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Authors: A.M. Dellamonica
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voice of a Siamese cat.
“She has been freeing about ten people a day.”
Ev turned. The speaker was a raccoon with long black braids, dressed in a nineteenth-century dress and glasses that made her look like something from a kid’s book, a raccoon granny.
“Hello,” Patience said. “I’m Patience Skye. This is Ev.”
“I’m Eliza,” the raccoon replied.
Ev was about to ask if Eliza was in charge, but Patience cut in smoothly. “You were saying something about Astrid?”
A man with dragonfly wings flew over the lip of the chasm. He had someone in his arms, a coughing, blue-slimed bullfrog from the pit. He passed the frog to a waiting quartet of Roused, who sponged off the new arrival, their movements as tender as if they were nurses attending a birth.
“You spoke of measuring the ocean in gallons,” Eliza said, indicating the bullfrog. “What matters to us is how many of our people remain trapped.”
“Astrid has melted more of you folk loose than any chanter since the freeze,” Ev said.
The raccoon eyed him. “Promises have been made.”
“They’re being kept,” Patience insisted. “She’s picking up the pace.”
“Each person freed is a gift. But the more of us there are, the more impatience we feel.” Eliza smoothed her apron. “Asking us to have faith in your daughter’s commitment—”
“Astrid has her own reasons to want the job done,” Ev said.
“The Fyrechild.”
“Jacks Glade, that’s right. Is he alive?”
“After a fashion,” the raccoon said. “When all the others are freed, all, he will go.”
The glacier trembled. Ice melted, sending liquid magic down the chasm wall. The cat-girl tumbled free, twisting in midair as she fell. A wolf spider with human eyes skipped up and over the edge of the pit, into a waiting blanket.
Cries, human and animal, rose from below.
The dragonfly appeared, laboring under the weight of the cat girl. Dropping her, he chattered at Eliza before power-diving back down.
“What’s happened?” Patience asked.
“A large melt,” the raccoon replied. Roused were rushing out of the city, hurrying to the pit.
“St. Louis,” Patience said. “Astrid and the others must already be there.”
Ev asked: “Can we help?”
“Dry people off as we bring them up.” The raccoon pointed at a pile of blankets, then rushed downward with the others, vanishing into the impenetrable blue light.
CHAPTER SIX
VOLUNTEERS SET UP A banquet in Indigo Springs that night, amid the silk tents and vitagua lanterns of the Bigtop. They spun picnic hampers laden with baked squash, poached trout and salmon, curried chickpeas and eggplant, and cranberry custard. The food was served on scavenged glassware, a motley collection of bowls and plates. Cups of a light mead were passed round.
Afterwards, a steel drum band set up on the giant blue stump of one of the mulched trees, playing fast-paced Caribbean music while the feasters danced.
Astrid’s gaze kept returning to Will Forest. He was on the fringe of the crowd, observing, taking everything in. He seemed calm, but he must be eager to get going.
She made her way to his side, passing a pair of volunteers bent over a small video player. On its palm-sized screen, the former editor of the Indigo Springs Dispatch, Aran Tantou, was giving evidence. “Before the magical disaster, I’d been working on an article on the ten worst polluters in Oregon.” The player’s small speaker made Aran’s voice tinny. “Afterwards, Sahara came to me. She wanted my research; she wanted to go after the companies and their executives.”
“Did she say why?”
“She was going to reveal their inner monsters.”
“Contaminate them, in other words,” said the prosecutor.
“Yes.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“Of course he did,” one of the viewers muttered.
“Weasel,” added another: Aran had been unpopular in town. In trying to please everyone, he’d come off as mealy-mouthed.
“I had everything on
“She has been freeing about ten people a day.”
Ev turned. The speaker was a raccoon with long black braids, dressed in a nineteenth-century dress and glasses that made her look like something from a kid’s book, a raccoon granny.
“Hello,” Patience said. “I’m Patience Skye. This is Ev.”
“I’m Eliza,” the raccoon replied.
Ev was about to ask if Eliza was in charge, but Patience cut in smoothly. “You were saying something about Astrid?”
A man with dragonfly wings flew over the lip of the chasm. He had someone in his arms, a coughing, blue-slimed bullfrog from the pit. He passed the frog to a waiting quartet of Roused, who sponged off the new arrival, their movements as tender as if they were nurses attending a birth.
“You spoke of measuring the ocean in gallons,” Eliza said, indicating the bullfrog. “What matters to us is how many of our people remain trapped.”
“Astrid has melted more of you folk loose than any chanter since the freeze,” Ev said.
The raccoon eyed him. “Promises have been made.”
“They’re being kept,” Patience insisted. “She’s picking up the pace.”
“Each person freed is a gift. But the more of us there are, the more impatience we feel.” Eliza smoothed her apron. “Asking us to have faith in your daughter’s commitment—”
“Astrid has her own reasons to want the job done,” Ev said.
“The Fyrechild.”
“Jacks Glade, that’s right. Is he alive?”
“After a fashion,” the raccoon said. “When all the others are freed, all, he will go.”
The glacier trembled. Ice melted, sending liquid magic down the chasm wall. The cat-girl tumbled free, twisting in midair as she fell. A wolf spider with human eyes skipped up and over the edge of the pit, into a waiting blanket.
Cries, human and animal, rose from below.
The dragonfly appeared, laboring under the weight of the cat girl. Dropping her, he chattered at Eliza before power-diving back down.
“What’s happened?” Patience asked.
“A large melt,” the raccoon replied. Roused were rushing out of the city, hurrying to the pit.
“St. Louis,” Patience said. “Astrid and the others must already be there.”
Ev asked: “Can we help?”
“Dry people off as we bring them up.” The raccoon pointed at a pile of blankets, then rushed downward with the others, vanishing into the impenetrable blue light.
CHAPTER SIX
VOLUNTEERS SET UP A banquet in Indigo Springs that night, amid the silk tents and vitagua lanterns of the Bigtop. They spun picnic hampers laden with baked squash, poached trout and salmon, curried chickpeas and eggplant, and cranberry custard. The food was served on scavenged glassware, a motley collection of bowls and plates. Cups of a light mead were passed round.
Afterwards, a steel drum band set up on the giant blue stump of one of the mulched trees, playing fast-paced Caribbean music while the feasters danced.
Astrid’s gaze kept returning to Will Forest. He was on the fringe of the crowd, observing, taking everything in. He seemed calm, but he must be eager to get going.
She made her way to his side, passing a pair of volunteers bent over a small video player. On its palm-sized screen, the former editor of the Indigo Springs Dispatch, Aran Tantou, was giving evidence. “Before the magical disaster, I’d been working on an article on the ten worst polluters in Oregon.” The player’s small speaker made Aran’s voice tinny. “Afterwards, Sahara came to me. She wanted my research; she wanted to go after the companies and their executives.”
“Did she say why?”
“She was going to reveal their inner monsters.”
“Contaminate them, in other words,” said the prosecutor.
“Yes.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“Of course he did,” one of the viewers muttered.
“Weasel,” added another: Aran had been unpopular in town. In trying to please everyone, he’d come off as mealy-mouthed.
“I had everything on
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