an achingly beautiful voice poured out of his brass bell, a voice both deep and sweet, raspy with loneliness and late nights and seaside air, but bottomed in bronze and moonlight.
The greens ainât nothinâ but a fire in your heart
A spark in the dark when you and your song have to part
I know I ainât nothinâ but a hawk without a home
But I got the greens on my side so Iâm never alone
The Green Wind turned a lazy backflip in the air and drifted down to the table. He sprawled out on it, crossing his legs before him. The Leopard of Little Breezes yawned by the fire. âMiss September, who do you think I am? Nothing but a Wind in a green handbag, thatâs who.â
Perhaps he would have said more. Perhaps he would have told September that he had no more power to save anyone than a green balloon, unless what that anyone needed most was a gust of air or a well-timed cloud. Perhaps he would have told her that he had been busy with his own adventures, his own loves and losses and prisons and Yetis. Or perhaps he would simply have kissed her on the forehead and winked and flown off, for that is what most adults do when they donât want to answer a question straight. But the Green Wind did not get a chance, for as soon as he called himself a handbag, a knock came at the door.
Hawthorn ran to the fireplace, ignoring it, speaking urgently to his friend: âYou know, Tam, Iâve been thinkingââ
âYes, so have I,â Tamburlaine answered.
âOnly that we must do it together. Tom and Tam, like it was back home.â
âBut do you think sheâll be angry?â
âI donât know, shall we ask the dragon?â
âPardon me,â said A-Through-L, looking up from fussing with his nest, a bit of batting stuck to one horn. âBut in the first place, I am not a Dragon, and in the second place, itâs very rude to hatch plans without including your new flatmates. Unless youâre hatching schemes rather than plans, in which case itâs downright mean.â
âYouâll just have to get used to it, Big Red! They do it all the time,â groused Blunderbuss, buried gleefully under half a foot of moss and dirt. âOnly include me when they decide their little plots require an armored combat wombat, or at least a good roar. And heâs a Wyvern, dum-dums! Count the feet. Get your taxonomy straight, youâre embarrassing all of us!â Hawthorn and Tamburlaine hung their heads. âMy favorite dum-dums! Best dum-dums since sliced tomfoolery.â
Tamburlaine began: âWe only wanted to know if September would get mad at us ifââ
âHow could I be mad at anybody?â interrupted September. She stood up from the table, so full of feast and feeling she thought she might pop like a soap bubble. For a moment she stood there, a bit stiff, for Queens are not meant to tumble headlong around a room and tackle their favorite people in it. She didnât know much about being a Queen, but she knew that. And theyâd all seemed quite happy and at home without her. The room hadnât made anything to welcome her, after all, except a bit of supper. Perhaps she wasnât welcome.
But she tumbled anyhow, while the knocking at the door sounded again and no one paid any more attention than they had the first time. September darted across the lovely carpets and leapt into Ellâs nest. As she jumped, the Watchful Dress folded itself out of being a ball gown and into being a knockabout orange shift with sturdy stockings. She landed against the warm scarlet flank of her Wyverary, giggling madly. It was so nice to leap and land without the littlest creak in her bones. She held out her arms for Saturday and he leapt, too, all three of them ending up in a pile of laughter and mussed hair.
âHow could I be mad at anybody? I started out today in prison and now Iâm Queen! And itâs hardly past eight oâclock! By
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