“Do you wish you hadn’t remembered Brakebills? Do you wish you’d stayed in Brooklyn?”
“Sometimes.” She folded her arms and leaned back against the wall of her cabin in a way that couldn’t have been comfortable. “Quentin, why didn’t you help me? Why didn’t you rescue me, when I came to you for help that day in Chesterton?”
It was a fair question. It’s not like he’d never asked himself that before. He’d even come up with some good answers.
“I couldn’t, Julia. It wasn’t my choice. You know that. I couldn’t get you into Brakebills, I barely got myself in.”
“But you could have come to see me. Showed me what you knew.”
“They would have expelled me.”
“Then after you graduated—”
“Why are we still talking about this now, Julia?” Knowing he was on shaky ground, Quentin counterattacked. Your best defense is a good offense. “Look, you asked me to tell them about you. I did what you asked. I told them. I thought they’d found you and wiped your memory! That’s what they always do.”
“But they didn’t. They couldn’t find me. By the time they came looking for me I was long gone. Into thin air.” She snapped her fingers. “Like magic.”
“And anyway, Julia, how was it supposed to work? What, you were going to be the sorcerer’s apprentice, like Mickey Mouse? And how do you think I felt about it? You didn’t used to give a shit about me, then suddenly I’m Spelly McSpell and you’re all over me. That’s just not how it works.”
“I gave a shit about you, I just didn’t want to sleep with you. God!” She rounded on him in the narrow space. She’d been leaning the stool back on two legs, and now it clunked back down onto four. “Though by the way, I would have, if you’d just given me what I needed.”
“Well, you got it anyway, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I sure did. I got it and a whole lot more. You shouldn’t be surprised about any of this, you of all people. You abandoned me out there in the real world, without magic! Everything that happened to me started with you! You want to know what it was? I’ll tell you. But not until you’ve earned it.”
A heavy silence hung in the room. Outside night was falling hard on the stone-colored waves, and her little window was splashed with seawater.
“I never wanted this for you, Julia. Whatever it is. I’m sorry.”
He had to say it, and it was true. But it wasn’t the only truth. There were other truths in there that weren’t as attractive. Such as: he’d been angry at Julia. He’d been her lapdog in high school, trailing around after her while she screwed his best friend, and he’d quite enjoyed it when the tables turned. Was that why he hadn’t rescued Julia? It wasn’t the only reason. But it was a reason.
“I felt like myself again,” she said dully. “Just then. When I got angry.” The windowpane was beginning to mist over. Julia started drawing a shape on it, then scribbled it out. “It’s going now.”
Never mind the magic key. This was where his attention should be. Julia didn’t need his love. She needed his help.
“Help me understand,” he said. He gathered up her cold fingers in his. “Tell me what I can do. I want to help you. I want to help you remember.”
Something else was glowing in the room, something besides the blue will-o’-the-wisp. He wasn’t sure when it had started. It was Julia—or not Julia, but something inside her. Her heart was glowing: he could see it right through her skin, even through her dress.
“I am remembering, Quentin,” she said. “Out here on the ocean, away from Fillory, it’s coming back to me.” Now she smiled, brightly, and it was worse than when she just looked blank. “I am remembering
That night, after a heavy nautical dinner, Quentin went below and unfolded his pallet from against the wall and put himself to bed. The cold, the darkness, the weather, his interview with Julia, everything had combined to accelerate time to the point where he felt like he’d been awake for a week. It wasn’t the hours, it was the mileage. He stared up at the rough red-brown beams over his head in the swaying light of the oil lamp.
He was cold and sticky with salt. He could have washed. He knew how to make fresh water from salt. But the spell was involved, and his fingers were stiff, and he decided he would rather live with the stickiness. He was warming up under the blankets anyway. When he’d come aboard he’d found a regulation navy blanket on the bed, a bristly beast that weighed about ten pounds and could have repelled chain shot. It was like being in bed with the corpse of a wild boar. He’d swapped it out for a foot-thick down comforter that was persistently damp and thoroughly nonregulation but infinitely more comforting.
Quentin waited to see if his mind would tip over into sleep. When it didn’t, and it had made it clear that it wasn’t going to without a fight, he sat up and looked at the books on the bookshelves. In his old life, at a juncture like this one, he would have reached for a Fillory novel, but events had overtaken that particular pleasure. But there was still the book Elaine had given him.
Seven. That was more golden keys than he’d bargained for. He would settle for just one. The book wasn’t a novel, it turned out, just a fairy tale set in large type with woodcut illustrations. A children’s book. She must have filched it from Eleanor. What a piece of work that woman was. The back page bore the stamp of the embassy library. He squinched up his pillow enough to prop up his head.
The story was about a man, his daughter, and a witch. He was a widower, and the daughter was hardly more than a toddler when the witch came through town. Jealous of the little girl’s beauty, and with no children of her own, the witch stole her away, cackling as she did that she was going to lock her away in a silver castle on a remote island. The man could free his daughter, but only if he could find the key to the castle, which he never would, because it was at the End of the World.
Undaunted, the man set out to find the key. It was hot, and he walked all day, and as the sun set he stopped by a river to refresh himself. When he bent down to drink he heard a tiny voice calling, open me up! Open me up! He looked around, and soon he saw that the voice belonged to a freshwater oyster that was clinging to a rock in the river. Next to it in the river mud was a minuscule golden key.
The man picked up both oyster and key, and sure enough, there was a tiny keyhole in the oyster shell, on the opposite side from the hinge. He fitted the key into the lock and turned it, and the shell began to open. He worked it farther open with his knife. As he did so the oyster died, as oysters will when their shells are opened. Inside the oyster, in the place where a pearl might have been, was another golden key, slightly larger than the first one.
The man ate the oyster and took the key and went on his way. Soon he arrived at a house in a forest, and he knocked on the door to see if the owners could give him shelter for the night. The door was slightly ajar, so he pushed his way inside. He found the house full of beds, every room was crammed with them, and in each bed a man or a woman was sleeping. He strolled through the house until he finally found an empty one for himself. There was a clock on the wall that had run down. There was no key to wind it with, so he used the key he found in the oyster’s shell. Then he went to bed.
In the morning the clock struck seven, and he awoke. So did the other sleepers in the house. Each of them repeated the same story: they’d come to the house as strangers and taken beds for the night, but they appeared to have slept for years and years, in some cases centuries, right up until the clock struck. As the man packed up his things he found a golden key under his pillow, slightly larger than the one he had used to wind the clock.
It grew colder as the man walked. Perhaps it was colder everywhere since his daughter had been put in the castle. In time the man met a beautiful woman sitting in a pavilion, weeping because her harp was out of tune. He gave her the golden key to tune her harp, and she gave him a larger one in exchange. That one turned out to be the key to a chest buried under a tree root, with yet another, still larger key inside, which let him into a castle—but not the castle with his daughter in it—with a key resting on a table in the highest room of the tallest tower.
The man walked and walked, for weeks or months or years, he couldn’t tell anymore. When he couldn’t walk anymore he sailed, and when he couldn’t sail anymore he was at the End of the World, where sat a dignified man in a dinner suit, dangling his long legs over the edge. He was patting his lapels and turning out his pockets and looking generally perplexed.
“Bother,” said the well-dressed man. “I’ve lost the Key to the World. If I don’t wind it up and set its clockwork going again, the sun and moon and stars won’t turn, and the world will be plunged into an eternal nighttime of miserable cold and darkness.
