Authors: William Alexander
“Did the Mayor give you your own house?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” said Vass. “A dusty and ghoul-haunted place right here on the Fiddleway, and it’s all my very own.”
“He promised you a house in Northside,” Rownie said.
“He did,” Vass agreed, “but he’s less happy with me now than he was—even though I got him safely through the tunnel. But I don’t really mind. I’m not so fond of Northside,
and it isn’t a bad thing to live in sanctuary. Can’t arrest anyone on the bridge.”
She got one finger stuck in her string game, and tried to untangle it. She cursed. The web of string turned to ash and blew away. She cursed again, fished more string from a pouch at her belt, and started over. “Speaking of sanctuary, I wouldn’t leave the Fiddleway for a while. The Lord Mayor is unhappy with you. I’ve seen several posters with your face and name.”
“I don’t have a name,” said Rownie. “I only have my brother’s name, made small.” He said it without any bitterness, but Vass flinched at her own words turned back on her.
“I think it’s your name, now,” she said.
“Maybe.” Rownie looked out at the River, which still flowed higher than its usual custom. “Maybe it is my name.” He made it more true by saying it aloud.
Vass got her fingers stuck in the string again. She bit back a curse, and slowly untangled her fingers. She seemed to be struggling with words as much as she struggled with the string.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I’m sorry I brought the Mayor and his Captain down on you. I’m sorry about Rowan. I didn’t know what they had done to him. I really didn’t know. I thought handing you over to the Mayor
wouldn’t be nearly as bad as what Graba would’ve probably done to you. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Rownie looked at her, surprised. “Thanks,” he said.
Vass looked at him, and then looked away. “It seems like Graba might actually leave you alone. Southside didn’t flood. She’ll be happy about that, as happy as she ever gets, and she knows you had some part in it. So she’ll probably let you be.”
“Good,” said Rownie. “I’m glad I don’t have to worry so much about pigeons.”
The two of them watched the River flow beneath the Fiddleway. Then Vass gave up on her string game, and climbed down from the wall. “I’ll be here if you need anything cursed or charmed,” she said.
“Good-bye, Vass,” Rownie said. “Good luck with the cursing and charming.” He almost said
Break your face
instead of
Good luck
, but he thought she might take it wrong.
Once alone, his fingers found the pebble in his coat pocket. He set it on the wall and spun it a few times, like a top. Then he threw the pebble, just to say hello. Rownie watched his brother reach up to catch it.
He climbed down from the low wall and returned to the Clock Tower, through the stable doors that Semele had invited him to see. He returned to learn mask craft
and swordplay and all the rest of his new profession. He returned to eat supper.
The tower smelled like cooking. It smelled buttery and good. It reminded him that he was hungry, that hunger followed him always and buzzed behind everything he did. It reminded him that he didn’t have to fend for himself here. He took off his brother’s old coat as he climbed the stairs and found a costume rack to hang it on. It felt strange to be without it.
Someone—probably Nonny—had put a wood stove outside the pantry and propped up a long metal pipe for a chimney. Cooking smoke climbed the pipe and rose through the tower’s workings.
Thomas stood by the stove in an apron. He spooned several dollops of dough onto a flat metal skillet. Semele sat nearby with a book in her hands and her feet on a stool, toes pointed at the stove to soak up its warmth. Nonny, Patch, and Essa all sprawled on the floor, playing cards. Thomas looked up at the boy, grunted, and scooped a finished flatbread onto a plate.
“Don’t burn your fingers,” the old goblin said.
Rownie took the plate and sat down with the rest of his troupe. His fingers twitched and his mouth watered, but he waited for his supper to cool.
AN ENSEMBLE CAST AND CREW
created this book, and I am profoundly grateful for the professional, aesthetic, and emotional support I’ve received along the way.
Thanks to Karen Wojtyla and Emily Fabre for extraordinary and exacting editorial guidance. Thanks to Beth Fleischer, Joe Monti, and Barry Goldblatt for their wise and skillful agenting. Thanks to Holly Black, Kelly Link, and Catherynne M. Valente for nurturing the earliest scribblings set in Zombay. Thanks to Barth Anderson, Haddayr Copley-Woods, David Schwartz, and Stacy Thieszen for encouragement and uncompromising critique. Thanks to professors Phyllis Gorfain, Paul Moser, Roger Copeland, Michael Faletra, Andrew Barnaby, and Richard Parent for their knowledge and willingness to share it. Thanks to the Minnesota State Arts Board, the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, and Rain Taxi for all that they do to support local arts and letters.
Thanks to the master mask makers Bidou Yamaguchi and Jeff Semmerling; both shared essential information about their art, and both have masks named after them inside this book. Thanks to the many astonishing artists who created new masks inspired by my masquerade. Please wander over to
goblinsecrets.com
to wonder at their work, and to wear it yourself.
Thanks to mis sobrinos Isaac, Navarro, Kyla, and Suzannah for reminding me of so many things I’d forgotten about childhood. Thanks to Melon Wedick, Jon Stockdale, Ivan and Rachel Bialostosky, Nathan Clough, Ahna Brulag, Felicia Batzloff, Will Adams, Matthew Aronoff, Bradford Darling, and to Bethany, Kel, Kay, and Guillermo Alexander. All of them wandered around Zombay and told me things about the place that I didn’t know before.
Many thousands of thanks to Alice Dodge for nurturing this book at every stage—and also for marrying me.