The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There(26)

And now that Glasswort Groof had said it, the Market silks did seem rather tattered, the booths splintering, the whole place groaning and sorry. Had it been that way before? September could not be sure.

“But you! You’re wanting something. It’s all over you, like musk and brume! And whatever it is, we have it, there’s simply no possibility that we don’t.” Glasswort licked her lips.

“And what are we lacking, if it smells so strong?” said September. Her stomach growled after the carrots, though she knew better, she did know better. “What kind of Market did you catch out in the woods?”

“Why, can’t you tell? It’s a Grand Arcade of Bones’ Desire!”

“My bones don’t want anything!” September laughed.

“I don’t think shadows have any,” Ell murmured.

“Shows what you know, sunny-girl! I’m sure you’ve heard people talk about their Heart’s Desire—well that’s a load of rot. Hearts are idiots. They’re big and squishy and full of daft dreams. They flounce off to write poetry and moon at folk who aren’t worth the mooning. Bones are the ones that have to make the journey, fight the monster, kneel before whomever is big on kneeling these days. Bones do the work for the heart’s grand plans. Bones know what you need. Hearts only know want. I much prefer to deal with children, boggans, and villains, who haven’t got hearts to get in the way of the very important magic of Getting-Things-Done.”

September tried to feel what her bones were needing, but they only felt tired.

“As for what you’re lacking, I think I know, I do! Groof’s nose knows a hundred wants and more. My nose is my wand—for selling, for buying, for longing, for sighing, for striking a bargain on the bone-bald barrelhead! Come, come!”


They followed her into the little Market. It made itself over especially for them, trying to hide its shabbiness and put its best face forward. Each stall showed hints of wonders dug out of the depths of their yearnings: vials of ocean water and delicate silver mechanisms for sending messages between Marids, who float in time as in a tide. A bouquet of glittering lemon ices in sheet-sugar cones, a dashing red coat of scales just so very like skin, and a full, illustrated, ribbon-marked leather-bound set of encyclopedias labelled M through Z. Saturday and Ell looked longingly at them. September tried not to see the girl-size wings and caps of darkness and real swords guaranteed to slay eighty-five percent of Dark Lords—and even her mother’s dear, dusty chocolate cake on a tarnished silver pedestal.

“Not that I am totally obsessed with merchantry!” said Glasswort Groof as she led them in an artful circle round the Market. “Goblins are well-rounded, though you’d never think it from the dastard tales folk tell of us. For example, I enjoy stamp collecting as well as haggling. The stamps that pay our letters’ way Above are works of art, practically bigger than the envelope! I’ve an early Mallow three-kisser with a rampant rhinocentaur on it in pewter paint. Pride of my collection. And it goes without saying I’m quite the gardener. Goblin vegetables pack twice the punch of fruit with half the delicacy of a simpering little apricot. Soon turnips will be all the rage!”

“I’m afraid,” September said softly, then cleared her throat and tried it again. She refused to be ashamed—she’d been swooped up without so much as a suitcase, after all. “I’m afraid we haven’t any money. As you said.”

“Nonsense!” cried Glasswort, and she laid her finger aside her nose, which was hard and bony and covered in bits of jade. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I smelled you across the black plain. Had to wait til you were out of the Duchy’s Protection, but I knew you’d pay for the wear on my pocket watch. You’re rich as a bowl of beets.”

Saturday frowned. Shimmers of blue moved like water in his shadowy forehead. “We’re not that,” he said. “We’re not paupers; I’m sure I’ve got a pint of breath here or perhaps a teaspoon of tears, but rich is pushing it.”

The Goblin girl clucked, her frog-colored cheeks puffing out and in. “I don’t know, Marid, Breath is down this week, but Tears have made a strong showing. Voices are up, up, up, Firstborns are at rock-bottom basement prices, and Blood has suffered a bit of a drop since the Winds came back. Still, it’s a bull Market and you’ve got plenty. Pity about that kiss, though.”

September started, then colored, remembering that Saturday—Saturday! The shyest boy in the world!—had kissed her in the Samovar.

“Oh, yes, girl. First Kisses are currency standard! If I’d only caught you sooner you could’ve bought up half my stock for one pucker-up. Too bad—but that’s what comes of hanging about with royalty. They bleed you dry. Now, I believe this is your stop.”

They had come to a booth wound about with bolts of dark silk and fringes of bluebuckwheat and heavy luckfigs. Two pedestals tipped with violet velvet pillows stood inside. Languorous tangerine-colored lights curved up in an arc that read, NECESSITY IS THE MOTHER OF TEMPTATION.

“We don’t need anything,” said Saturday indignantly. “We’re going to Tain for the Revel! Everything we need will be there!”

“Ah, but how will you get there, my little blue man? Tain is far away in the center of Fairyland-Below, and the Revel begins at midnight. I’m afraid you need Tickets, Direction, Aid and Abetting! But, of course, my human friend is much more interested in an audience with the Queen than with Reveling about and mucking up her shoes.”