“But, you didn’t make the boots, and as you were leaving Westfaire, those people came. They came from the twenty-first. We cannot even see into the twenty-first. And when they took you away, we could not reach you. And when you returned you were pregnant. We didn’t want you to go while you were pregnant.”
“But then Elly was born,” I said.
“That was the first good opportunity for you to go to Chinanga,” she murmured. “But then, by the time you got to Chinanga, you were too old for your mama to be easy with, and the Viceroy had already heard of this virgin with a difference. Between them, the Viceroy and Elladine, they destroyed the whole place. Imaginary worlds do not show up in my Forever Pool. Elladine has always done things that are quite unreasonable. And now you are here, where we had never intended you should come.”
“Why me?” I asked. “Why did you choose me?”
She sighed. “People don’t understand about magic. There are always certain limitations and proprieties: certain symbols which must be kept aligned; certain congruities we must observe. It was born of magic and could not live unless there was magic around it. It was born in truth, so the place we put it had to be named truly. It had to mature in a place where no ugliness is, and that was Westfaire. It could not have been set into just anyone or put just anywhere.”
“Why didn’t you just let it be me there in Westfaire, sound asleep? That would have kept it safe for you.”
She shook her head at me. “The rarer a thing is, the more assiduously it is sought. As magic grows rarer and rarer, the more intent the Dark Lord will become at seeking it out. Eventually, Westfaire will gleam like a beacon, the last repository of magic. Do you think he would ignore that? No. Westfaire was intended as misdirection, Beauty. Legerdemain. Even if he seeks it there, he will not find it. Mary Blossom is only a decoy. You were to have been in Chinanga.”
“But I’m really here. And so is it.”
“True. For a time, I was deeply dismayed at that, but Israfel assures me all is not lost. Your being here is considered to be perfectly natural. You came to see your mama. Why not? Elladine left you the means to visit her, or she thinks she did, and so long as she thinks so, so does everyone else. As for Westfaire, either they believe the curse has run its course or they know about Mary Blossom, but in either case, everything is explainable. We went to great lengths, Israfel and I, to keep everything around you as natural as possible. The use of magic leaves an aura, like a fire leaves smoke, so when we used magic, we seemed to do it openly, obviously. Anyone sniffing the smoke could see our innocent little fire and dismiss it as trivial. What was it, after all? A sleeping enchantment, a cloak, a pair of boots. Mere bagatelles. Even Elladine’s stay in Chinanga is explainable—she believes the Viceroy’s enchantments brought her there. No one suspects anything odd about you. No one knows except Israfel and the others in Baskarone. And I.”
“Puck?”
“No. He is my trusted friend and servant, but he doesn’t know. Even though he has done much running about on your behalf, he doesn’t know about it. None of the Bogles know.”
“So what do I do now?”
“We can still preserve that which must be preserved. If you will simply go on, as you are, pretending to be what you would have been had we never met. I have seen that your visit to Faery will end soon. You will go away from here, very naturally. You will be in the world, being yourself, and meantime, Israfel and I will be searching for some other place—something like Chinanga, only less boring.”
I didn’t say yes, or no. After a time she reached out and took my hand. It felt like a mother’s hand, like Dame Blossom’s hand. I wasn’t sure I believed the business about my visit ending soon, but I chose not to remark upon it.
“Mother doesn’t like me,” I said, needing her to say it wasn’t true.
“That’s not entirely true,” she said. “Humans make myths about mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. The myths are very strong. I have counted on them myself, but sometimes the two generations are simply not sympathetic. Especially when they resemble, let us say, the other side of the family.”
It was true. Except around the eyes, I most resembled Father. I resembled him in other ways. Fleshiness. Corporeality. The thousand stinks and farts that flesh is heir to.
“Can you go on?” she asked me gently.
“Can you take it out?” I asked. “Can you put it somewhere else?”
She shook her head. I already knew that. It had grown into me. I could feel its roots, down to my toes, down to my finger tips. So I told her I could go on. What else was there to do but go on?
She patted me. She still felt like Dame Blossom.
“I have this problem,” I said. And I told her about Thomas the Rhymer. “If I tell him, I am betraying the Faery folk.”
She smiled as though she already knew all about it and said what Puck had said. “If you don’t tell him, you will betray them far worse.” Suddenly, inexplicably, she asked me, “What would you like to do? Right now?”
“Go back to Westfaire,” I blurted. “Go back home and find Giles there and be with him.”
She gave me a weary little smile. “Keep that thought in mind. I will, too. We’ll see
