The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making - Catherynne M. Valente [39]
The Marquess looked at September appraisingly. Her blood-colored hair was slowly lightening to a gentle pink, like candy floss.
“How strong you are, child. You must have eaten your spinach and brussel sprouts all up and drunk all your milk, once upon a time. Now, let us think! What would a beautiful monarch send you for? Oh, I know! The glass casket contains a magical sword. It is so powerful that it doesn’t have a name. It is no spoiled, painted dilettante like Excalibur or Durendal. Naming a sword like this one would only cheapen it and make it tawdry. But the casket is also old, and also opinionated, and were I to stand in the forest and cut its fastenings…well. It would not give me the true sword.”
“But you would use it…to kill more witches’ brothers, I think…”
“September, I swear to you, here and now, in the presence of Iago, Queen Mallow, and your single, solitary shoe, that I will never use that sword to harm a soul. Little unpleasantries are necessary, when one rules wicked, trickstery folk. But I would not soil such a sword by using it for simple, everyday murdering. I intend something much grander.”
September wanted to ask. She burned to ask.
“Ah, but that I will not tell you, little one. You are not ready to know. And loose lips sink glorious new worlds. Fairyland is still so beautiful for you. You would not believe me if I told you how sour it can go. Suffice it to say that I shall find the source of this sourness, and with the blade of the sword you bring me I will cut it out. Will you get it for me? Will you take Goodbye’s Spoon and go to the Autumn Provinces in my name?”
September thought of the poor, angry, lost witches, peering into their cauldron while the sea pounded away. She thought of the wairwulf, and his kindness to her. She thought of her Wyverary, and his chafed, locked wings.
“No,” she squeaked. Blood beat against her brow. She felt dizzy. “I will do nothing in your name.”
The Marquess shrugged. She bent and kissed the Panther’s ears. “Well, then I shall have your deluded, ridiculous cut-rate dragon rendered into glue and perfume.”
“No!”
Iago growled softly. The Marquess seized September’s hand and crushed her fingers in her burning grip. “I think that’s just about enough nos out of you young lady,” she hissed. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Some country witch? I do not ask favors. I do not beg indulgences from spoiled brats. Only occasionally do I make bargains. I offered you a good one, a fair one! If you do not want to play fair, you cannot expect me to. Iago, go and fetch the Wyvern.”
“No! Please don’t! I’ll go! I’ll go. Just so long as you promise it’s not for hurting anyone.”
The Marquess’s hair flushed with pleasure, turning a deep pumpkiny orange, just September’s favorite shade. She pressed September’s hand to her lips--but still she squeezed it, painfully. “I just knew we would be friends!” she crooned. “Now that you’ve stopped being stubborn, let’s get that bedraggled old shoe off of you!”
Numbly, automatically, September let the Marquess toss away her loyal, honest mary-jane and slipped the black, be-ribboned shoes onto her feet. They fit perfectly. Of course they fit perfectly.
Patting her arm, the Marquess led her to the door of the Briary. September suddenly realized that she had seen nothing at all of the house, knew nothing of the Marquess’s powers, knew little more than when she had arrived. She had been handled, and with ease.
“Still,” she whispered, her one small defiance. “I’ll take the Spoon now.”
“Of course. I can be so reasonable, when I am obeyed.” The Marquess stroked Iago again. The Panther arched his back, relishing her hand. She drew up a long wooden spoon, much stained, its handle wrapped in leather.