Whichwood(28)

Benyamin, as you might imagine, was floored by her suggestion that he thought her anything but perfectly wonderful, and so spent far too long correcting Alice’s assumption. In fact, he was so detailed in the many arguments he made to counter the misunderstanding that, by the end of it, Alice had flushed such an extraordinary shade of piglet she worried she’d changed color after all. Horrified, mortified, delighted and surprised—she’d never known she could feel so many things at once.

It was a highly entertaining conversation.

I won’t detail the specifics of these separate communications—as it would be an inefficient use of our time to recount the many gasps and glances that punctuate transformative discussions—but suffice it to say that their ninety minutes were spent wisely, carefully, and with great compassion, and that Alice, Oliver, Laylee, and Benyamin disembarked with a lightness of heart that in no way prepared them for the many catastrophes they’d yet to encounter.

And though it would be kinder not to spoil such a moment with the promise of bad tidings, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you here, dear reader, with a warning. These next parts of the story grow terribly dark and disturbing. I’ll understand if you have to look away. But if you’re willing to venture forth, I must, in the interest of full disclosure, tell you at least this much:

A strange and bloody madness awaits.





BUT FIRST: A BIT OF FUN BEFORE THE BLOOD





Laylee blushed as she and Oliver met the others on the platform. She knew now that everyone was aware of her impending death, and she wasn’t sure how to talk around it.

Luckily, she didn’t have to.

The thing was, no one but Laylee truly believed the young mordeshoor was going to die. In fact, upon learning of Laylee’s unique illness, Alice was quietly relieved. She couldn’t be absolutely certain—for that, she’d need to take action—but she thought she might have finally realized what she’d been sent here to do.

And though I’ve spoken only briefly of Alice’s magical talent, I think now might be a good time to say more.

For those readers unaware: Alice Alexis Queensmeadow had the unique and incredible ability to manipulate color. She was born with a pale exterior that belied her vivid interior and, once unleashed, her magic could paint the skies themselves. Even so, she’d never before attempted to color life back into a person—but now that she knew more about Laylee’s silver eyes and struggles, she wondered whether she had any choice but to try.

Then again, she had to be careful.

Alice had never before used color to revive a person. Her magic had never been manipulated for such serious purposes, and she could see now why the Elders had sent her here—and why they’d assigned her such grave work. They’d suspected better than she what her magic might do, and they’d trusted Alice to have the strength necessary to reinvigorate a person who’d lost what made her whole. For the residents of the many magical lands—Ferenwood, Furthermore, and Whichwood among them—losing color meant losing magic, and losing magic meant the loss of life.

Do you see now, dear reader?

Do you see what Laylee had done?

She’d been depleting her stores of mordeshoor magic with great and unceasing frequency. The illness that overcame her now was a sickness particular to her line of work, which, as an extremely demanding occupation (both physically and emotionally), had finally sapped her of all magical strength. Had Laylee worked slowly, carefully, with breaks and vacations and holidays, she never would’ve deteriorated to this degree; no, her body would’ve had time to restore itself—and her repository of magic would’ve had time to replenish its supply.

But Laylee had not had the luxury of stopping. She’d had no one to intervene on her behalf; no one to share her burden. She was too young and too delicate to have been so thoroughly robbed of the magic still crystallizing within her, and having pushed herself too hard in too short a time, she’d poisoned herself from the inside out.

Alice, who was only now realizing how her magic might be forced to work in this strange new way, was quietly preparing for the task she might be asked to perform. She called upon herself to be steady and brave—but in an honest moment, Alice would admit that the immensity of the task had scared her. This was no small feat, to reinvigorate a dying girl. No, no, this was the kind of painstaking, labored work that would take from her as it gave to Laylee; after all, the magic that would save Laylee had to originate somewhere, and Alice would have to use stores of her own spirit to revive the young mordeshoor. These personal reserves would, in theory, help Laylee recover, but Alice would have to make sure she didn’t destroy herself in the process.

But I digress.

My point here is only to say that Alice was growing more certain by the moment as to why she’d been sent to Whichwood, and she now had hope she might be able to set things right for Laylee. They hadn’t had a chance to discuss any of this, of course, as they’d only just stepped off the train, but Alice was eager to put Laylee’s fears to rest and make quick work of her duties in Whichwood. (Secretly she was hoping there’d be time left over to enjoy the company of her new friends.) But there was so much to see and do now that they’d reached the center of town that there was hardly a moment to be still, much less to speak. In fact, even if they’d wanted to talk about it, I’m not sure they’d have been able to, as the station was swarming with Whichwoodians toing and froing in the chaos, and Alice and Oliver were struggling to stay afloat. They’d never seen such crowds before—certainly not back home in Ferenwood, where the city as a whole was much smaller—and they were overcome by the madness, grabbing desperately for each other as the masses forced them apart.