The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There(27)

On one of the violet velvet pillows, three elegant-looking tickets swirled into being, painted parchment with their names stamped upon them and a curious dark serpent wending through the decorated capitals and edgework. September’s own ticket said, under her name: THE WEEPING EEL, 7:35 EXPRESS, COACH CLASS.

“What am I bid for the tickets?” chirped Glasswort Groof with a grin. She had her quarry and she knew it. “Now, don’t go thinking you can hoof it. There’s no faster travel than by Eel, no more thrilling or willing, and you’ll never make it even by Wyvern wing, which, if you’ll forgive me, young sir, is not half as fast as phoenix or pterodactyl. It’s only the truth I tell! And it just so happens that while we’ve been jawing, my girl has been moving us toward the station—we’ll be there before you know it, and I’ll have you all ready to go with fine, legitimate tickets—looking a little shabby for a Revel, I admit, but at least you’ll be punctual!”


“I … I don’t know!” said September fretfully. The Goblin spoke so fast, but surely they needed those tickets—and now. Her heart beat wretchedly with fear, and Ell rocked from foot to foot with anxiety. “I haven’t got anything but a rind of moonkin and a couple of onions, and you were talking about standard currencies and breath is down and tears are up, and I’ve just no idea what you mean by any of that.”

“Goblin futures,” said Ell, settling down now that he had something to lecture about. “The math is frightful. I think it might actually fall under Queer Physicks. In terms of pure buying power, two Kisses make a Phial of Tears, three Phials make a Pound of Flesh, Five Pounds make a Maiden’s Voice, eight Voices make a Prince’s Honor, and sixteen-and-one-half Honors make a Firstborn. But they’re all traded on the Grand Market, and some days a Prince’s Honor isn’t worth your best Kiss. They trade other things, too. Breath, Blood, Wishes, Hours.”

“How can you trade an hour?” September asked.

“Oh, Hours are delightful.” Glasswort sighed. “You can pile them up in a vault with Half Hours, Quarter Hours, Minutes and Seconds, and what a sight to see, all the colors, the shapes, one on top of the other! Of course not all Hours are worth the same. An Hour from a great battle is far more lucrative than a Sleeping Hour. A Queen’s Hour will trump a Stray Cat’s Hour every time. And, Mr. Wyvern, I must correct you, the Firstborns have been taken out of circulation. You would not believe how the Market got flooded! Parents these days! After the Incident, the currency was completely devalued. You-Know-Who and his stupid straw-into-gold trick. I myself barely survived the crash. You won’t meet a Goblin who doesn’t have a passel of children to look after these days. I’ve got three of my own. Now the tickets,” said Glasswort, without missing a beat. She held out her thumb, squinted her eye, and clucked again at each of them, sizing September and Saturday and Ell up.

“I’ll have your moonkin rind and three hours off you,” she finally said.

“What about us?” asked Ell.

“No need. That’ll pay for the lot.”

“But we could split the hours, one for each of us,” insisted Saturday. There he was, thought September, the boy who wanted to protect her. Who gave her his favor.

Glasswort Groof laughed. It sounded as though it came from underwater. “I don’t want your time! I want hers. She’s got a Heroine’s Hours to barter with, and that’s worth ever so much more than you could shake out of your pockets, even if you had them, my jolly shadow-boys. As for her rind, it’s had the sun on it. Fat and gold as a pat of butter. I want it, and I will have it.”

“I’m not a heroine,” September said softly. “Not this time. I’m a Fairy Bishop. I’ve work to do.”

“Bishop’s Hours are fine by me, however you want to call yourself, upsider.” Groof leaned back on the rail of the booth, in her element.

September sniffed and picked at something imaginary on the ruff of her coat. “Well,” she sighed, “the rind you can have, but how about we settle on a half hour and call it clear?” September had a shrewdness in her she’d hardly begun to use, and out it came with banners flying. She was not about to give up three whole hours—why, that was forever! She’d gone with her mother to buy seed and feed and greens plenty of times. She knew the price on the barrel was rarely the price you had to pay.

Glasswort clapped her hands. “Good girl! Oh, Skinflint-Pan bless my generous heart! Humans never want to haggle it down these days. Firstborn? Yep, spit in the hand, deal’s done. Never thought of saying, ‘What about the second-born? Or better yet, let me keep my blubbering, clumsy children and will you take a nice armoire from the hall?’ Now. I can’t take less than two Hours, my sweet little celery root. You’d be leaving me bereft and cheated. Times being what they are.”

September pretended to consider it, picking at some invisible fluff on the ruff of her wine-colored coat. “How about fifteen minutes and a kiss? I’m not feeling terribly weepy at the moment, but I’m sure I could think of something sad and summon up a Phial or two to seal it.”

Glasswort frowned deeply. The corners of her mouth glittered. “Tears must be genuine, my dear, or they’re worth nothing at all. I could make you weep, if I liked. Making children weep is easy, as easy as pulling potatoes. But I don’t want your crying. I want your time. An hour and a half, and not a minute less, and I’ll have that kiss, too. Second Kisses aren’t as premium, but they’re steady money.”