“We must get her out,” Citrinitas said. “How could this have happened so fast?”
“Does it happen often?” snapped Saturday, quite beside himself. A-Through-L’s eyes rimmed slowly with turquoise tears. One fell with a plop onto September’s poor bald head.
“Well, no… but then, we don’t have many human visitors…” Rubedo swallowed wretchedly.
“Autumn,” said Doctor Fallow, the Satrap, the Department Head, “changes everything. If she could only relax, she could be happy. She might even bear fruit, given a few years’ careful pruning. One must accept the way of the world, for it will always have its way, one way or another.”
“But everything doesn’t change,” said A-Through-L. “They have their wedding, every night, just the same. Because every day is harvest and feasting! I may not know Winter or Spring or Summer, but I know my Autumn, I know my Fall, that’s A and that’s F, Doctor Fallow! September is the only thing changing here! Winter never comes. It will never snow. The leaves never die and fall off; they stay red and golden forever. Why not her? Why must she wither all up? What have you done? We only have a few days left to get back to the Marquess…”
Saturday was shaking his head back and forth like a little bull. His face darkened, as though clouds moved beneath his skin. “Did the Marquess tell you to do this to her?” he said coldly.
“Oh, no!” cried Citrinitas. “No, it’s only that she’s Ravished and human, and it’s all so unpredictable, the chymical processes that occur in Autumn…”
“But she probably knew,” mumbled Rubedo. “She could have guessed what might have happened. She could have hoped.”
Doctor Fallow smoked his pipe and sat back, his expression unreadable.
A terrible sound broke through the morning, like a tuba being crushed with iron hammers. The sound shook Doctor Fallow from his chair. Saturday laughed cruelly at him, but his laughter caught itself and crawled away as the sound grew only louder. September found she could not get up, her knees had locked into sapling trunks. They no longer moved at all. Rubedo and Citrinitas shrieked together and dashed into their house, bolting the door. Doctor Fallow squeaked and abruptly shrank to the size of an insect. He scurried away between their feet. September, Ell, and Saturday were left alone, clinging to each other, Ell trying to shelter the little ones with his bound wings, when the lions came.
They pounced with a horrible silence, their paws landing softly. There were two of them, each nearly as big as the Wyverary. Their fur shone deep blue, deeper than Saturday’s skin, the color of the loneliest winter night, and all through their manes and tails silver stars shone and burned. They roared together; the terrible tuba sound blared once more. Saturday screamed, and if she could have put out an arm to comfort him, September would have. But it all happened faster than she could understand. One lion snatched up Saturday in his jaws. Drops of Marid blood, the color of seawater, spilled onto the square. But he did not scream when the lion’s teeth clamped on him. The boy only closed his eyes and reached out for September, imploring, even though he knew it to be useless. The second lion slashed Ell’s face with his claws, leaving a long gash in his red scales. There must have been a treacly-dark poison in those claws, for the great red Wyverary tottered and fell with a crash down to the forest floor in a deep sleep. The starry lion grabbed Ell by the scruff and began dragging him away. Neither of them paid the slightest bit of attention to September.
No! cried September. But only leaves fell out of her mouth, and she could not move. No!
But even if she could have spoken loud and true, it would have been no help. The lions’ eyes were shut. The Marquess’s lions slept, and dreamed, even as they did their work, and carried off their prizes into the bright, clear day.
September screamed without a sound and cried bitterly and beat her twig-hands against the ground. Her heart ached as though a knife had quietly slipped between her ribs. She looked up to the cheerful sun, as ever unimpressed by little girls’ sorrows, and tears of amber maple sap squeezed out of her eyes.
September finally fell backward, quite out of herself, and the world slid away, for a little while.
September dreamed. She knew she was dreaming, but she could not help it. She was quite well and whole and sitting at a very fine table with a lace tablecloth draped over it. On the table lay several greasy, grimy iron gears and a great number of mismatched nuts and bolts. September did not know what they were for, but she felt certain that if she could fit them together as they were meant to go, everything would suddenly become clear.
“Shall I serve?” said Saturday. He sat primly across from her, dressed in a fine Sunday suit, with a high collar and cuff links. His hair was neatly combed; his face, scrubbed clean. The Marid took up one of the gears and scraped it with a butter knife. He handed it back to September.
“It’s getting very late, November,” said a young man. He sat very near to her and held her hand. September felt certain she had never seen him before. He had dark red hair and oddly golden skin. His eyes were big and blue. They swam with turquoise tears.
“My name is September…,” she said softly. Her voice was weak, as it often is in dreams.
“Of course, October,” said the young man. “You must speak twice as loudly just to be heard in the land of dreams. It is something to do with physicks. But then, what isn’t? Dreams begin with D, and therefore, I can help you. To be heard.”
“Ell? Where is your tail? Your wings?”
“It is mating season,” the Wyverary said, straightening his lapels. “We must all look our best, January.”
“She wouldn’t know a thing about that,” said Saturday reproachfully. September saw suddenly that Saturday had a purring cat in his lap. The cat’s fur was blue, and in his bushy tail was a single, glowing star. “Such a lazy girl. Lax in her studies. If only she’d kept up with her physicks homework, we’d all be safe and sound and eating pound cake.”
“I’m not lazy! I tried!” September looked down at the buttered gear in her hand. It was smeared with Marid blood, like seawater.
“Mary, Mary, Morning Bell,” sang a third voice. September turned to see a little girl sitting next to her, swinging her legs under her chair. The girl looked terribly familiar, but September could not think where she could have met her before. She had dull blondish hair bobbed short around her chin, and her face was a bit muddy. She had on a farmer’s daughter kind of dress, gray and dusty, with a yellowish lace at the hem. She rubbed at her nose.
“All praise and glory to the Marquess,” said Saturday reverentially, passing a thick iron gear to the girl. The child accepted it and allowed him to kiss her dusty hand.
“Dances in her garden dell!” she sang. The blond child giggled and swung her legs harder.
“Please, oh, please, start making sense!” cried September.
“I always make perfect sense, December,” said Ell, smoothing pomade into his hair. “You know that.”
The dream-Saturday held up his hands. They were chained in ivory manacles. “Did it mean me, do you think?” he said. “When it said you’d lose your heart?”