“No, sir,” said Saturday. She prayed that the gods had spared as many lives as they could. Miracles, like Monday had said. Hundreds and hundreds of miracles.
“What’s happened to the barn?” cried Mama. “All that lovely dry hay wasted! And no place left for the chickens to run, and nowhere to hang the laundry. Good thing I kept the goose in the pantry, despite everyone’s grumbling. There will be no pies this winter if the apples are gone too.”
Chickens? Pies? Saturday had possibly just murdered hundreds of people. There were waves lapping upon their back doorstep, and all Mama could think about was hay and laundry? And the racket that goose made—it’s a wonder one of them hadn’t crept downstairs in the wee hours and put it out of its misery. Saturday could hear it in there now, barking louder than the gulls.
“Next time I call the ocean, I’ll ask it please not to encroach so far onto the property.”
“See that you do,” was Mama’s reply.
“Who’s normal now?” teased Peter.
“I’m still just me,” Saturday snapped. “The magic was in Thursday’s mirror.” That’s right—part of this devastation was Thursday’s doing, and she would have them know of it.
“You have a mirror?” asked Monday. Saturday wondered if her sister was regretting the talk they’d had earlier.
“Had,” said Saturday. “It wasn’t a looking glass like yours. Trix and I tried to see in it. It didn’t work. It didn’t do anything.”
“Except split the earth and fill it up with seawater,” said Erik.
“Well, yes, that.”
“Mirror,” said Peter. “That fancy silver one from the trunk this spring?”
“The mirror you hated and hid the moment you received it and never looked at again?” Papa clarified.
Saturday rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
“Wasn’t it a set with a brush?” asked Peter.
“Best keep that brush in a safe place,” Erik said to Papa.
Saturday opened her mouth to object to the insinuation that anything in her possession would be deemed unsafe, when the air filled with bright spots of sunlight and tinkling bells. Everyone stopped what they were about to say and involuntarily smiled as one at the sound. Even the gulls seemed to silence and wonder what new divine presence had manifested. Saturday could have sworn she smelled sugar on the briny breeze.
Monday was laughing.
It was odd that such a sound would present itself during such a stressful occasion, and from such an unlikely source, yet it was refreshing as candied lemons. Monday’s profile, backed by the sea and crashing waves with her iridescent skirts and gossamer hair swirling about her, would have made master artists weep if they’d known what a sight they were missing.
Saturday tried to look past that, tried to block out the sunshine and the happiness and the loveliness that dazzled so hard it made everyone forget, if just for half a moment, all their worries and pains. She tried to see Monday for who she was, and not just the pretty packaging. Trouble was, the beauty was both within and without; an integral part of her soul.
Saturday shaded her eyes from the brilliance. “What?” she asked, while the rest were still dumbstruck.
Monday lifted a slender arm to the eastern horizon, where the sea met the parting storm clouds in a thin line. As if realizing it had been noticed, the morning sun split through the gray cover, showering both Monday and the far horizon in light. A rainbow appeared, bold against the exiting darkness, framing a small, dark gray blur on the water. Perhaps there had been some miracles after all.
Peter squinted into the distance. “Is that a rock?”
“A tall tree,” guessed Papa.
Monday smiled, and the sun shone all the brighter in competition. “It’s Thursday.”
4
Sulfur and Stone
THE PRIVY CAVE stank of brimstone. More than usual, since Peregrine’s nose didn’t typically register the acrid smell anymore. The stones of the walls and floor took on an orange hue and began to perspire. Peregrine hiked up his skirt and hopped from foot to foot out through the archway, barely making it around a corner before a burst of flame engulfed the narrow stone hallway.
This particular alcove probably wasn’t the safest place to do one’s business, but Peregrine couldn’t beat the cleanup. The perpetual venting flares came with a decent enough warning and kept the place from smelling like anything worse than the usual sulfur and stone. He’d been singed a time or two, but it was worth it.
Peregrine swung his lantern and watched the shadows dance along the shimmering, uneven walls of the tunnel. He danced a jig with them, his skirt swirling around his legs as he stomped gleefully through Puddle Lake. Disturbing the water marred the reflection he didn’t care to see.
“Hello there, boy,” Peregrine said to Shaggy Dog in greeting. “Find any good treats today?”
Shaggy Dog said nothing, just like it always did. Peregrine patted the giant rock formation on its hind leg.
Leila had selected exactly the right target on which to perform her spell. The witch’s daughter and Peregrine had shared the same build and the same dark features—it would have required far more magic to curse some tiny, fair young thing into taking Leila’s place at the Top of the World so that she could escape her mother and the dragon who slept here.
But Leila (he realized now) was not capable of that level of magic, and so her curse had not completely transformed him, thank the gods. He’d retained his manhood, for all the good it did him here in the White Mountains, on a peak higher than time itself. Though his height remained the same, the line of his jaw had softened and his skin had paled, taking on a subtle olive shade. His muscles had thinned and corded, like a dancer’s, not surprising with all the climbing and exploring he did on top of all the housework . . . or whatever one called chores when one’s home was a great mountain of fire and ice.
Peregrine passed the mushroom forest and growled at the stone bear that met him there, peering down from the ceiling. Big Bear marked the spot where the air began to grow cool again. Peregrine stopped to don the boots he’d been carrying. He took the shawl from his waist, pulled it over his bare arms, and continued on with his thoughts. At least his thoughts were still his own.
He’d collected every mirror he found and hidden them away in a cave beyond the dragon. He’d learned to ignore crystals and reflecting pools as he encountered them. Over time, he’d become quite adept at not seeing the face that wasn’t his: the black eyes beneath arched eyebrows, or the silver-blue streak in the thick black hair that always fell to his elbows in the morning, no matter how many times he hacked it off with implements, enchanted and otherwise. He’d learned to wear skirts and speak in whispers. Peregrine had kept the witch at arm’s length enough to fall beneath her notice. After a while, those habits had come as naturally as breathing.
He had considered exposing the ruse to the witch, in those first days. He’d contemplated revealing himself and facing the witch’s wrath simply to end his imprisonment. But Peregrine never quite found himself ready to forfeit both his life and the dream of triumphantly returning to the world of men. Eventually, he’d grown to enjoy the puzzles that these caves provided him. He relished the idea that he would never age or die. He didn’t even mind the witch so much, on the days when her demon blood wasn’t running wild.
And then that nice young woodcutter had stolen the witch’s eyes and made Peregrine’s life so much easier.
The cave floor grew drier and more even beneath the soles of his shoes; his breath turned whiter than the walls. Inside the kitchen, Peregrine banked the smokeless fire and swapped out the steaming laundry pot with another he’d readied with that night’s supper. Betwixt—currently a very ugly dog with a rattlesnake’s tail—twitched in his sleep in response to the reduction in heat.