Carrie Vaughn - Discord's Apple

“Dad?”

He hesitated, hand on the doorknob.

“I went downstairs last night.” She let that hang for a moment, waiting for him to offer a response, wondering what he would say without her prompting him.

“Oh?” was all he said.

She wet her lips and tried again. “The storeroom—has the stuff in there ever been cataloged? Do you have any idea what all is down there? What it’s worth? You could have your own antique show.”

A slow smile grew on his lips, and the look in his eye told her before he even spoke that he wasn’t going to answer her question.

“I’ll see you this afternoon,” he said, then was gone.

Figured. Though she wondered why a roomful of antiques demanded such deep dark secrecy. Had someone in their family’s history been a master thief? Run a pawnshop in the last century and never bothered to sell off the assets? Was a budding museum curator? At least he hadn’t gotten angry at her for invading the forbidden storeroom.

She set up her laptop in the living room, on the coffee table, and sat on the hardwood floor in her robe and stocking feet. She’d shower and change later. Who did she have to impress?

Curled up in the middle of the carpet, napping politely, Mab kept her company. When Evie got up for a glass of water or to stretch her muscles, Mab always looked at her, ears cocked, alert. When Evie relaxed, so did Mab. Evie worked up the courage to scratch the dog’s ears; Mab acknowledged the attention with a couple thumps of her tail. Her father must have kept the stray dog for company.

Bruce had already e-mailed her sketches of the new pages. He must have been up all night, too. Once colored, the Cessna explosion was going to be spectacular. He had it covering a two-page spread.

So, what to write next. They had a formula that demanded a certain number of shots fired each issue, and she was in danger of running short. She needed a battle scene.

The crew barreled across the tundra in a stolen Jeep, racing against an execution order sent out for one of the men they were supposed to rescue. The Blackhawk was out of commission for now—sabotage in the fuel tank. The Russians were supposed to be helping them, but someone on the inside didn’t want them to succeed. A three-way battle ensued, and no one was sure who was siding with whom.

Usually, Evie wrote things like “chase scene” and “fight,” and let Bruce’s capable imagination construct the details in four-color panels that splashed across entire pages.

But something about this battle tickled her story instincts. Throw out a clue, a hook that could carry the plot to the next issue. An enemy chopper ran them down. Matchlock managed to steer them into a gully and under cover, but not before Talon saw a face he swore he knew, a man he thought he had left behind to die in the arctic years before. Talon had had to make a decision—stay to save his platoon-mate, or leave and ensure the success of the mission. Talon had abandoned him. The memory still haunted him.

And there the issue ended, centered on the expression of stark disbelief on Talon’s face.

Next issue: He’ll want to follow the enemy chopper. He’ll want to learn what had happened to his friend, how he’d survived. Tracker argues with him. Her mind is on the spy imprisoned in Siberia. On the mission. She’ll go alone if she has to, she’ll defy him—

Someone knocked on the door.

Evie couldn’t see who it was out the kitchen window. Mab wasn’t barking. She opened the door.

An old woman stood on the porch, looking at Evie with a patient, expectant expression. Mab turned a circle and wagged her tail, as if asking for praise, or forgiveness, or any acknowledgment of her canine presence.

“Can I help you?” Evie felt awkward in her unwashed, half-dressed state, not worthy to appear before this kind old woman.

“Perhaps,” she said. “I’m looking for something, and I thought it might be here.”

Her skin was wrinkled like old linen, and her hair was ash gray and tied in a bun at her neck. Her eyes were clear and green.

She might have been anyone, from anywhere. Someone from town, from down the street, from the next farm over, looking for a stick of butter, or wanting to borrow a hammer. But Evie’s blood rushed in her ears. She felt electrified, like when she’d touched the fleece in the storeroom.

Her words seemed to come from some other lips. “What are you looking for?”

“Shoes. A pair of slippers, like you might wear with a ball gown.”

Evie didn’t know where the words came from. She spoke on a hunch. “Glass slippers?”

The woman smiled, lighting her face. “Yes, exactly.”

“Come in.” Moving softly, Evie led her to the basement. She stopped the woman outside the storeroom. “Wait here.”

She didn’t even need the flashlight this time. She stepped around the stacks of crates and warrens of shelves. Dozens of boxes, a hundred objects wrapped in cloth and packed away, and Evie knew where to go. Only her second time in this room, and she knew. Against the side wall was a wardrobe made of oak with beveled edges and brass knobs. Inside hung gowns—rich, amazing gowns that seemed to sparkle with their own light, shimmering and changing color when Evie tilted her head. At the bottom of the wardrobe, shoes were stacked. Iron shoes that might be put in a fire until they were red hot. A tiny pair of boots that might have fit a cat. Sandals with leather wings stitched to them. Gold slippers, silk slippers. Glass slippers to fit a pair of small feet—blown glass, etched with ribbons and lines to make them look as if they’d been sewn. Flashing, they caught the scant light, which seemed to shine deep within the glass. Evie picked them up; they were light, fragile. She couldn’t imagine dancing in them.

Then, without her own volition—like a character in a story, she thought wildly—she was walking to the door. The glass slippers were drawn to the old woman. They led Evie back to her, and Evie let them guide her. She didn’t have a choice.

Holding them in both hands, she presented them to the woman. With both hands, the woman took them from her.

“Oh! Not even a scratch on them. They might have been made yesterday. Better than I had hoped.” She cradled them to her breast and turned a wondering gaze on Evie. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

Evie saw the woman to the door. Scratching Mab’s ears, she watched her walk down the driveway to the road, but turned away rather than see if the old woman was going to walk all the way to town, or if she’d simply disappear into thin air, back to where she came from. Evie didn’t want to know. Her hands were shaking.

Like something from a story. A golden fleece. A pair of glass slippers. The slippers knew that the old woman had come for them, as if they had a sentience of their own. Did every object in the storeroom have that same sense of knowing ?

She didn’t even know how to ask that question.

When her father returned, she was sitting at the kitchen table, hands pressed flat to its surface. It was how she finally got them to stop trembling.

“Evie? What’s wrong.”

Carefully, she explained. “An old woman came to the door. She asked for glass slippers. I found them in the basement, so I gave them to her. Is that okay?”

He sat across from her. “That isn’t the right question. Tell me: Could you have not given them to her?”

She shook her head. “They wanted to be with her.” She winced, knowing how odd it sounded, knowing it made no sense, but she had no other words to say. She could still feel the shoes pulling at her grasp.

“Then it’s okay.” He reached across and touched her hand.

“It wasn’t me, Dad. It was something else, like someone was moving my arms and making me talk—”