R. Anderson - Wayfarer

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“I do not know,” Valerian admitted. “You are still too young to undertake your quest, and even if you were not, you would need human help to travel any great distance.”

“You think they’re far away, then? The other faeries?”

“I believe so,” said Valerian. “If they were nearby, we would surely have found them by now. Queen Amaryllis thinks that some may live among the humans, even passing for human themselves, as we Oakenfolk used to do before the Sundering. Perhaps in the great city they call London…”

London. It sounded almost like her name. A sign, perhaps? Could this be the Great Gardener’s way of showing her where to go?

“But as I said,” Valerian added with more firmness, “you are young. The Queen’s gift of magic has bought us time, and there is no need to send you away, not yet.”

Linden looked down at her bare feet, brown against the white fur of the carpet. Valerian might think they could afford to wait, but she had no such confidence. Already the glamours that wrapped the Oak were weakening, exposing its doors and windows to human sight, and the wards that kept the tree safe from predators would soon fail as well.

By working together she and Valerian could perhaps renew the faltering spells, and Knife would surely do her best to keep the Oakenfolk safe and fed. But, those were only temporary solutions. There would be no security and no future for any of them until they had their magic back.

Linden knew she was young. But the Queen had given her an occupation- my ambassador -which meant she was no longer a child. And though the idea of going out into the world alone made cold worms crawl beneath her skin, neither could she bear to think of sitting idle while her people were in danger.

There was no telling when the opportunity for her to leave the Oak would arise. But in the silence of her heart, Linden vowed that when it came, she would be ready.

“I expected more of a missionary’s son.”

The dean’s parting words still nagged at Timothy as he stepped off the train. He crossed the platform, pushed his way into the little station, and looked around the waiting room for a familiar face. But all he saw were strangers, so he dropped his bags on the floor and slumped onto one of the benches.

Suspended from school for two weeks-that much he’d expected, even counted on. And of course he’d known the dean would give him a lecture beforehand, full of mournful reproaches like You were such a fine student and Why did you do it, Sinclair?

But bringing his parents into it…that was low. Timothy swiped the dark wing of hair away from his eyes and sank down in his seat, scowling.

A woman in a long winter coat swished past, and the guitar case he’d propped against the wall began to topple. Hastily he grabbed the instrument and steadied it. Then his eyes fell to

the sticker pasted on the lid: GREENHILL CHRISTIAN BOYS’ SCHOOL, EST. 1956

“LET YOUR LIGHT SO SHINE BEFORE MEN.”

With sudden savagery Timothy dug a thumbnail under the sticker and began ripping it off piece by piece, until nothing remained but a gummy wad of paper in his hand. He shook it off into the nearby bin and slouched down again.

Minutes ticked by as he sat: five, ten, twenty. All the while people marched in and out of the station, most of them white skinned and thin lipped and walking as though they were in a hurry. Timothy studied their faces as they passed, but none looked familiar. Had his cousin forgotten him?

An icy gust swirled through the open door, and Timothy pulled his jacket closer. Six months in this country and he hadn’t gotten used to the cold: He might look like an English boy, but he still felt Ugandan inside….

“There you are!”

He started and looked around to see Peri, his cousin’s wife, striding toward him. “You’ve grown,” she remarked, scooping his backpack from the floor and slinging it over her shoulder before bending to pick up Timothy’s suitcase as well. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Nice lip, by the way.” And with that she headed for the door, her long legs carrying her down the steps with ease.

Was it that obvious? Timothy touched his swollen mouth and winced. He grabbed his guitar and hurried out after Peri, arriving at the parking lot to see her fling open the back door of a small red car and toss the suitcase inside as though it weighed nothing whatsoever.

“Get in,” she said.

Was she angry with him or just being her usual no-nonsense self? It was probably better not to ask. Timothy slid his guitar into the backseat and climbed in.

As they drove away from the station, Timothy watched Peri closely. On the surface she looked just the same as she had on his last visit three years ago: still lean as a cheetah, with hair as pale as her eyes were dark and an unconventional, almost feral, beauty. But there was no expression on her features, and she kept her gaze fixed on the road, not even glancing at him.

“So tell me,” she said as she steered the car into a roundabout, “what brings you here? I thought Paul’s parents were supposed to look after you if anything happened.”

“They are,” said Timothy, “but they’ve gone to Majorca. They won’t be back until the end of the month.”

“I see. So Paul’s agreed to take you for-what? Two weeks?”

“Three, actually,” said Timothy. “I’ve got half-term right after the suspension.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s a week of holidays after-” he began in a louder tone, but she cut him off.

“I’m not deaf. I’m asking, what’s a suspension ?”

For an intelligent woman, Peri had some surprising gaps in her knowledge. “I got sent away from school,” he said. “For hitting another boy.”

Her brows flicked upward. “That’s an odd sort of punishment.”

“Not really,” said Timothy, thinking of the schoolbooks stuffed into his backpack. Not to mention the thousand-word essay on the Beatitudes the dean had assigned him as penance. Blessed are the peacemakers…

“Did he deserve it? The boy you hit?”

Timothy shifted in his seat. “Sort of. But not really. I just…” He hesitated, wondering whether to tell her the truth, then suppressed the impulse and went on, “I guess I just lost my temper.”

Peri looked skeptical but made no further comment. Timothy glanced out the side window. They’d driven out of Aynsbridge now, and were speeding along a narrow road lined with hedgerows. At first the route seemed unfamiliar, but then he started to see landmarks he recognized: There on the left was the wood where he’d happily lost himself on his first visit, and farther down lay the pond he’d fallen into the last time, trying to catch the biggest frog he’d ever seen.

“I suppose you’ve been wondering why we haven’t had you come and stay with us before,” said Peri suddenly. “You probably thought we were ignoring you, but…” She lifted her hands briefly from the wheel, shaping an apologetic gesture. “We’ve had a lot to deal with these past few months. It’s nothing to do with you. I’m sorry we haven’t been able to make you more welcome.”

Timothy watched his own reflection in the window. He wished she hadn’t brought that up: It just fired his resentment all over again. He’d expected to see a lot of Paul and Peri once he came to school in England, and visit them often at their big house in the countryside. But instead he’d spent all his holidays at his aunt and uncle’s cottage in Tunbridge Wells, with neither cousin nor friend in sight. How long would it have taken Paul and Peri to acknowledge his existence, if he hadn’t practically forced them to take him in?