Furthermore(16)

The people of Ferenwood were dressed in their Ferenwood finest. Gowns made of spider silk and hats carved from cottonwood, colors clashing and sounds smashing and cheers erupting for no reason at all. The audience was beginning to take their seats, wide-eyed and excited with the smell of spring fresh in the air.

The stage looked lovely every year, but this year it looked especially fantastic. Today it was made to look just like a stretch of ocean, the plum-blue water lapping at the feet of its contestants and cascading to the ground. Just below it was an expanse of green, set with a smattering of tables and chairs carved from the arms and legs of fallen trees. Vines had knitted themselves across the backs of every chair and the tables were set with gold baskets of glass apples and honey-canes and chocolate-covered sizzle sticks and pitchers of fire-cider and candied-ice. An orchestra readied their instruments; the sky thundered in appreciation; flowers were blossoming in hundreds of glass orbs suspended in midair; and the sun set fire to the sky, streaking the backdrop with an explosion of blush and tangerine and honeyblue.

It was all rather breathtaking.

Quite.

Whoever’s job it was to decorate had put a little too much sugar in the air and it was making Alice want to sneeze. She tried to stifle the impulse and coughed instead, startling the girl standing just to the left of her. Alice rocked back and forth on her heels and clasped her hands, smiling a shaky smile as the girl glanced her way. The girl smiled back and seemed to regret it. Alice stared down at her feet.

Of the eighty-six of them, Alice was fourth in line. And she would be lying if she said she hadn’t felt like upending the contents of her stomach, just a little bit.

Alice spotted Mother and the triplets as they searched for their seats, and she couldn’t help but feel a spot of warmth settle inside her, soothing her nerves. She had hoped they would come but, really, she wasn’t sure. She never could be certain with Mother, if only because Mother had proven herself to be rather fickle these past few years. But despite their strange and often uncomfortable relationship, Alice couldn’t help but want to make her mother proud.

She’d hoped to make her proud today.

In fact, the bitterness Alice felt toward Mother was just about to be forgotten until she saw Mother take a seat next to the Newbankses. Oliver caught her eye and glared (Alice glared back) as Mother laughed and shook hands and shared fruit with the family of the boy who’d been so cruel to her. Mother didn’t seem to spare a single thought for her feelings.

Alice didn’t want to think about it then, but the truth was staring her straight in the face and she could no longer deny it: Mother never seemed to be on her side.

Alice hung her head and drew in a deep breath, determined to keep moving, no matter what. One day, she said to herself, she would return home with Father in hand, and Mother would finally appreciate her.

Just then came the sound of trumpets and a sudden explosion of color that fell and hung neatly in the sky.

It was the official announcement. The beginning of the rest of her life.





Mr. Lottingale stepped onto the stage.

A hush fell over the crowd, and the eighty-six of them—hovering just to the side—were so collectively nervous Alice could almost hear their hearts racing in unison.

Mr. Lottingale was one of the Town Elders and he had come to make a speech. It was the obvious thing to do, to make a speech before the main event, but Alice could never take Mr. Lottingale seriously. He looked a bit like a pistachio. He was round and beige, cracked open only at the top, his head turtling out, and his brown-green hair flopped around in the breeze. She knew it wasn’t fair of her to focus only on Mr. Lottingale’s looks, as he was certainly a nice-enough person, but every time she looked at him she couldn’t help but think of the time she saw him lick a caterpillar off his upper lip.

“Friends of Ferenwood,” he boomed, caterpillar voice creeping out of his caterpillar lips. “I congratulate you all on the first day of spring.”

The crowd cheered and stomped and raised their glasses of cider.

“Today is a most auspicious occasion,” Lottingale went on.

And on, and on and on.

He spent the next ten minutes giving a speech about the great day that is the day of their Surrender, and I can’t be bothered to remember it all (it went on for nine minutes too long, if you ask me), but suffice it to say that it was a heart-warming speech that excited the crowd and sent jitters up Alice’s skirts; and anyway, I hope you don’t mind but I’d like to skip ahead to the part where things actually happen.



They would all perform. All eighty-six of them.

Only after all of the twelve-year-olds had surrendered their gifts would they be allowed to take seats with their families, where they’d attempt to eat a meal while the Elders took a break to deliberate. Once the decisions were final, an envelope would appear on their plates, their tasks carefully tucked inside.

Of the group, only one task would be announced to all of Ferenwood; only one child would be celebrated.

Only the best.

Alice held tight to this reminder as she watched Valentina Milly take the stage. She was the first of them, and Alice admired her for it. Valentina stood in the middle of the square with a great, quiet sort of dignity, never once letting it show that she’d been crying in the bushes just a moment before.

And then she sang.

She had the voice of a featherlily, effortlessly charming the lot of them. Valentina sang a song Alice had never heard before, and the words wrapped around their bodies, sending shivers up tree trunks and hushing the birds into a stillness Alice had never seen. The song was so lovely that Alice was blinking back tears by the end of it, certain that something strange and frightening was coming to life inside of her.