The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making - Catherynne M. Valente [42]
“No, I shall be him presently. I need only wait.”
“You poor thing, how terribly strange your life is! What is your name?”
“Saturday,” the boy said. “And it is only strange to you.”
“Even so…my name is September. And I am not going to let you stay in there, Saturday. Not today, not after everything.”
Now, September might have left well enough alone if she did not feel so terribly guilty about accepting employment with the Marquess. If she were not already thinking of some way to tell the Wyverary, while not looking at his blistered skin under his chain, that they had to go and get a sword for the tyrant. If she did not want to leave some bit of mischief in her wake. She took a step back, drew the Spoon out of her sash, and with a great swing that nearly whacked into Ell’s kneecap behind her, brought the Spoon crashing down on the cage’s lock. Splinters flew in a most satisfying fashion.
Saturday crouched back, like an hound certain the dogcatcher is just around the corner. September reached out her hand. The blue boy hesitated.
“Will you beat me, if I say no?” he whispered fearfully.
September thought she might cry. “Oh…oh dear. Not all the world is like that. Well. I am not like that.”
The boy took her hand, after all. It was heavier than she expected, as though he were made of sea-stone. September was struck by how dark his eyes were, how wide in his thin face. It was like looking into the darkest possible sea, with strange fishes at the bottom of it. He stared at her, silent, wild.
“I suppose you fancy yourself brave now, hm? A knight?” Iago growled.
“Saturday,” said September, ignoring the Panther. She held the Marid gently around the shoulders. “Do you think, if I wanted to, could I wish us all away from here and someplace with a warm fire and cider for you and food for all of us and safe harbor and just everything?”
“I told you--”
“No, I know, but we could just pretend to wrestle. And you could give in. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?”
Saturday straightened a little. He was taller than September, but not by much. The looping black patterns in his skin made whirlpools on his skinny chest. He wore some sort of sealskin trousers, torn at the knees, worn at the cuffs. “I cannot cheat. I cannot pretend. And even now I am strong. I must be made to submit. Like the sea my grandmother, I cannot be changed--I can only be mastered.” His shoulders slumped. “But I would rather be gentle. And loved. And never wish for anything, ever.”
“Oh…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not offended. I’m sorry for you. You will be punished for freeing me. The cat will eat you, probably. Or me. Or both of us. He’s very hungry, most of the time.”
“He cannot eat Ell. Ell will whack him if he tries, I am sure. And possibly roast him. Come with us, Saturday, come away from Pandemonium. Into the forest, into the wild places where she does not want to go. I am not very tall, but I have a Spoon, and a sceptre, and I will protect you if I can.”
The Panther Iago regarded them in a vaguely bored way.
“But I hoped you’d stay to luncheon,” he purred. “I would have laid my head on your lap.”
“Thank you kindly, but I don't think I'd like that,” said September brightly.
“You’re stealing her Marid,” the cat said tonelessly. “Do you want one of her cannons, too? They’re about the same: stupid, dangerous, and useful.”
“He doesn’t belong to her!”
“Well, he certainly does.” Iago grinned. His pink tongue flopped out between sharp teeth. “But I won’t tell. Iago won’t, no.”
“Why wouldn’t you? She’s your mistress!”
“Because I’m a cat. A big one, the Panther of Rough Storms, in fact. But still a cat. If there’s a saucer of milk to spill, I’d rather spill it than let it lie. If my mistress grows absent-minded and leaves a ball of yarn about, I’ll bat it between my paws, and unravel it. Because it’s fun. Because it’s what cats do best.” He tried to smile, but his teeth got in the way. “If I have a mind, I could even help. After all, it would be much more efficient…more modern…if you could fly to your destination