Lark towed me toward one of the giant birches, which had thick vines winding up it like a spiral stair. She mounted this dubious-looking feature without hesitation while hauling me behind. We went higher and higher, the fair folk on the ground receding to the size of toy soldiers. I found that if I paid close attention to where I stepped on the knobbly roots, didn’t look down, and held on to the bark with my free hand, I could resist the urge to vomit on Lark’s chiffon. She chattered at me gaily the entire time without seeming to mind that I didn’t once reply.
At the top, we emerged into a leafy labyrinth. It reminded me a bit of a hedge maze, if instead of hedges there were arched bowers of white, wickerlike branches filled in with pale green leaves. The ground felt springy but otherwise solid. I wouldn’t have minded walking across it if I hadn’t known about the long drop beneath. Items of Craft lay jumbled all along the pathways, climbing the walls in teetering stacks of furniture, cushions, books, paintings, and porcelain wares. Jewelry dangled glittering from upended chair legs; spiders wove glistening webs over atlases and bronze coatracks.
“This way!” Lark cried. She whipped me around with nearly enough force to dislocate my shoulder and took off down one of the corridors. Racing behind her, I frequently had to hop sideways to skim through the narrow aisles, and suspected I rendered a few spiders homeless along the way.
She said, “I keep my dresses in the Bird Hole. We name all our rooms, even though they aren’t really rooms, because that’s what mortals do.”
“Oh, how nice,” I replied faintly, filled with dread.
As it turned out, however, the unpropitious-sounding Bird Hole looked more or less like the rest of the labyrinth, except that it was a dome-shaped room protruding from one of the corridors and had songbirds roosting in it, which flew off in a melodic explosion when we entered. Blossoming vines shielded the far wall like a curtain. Lark finally released my abused wrist to go root around in it, vanishing up to the waist.
“Here,” she said, thrusting a pile of chiffon through the curtain into my arms. “Take off your boring old brown dress and put this on. It might be long on you because you’re short, but you can change it, can’t you? And then put it back the same way afterward?”
It took me a moment to understand what she meant. “I don’t do that sort of Craft, unfortunately. I can sew a bit—mend tears, and that sort of thing—but I’m not a tailor.”
Lark straightened and stared at me without comprehension. Her large, widely set blue eyes gave her the look of an inquisitive sparrow. If not for the teeth I would have found her countenance very charming.
I tried, “Some fair folk have different types of magic, don’t they? Magic that’s unique to them or a small number of your kind, such as Rook being able to change his shape, for example.”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Just like how Gadfly knows things before they happen.”
I filed that information away for later. “Well, that’s also how it is with mortals and the Craft. My specialty is making pictures of people’s faces. I can do a little with food, but not much with clothes, and nothing at all with weapons.”
“Who needs weapons anyway! If I were a mortal I’d want Craft to make dresses. Please won’t you hurry up and put that on?”
I regarded the pink fabric grimly. “I suppose. Hold it for me while I get ready?” I handed it back and stripped off my dress. For the lack of a better place to put it, I laid it out on the ground, and then struggled into the new dress with Lark’s “help,” which involved an unnecessary amount of poking and prodding. All the while I thought of the iron ring hidden away in my pocket, and wished I’d thought to put it in my stocking instead.
“You look much better,” she said gravely when we were finished. “Except pink isn’t your color. Take it off again!” She dove back to the closet.
I was stepping out of the wads of fabric when a rustling sound came from the wall. I turned to find a raven poking its beak through the branches. It angled its head this way and that, snatching at the leaves and tearing them off to make room for itself, cocking a demanding purple eye in our direction. Relief swept through me, chased by the prickling awareness that I stood there in my undergarments. I snatched my arms against my chest just as Rook popped his head the rest of the way through. Stuck halfway in and out of the wall, he made an irritable burbling sound in his throat.
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. It was hard to remain self-conscious in front of a bird.