Authors: Marissa Burt
P
eter was late for Heroics class. Chef Gaston had kept him until past midnight at the Talekeeper Club. Splitting tips with the other waiters didn’t make up for his sore feet and aching head. He had overslept, and now he had to sprint across the campus just to make it to class. He raced up the broad sandstone steps into the white clapboard building. The warning bell had already rung by the time he pushed his way through the crush of students and into the indoor amphitheater.
Peter scanned the dozens of chairs that circled a low platform and finally spotted Una sitting by a leprechaun. He raced down the stairs and slid into a folding seat right before the class bell rang.
Just in time.
He handed Una the cloak she had left at the club.
Professor Roderick turned from the blackboard. Today he was dressed like a lumberjack. He wore a green flannel shirt tucked into thick woolen pants that were held up by yellow suspenders. His cherry-red cheeks stood out below his black, shiny eyes as he beamed up at the class. “WELL, WELL, WELL!” he shouted. “ANOTHER DAY OF LEARNING. ANOTHER DAY OF FUN.”
Peter scrunched down in his chair. Why had Una decided to sit so close? The pounding in his skull intensified. The only benefit was that Professor Roderick always looked at the upper rows of students. That, coupled with his robust volume, meant that Heroics was the best class in which to hold a private conversation.
“Well?” Una whispered while Professor Roderick went on about how well everyone had done on the latest pop quiz. “What happened?”
“I’ll be happy if I never have to see another roast duck.” Peter rubbed his temples. “I have new respect for Trix now. Cooking food and waiting tables is hard work.”
“Probably good for you,” Una said unsympathetically. She eyed the teacher and tossed a packet onto Peter’s lap. “The papers Elton dropped. You’ve
got
to read them.”
“I ALWAYS SAY,” Professor Roderick was saying, “THE HERO WINS THE DAY. ARE YOU READY TO WIN TODAY?”
Peter slouched down in his seat and untied the ribbon on the little bundle. A childish scrawl covered the kind of lined paper that little Oliver used to practice his letters. Peter bent close to read the smudged ink on the first page.
Dear Mother,
What an adventure I’ve had! Walter told me to write it all down so that I can show you these letters when I see you. Walter is the man who helped me on the pirate ship. It was like this, Mother. I found an old book in Grandpapa’s library and, because it was raining outside and because Morris was being so mean, I decided to read it.
It was a pirate story and, do you know, Mother, halfway through I was there on the boat! It was stormy and there was a great battle and everyone got all wet.
Walter was there and his wife. I don’t remember her name. They had been reading a book on the bench in the park together when they found themselves on the ship, so they were just as surprised as me. His wife kept crying. And then we found an old man who kept talking about going crazy. Walter helped us all hide under an old rowboat that was upside down on the deck.
It was a bully spot for watching the fighting, Mother. I’m going to draw it all out at the end of the letter. The sailors fought the pirates until the pirates went back to their own ship and sailed away. And then our captain gave a very fine speech about being brave and said we were going back to the land. But before we arrived, it all disappeared and we were in a cave.
The captain said he would take care of us and take us to meet some special people. He said there would be a big party and a feast and presents. I held Walter’s hand like he asked, I promise I did, Mother, but then I got lost again. There were so many people. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find the captain again. Or Walter. Or the old man.
But a nice lady found me and took me to her house in the woods and fed me soup. I told her all about our adventure and she said, “That’s nice, dear.” And I asked her about the presents, but she said that was all a mistake. There wasn’t to be a feast. I didn’t like that, Mother, so I started to cry. But then the lady said, “Hush, dear. Tomorrow, we’ll find your mother.” And I guess we will.
I’ll see you tomorrow, dearest Mother, and oh what fun we’ll have!
Your Son
“LISTEN UP!” Professor Roderick yelled. “TODAY WE ARE GOING TO TALK ABOUT THE IMPORTANCE OF . . .” He paused dramatically and whispered, “LEADERSHIP.” Even his whisper was louder than an ordinary speaking voice.
Peter glanced around and leaned in closer to Una. “Who was this kid?”
Professor Roderick boomed, “A HERO LEADS. WHO CAN GIVE ME AN EXAMPLE OF A GREAT LEADER?”
Una’s violet eyes were suspiciously shiny. “Keep reading.”
He picked up the second letter. This one was even harder to read, the lines of writing slanting crookedly across the ruled paper. But Peter could still make out the words.
Dear Mother,
I put another mark on the wall by my bed tonight. I’ve been here twenty-two days already. Are you coming for me, Mother? Wherever you are, whatever you are doing right now, I’m thinking of you. Have you gotten my letters? I didn’t mean what I said before, Mother. I want to come home.
The people are taking good care of me. They give me tasty food and let me sleep in my very own room. But I wish there were windows. Or that I could go out in the daytime. Sometimes I go out at night, and the moon seems very bright after all the candles.
Today, my tutor brought me a book. It’s very old, and it smells bad. He wanted me to try and read it out loud, but now all the words are made up of strange letters that make no sense. He says it’s very important that I pronounce them just so. If I read them right, I’ll get to see you and Father. I’m trying my hardest, dear Mother, I really am.
Sometimes my tutor asks me a lot of questions about how I came to be here. If I tell it right, he brings me ice cream. I get a bigger scoop when I tell the bits about the others who came in with me. What their names are and where they went after we got here. Maybe I’ll get to see them again someday too. I hope so. My candle is running low, dearest Mother, or I would write more.
Your Son
Peter set the letter aside as Professor Roderick shouted, “PRINCE CHARMING, FOR EXAMPLE”—he wrote the name on the chalkboard—“IS THE IDEAL LEADER. HE KNOWS WHAT HE IS SUPPOSED TO DO. HE GETS IT DONE. HE WINS THE GIRL. HE LIVES HAPPILY EVER AFTER. A HERO.”
Peter looked around. Not too many of the students appeared to be listening. “One more,” he said, and swallowed. “Please tell me this has a happy ending.”
Una didn’t meet his eyes, and Peter willed himself to pick up the last sheet. It was rumpled like it had gotten rained on. A few of the words ran together in places, but when he smoothed the paper, Peter could make them out.
Dear Mother,
I’ve made twenty-nine little marks by my bed, Mother. My tutor saw them today and told me to stop. I told him I had to keep track so I would know when it was my birthday. He said he would tell me when. You know, Mother, I don’t believe him.
But I do like it when he laughs at my stories. Today he wanted to know about you and Father and what it was like to live at my house. I told him everything I knew, but he must have forgotten about the ice cream, because I didn’t get any after my dinner.
Sometimes a cat comes down to my room. It’s a nice cat with big gold eyes and a loud purr. I don’t tell my tutor about the cat. I don’t want him to disappear too.
I read the book out loud today, Mother, and I thought I had done it all wrong. When I got to the end of the first page, there was a loud noise like a cannon. I covered my ears, but then I had to cover my eyes, because the light that came into the room was so bright. When I could see again, I saw that the book was gone and there was a huge shimmering mirror in its place. It looked like it was going to catch fire. I wanted to cry then, Mother, because I knew my tutor would be angry.
But he wasn’t angry at all, Mother. He cried. But he said it was because he was so happy. I said that Father was always upset if I lost his books, but that only made my tutor laugh all the more. I asked him if I could see you since I read the book right, and he said I could. So I guess this is my last letter to you, dear Mother, for soon I will be able to give you a great big hug.
Your Son
Peter sat and stared at the paper for what felt like a long time. But when he looked up, Professor Roderick was still rapping his chalk against the chalkboard.
“WHAT ELSE ABOUT THE HANDSOME PRINCE? WHO CAN TELL US WHAT MAKES HIM A GOOD HERO?”
Peter felt sick to his stomach. “Do you think that kid got to see his mother?” he asked Una.
Her mouth said, “Sure, he did,” but her eyes spoke differently. Peter didn’t think the kind of people who would lock up a little boy and only let him out at night were the kind of people who would make sure he made it safely home.
“That’s horrible,” Peter said. “Why did you even show me these? It’s not like we can help him.”
Una tucked the letters back into her satchel. “Peter, don’t you realize? That little boy, whoever he was, was Written In.”
Sam joined them for lunch at their usual table in the Woodland Room. Una kept folding and unfolding the letters.
“Another WI. I wish we knew exactly when he was here,” Peter said, and took a bite of roast beef sandwich.
“These letters are pretty old.” Una spread out the last letter again. “So he must be all grown-up now, right? He was just a little boy when he wrote them.”
“Why do you think Elton had the letters?” Peter set his sandwich aside and sipped at his root beer.
“Why else?” Una tied the letters up with an old hair ribbon she had swiped from Snow’s bureau. “Because he’s a Tale Master and it’s his job to take away any shred of information having to do with the Muses or the WIs they wrote in.”
“Or maybe it wasn’t him who had the letters,” Peter said. “Maybe it was Red who dropped them at the club. Maybe she has the rest.”
“What if there are no other letters?” Sam asked, looking up from his second tuna fish sandwich. When Peter gave him a pointed look, he said, “Well, it doesn’t sound as though he was in the best place, does it? ‘They don’t let me out during the day. They make me read the book.’” Sam spread out his claws to nibble at a little piece of tuna he had overlooked.
“Sam!” Peter said sharply.
“You don’t have to try and protect me, Peter,” Una said. “I already know the other WIs were killed. But this is the first real clue we’ve found that might tell us why someone Wrote them here in the first place.” She tried not to think about the little boy from the letters. She hoped he had really given his mother that hug. “I wonder who his tutor was.”
“No one I’d like to meet.” Peter took a big bite of sandwich and kept talking around it. “Whoever he was, he forced the boy to read the book. Sounds like some kind of enchantment or something.”
“More questions! Can’t we get any answers around here?” Una propped her head up in her hands. “Well, whatever it was, that’s what made the mirror appear. I think it was something only a WI could do.” She shivered at that. Despite how normal it felt to be in Story, she’d never gotten used to the idea that someone had brought her here for some specific reason.
“Maybe we’ll find something in the Museum,” Peter said. They had decided to visit the Museum the next day during their morning free period. Peter said that students went there for field trips, so it would be easy to blend in with the other visitors.
“Maybe,” Una said, but she felt doubtful. Besides getting their questions answered, she and Peter wanted to find proof that the Talekeepers had lied about everything. Then maybe the characters would rally and throw the Tale Master out of office before he and Red did whatever they were planning to do with the Muse books. She chewed her lip. They were pinning too much hope on the Museum. She hardly thought they’d find information about the Muses and the WIs and the King all in one place.
She reached over and scratched the top of Sam’s head. Sam flattened his ears, but then gave himself over to the scratching.
“A little to the left,” Sam said. “This makes me hungry. Cow, please.” Sam pointed a paw at the burger line.
Una grimaced. “How can you eat other animals, Sam?”
“Like cows?” Sam glinted one green eye toward her. “Why, those aren’t the talking kind, of course.” He licked his chops. “I mean, eating talking animals would be . . . well, it would be cannibalism.”
Una didn’t feel that this really explained anything and picked at her macaroni and cheese. “Eating an animal really doesn’t bother you?” she asked Peter when he returned with two giant hamburgers.
“It’s like Sam said.” Peter slid a burger across to Sam. “We’d never eat a talking animal.”
Una looked around the dining hall. She had gotten so used to seeing animals in her classes that it seemed totally normal for that wily-looking fox at the next table to be chatting with a dog. Maybe it was because nearly all of her classes were full of students from the Fantasy District. Peter had told her that most talking animals appeared in fantasy stories, so, unless they were horses or cows or other barnyard animals, which stayed out on the Ranch, they lived in Birchwood Forest.
The dog winked at her, and she realized that she had been staring. She supposed that going to school with animals was no worse than having a talking cat for one of your best friends. She smiled at Sam, who was listening to Peter describe his experience at the Talekeeper Club. Peter punctuated each description with a big bite of hamburger. Una listened for a while, and then lost the rest of her appetite as Peter licked his greasy fingers.
She laid her head down on the table and muttered words which, in her old life, she never would have imagined saying: “Wake me up for Villainy.”