“Can you give her life?” she asked Mr. Scratch, who was standing some feet away, watching the scene with a curious expression.
He shook his head. “I can only take it.”
Lily understood. Magic had its own rules. But her heart was broken anyway. She looked at Star, cradling Moth and stroking her hair as if she could will life back into her, and she saw herself holding her father.
“You should leave,” said Mr. Scratch. “There’s nothing to be done here.”
“Where will we go?” Lily asked.
“That’s your choice,” said Mr. Scratch. “I’ve won your freedom, and that’s more than I do for most. What becomes of you now is your doing.”
Lily turned to thank him, but he was gone. She and Star were alone in the tent. But she knew there were clowns nearby, and without Mr. Scratch to protect them, they were in danger. She went to the tank and touched Star’s shoulder. “They’ll be coming,” she said.
“I can’t leave her,” Star said. “Not now that I’ve found her again. Not even for you.”
“She won’t be alone,” said a woman’s voice.
The card reader stood near them. The witch. Mother to Star and Moth. Seeing her, Star’s tears flowed fresh and hot. The woman nodded at Lily as she passed her, ascended the steps of the tank, and then knelt beside her daughters. She took Star’s face in her hands. “Go,” she said. “Go with love. I’ll take care of her.”
Star hesitated another moment. Then she bent and kissed her sister’s forehead. Her mother took the tiny body from her. Star embraced them both, then moved toward Lily.
Together, they walked out of the big top and into the morning. They headed for the midway, just coming to life. As they passed the sleepy-eyed men who were setting up the booths and attractions, they began to run. Their feet flew over the grass, moving more and more quickly, carrying them first to the entrance gate, then down the hard dirt road that passed through fields of sunflowers, taking them step by step into a new day.
T H I R T Y - T W O
BABA YAGA GAZED at the ghost mother holding her dead child, and found herself experiencing something new: sadness. Or if not sadness, precisely, then at least an appreciation for the mother’s loss. It was not a sensation she particularly enjoyed.
This world is getting to me, she thought. I think I may be in danger of growing a heart.
The woman stroked her daughter’s hair and whispered to her words that Baba Yaga could not hear. But she knew well enough what they were about. Love. Comfort. Sorrow.
She sighed. She’d seen this before, a departed soul whose love for a child (or beloved, or friend, once, memorably, a particularly beautiful diamond-and-ruby choker) was so strong that it allowed her to exist after death when she ought to have passed on to wherever spirits went in their world. It seldom ended well. Love tempered by grief over time turned to rage, and usually someone ended up going mad.
She could see that the mother’s strength was fading. It must have taken a great deal for her to remain in this form for as long as she had. Now, with one child dead and the other sent off to an unknown fate, the strain was too much. She was tearing apart, and would be gone soon.
Baba Yaga considered her possible courses of action. Easiest was to leave things to come to their natural conclusion. It was not like her to show interest in, let alone involve herself in, the affairs of other people, unless they had something she wanted, or she was hungry. She had already behaved out of character by following the girl here. Why should she further inconvenience herself?
“Damn,” she muttered, realizing that she was going to do something she would probably regret. She went to the woman and her child.
“Go,” she said to the mother, who even now was flickering out. “I’ll take care of the child. You’ve done well.”
The woman mouthed silent thanks, her voice nothing more than a puff of air. Then she looked one last time at her child, and vanished.
Baba Yaga lifted the dead girl and walked with her out of the big top. She walked until she reached the field of yellow flowers. There she paused a moment, whistled a complicated tune, and her mortar dropped from the sky. She placed the girl’s body inside of it, then climbed in after.
With a few mumbled words, the mortar lifted up into the air, where it hung, unmoving, as Baba Yaga surveyed the world below her. She gazed for a final time at the Holy Gospel Caravan and all that it contained. It was a strange place, to be sure, more wild and dangerous even than her forest. She didn’t care for it, and this annoyed her.
“You could be so much more than you are,” she told it.
She gave instructions to the mortar, and it began to fly. Below, the clowns setting up the merry-go-round looked up and marveled at the meteor shooting across the sky. A moment later, when the big top burst into flame, they hesitated only briefly before abandoning their tools and going to watch it burn to the ground.
T H I R T Y - T H R E E
AT FIRST THERE was only one road, and only one direction in which to walk. But eventually Lily and Star came to a crossroads, and there they had to make a decision.
“Where are we going to go?” Star asked.
Go home, sister.
Lily heard the voice clearly. And she very much wished she could go back to the village. But she had no idea where it was, or how to get there from where they now stood.
Use the gifts our father gave you.
Stepping away from the road, Lily found a secluded spot amidst a group of blackberry bushes. She sat down on the ground and opened her bag. She took out the mirror and the shell that had been her father’s birthday presents to her.
She held up the mirror. Her face was reflected back to her, dirt-streaked and sunburned. After a moment, a second face appeared beside it. It was the girl. She resembled Lily, although her eyes were blue instead of brown, and her face was fuller.
Hello, sister.
“Hello,” Lily said.
“Who are you talking to?” Star asked.
Lily held the mirror out, so that Star could look into it. “What do you see?”
Star began to cry. At first Lily thought perhaps she’d been frightened by seeing the other girl’s reflection. But when she saw Star touching the marks on her face, she remembered. Because of her love, she had forgotten that this was not how Star had always looked.
She took Star in her arms, and told her how beautiful she was. Star’s body shook as she wept. Her tears dampened Lily’s hair.
“Look again,” Lily told her. “Look with me.”
They held the mirror in their joined hands, and looked into it together. Lily expected to see the other girl’s face between their own, but she wasn’t there. Star, staring at her reflection, touched the marks on her face. Lily followed her fingertips with her lips, kissing each of the symbols in turn.
Star sighed. “I used to be pretty.”
“Your face is like the night sky,” Lily told her. “A sea of stars.”
“A sea of monsters.” Star handed the mirror back. “I can’t look anymore.”
Lily took the mirror and tucked it away. She knew it would take time for Star to believe that she was as lovely as the wild winter storms. But that was all right. Lily would be there to remind her every time she needed reminding.
She still had no idea where they were going, however. And so she took the shell and held it to her ear. From inside came the sound of the sea.
Follow it back. All the way back.
Lily understood. Or thought she did. She would listen for the voice of the sea. It was one thing that never changed. Whatever the season, whatever the time, it remained the sea. It had been there before everything, and it would be there after all the rest was gone and forgotten.
They waited until night fell, as Star feared the symbols that marked her would cause trouble for them. Lily agreed, and felt both angry and ashamed that this was so. But she welcomed the rest.
When the sun was down and they could move unwatched by all but the night c
reatures, they began to walk again. Lily listened for the sea, sometimes holding the shell to her ear when she lost the sound of its voice. Each time, she found it again, and followed.
They grew weary, and hungry, and Lily wished she had thought to bring some food with them. But they had neither that nor money, and so they had to content themselves with the berries they found on the bushes and the water they drank from a stream.
Towards dawn, they found themselves following the rails of a train. When they came to the train itself, unmoving and silent like a sleeping beast, they climbed into an empty boxcar and waited until the train came to life and began to move. Then they sat in the doorway, watching the world roll by, as Lily listened to the shell and waited for the sea to tell them what to do.
Hours later, with night come again and the train passing slowly through a town, the voice of the sea called urgently, telling them to come. They jumped then, rolling in the dust but unhurt. When they got to their feet, Lily saw the words GOOD EATS flashing in the distance. She remembered the restaurant, and knew that they were close.
She remembered too the kindly waitress, and what she had seen of her death. As they passed the restaurant, she almost went inside, to see if she was still there. But she was sure now that there was nothing that could change the things she’d seen, and so she kept walking.
When they came to the place where Lily and her mother had entered this world, Lily stopped and took Star’s hand.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
She closed hers as well. She held the shell to her ear, and heard the roaring of the sea. She began to walk. After a few paces, the hard road beneath her feet changed to the wood of a bridge. She opened her eyes.
It was late afternoon. Alex Henry was standing at the end of the bridge, holding a basket of eggs.
“I thought you might want something to eat,” he said.
Lily ran to him, Star stumbling behind her because Lily had not let go of her hand. Alex Henry embraced them both.
“How did you know?” Lily asked.
“I didn’t.” Alex Henry laughed. “I only knew that someday you would return to us. I’ve been waiting here whenever I can.”
“How long has it been?”
“Too long,” said Alex Henry. “Long enough. No time at all.”
Lily turned to Star, to see if she was all right. When she did, she saw that the marks on her body had changed. Gone were the ugly symbols, replaced by tiny stars that were grouped in familiar patterns on her skin. On her cheek, the Golden Fish swam beneath the Ruined Tower. The Great Snake curled around her forearm, and the Seven Crows took flight across her breast. Lily knew that the whole of the sky was imprinted in her skin.
She touched her finger to one of the stars of the Night Spider where it lay just below Star’s left eye. Almost imperceptibly, the constellation moved the tiniest bit away. Lily, delighted, realized that as the stars in the sky moved through the hours and seasons, so too would they move across Star’s skin, always changing, always reflecting the heavens.
“What is it?” Star asked, seeing in Lily’s eyes that something marvelous had occurred.
Lily took the mirror and showed her. Star gasped. Then she laughed. To Lily, it was the sound of her heart opening up.
“You’ll have to teach me all their names,” Star said.
“We’ll put a window in the roof,” Lily promised her. She threaded the fingers of her hands through Star’s. “So we can watch them from our bed.”
“The house is waiting for you,” Alex Henry said. “Maude Coldlove has been keeping it clean. And you’ll find one of Barl Poincenot’s stews on the stove.” He handed Lily the basket of eggs. “Come to me tomorrow, the both of you, and tell me your stories.”
Lily thanked him. Then she led Star to the house on the cliff. She hesitated a moment before opening the door. Then she went into the kitchen, which was indeed clean and filled with the smell of supper. She and Star sat at the little wooden table and ate until they were no longer hungry. Then Lily showed her their home.
Everything was as she had left it. Her father’s shirts hung in the closet in his room. His shoes were under the bed, his comb on the dresser. Lily would leave them there for the usual year and a day. Of her mother there was no sign. This made her sad, but she understood that not all tales had happy endings, and that not all children had mothers who understood them or wished them well.
She saved her room, the room that was now hers and Star’s, for last. She let Star enter before her, and watched as her beloved went right to the window and opened it. For a moment, she remembered how their tale would end. But that was many years away. Tonight was the first of thousands they would spend sleeping in one another’s arms safe in the bed overlooking the sea.
“It’s even bigger than I imagined,” Star said, and Lily knew that she had already fallen in love with the sound of the waves.
Later, they bathed together in the big, white tub. Then they walked to the cemetery where Lily’s father was buried. They sat beside his grave, and Lily told him of the past weeks. After promising to visit him again soon, she and Star walked down to the beach, and Star touched the sea for the very first time.
“I wish Moth was here to see this,” she said as she and Lily stood knee-deep in the waves. She had not spoken of her sister since the day before. Now, the tears came, adding their salt to the sea’s.
Lily stood beside her, holding her hand so that Star understood that she would always be there. She knew that this would not be the last time that they witnessed one another’s grief. They would take turns remembering their dead. And over time, the pain would become less bitter and more sweet.
“I want you to tell me all about her,” Lily said.
Star nodded, and wiped her eyes. “I want to do something for her.”
“I have an idea,” Lily told her.
After that, they lay in the grass as the sun went down and the moon came up. Lily pointed to the constellations and named them for Star, showing them where they were on her body. When it was dark, she took Star into the garden and she lit a lantern and hung it in the branches of a peach tree. Then she plucked three pieces of fruit, broke them open, and laid them in the grass beneath the glowing lantern. After a moment, the first moth came fluttering around the light. It was joined by another, then another, until the air was filled with the soft flapping of their velvet wings and the peaches were covered with them as they ate and drank.
“She would love this,” Star said. “A banquet just for them.”
“We’ll do it every night until the cold comes,” Lily promised. “You can watch them and think of her.”
They sat in the garden while Star told Lily stories of her sister. When they grew weary and their eyes began to close, they climbed the stairs and got into the bed, where they held each other close and listened to one another’s hearts beat until they couldn’t tell one from the other.
Once again Lily dreamed of a forest. This time it was spring, and the birch trees were dressed in green and silver. Birds sang to her as she walked, and foxes and hares showed her the way to the little house on chicken legs. When she arrived there, she walked up to the door and rapped on it. Only then did she remember that she should be afraid.
Baba Yaga opened the door. “So, you’ve come back,” she said. “Why?”
“I’m ready now,” Lily told her. “To answer your riddles.”
“It’s not your birthday,” said Baba Yaga.
“No,” Lily agreed. “It isn’t. But I’ve come anyway.”
Baba Yaga sighed. “Very well,” she said. “But the same rules apply as the last time. If you answer incorrectly, I eat you.”
“And if I answer correctly?” Lily asked.
“Then I don’t,” said Baba Yaga. “And perhaps I give you something. Shall we play or not?”
Lily nodded.
“If you protect it too much, it withers,” said Baba Yaga. “If you break it, you make it stronger. If you lose it, you gain mor
e than its weight in gold.”
Lily took only a moment to answer. She thought of Star, and her father, and Moth. “Your heart,” she said.
Baba Yaga snorted. “That was an easy one,” she said. “This one is more difficult. “It shines brightest in the darkest darkness. The smallest drop is bigger than the biggest ocean. When you’ve lost it all, that’s when you will find it.”
This one took Lily a bit longer. But then she remembered the nights she’d spent in the wagon, when she’d believed she’d lost everything, and how even the faintest glow of the rising sun could lift her spirits again. She thought too about how Star had looked at her when Lily had shown her that she was no longer alone in the world.
“Hope,” she said. “It’s hope.”
“Yes, yes,” Baba Yaga said. “Of course it is. Any child could have guessed that. But you’ve one more to answer. Here you are. I strangle but still draw breath. I drown but still live. I bleed to death but my heart still beats.”
Lily thought hard. Several answers came to her, none of them entirely fitting. Baba Yaga watched her. After several minutes, she cleared her throat. “Well?” she said.
“I’m not certain,” Lily told her. “It’s not a very nice question.”
“I’m not a very nice person.” Baba Yaga stomped the floorboards. “And I told you that this was no nursery game. Hurry up and give me an answer. On second thought, I’ll go put some wood on the oven while you think it over. That way it will be nice and hot when you fail.”
“No.” Lily did not like the sound of that at all. “I have an answer.”
“Then what is it?” When Lily did not immediately answer, Baba Yaga loomed over her. “Time’s up!” Her mouth opened hugely, showing every one of her well-worn teeth.
Lily, who really had no answer at all, cried out, “Murderer!”
Swift as a sneeze, Baba Yaga retreated back into the doorway. “Bah.”
Lily, confused, waited to be eaten. When she realized this wasn’t going to happen, she also realized that she had guessed the answer to the riddle correctly, albeit accidentally. “A murderer,” she repeated.