Page 27

Amid the sea of books, some shone out more strongly than others, like brighter flames among ranks of votive candles, some thick, some thin. A constellation where particular stars blazed with more light than a galaxy. Some were portals that had welcomed hordes across many decades, their doors vanished years ago. Others, newer and less traveled, required a key.

She turned slowly, as she had turned in the valley of the poppies, scanning each wall as if she were alone rather than being pointedly ignored by a young man who seemed used to people popping into being behind him.

All the books held power. She could tell that. Some of their stories lived in the heads of millions of people, a greater network of imagination, connected to the copies of the book as if they were neurons in a cosmic brain. The shades of their power varied, some wise, some complex, some direct, forceful, others that made her smile just to glance their way. But something deeper drew her attention on the wall to her left, or rather…behind it? Another book with a new kind of power, darker and more virulent than the others. Its strength was different, not necessarily larger, but older and far more personal. Focused.

“Below us?” She breathed the words out as a new awareness reached her. Looking down, she saw first only the ruin of the emerald slippers that had spent their magic in bringing her to this place. But beneath their tatters, beneath the floorboards, beneath the foundations…something much, much older than any of the paper around her, older than almost all the stories too…

The boy cried out—she could see he was a boy of about her age now as he turned. He snatched his hand away and pressed his fingers to his mouth as if they’d caught on something sharp. Curiously, he didn’t seem to see her at all. Instead, he—rather foolishly, in her estimation—gingerly moved his hand back toward whichever book it was that had hurt him.

Without thinking, Rose reached for the boy’s shoulder.

“Don’t—”

“Don’t do that, silly” is what she had been going to say, but suddenly he was jerked away, and although she had barely touched him, Rose felt herself dragged along too.

The rush of speed wasn’t wholly dissimilar to that provided by the witch’s shoes, though this way proved rougher on her right arm, which felt as if it were being torn from its socket. She lost contact as they were slowing down and found herself tumbling along on a thankfully soft floor.

“Ouch.” Rose lay in twilight, her limbs variously tangled and at odd angles. All of them felt broken, but as she slowly gathered herself, it seemed that she had escaped serious injury.

She was in an earthy tunnel with a distant bright light—possibly daylight—far off where the passage followed a long upward trajectory. The ceiling was high enough for her to stand, though she could reach it if she stretched out her arms. The circular cross section and general feel of the place put Rose in mind of the Mole’s home and the Badger’s. Was she back on the Riverbank? She welcomed the familiarity but worried that the worm might find her swiftly if she were retreading her steps.

“Welcome!” A voice boomed out of the darkness further down the tunnel. “Well met, hero!”

Rose, wincing at the man’s loudness, turned to see a figure, robed and hooded, striding toward her, his head nearly scraping the tunnel’s roof.

“Hero?” She glanced around in case someone else was going to launch themselves out of the shadows to claim the role.

“Everyone needs a part.” The man slowed his approach, face still hidden in the darkness of his hood. “You have the hero’s spark to you. But perhaps you are the ‘lover’ or the ‘rebel.’ ” He rubbed at his bearded chin. “The ‘jester’? Is that you, child? Are you funny? Do you see the cosmic joke that’s hidden from the rest?”

Rose shrugged. She didn’t think she was funny. “I’m Rose.”

“Rose the hero!” he boomed, at a volume that made Rose worry about the roof caving in. He stopped just beyond arm’s reach. Despite his shadowed face and tendency to shout, Rose didn’t feel threatened, though if someone else were describing the situation to her, she’d be telling them to run for the light. “Rose the hero,” he repeated. “Come to start your journey. First—”

“First, you can tell me who you are and where I am.” Rose folded her arms. “The Muse told me it’s polite to introduce yourself.”

“The Muse?” the man rumbled. “Well. You can call me JC, and you shouldn’t listen to muses. There is a structure and a plan to these things. You can see the way, straight and narrow.” He indicated the tunnel, ahead and behind. “The room for flights of fancy is strictly limited.”

“JC? As in…”

“As in the authority in the matters of journeys such as yours, my heroic young Rose.” He reached into the folds of his robe and drew forth a tightly rolled scroll that he held out toward her.

“What’s that?” Rose asked, arms still folded.

“The call to adventure, dear girl!”

“Well, I don’t want it. I’ve had quite enough adventure, thank you. And I’ve got a boy to find. You haven’t seen a boy down here, have you?”

By way of answer, JC thrust the scroll at her.

Rose took a step back, holding her hands palm forward. “I don’t want it.”

“Well done!” JC boomed. “You’re a natural at this.”

“I am?”

“First comes The Call to Adventure. Then The Refusal of the Call. It’s how the seventeen-part Hero’s Journey starts. The first six parts comprise The Departure. Part three is Supernatural Aid.”

Rose snorted. “Look, I’m really not interested in…all…that. Have you seen the boy or not? He’s about my age, blond hair, looks a bit…lost.”