“Not yet.” Jessamy’s tucked shoulders straightened sharply, awkwardly. “Whose go is it next?” she asked, too brightly. She twirled to survey the room, looking for the next teller with a strange light in her eye—perhaps just a reflection from Sorcha’s well-kept fire; perhaps not—and with that single action, she told her secret to Maisie. Just one twirl, just one rotation, but there was an entire terrible dance within it, to eyes for which motion was its own kind of storytelling.
Jessamy had come in to listen to the song that was everything, the song that even Madame Grisaille could not fail to dance to. But Jessamy had refused to dance. I know that song well. I tried to play it once, but it’s more difficult than it sounds. I was a musician once upon a time, you know.
Maisie choked back a sound as she found the secret and knew the tale without needing to hear it.
Mrs. Haypotten, seeing the girl’s stricken face, misunderstood. “Come, now, we’ve had enough of these dark stories,” she announced. “Enough of peddlers and devils and their shenanigans. Hasn’t anyone got a cheery tale?” She took what passed for the center of the room and looked around it, then clapped her hands together. “Well, then I’ll go next.” She leaned between Reever’s and Amalgam’s chairs and over the card castle to ruffle Maisie’s hair. “You’ll like this one, young lady. Nothing terrible in it at all.”
FIVE
THE QUEEN OF FOG
The Collector’s Tale
THERE WAS ONCE A TOWN—no, a kingdom, by the sea. And it was just full of all the things that children like: unicorns, fairies, lollipops, and . . . well, I’m sure I don’t see any reason for making that face, Phin. It was just full of lovely things, this town—kingdom—was. And in it was a gir—no, a queen. Let’s just call her . . . what shall we call her, love? Let’s call her Queen Maisie. Sounds just right, I think.
Queen Maisie lived with her auntie, Lady Dorcas, which is a lovely name too, being also my sister’s name, as it happens. (Not the “Lady” bit, of course, just the “Dorcas.”) Anyhow, one day Lady Dorcas sent Maisie—Queen Maisie, that was—out to the seashore to collect up some pretty shells—well, of course, Phin, yes, I suppose it was somewhat irregular, the lady telling the queen what to do. Yes, of course there was a reason. I’m just getting to it, if you’ll let me tell the story.
Lady Dorcas, as I was saying, gently suggested one day that Queen Maisie go out of doors and collect up some pretty shells, which, the kingdom being right there on the coast, it was full of, and beautiful shells they were, too, conch and whelk and horseshoe crab and all of them bright as mother-of-pearl in the right light—Yes, even the horseshoe crab, Phin—which of course there always was, since in that kingdom there was only sunshine and never ra—Phineas Amalgam, if you don’t stop interrup—yes, I suppose it would make things difficult for the farmers, but aren’t you always saying stories can’t tell every single detail or they’d go on forever and lose the plot? So what do you want to hear, how agriculture worked in that place, why the lady sent the queen out, or all the lovely things that happened when the queen went to the beach?
Well, I don’t personally see them as plot holes, you monstrous old know-it-all, I see them as editorial choices, which I’ve often heard you speak of. So let’s move on, shall we? Or are you telling this story and not I?
Now, where had I got in the tale? On the beach, I think. Queen Maisie rode her pet unico—well, that look on our miss Maisie’s face reminds me that perhaps the queen didn’t have a pet unicorn after all. Instead she had a . . . a . . . well, all right, Miss Maisie, I suppose we’ll go with that. She had a three-headed donkey, and its name was Fred-Morty-Tucker, same as my brothers, who, come to think of it, are not unlike a three-headed jackass themselves.
So Queen Maisie and Fred-Morty-Tucker went out to the beach below the castle, and the queen had a nice little basket with her in just exactly the queen’s favorite color, which was what, Miss Maisie? What was the queen’s favorite color, Miss Maisie? Miss . . . well, anyway, let’s say it was a pretty orangey color like those daisies on your shawl. Or are they dahlias? Oh, chrysanthemums. Of course, exactly what I meant. But just that color. And the queen hopped off Fred-Morty-Tucker and took off her shoes in the sunshine and walked across the sand, which was not at all hot on her toes—Now you listen to me, Phin, of course you can have a sunny day and not also have toe-scorching sand. And anyhow, that’s not the point. What is—THE QUEEN TOOK HER BASKET AND COLLECTED SOME SHELLS, YOU OBNOXIOUS OLD FOOL. THAT IS THE POINT. And then she collected Fred-Morty-Tucker, who had wandered off to eat some tasty nettles, and they rode home. And it had been a lovely day at the beach for all.
The—WILL YOU STOP INTERR—oh, excuse me, miss, just say that again? Er . . . well, no, no, of course that isn’t the end. I was just going to tell about all the different kinds of pretty shells that—but I suppose I can skip that part, if you’d rather hear . . . because yes, of course, you’re right, something else must happen. Let me just remember what it was. Not because I don’t know what happens next, you understand. I’m accustomed to doing the shells first, you see. Trips me up a bit, telling it out of order. But as you wish. Let me think.
Just a moment more, it’s right on the tip of my brain.
What was that, Sorcha?
Yes, I believe you’re right. Thank you for reminding me.
Queen Maisie was just
