As we neared the throne, a girl rose from a blanket—she seemed to be having tea, but all the teacups were empty—and pelted toward us, her long blond hair flying, the many layers of her periwinkle-blue gown frothing up and down like waves. When she reached us, she startled me by seizing both my hands. Her skin was cold and flawless as china. Were she human I would have guessed her age at around fourteen.
“Oh, a mortal! Gadfly, you’ve brought us a mortal!” she cried in a simulacrum of rapturous delight, revealing that all of her little white teeth were as pointed as a shark’s. “We simply must introduce her to Aster, she’ll be ever so pleased! Are you going to drink from the Green Well?” She shifted her attention to me. “Please say yes, please say yes! We can be the best of friends. Of course, we can still be best friends if you don’t, but you’ll die so quickly it would hardly be worth it!”
Gadfly’s hand alit on her shoulder. “Isobel, this is my”—he searched for words—“niece, Lark. Please forgive her excitability. This is her very first time meeting a mortal. I trust she’ll be on her best behavior, with you as our honored guest.” This was clearly more for Lark’s benefit than mine.
I gave her an awkward curtsy, which was difficult with her still clinging to my hands. But apparently it counted, because to my relief she let go and curtsied back. My fingers felt as though they’d been immersed in ice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lark.”
“Of course it is!” she said.
“And you already know Rook,” Gadfly went on pleasantly.
“Hello, Rook,” said Lark, without ever taking her eyes off my face. “Can you turn into a hare for me again and let me chase you about?”
Rook laughed. “That was a child’s game, Lark. You’re a young lady now.”
“You’re no fun. Poor Isobel, she must be ever so bored with you. Can I put her in some new clothes?” she asked Gadfly, whose smile was acquiring a fixed quality.
“In a moment, darling. For now, Isobel and I must discuss her Craft. Why don’t you have a seat beside the throne and think about the dresses you’d like her to wear? Remember, she cannot use glamour, so it must be a new dress.” He inclined his head meaningfully.
“Oh, fine!” She collapsed next to the throne in a tragic heap of blue chiffon.
“Now,” Gadfly said, arranging himself elegantly on the dogwood’s platform, “what will we need to provide you with so you may work your Craft? I’m afraid we have no materials similar to what I’ve seen in your parlor. I can send for supplies from Whimsy, but my court is terribly busy preparing for the masquerade, and it may take some time to have them delivered.”
I resisted glancing at the fair folk around us, none of whom were doing anything more productive than nibbling on shortbread.
“Let me think, sir.” What could I use? “First I’d need a substitute for canvas or paper. Perhaps sheets of bark, thin and pale in color, sturdy but flexible enough to straighten out without breaking. Birch bark might do well, and there looks to be plenty of it.” Was it my imagination, or were the branches on Gadfly’s throne moving? “And then,” I went on, unnerved by the idea that his dogwood might have taken offense, “I think I can gather natural pigments myself. I used to do so often as a child.”
“Excellent,” he said, tapping a spidery finger against his lips. “And a chair, and a stand for you to put the bark on?”
“That sounds very good, sir.” I hadn’t the slightest idea what I might use in place of a brush or pencil, but I’d figure something out. I’d use my fingers if I had to. “Because of the difference in materials, the portraits won’t look like the ones I usually do, nor will they last as long. But if you’re pleased with the work, I would be happy to do them over in oils. Using my normal method, that is,” I added, aware that he might not understand.
“Now can I dress her?” said Lark’s voice from the ground, where she was still collapsed in the same, piteous heap.
Gadfly raised his eyebrows at me.
“Er,” I said. “Yes, I suppose. Though I should—”
“You’re going to try everything on!” Lark exclaimed, her cold hand closing around my wrist like a vise. Before I knew it I was being dragged through the laughing picnickers with little hope for escape. I glanced over my shoulder at Rook, who watched me go intently, and had the comforting thought that he’d find some excuse before long to make sure I didn’t suffocate in last century’s silk bustles.