“Right,” I say briskly, stiffening my spine. “We’d best get moving, then. We have a lot of pages to cover if we’re going to find something that will work to save Jessamyn.”
Edgar shakes his head. “It’s useless.”
“No it’s not. Even if she’s doubtful, as long as three of us are wishing for the trade, and we have a boost of magic like Seraphima and Frump and Socks had before, whentheymade a wish, it might work.”
“But we don’t have time to find that boost of magic,” Edgar says. “Believe me. Jules and I scoured every inch of this narrative.”
Suddenly it hits me: what if we’re looking not for awhat. . . but rather awhen?
“Delilah,” I begin. “When does magic happen in your world?”
“When you use Photoshop?” she answers.
“No. I mean, you make wishes all the time. You wished on stars, and on eyelashes, and even once on that strangely shaped bone in the chicken your mother cooked. Does one of those feel a little more lucky than the others?”
Jules and Delilah glance at each other. “Birthday,” they say simultaneously.
“When you blow out your candle,” Delilah tells me, “that’s the one wish people believe will come true. There’s this huge buildup, because everyone’s watching you make your wish, and you keep it hidden inside and never say it out loud. Eyelashes and shooting stars are for the little things—the wishes that don’t really matter. Like when you yell out, ‘Wish me good luck!’ You know it won’t make a difference, but you say it anyway. Your birthday wish, though—that’s the one you think actually might happen.”
“What did you wish for on your last birthday?” I ask.
Delilah blushes. “A prince, to sweep me off my feet.”
“Wow,” Socks breathes, impressed. “That’s pretty close.”
“It’s my birthday next week,” I announce.
“It wasmybirthday first,” Edgar mutters.
“I may be eternally sixteen, chronologically younger thanEdgar, but I still celebrate the occasion. We all do, in here. We just never grow older.
“Don’t you see?” I tell him. “It’s perfect. If we both ask at the same time, on the same birthday, for the same thing, surely that will be a big enough wish to bring both you and Jessamyn here.”
I’m quite chuffed to have figured this out—in the presence of a wizard, no less—but Edgar doesn’t seem enthusiastic.
“And if it isn’t,” he says quietly, “it will be the last birthday I have with my mom.”
I straighten, looking Edgar in the eye. “Then we’d best make sure it works,” I tell him.
Queen Maureen is pruning the roses in the royal garden when I find her. I snap a rose from its stem and hand it to her gallantly. “A beauty for a beauty,” I say, turning on the full force of my charm.
If I’m going to convince this woman to give up everything she’s ever known, I’d better be at the top of my game.
“Let me guess,” Maureen says. “You broke another dish?”
“Do you truly think that’s the only reason I might come to see your lovely face today? It might be a surprise for you to hear, but I actually enjoy being in your company.”
She smirks. “I’m betting on the broken plate.”
I sink down on a marble bench. “Then you’ll lose your wager,” I say. “Although I do want to talk to you about something.”
“Ah, you see,” she replies, snipping a dead branch. “I knew it. Mother’s intuition.”
“About that . . .” I take a deep breath. “You’ve said you consider me to be a son. And I’ve always thought of you as my mother. I don’t think family has to be related by blood, do you? Don’t you think family is the people who love you the most?”
“Of course,” Maureen says.
“And . . . well . . . if your son was going to move away, you’d want to go with him, wouldn’t you?”
