Whichwood(50)

Oh, Oliver would never forgive himself.

He could have prevented all of this from happening. The group of them could have worked tirelessly through those first few nights to dispatch Laylee’s dead. They could’ve put to bed the possibility of angry souls ever seeking revenge. They could’ve been more understanding of the difficulties of Laylee’s life.

If only, he said to himself, over and over again. If only.

It was their fault that her father had been killed. It was because of them that Laylee was about to lose everything. He and Alice had forced their way into Laylee’s life and ruined all that had ever mattered to her. Never mind the fact that he would never forgive himself—

What if Laylee never forgave him?





It was still spring in Ferenwood.

Springtime was always the season for the annual Surrender and, as Alice and Oliver had not been gone very long (careful readers will note that time passes in identical increments in Ferenwood and Whichwood, despite their different seasons), the two friends returned home to find their fresh, blooming spring weather still intact. It was a bit of a shock, really, this abrupt transition between winter and spring, and it took a bit of getting used to.

As the three of them disembarked the elevator at the edge of town, they were met by an audience of angry Town Elders whose dour facial expressions said everything Alice and Oliver needed to know. The Elders spoke loudly and angrily, gesticulating for effect as they made grave pronouncements of disappointment, and finished it all by handing both Alice and Oliver a sealed envelope containing the details of the official hearing they’d be required to attend. Apparently the two friends had broken several cross-magical ordinances and would have to be seen by a judge who would decide upon a suitable punishment. Nothing too serious, of course—as they were underage—but perhaps several weeks of community service or some such.

Alice cried and clung to her father, visibly remorseful.

Oliver couldn’t be bothered to care.

He was instructed by the Elders to head home straightaway, where they were sure his parents would dole out their own punishments. Oliver nearly laughed out loud. He had the magic of persuasion—he hadn’t been punished since he’d learned how to speak.

Alice’s mother was standing quietly by, and as Father and Alice broke free to meet her, Oliver found himself suddenly alone. No one would be coming for him. He’d long ago destroyed any hopes of having a healthy relationship with his family by too often distorting their minds with persuasion. He’d discovered his magic at too young and too immature an age, and he’d used it against his parents as frequently as he saw fit—regularly entrancing them for weeks at a time so that Oliver had been able to come and go and do as he pleased. Just last year Alice had helped him recognize the error of his ways, and Oliver finally came clean to his family, hoping to repair the damage. Sadly, his parents had been frightened by him, and theirs had been a painful conversation. Oliver knew now that it would be a long time before he would regain their trust.

Now his parents kept a polite distance from their only child; they were still getting to know him—still relearning their relationship. In many ways Oliver, at fourteen years old, was a veritable stranger to them. And this was the source of a deep and terrible regret that kept our brooding friend from using his magic as much as he used to.

Oliver sighed, shoved one hand into his pocket, and grimaced as he waved good-bye to a tearful Alice. He’d be in touch with her soon enough, he was sure, but he couldn’t help but wonder how she’d be punished for her failures. For now, it was best they went their separate ways.

And so they did.

Oliver ducked his head as he walked, shoulders tense and rounded, and failed to notice the beautiful land he lived in. The tall grass danced against his legs as he moved and he shuddered at the touch, jerking away; butterflies fluttered against his fingers and he flicked them off, grumbling; the sun was high and jolly and warm and Oliver, irritated, muttered an ungentlemanly word under his breath. He’d never missed the cold so much.

Spring weather did not suit his state of mind.

Oliver was soon annoyed by everything—the soothing sounds of nearby rivers, the cheerful flowers that flanked him, the bright leaves of faraway trees swaying carelessly in the wind. He found himself snapping at a large bird that had landed on his shoulder, shouting at the poor creature so suddenly that it took flight in a hurry, its talons catching and tearing at his shirt. It was unlike him to be so uncharitable to the world. It was unlike him to be seen without a smile.

But Whichwood had bewitched him, and now that Oliver was home again he wanted, once more, to run away.

Ferenwood had never felt quite right to him. It had always been a size too small for his spirit—not so uncomfortable that he could not bear it, but just uncomfortable enough to be constantly on his mind. Oliver strained against the safe idyll of Ferenwood. It was a lovely town, yes—predictably so—but Oliver tired of the pleasant people and their unbounded kindness. He’d been hounded for years by an incessant whisper that begged him to explore extraordinary places, to look for complexity in people and spaces—and it was for precisely this reason that he’d enjoyed Furthermore so much.* Oliver wanted to get lost on purpose. He wanted to have baffling conversations with strangers; he wanted to learn new languages and eat food he’d never heard of and—well, the simple truth was that he didn’t feel about Ferenwood the way that Alice did. Alice loved it there with every bit of her soul. She was a Ferenwood girl from foot to forehead, and she would be happy there, in that colorful land, for the rest of her life.