Read Online Except the Queen by Jane Yolen, Midori Snyder - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane Yolen, Midori Snyder
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healing bones, menses that came too often or too rare, maybe even to help the lovesick and forlorn. That little hen Julia was sweet and well intentioned, but she had no knowledge of plants. Perhaps I
could
be of use . . . and find a way to fill my empty pocket as well. I licked the juice from my fingers and felt a spark of encouragement.
It was short-lived, however, drowned in the deluge of Baba Yaga’s instructions. “Do this,” she would say, “don’t do that.” “Go here. Stay away from there.” My head throbbed with so many rules, so many obligations and prohibitions, so many new expectations. How was I to remember all of this? Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them away, not wanting to show any weakness that might cause Baba Yaga to withdraw her help.
12
Meteora’s Home
I t was dusk when Baba Yaga finally stopped in the middle of a block of houses. I was exhausted, my feet throbbing in the new shoes, blisters bubbling at my heels and toes. We had eaten a noon repast, an entire cooked chicken for Baba Yaga and a wedge of soft cheese and brown bread for me, purchased at a different grocery shop—this one brightly lit and humming with music from its walls. But now my stomach rumbled and gurgled.
“There is my home,” Baba Yaga said, pointing a gnarled finger across the street to a squat, three-story house half hidden behind a pair of tall pines. Partway down the walkway, the flickering leaves of a silver birch shimmered, luminescent in the dimming light. The house walls were a deep red brick with gray shutters bordering every window. I shivered for it reminded me of a baker’s oven.
“Where are the chicken legs?” I asked. I had heard enough tales about her traveling house to be curious.
“They are there, at the bottom of the stairs, though most would not think to look for them.”
A light turned on in a small dormer window jutting out below the eaves of the roof. It was then I noticed the gutters; they ended in downspouts shaped like chicken heads, the open beaks ready to disgorge excess rain.
“Good.” Baba Yaga nodded. “They are waiting,” she said to the lit windows. Then she grinned at me and I drew back, uncertain as firelight bloomed in her eyes. “Listen,” she commanded, “I am not done traveling, but you may stay here and mind my house while I am gone. You will live up there, on the top floor, where there is light in the window. Below you, children—students—rent the rooms.”
“You are too generous, Mother of the Forest,” I murmured, relieved that I might have shelter, even if for a little while.
“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “You will work. Keep the children from breaking things. And see to my garden.”
“Of course,” I answered, wondering how difficult could that be?
Baba Yaga guffawed. “I read your thoughts, you know. Not so hard with a poppet like you. I tell you, these children are your trial. They do things that bring police—nosy, snoopy people who ask too many questions and want to see your papers—”
“Papers?”
“You don’t have any. So you must be sharp as the axe and not let them succeed in throwing you in the oven.”
“Agreed,” I said, thinking how much easier it would be if only I could spell them into toads or dogs, anything small and manageable.
“And one thing more . . .”
I waited, worry and hunger gnawing at my rumbling stomach.
“You will have help. There is a girl on the second floor. She collects the rents. And my personal servants will assist you, but only when they wish to, so remember your manners.”
“Yes, Gracious Mother,” I said humbly.
“Here is the key to the top floor. It is silver, so you may safely hold it. But do not lose.”
“Gracious Mother, I am forever in your debt,” I said meekly.
She clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, her nailsdigging a warning into my flesh. “Yes, you are. Remember—take care of my house and don’t fuck up.”
* * *
I CROSSED THE STREET ALONE
could
be of use . . . and find a way to fill my empty pocket as well. I licked the juice from my fingers and felt a spark of encouragement.
It was short-lived, however, drowned in the deluge of Baba Yaga’s instructions. “Do this,” she would say, “don’t do that.” “Go here. Stay away from there.” My head throbbed with so many rules, so many obligations and prohibitions, so many new expectations. How was I to remember all of this? Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them away, not wanting to show any weakness that might cause Baba Yaga to withdraw her help.
12
Meteora’s Home
I t was dusk when Baba Yaga finally stopped in the middle of a block of houses. I was exhausted, my feet throbbing in the new shoes, blisters bubbling at my heels and toes. We had eaten a noon repast, an entire cooked chicken for Baba Yaga and a wedge of soft cheese and brown bread for me, purchased at a different grocery shop—this one brightly lit and humming with music from its walls. But now my stomach rumbled and gurgled.
“There is my home,” Baba Yaga said, pointing a gnarled finger across the street to a squat, three-story house half hidden behind a pair of tall pines. Partway down the walkway, the flickering leaves of a silver birch shimmered, luminescent in the dimming light. The house walls were a deep red brick with gray shutters bordering every window. I shivered for it reminded me of a baker’s oven.
“Where are the chicken legs?” I asked. I had heard enough tales about her traveling house to be curious.
“They are there, at the bottom of the stairs, though most would not think to look for them.”
A light turned on in a small dormer window jutting out below the eaves of the roof. It was then I noticed the gutters; they ended in downspouts shaped like chicken heads, the open beaks ready to disgorge excess rain.
“Good.” Baba Yaga nodded. “They are waiting,” she said to the lit windows. Then she grinned at me and I drew back, uncertain as firelight bloomed in her eyes. “Listen,” she commanded, “I am not done traveling, but you may stay here and mind my house while I am gone. You will live up there, on the top floor, where there is light in the window. Below you, children—students—rent the rooms.”
“You are too generous, Mother of the Forest,” I murmured, relieved that I might have shelter, even if for a little while.
“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “You will work. Keep the children from breaking things. And see to my garden.”
“Of course,” I answered, wondering how difficult could that be?
Baba Yaga guffawed. “I read your thoughts, you know. Not so hard with a poppet like you. I tell you, these children are your trial. They do things that bring police—nosy, snoopy people who ask too many questions and want to see your papers—”
“Papers?”
“You don’t have any. So you must be sharp as the axe and not let them succeed in throwing you in the oven.”
“Agreed,” I said, thinking how much easier it would be if only I could spell them into toads or dogs, anything small and manageable.
“And one thing more . . .”
I waited, worry and hunger gnawing at my rumbling stomach.
“You will have help. There is a girl on the second floor. She collects the rents. And my personal servants will assist you, but only when they wish to, so remember your manners.”
“Yes, Gracious Mother,” I said humbly.
“Here is the key to the top floor. It is silver, so you may safely hold it. But do not lose.”
“Gracious Mother, I am forever in your debt,” I said meekly.
She clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, her nailsdigging a warning into my flesh. “Yes, you are. Remember—take care of my house and don’t fuck up.”
* * *
I CROSSED THE STREET ALONE
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