NOW, CHILD.
The words echoed so loudly between her ears that she winced and loosened her grip on the sword.
GET OUT OF MY HEAD, Saturday thought back, but it was too late. The boy plucked the sword from her grasp and the air began to sing. As if burned, he quickly dropped the weapon onto the pallet.
“It’s hot!” he cried.
Saturday cocked her head at the bold-faced lie. She recognized that strange singing—it was the same sound her nameday gift had made in her hands the night it had changed from an ax to a sword. The boy knew her sword was enchanted and, for whatever reason, he did not want the empty-eyed wraith touching it.
“Charmed,” said the witch. “Ooh, how wonderful! Back up, sweetling, and let Mummy take care of it.” She crossed the room as efficiently as anyone with sight, then knelt and gingerly swaddled the sword inside the fur blankets without touching any part of the hilt or blade.
Saturday lunged for the witch with her dagger. The witch held up a blue-palmed hand and Saturday froze in mid-strike. She strained with all her might, but not so much as a finger moved. She tried to cry out, but the sound died in her throat.
The witch clasped the sword to her skinny chest and strutted out of the cave with all the confidence of a woman who had two very good eyes. “Come, Cwyn,” she said to the bird. “Betwixt, please sit on our guest until we return,” she said in the direction of the bugaboo. “I’ll deal with you later, Jack Woodcutter,” she said to the space beside Saturday’s head, and then cackled madly on her way out of the cave.
Jack? The witch thought she was her dead brother? Had these people lost their minds, or had she?
Saturday shook her head to clear the cobwebs, happy to find that she was able to move again now that the wraith and her bird had left the area. The next body part she freed was her index finger, which she pointed at the boy.
“You,” she commanded with a voice not unlike her mother’s, “will tell me exactly where I am and what is going on. And you”—she pointed at the bugaboo—“if you so much as attempt to sit on me, I will throw you out the nearest window.” If there weren’t any windows in these caves, Saturday would make one. “And then I will sit on you.”
The bugaboo shook its tusks, and his carapace turned a light shade of ocean blue.
“Did you just . . . ? Gods, I am not colorful enough for this crowd.”
“His name is Betwixt,” said the boy.
“Betwixt. I’d say I’m pleased to meet you, but this is all a bit too strange for me. And if you know my family, that’s saying a lot.” Betwixt’s shell shimmered and changed again. “What’s green mean?” Saturday asked the boy.
“Not sure, but I think he’s in love with you.”
“Huh. So no crushing me with your massive bulk.” Betwixt waved his tusks back and forth in dissent. “Excellent. Your turn.” Saturday raised her eyebrows at the boy.
“What do you want to know first: my story, or your brother’s?”
“Do you know where Trix is?”
“Who’s Trix?” asked the boy.
“Not the brother you were referring to, apparently,” said Saturday.
“Jack,” he said loudly and slowly. “Do you want me to tell you about Jack?”
“Sum up whatever you can fit in before the witch returns, or I punch you.” Saturday raised her fists. “I may just punch you anyway, for good measure. I’m not big on patience.”
The boy took a deep breath and then spoke as fast as he could. “The witch is a lorelei—a water demon. She’s not very talented when it comes to spells, so she siphons magic off a sleeping dragon in an effort to open a doorway back to the demon home world. Her daughter, Leila, ran away after cursing some fool with similar features to take her place.” He curtseyed. “The witch sees through the eyes of Cwyn, her raven familiar, because her eyes were stolen by one evil, conniving Jack Woodcutter in an effort to thwart her spellcasting.” The boy crossed his arms over his chest. “The end.”
Saturday hailed from a family of storytellers, but this tale bordered on preposterous. “Where am I?”
“The Top of the World.”
“And you are . . . ?”
The boy curtseyed again, and then bowed. “Peregrine of Starburn. Cursed on the way to fetch his betrothed.”
Saturday couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to marry this fop. “But the witch thinks that you are her daughter.”
“Leila. Yes.”
“And she thinks that I am my brother?”
“I saw the family resemblance right away. So which day of the week does that make you?”
Oh, how she wanted to punch the self-serving grin right off his face. “Saturday.”
“Splendid!”
Saturday’s clenched fists itched. She was trapped on top of the highest mountain in the world, without her sword. The situation had all the earmarks of a Jack-worthy adventure, but she didn’t see anything particularly splendid about any of it. “Where is she taking my sword?”
“To her bedchambers, most likely.”
“I’ll just go and find it, then,” said Saturday.
“It won’t be that easy,” said the boy. “She stays there most of the time. When she’s not sleeping she’s casting spells. Or preparing for spells. Or generally making a mess of everything.”
Saturday harrumphed. Next to swinging a sharp weapon and scowling, it was one of the things she did best.
“Did Jack tell you about this place?” the boy—Peregrine—asked.
Saturday wavered between anger and jealousy. “You’ve seen my brother more recently than I have.” She chose not to be more specific.
When she was but a toddler, Jack Junior had been cursed by an evil fairy and turned into a dog at the palace in Arilland, then subsequently presumed dead. Earlier in the year, when Sunday had rescued Prince Rumbold from his own curse, it was revealed to the family that Jack had not died, but in fact had gone off to live a full and adventurous life until he’d been eaten by a wolf. Or not. Sunday believed Jack was still alive. Saturday didn’t know what was true anymore. As a result, she abhorred secrets about as much as this conversation.
“I should go. The witch will be back soon to assign your impossible tasks. There might be as many as three. You will have to complete them unless you can tell her where you’ve hidden her eyes.”
“But I don’t know, because I’m not Jack.”
Peregrine snapped his fingers. “Got it in one. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t tell her you’re not who she thinks you are.” He shook out his skirt, picked up a lantern, and began walking away. “Up here, no one can hear you scream.”
“Wait . . . so what am I supposed to call you? Leila, right?”
“If you have to, refer to me as ‘the maid,’ but it’s really best if you don’t say anything at all.” He turned back to add, “I’ll try to help you when I can. Just ask.” The bugaboo followed him out through the archway.
He’d left before telling her anything else, like where to find a drink of water, or breakfast, or where to relieve and wash herself. It would have been nice to have her messenger bag with everything she’d prepared for a journey like this. If she ever got it back it would never leave her side, even on a place as theoretically secure as her sister’s ship.
Well, she’d just have to go exploring in the caves before the witch found her. She would find a way out of this place or die trying—if Jack had found a way out, she could too. Gods knew what sort of trouble Trix would be in by now. If he were still alive. She had to believe he was. But the sheer size of that ocean . . .