eldric arrived. I remembered standing in the dining room with all those men gobbling up the air and clogging up the mirror. But the numbers had changed, the alliances shifted. The teams were equal now.
Mr. Clayborne cleared his throat. “Eldric!” But instead of looking at Eldric, he looked at Father. Father looked at Mr. Clayborne, who cleared his throat again. “I always thought you good-hearted, despite your eternal pranks and mucking about.”
“I like mucking about.” Eldric turned a couple of toothpicks into swords, which leapt into mortal combat.
“But I never thought you could do anything so wicked.”
“Wicked,” said Father.
Wicked? I was the wicked one.
“Mucking about isn’t wicked.” Eldric wore his lazy lion’s smile. He didn’t mind what he was called. He was a sticks-and-stones sort of person.
“Imagine my surprise,” said Father, “when I came to look in on the girls and what do I find?”
His voice hadn’t undergone its morning ironing. “Or, rather, what I don’t find. I don’t find Briony.”
“You check on us at night?” How horridly reminiscent of Dracula, a Dracula clergyman, who has just a little trouble with crosses.
“From time to time.” Father drew his palms down his cheeks. “It takes me back to the days when we’d sing together at night.” He stretched out his eye-wrinkles.
“But I was awake then,” I said.
“Yes,” said Father, his eye-wrinkle insides all soft and raw. “You were awake then.”
“En guard!” Eldric’s toothpick-swords leapt to ready position. “Parry—thrust!” The toothpick-sword leapt at my finger.
“Don’t touch my daughter!” Father’s scratch-lips ripped apart. His teeth were too big.
A horrid, heavy silence followed, a Dracu-clerge silence, while Father reset his lips into their proper scratches.
“So that’s what you think.” Eldric rolled the toothpicks between his thumb and forefinger.
“What else are we to think?” said Father’s wrinkled voice. “The two of you, missing all night.”
“Have a little trust!” Eldric’s voice rose. “I may lounge about and laugh, but to think you’d believe I’d behave—that is to say, your daughter and I—and I, a guest in your house!”
Snap! Bits of toothpick-sword fell to the table.
Understanding came like a kick to the stomach. They thought Eldric and I were together—together the way boys are with girls.
“Returning at dawn,” said Mr. Clayborne. “Together.”
“For God’s sake!” shouted Eldric. My shoulder-wings jumped. Now they were all shouting, Eldric, Father, Mr. Clayborne.
I plugged my ears. I hate shouting. It makes my ribs go tight.
It was stupid to think I could be a bad boy. Of course I couldn’t. There’s no point in trying anything new.
You try your first step. What then? You have to walk everywhere.
You have your first conversation with the Boggy Mun. What then? Your sister gets the swamp cough.
You try your first initiation. What then? You have to—
Eldric tapped my arm. I unplugged my ears.
“We appear to have misjudged the situation.” Father’s eye-wrinkles had slipped back into place. “Mr. Clayborne and I are sorry.”
I waited for the but part. There was bound to be a but.
“It seems I am a bad influence on you,” said Eldric. “This comes as quite a surprise, as I have found you wonderfully impervious to influence.”
They were to forbid me to see Eldric, weren’t they? I needed a safe place to put my gaze. It was easiest to look at the bits of toothpick-sword.