Still clutching her sock, she turned until she thought she was facing the right direction, and began to walk.
It is one thing to walk through an unfamiliar orchard, in an unfamiliar country, when there is a road to walk upon. A road—even an improbable road—is a safe, secure thing, saying “someone wanted to go from here to there, and so they made a way to do it comfortably.” It skirts the worst of the brambles and briars, the stickiest of swamps and the deepest of lakes. It protects, simply by existing. It is another thing altogether to walk through that same unfamiliar orchard, in that same unfamiliar country, when there is no road at all.
Zib walked as quickly as she dared, tripping over hidden tree roots and stepping on fallen bits of berry bush. The stones that had seemed to roll out of her way before were rolling into her way now, making every step hurt, until it felt like the soles of her feet were black with bruises. She kept walking, clutching her single sock like it was some kind of a security blanket.
When she came to the edge of the orchard, she stumbled, barely catching herself. In front of her was not the improbable road, not the open fields of berry bushes, but what looked like a part of the Tangle, only coaxed, somehow, into a glorious ballroom crafted entirely from thorny briars. The high, vaulted ceiling was open enough to let the light shine in, passing through leaves in varying shades of green and purple, until it created the illusion of stained glass. Zib knew, without even looking, that the orchard was no longer behind her: there was only the briar, going on forever.
At the center of the room of briars was a throne made of loops and tangles. On the throne was a woman, dressed in a gown of flower petals and mist, with a crown of silver filigree atop her head. Her skin was pale and almost gray, like the clouds that danced on the western wind, and her hair was long and white and free of snarls.
She was impossibly beautiful. She looked like sunshine on a Saturday, like chocolate cake and afternoons with no homework. She had a smile like a mother’s praise, all sugar and softness, and Zib stared at her, wanting nothing more than to throw herself into those welcoming, unfamiliar arms.
As Zib’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw the shape of a sword embroidered on the front of the woman’s gown. As if that were the key, more swords appeared, hidden in the filigree of the woman’s crown, woven into the briars of her throne, created by the shadows on the mossy ground. But of course she was the Queen of Swords. Who else could she have been, to be so beautiful, to be so perfectly here?
If you trust her, you’ll never get home, whispered a voice in the back of her mind, a voice that sounded so much like the Crow Girl that Zib nearly looked over her shoulder to see if she’d been followed. That was silly. The Crow Girl was with Avery, looking for a lock to fit their skeleton key. Avery couldn’t be left alone. He was delicate.
Zib had never been allowed to be delicate. From the day she was born, she had been told to be tough, to be bold, to pick herself up and dust herself off and keep running. Sometimes she wondered what it was like, to be allowed to fall down and stay fallen.
“Hello, little girl,” said the incredible woman. “What’s your name?”
“Zib,” said Zib.
“They call me the Queen of Swords. This is my protectorate, and I would very much like to be your friend, if you would be willing to have me.” She leaned forward on her throne, smile growing wider. “We could do such wonderful things together.”
Queens are cruel monsters. They eat and eat and are never full, and they leave lesser beasts in their wake, thought Zib. Still, she stepped forward, lured by the Queen’s smile, so sweet, and her hands, so soft, and the idea that it would be nice to be delicate, for a change. It would be nice to be cherished, and protected, and safe.
Thorn briars, even enchanted thorn briars—perhaps especially enchanted thorn briars, which must on some level resent the fact that someone is telling them what to do; briars are meant to be wild, fey things, growing as wild and wide as they desire, driven by nothing but their own fickle whims—must, on occasion, drop pieces of themselves. This is how they spread, and how they cleanse themselves of debris, that they may not collapse under the weight of their own dead branches, their own unnecessary leaves. Zib took another step toward the Queen. Her bare foot, shorn of shoe and sock, clad only in dirt, which concealed but did not protect, came down squarely on a fallen bit of briar, the thorns biting deep enough to draw blood.
Zib screamed.
There is nothing quite like the earnest, full-throated scream of a child in pain, but to dismiss Zib’s scream as something so ordinary is to do it, and Zib, a great disservice. For since she was an infant, she had possessed a scream that could shake windows and wake sleeping strangers, that seemed to reach past the normal sounds and frequencies of agony and grab hold of something deeper, darker, and far more primal.
She screamed and the Queen of Swords shied away, her delicate composure broken by her confusion. “What is that noise?” she demanded. “Stop it at once! I command you!”
Pain had broken the Queen’s thrall quite completely, and Zib did not obey. She dropped
