Whichwood(53)

And as Oliver waved back—his eyes assessing her uninjured body, her calm demeanor—something occurred to him. “Hey!” Oliver shouted, turning on Benyamin. “Why didn’t you have your spiders tie her up? Why just me?”

Benyamin looked surprised. “Well,” he said. “It was a group decision, actually. And we didn’t think you’d come willingly.”

“What?” said Oliver, equally surprised. “Why not?”

“You just . . . you seemed so upset with me,” Alice said quietly, stepping forward. “You wouldn’t talk to me on the way home. You wouldn’t say a word when we got here. You didn’t even say good-bye when you left—”

“I waved.”

“And I thought—I thought you might hate me for what I’d done.”

“Hate you?” Oliver said. “No—Alice, I don’t . . .” He trailed off with a sigh, running a shaky hand through his silver hair. “You’re my best friend,” he said finally. “I don’t hate you.”

“But you won’t even look at me.”

Oliver swallowed hard.

“I’m so sorry,” Alice said, her voice tinny and small. “You have no idea how sorry I am. Not just for hurting Laylee—but for hurting you. I can see how much you care for her.”

Oliver looked up, then. Startled.

“Oh, you can’t possibly be surprised,” said Benyamin, rolling his eyes. “Your infatuation is obvious to everyone.”

Oliver flushed a highly unflattering, blotchy sort of red. “You don’t”—he cleared his throat—“you don’t think it’s obvious to her, though, do you?”

Benyamin looked like he might laugh. “I think she’s been a bit preoccupied.”

“Right,” said Oliver, nodding, almost exhaling the word.

“Anyhow.” Alice clapped her hands together to gather their attentions. “My point here is that we’re going to make this right for Laylee. Benyamin is here to take us back.”

“Really?” Oliver looked around, stunned. “How? Actually, wait—how did you get here?”

And Benyamin smiled.




They were standing at the edge of a tall cliff in a very remote part of town. There was nothing here but dense vegetation, canopied trees, and tall flowers touching their knees. This was an uninhabited part of Ferenwood for the simple reason that it was a dangerous area to occupy. There was no barrier against the steep fall—plans were still in the works to develop the area—and there were signs posted everywhere warning trespassers away from the edge. Here, the water lashed fast and heavy against the side of the cliff; this exit would be very different from the gentle entry they’d made just that morning. The underwater elevator they’d taken with Father had deposited them in much calmer waters right near the center of town. But this—well, Oliver wasn’t sure how they’d survive the jump. The drop was at least a thousand feet.

Most worrisome, however, was the shape of Alice’s plan.

She and Benyamin had sketched out their ideas in a few blunt sentences, but Oliver had remained wary. “I still don’t understand how you showing up to the courthouse and painting a picture is going to save her job,” he’d said to Alice. “How could that possibly be enough?”

“It’s not a picture, Oliver,” Alice said for what felt like the umpteenth time. “It’ll be a live painting.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry, I’ve brought my brushes and everything. Father has been teaching me how to focus and refine the colors as I imagine them.”

Oliver sighed. “Yes,” he said, “I know, and I’m happy you’ve made progress, but I just—well, our plan is to help Laylee remain a mordeshoor, yes?”

Alice nodded.

“So then isn’t my type of magic better suited for the situation? Couldn’t I just use my words against them? Say something to convince them?”

This time, it was Benyamin who shook his head. “The effect of your magic is temporary. You’d have to re-convince every member of the jury on a daily basis for the rest of your life. No, no, we need a real, permanent solution.” Benyamin began pacing. “Alice painting a living picture of what it is, exactly, that Laylee does could be what changes everything. The people of Whichwood, you see, have no idea what Laylee does for the dead. There are some rumors, of course; a few old wives’ tales; but our people haven’t the faintest clue how complex, tender, or taxing her work is—or how many steps are involved.”

“How is that possible?” said Oliver, stunned. “She’s a key member of your society. Her work is invaluable to the revolving door of existence.”

“Well, it’s quite simple, really: They’re not supposed to know.” Benyamin shrugged. “Laylee’s magic is performed exclusively for the dead, and her home is protected by ancient mordeshoor magic that insulates her from the world. Unless there to help her work, a civilian cannot remain for the duration. Of course, volunteers are certainly welcome in the home of a mordeshoor, but as you well know, they’re hard to find. So the people are happily ignorant of her suffering.”

“Right,” said Alice. She took a deep breath. “So. Our plan is to make a case for Laylee’s job by showing the people of Whichwood exactly what she does. We want them to know how much she cares—that she has lovingly transported the bodies of their loved ones to the Otherwhere and that no cold, modern magic would honor the deceased the way a mordeshoor does.”