The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There(28)

“I think we could hitch the Eel.” September shrugged. “I saw a man jump the rails into a grain car out on the tracks by the creek. Didn’t look that hard.”


Glasswort Groof bawled laughter. “You try it! I’d love to watch. I’d be telling that tale for ages. You’ll end up fried as dinner, kid. You don’t want to know what an Eel’s third rail looks like. An hour and a quarter, the kiss, and a lock of your hair—final offer, take it or leave it.”

September made a gargling, sniffing, spitting noise in the back of her throat as she’d seen her father do when he didn’t want some butcher to know what he thought of the price of beef. “Show me a line of folk waiting to buy those tickets, and I’ll take the price you set. No?” She turned around, looking behind her. September was enjoying the pantomime. It occurred to her that this was a grown-up pleasure, a game like jacks or rummy. The older, wiser part of her thrilled to it. “Nobody? The rind and one hour, then. No Kiss, no Tears, and my handshake on the deal.” September stuck out her hand.

Groof hooted in delight, spat in her hand (her spit globbed bright magenta), and shook on it.

“Well,” September said somewhat nervously, now that it was done. “What’s an hour in the scheme of things? Can I choose when to spend it?”

“’Fraid not,” the Goblin admitted. “Buyer’s Market. But like you say, what’s an hour?”

September squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. She expected it to hurt, as it had when the Glashtyn took her shadow, but all she felt was the warm hands of the Goblin girl on her forehead, and a single sharp tick of pain, like a hand snapping into place on a clock face.

“But child, you can’t go to the Revel looking like that,” Groof whispered confidentially, now she had the Hour safe in hand. “You’ll shame your folk back home. Do you want everyone to think your world is a no-account country whose chief export is grimy, determined girls?”

“I look fine!” September protested. The red coat pulled defensively around her, quite huffy at the implication.

A-Through-L grinned through his great long whiskers. “Oh, but don’t you want to dazzle Halloween when you see her? When we—well, when he—goes to see his grandfather finally, he’ll make sure he has been bathed up right! He might even invest in a cravat! Oh!” Ell stopped as though he had just thought of a terrible, wonderful thing. “Do you think there’s a shadow of the Municipal Library in Tain?” He sat down suddenly on his dark haunches as though the thought had never occurred to him before, swirls of worried, hopeful violet moving in his tail.

September had not thought much about what might happen when she met her shadow. Did she want to dazzle it? It’s really like seeing a school-friend who moved away years back, she thought. You want to look nice, but you don’t want to make them feel poorly. Not if you want to make friends again.

While she considered this, the Market went to work.

On the other pedestal, on the other violet velvet pillow, a dress slowly formed out of mist and shadow.

It was like no other dress September had ever seen. Just looking at it made her feel shabby in her faded, re-sewn birthday dress and old red coat. It was orange, to be sure. No dress that was not could tempt her. But it was a dark, reddish, grown-up orange, stitched with droplets of gold. Garnets hung on its plunging neckline. The shimmery copper-crimson skirt had soft, draping tiers held up by jewelled black rosettes. A deep, dark green silken rope circled the waist three times and a pair of bright copper pocket watches dangled from the slim bustle.

It was too old for her. It was too fine and knowing. September, a practical and still very young girl from the fields of Nebraska, found that, for no reason at all, it felt to her strangely dangerous. Her red coat’s fur collar bristled and it drew in close around her as if to say, You don’t need that trussed-up thing. I can keep you safe. I don’t want company.

“That’s a lady’s dress,” whispered September.

“It’s a Watchful Dress,” beamed Groof proudly. “Made in the Blunderbuss Bluffs by Banderos of the first rank. It’ll never let you down—and I’ll pin a pretty brooch on it for no charge. When the stone goes dark, you’ll know your Hour’s gone.” With a flourish, a pin appeared in the Goblin girl’s hand and she stuck it on the breast of the Watchful Dress. It was very pretty, silver, with a glowing misty white stone surrounded by tiny, tiny gems like speckles of hoarfrost.

“September,” said Saturday gently, “let me buy it for you. I’ve tears enough for it, I’m sure.”

“This dress costs much more than tears, my lad,” Groof said sadly, shaking her great green jeweled head. “More than kisses and hours. And no haggling—you haven’t the time. Listen!” And they could hear, like a train whistle in the distance, a low, sweet melancholy moan. “The Eel’s coming into the station.”

All around the Market, blue lamps lit up out of the dark mist. A bell tolled softly. A hanging, swaying sign swung into sight: FEVER-ROOT STATION.

Glasswort Groof planted her large, thorny feet. “I told you about the Firstborns. We’re swimming in them! They’re not a bad lot, but I never wanted children. Let my brothers handle that; they love bonnets and bassinets! My bairns keep the Market up all hours with their whining for home. Take one off me and the dress is yours. It’s worth it, trust me—it may seem a pretty, useless bauble, but that’s what they say about upsider boys and girls, and they have some good uses all the same. Aubergine, get out here!”