Chapter Six : Streams
When Maeve finally rose in earnest, Ivy was nowhere to be found. She asked the other students, wandered the castle looking for teachers, but found next to nothing: Argus Filch, the caretaker (and, by all accounts, always on the lookout for some real or imagined slight by any student, any excuse to hand down a punishment), caught her slinking along a first-floor hall.
You! What d'you think you're doing, not up in your dormitory doing homework or out on the grounds like a normal child? he snapped, his pouchy face twitching.
I—I'm sorry, she said simply; politeness, she knew, was generally the best way to defuse misunderstandings. I'm—I'm looking for the staffroom, would—would youhelp me find it? Please?
He glared at her, and Maeve knew what sort of battle was going on in his brain: Embitterment born of years of fighting student-wrought mischief, the kind of which this little girl was no doubt planning to wreak in the staffroom for her poor hard-working teachers to endure, contrasted with the careful, delicate politeness that nobody, nobody thought to show him (Maeve had heard plenty of tales of Filch, and the other faculty members of Hogwarts, but tried not to judge anyone until she had met them. They were only doing their jobs, weren't they?) His mouth twitched. You—you're not planning to set off Dungbombs or some such, then, ar? Maeve said earnestly, shaking her head. I—I just want to talk to Iv— Professor Valentine. the caretaker growled, turning away. He jerked his head, though, in a manner Maeve took to mean as to follow him. Odd ickle bird, that one. Can't be normal, hair like thatand she so younghardly fit to teach, isn't she, only a handful o' years older than some of the bloody students He was muttering, very low, apparently unaware that Maeve could hear him; she had always had exceptional senses. She affected ignorance, but followed shyly, afraid he might at any moment turn and order her back to the Fataluma conservatory. He stopped abruptly, pointing at a door. Remember, girl, if I hear so much as whisper you've done something wrong, I'll have your hide for it. He stomped away, leaving Maeve to knock timidly on the doorframe just as the door burst open and Professor Sprout exited.
they cried in unison. Silly girl, you startled me! the teacher chided. What are you doing here?Is—is Professor Valentine in there? Maeve stammered.
No, she's not here, Professor Sprout explained, shaking her head. Why, what do you need?Erm, I just wanted to—to talk to her. Where is she? She's not in the common room, is she out on the grounds somewhere or—or something
Professor Sprout shook her head again, regarding Maeve with concern. No. She's not here at all. She said at the start of term that sometimes she'd leave Hogwarts forpersonal matters, but unlike Severus, she never mentioned where she was going.What? Is Professor Snape gone too? Maeve asked before she could stop herself. Her thoughts immediately rushed to Carlota. If the Head of Slytherin wasn't here to protect her friend She quickly said as much, heading off the confused expression forming on Professor Sprout's face.
Ah, that. No worries, Miss—ah—Kerrigan? That's all been taken care of. Now, was there anything else you needed? She smiled, and went on, I'm surprised you're inside on a day like this—I was just about to head out to one of the gardens. If you've no homework to do, would you mind giving me a hand?No—not at all! I love nature, Maeve gushed, following the professor down the hall. I've always loved growing flowers, but my parents never had the time for gardening. Miss Apollonia and the Headmistress left the staffroom and headed in the other direction, conversing; Maeve exchanged a wave with the younger woman before disappearing around a corner.
Your parents are Muggles, aren't they? Professor Sprout asked.
Um? Oh, yes. Why?You seem to get on well with all of your teachers, myself included, the professor explained, and from what I've seen in my classes and heard from the other teachers, you've an incredible talent for magic. You and Carlota Phoenix both. Just like Hermione Granger—she graduated just last year. She was also Muggle-born.Really makes you wonder how so many people can stick to the idea that only pure-blood' wizards are any good, doesn't it? Maeve solicited.
Oh, absolutely. People who think that, I've always felt, are no less ignorant than people who thought the world was flat, despite all evidence to the contrary—now, don't you go repeating that to anyone, mind you, the teacher said.
Maeve thought. Are there many so-called pure-blood' families?No, not really, Professor Sprout explained. They're all closely related, of course, and there's a trace of Muggle blood in all of them, I'm sure. If wizards and witches hadn't married outside their own families, there wouldn't be any of us left, since we'd be so inbred we'd allI won't go into that.But even the families who claim their ancestry is purest Maeve began, suddenly remembering her dream of Queen Mab and the four Founders, they couldn't have all been magic-users back to the beginning of time, could they? Someone must have been the first to practise magic.
Professor Sprout blinked. Why, yes, she said. I never thought of it that way. In that case, then, we're all descended from Muggles, aren't we? Just some more recently than others, and she winked down at the student walking beside her, not that that's a bad thing.
The garden they went to was slightly past its prime; the shortening days of early autumn had taken their toll on many of the plants. There were some vegetables to be picked, though, and weeds to be removed; Maeve went at it with gusto, glad she hadn't put on her robes when she got dressed: they would have been in the way, and she didn't know how she would remove dirt and grass stains like the ones that adorned her jeans when she finished. Professor Sprout had conjured baskets for the produce, and she enchanted them to float above the ground so that there was no need to carry them, which was just as well; Maeve was sore, having never done so much of this type of work before. But she was happy.
I liked that, she said, using the back of one hand to wipe sweat off her face (which must have been at least as pink and dirt-smudged as the teacher's, she thought briefly). Can I help you again next time?If you want, Professor Sprout said, laughing. Come on, it's nearly time for tea. They began to head up to Hogwarts Castle, but stopped: Professor Tilverton, the deputy headmistress, was rushing toward them and looking frantic. Maeve felt her heart skip; something was nagging at the back of her mind, something she couldn't quite remember: why was she so worried all of a sudden?
the teacher called, you guys—we can't find—Calm down, Sophenia, Professor Sprout said calmly, conjuring a goblet of water: You look a wreck! Have a drink. What's going on?The—the Sword—! Tilverton gasped, after downing the proffered beverage. The Sword of Gryffindor—it's gone! Professor Sprout cried, her concentration faltering for a split-second; Maeve repeated the spell she had heard the teacher use and caught the floating baskets in midair. How long has it been missing?!Over an hour, the sandy-haired woman panted. I—we—we've looked all over the castle for it, but we didn't—we didn't think Maeve turned away: She thought she heard someone singing.
Hang on, she wondered, straining her ears, what's that? It sounded like some animé theme song, though it was too far-off for her to make out words or the singer.
The two professors stared in the direction she was looking, and Maeve saw that Ivy was striding calmly up the lawn, a sword leaning casually on one shoulder, and obviously singing. It looked, though it was hard to tell for certain, like she was wearing the white ear-phones of an iPod. Her clothing was torn
Maeve found herself rushing down the lawns. Drawing closer, she could tell that Ivy was wearing armour, though not much: Animé-style minimalist, just shoulder-guards, greaves, a skimpy breastplate, and bracers. Are you hurt? What happened? she cried, then looked at the sword, which was long and silver, its hilt encrusted with rubies. Dark, crusty blood filled the engraved letters along the ricasso, clearly spelling out GODRIC GRYFFINDOR. Hey, wait a minute—!
Ivy switched off her iPod and pulled the buds from her ears. Professors Sprout and Tilverton were hurrying down the slope after Maeve, looking at once horrified and livid. Oh, crap! Was there a meeting I was supposed to attend?No, I think they're upset about your sword, Maeve commented darkly. Professor Tilverton just came running out of the castle to say something was gone—IVY VALENTINE! roared the woman in question, coming level with the other teacher and pointing a shaking finger at the weapon balanced on her shoulder. Explain yourself!!Huh? What, the Sword? A stubborn look, somehow vaguely familiar, crossed her face. What're you on about? It's mine! Er, that is— Ivy shook herself. D—Dumbledore said I could borrow it. I didn't think anybody would need it while I was gone.Yours? What are you talking about? Professor Sprout demanded, looking not so much angry as disappointed and annoyed. Ivy raised the blade and spun it in her fingers with perfect control, then buried the sword's tip in the ground and leaned on the pommel.
Do you believe in reincarnation, Pomona? she asked quietly.
No, but that's hardly the issue in question here!Well, if that's the case, I'm not going to try and explain. Ivy took a deep breath, picked up Gryffindor's sword, and handed it to Professor Tilverton. Bitch at Dumbledore if you must. He said it would be okay. I'm going to go take a shower. Maeve, concerned at her teacher's uncharacteristic snippiness, returned control of the floating vegetable-baskets to Professor Sprout and hurried after Ivy.
Are you okay? Maeve asked quietly, half-jogging to keep up with the adult's brisk pace. Your—your clothes are all rippedwhere were you? Did you get hurt?In order, Ivy told her, Yes, Miracos, and no. She looked down at the girl beside her and slowed down a little. Is something wrong?No, I'm just worried about you! Maeve said, with the oddest sense of déjà vu. I couldn't find you for hours, and then you turn up with a missing sword and wearing shredded clothes and animé-style armour? What d'you expect people to think?Nobody was supposed to know I was gone, Mel, Ivy muttered sullenly, and I'm nine years older than you—there's no need for you to fuss over me like a parent.If something's wrong, you can— Maeve stopped as abruptly as if she had run into a brick wall. Hang on, what did you call me? Ivy stopped and turned to face her. What do you mean? I called you— She gasped, dismayed. Eep! I called you Mel, didn't I?
Maeve nodded. I wouldn't care, except for the fact that I think it means something. Iv—er, Professor, what is going on? I'm confused, but at the same time, I've this dirty great feeling of déjà vu. Please tell me you understand better than I do!
Ivy folded her arms and looked down, not unkindly, at the student. First, I have to ask you what I asked Professor Sprout. Do you believe in reincarnation?No, not really, I'm a Christian, Maeve explained, feeling she was being given a runaround. What does that have to do with anything?It has to do with whether or not you'll believe me if I tell you I'm the reincarnation of somebody, Ivy said simply, her voice cool and hard as iron.
Maeve pondered. Ivy watched a gaggle of students wander by in the direction of the Great Hall, heading for afternoon tea. I don't want you to be angry with me, she said finally. I'll listen to anything you want to tell me.
Ivy regarded her silently. So astute, she murmured. So like Mel-Rica Abruptly, she shook herself. rather not talk about it here. Would you come to my office? Unless you want to go have tea. Either way. I'm in no hurry.No, I'mI'm okay, Maeve said. Ivy gave her a look—what was it? sad? grateful? both?—and turned and led her to the Fataluma common room, through a door set with stained-glass, and up a spiralling staircase that looked to be made of crystal. Another stained-glass door opened onto a large, semicircular room full of ceiling-height varicoloured windows, stained-glass skylights, and a plethora of potted plants. Filmy veils, bamboo screens, and bead-curtains divided parts of the room from others; Maeve made out a large desk and a few overflowing bookshelves in one partition, a great plush bed in another, and what she could only guess was some kind of prayer mat in a distant corner. Ivy went to the desk and opened the doors of a cabinet Maeve hadn't noticed; she reached in and reverently pulled out a long spear, glimmering with a weird inner shine like a magic item in Morrowind. Maeve crept closer and examined it; the head of the spear, white like silver instead of steel, was so highly-polished she could see her reflection in it. When she looked deeper, she thought she could see faint images, like dreams, playing across its surface: stormclouds crackling with lightning, an eight-legged horse running through the air, twisted and hideous beasts of semi-human aspect she breathed, and then noticed that the cabinet held yet more weapons, a veritable armory: Not even Professor Tsolakis owned so many! beautiful. What is it? And where did you get so many weapons?
Ivy's eyes darkened briefly with sadness. This is the Lance of Fortuna, she explained in a soft voice. It was wielded by Marsilia Fortunata, a warrior-mage who lived over a thousand years ago. Her valour and skill were such that she attracted the attention and favour of the Valkyries, who had this weapon forged for her.The—the Valkyries? Like in Norse myth? Maeve was both shocked and intrigued. They really exist?
Ivy nodded. I don't know how strictly Christian you were raised, and I don't want to offend you. I was raised to believe that there is but a single divine force—all-powerful, omnipresent, that manifests in a form dictated by the subconscious of whatever people It chooses to reveal Itself to. Some people, for example, call it Allah. Others call it Vishnu, or Brahma, or Shiva. All good deities, from Odin to Zeus, are aspects of the one true divine-force.
Maeve only stared at her, dissecting this bit of information in her mind. you believe that there's only one god, but that it's also many gods? That all gods arethe same?Something like that. I don't really care if you believe it or not, but it's the view of the universe I was raised to hold. That, and the idea that reincarnation is universal—oh, how do I explain that one? Hmm Did you learn about the water cycle in elementary school?Yeah, of course, Maeve responded. Earth always has the same amount of water, it just changes form. What's that have to do with reincarnation? Souls are like water? Ivy said, a smile flashing across her pale face. Souls keep getting reused. You die, and your soul goes on to someone just born, and you have no memory of your past life. Eventually—it takes some longer than others—a soul becomes pure enough—enlightened', if you will—to enter Paradise, which is probably more like the Buddhist Nirvana than the Christian view of Heaven. She looked down demurely. Not that I'd know. If I had ever been there, I wouldn't be here.
Maeve ran her fingers along the shaft of a giant axe that looked like something out of one of the Soulcalibur games. You know, that sounds she said finally. I'm not sure why. ButI think there's truth there.
Ivy took a deep, calm breath. Marsilia Fortunata, she said, after a moment's pause, married Godric Gryffindor after the Fey Courts left Earth, which was not long after Hogwarts was founded. Godric and Queen Mab had beenlovers, and Gryffindor knew that nothing would ever really come of his relationship with the Queen of the Fairies, but he didn't have the motivation to do anything about it until Mab was gone.
Maeve nodded; her déjà vu was rushing back. This all sounds terribly familiar, though I can't say why. She leaned on the edge of the desk and looked up at her teacher. Is this in some hidden history book? I read all of Hogwarts, A History and a bunch of other books, but they never said much about the founders. Ivy shook her head, and replaced the Lance of Fortuna in the cabinet. I know this from residual memory.? What— Oh, wait—I bet I know! It's a memory from your past life you're not supposed to have, right?Something like that. Yes, Maeve. When Queen Mab came into the Great Hall on the first night of term, I remembered thingsfrom the incarnation I was in the last time she was on Earth.
Maeve felt her eyes widen. Whoa, you—you wereMarsilia Fortunata?No. I was Godric Gryffindor.
Maeve had almost expected such an answer, but it still hit her hard. you werea bloke in a previous life? That can happen?
Ivy gave her a look. Of course it can happen. Souls don't always incarnate in the same gender any more than a given molecule of water is always found in the same state. Besides, when I speak of reincarnation, I'm not just referring to humanoids—a soul can be incarnated in something without a sex, like a tree or something, in which case it doesn't matter, does it? She sighed and dropped into the elegant chair in front of the desk. Have you ever read ElfQuest?Oh, yes! I love it!Then you know about Recognition, right? When two elves realise they're soulmates? Maeve nodded. Something like that happens in real life, too. Each person is actually born with half a soul, not a whole soul, like you might expect. The other half of the soul you're born with is possessed by the person who's destined to be your soulmate. Maeve accepted this bit of information; the faintest flash of Carlota crossed her mind, followed by a tinge of embarrassment. Where had that come from? When you meet the person who has the other half of your soul, you know. Maybe not instantly—you may meet them early on in your life and not, shall we say, Recognise' them until you're much older. Her face darkened. Or you might know even without looking them in the eyes, and they still refuse to admit what you both know. She stood up suddenly. Do you mind if we go over to the forge? Ineed something to do with my hands. She brushed aside one of the veils, and Maeve saw that next to what she had thought was a prayer mat (some kind of cushion, surrounded by a ring of six electric-blue candles) was a massive anvil and what she could only assume was an oven for melting metal, both seeming completely out-of-place in her elfin teacher's study.
go ahead she said feebly; something told her Ivy had asked only out of politeness, and would have moved over there anyway. Ivy coiled up her long, curly ponytail with one hand and thrust a pair of green rods through her hair to hold it in place; they contrasted marvellously with the brilliant blue, but Maeve was too distracted to care much. Her teacher then turned to the oven and held out both hands before her.
she intoned, in a voice that was full of power, and Maeve felt such a force of magic—surely that was what it was, though she had never sensed the like—that she wondered how it could have been evoked with Ivy's simple utterance. There was a soft popping sound, and a silvery mass of metal appeared inside the forge. Ivy took a step back, made a gesture as if throwing something, and called out, Instantly, brilliant yellow flames appeared in the oven, and Maeve had to turn away and blink back the image burned in her eyes. Ivy summoned a pair of poufs from across the room, and they sat silently while the fire danced brightly around the lump of metal. Professor Valentine kept a close eye on it—though how she was able to discern anything about it through the blinding flames, Maeve didn't know—and after a few moments, she reached for a long pair of tongs, pulled the chunk from the forge, and set it on the anvil. She moved one hand in an unfamiliar gesture, and Maeve realised when Ivy began to pound at the dimly-glowing metal with a huge hammer, with a strength that belied her delicate frame, that some kind of forcefield had been erected, for the sparks that flew in her direction vanished in midair.
Ivy pounded the slightly-molten hunk of metal as if it had done her a personal wrong, and Maeve was glad she was not the subject of her teacher's anger. A small piece, cooler than the main mass, chipped away and landed on the floor; Ivy muttered something that sounded like a curse, but the carpet beneath the fallen bit did not smoulder. Of course, Maeve thought, if she does this a lot, she's probably enchanted this part of the room to be fireproof. Still, it concerns me to see her so agitatedwhat could have made her so angry? She cogitated, and a realisation dawned on her. Surely it's not
To try to alleviate Ivy's mood, Maeve asked again where she had gone. I didn't recognise the name, the girl explained, but then, geography was never my best subject Ivy said, and her face softened somewhat. You wouldn't find it on any map or globe. It's another world.Another world? Like a—a parallel dimension, or something? She grinned sheepishly at herself. I know that sounds terribly science-fiction, butyou know what I'm talking about, right?Oh, of course, Ivy said, as she gave the metal blob—now rather elongated, and getting too cool to shape easily—another whack and thrust it back into the fire in the forge. She bent to pick up the bit that had fallen to the floor in one smooth motion, examined it, and then placed it to one side of the big oven. No, Miracos is actually another planet. Yes, light-years away from here, she added, seeing Maeve's astonished expression. But interstellar travel isn't a problem when you're good at teleportation. Poor Muggles! They're all so worried about developing warp engines and stuff to explore space, when all they need is a good magical education.
Maeve kept the conversation steered in the direction of Ivy's adventure—which sounded like something out of an Elder Scrolls or Warcraft game—to keep her teacher's mood up, and it was a much-cheerier Ivy that doused the forge a few hours later and shooed Maeve ahead of her, expressing a wish to change clothes before supper. Maeve knew there was much the professor hadn't told her, but what she couldn't guess, she wasn't going to ask.
Sunday was quiet; if Ivy received a dressing-down from the other teachers for absconding with the Sword of Gryffindor, it was somewhere where the students weren't aware of it, and Maeve spent most of the day doing homework and studying. Carlota approached her at lunch, asking if they could study together, and Maeve invited her back to the common room, where the two girls, plus Brian and Erica, continued their homework. Carlota was brilliant: Upon questioning, she revealed that she had already read most of the textbooks they had been assigned, and her parents had bought her a few more that wouldn't be needed for years but which she was interested in reading, such as the Standard Book of Spells up to Grade Four. Maeve felt a sudden surge of pity for her friend, realising that she must have always been even more bookish and reserved than she, and that Carlota's life in Muggle primary school must have been even more difficult than having to overcome the prejudice of most of the Hogwarts students—both the Slytherins in her own House, who assumed that anyone without a lineage traceable through dozens of generations of mages was slightly less-than-human, and others, who seemed to think that anyone Sorted into Carlota's House was a psychotic lowlife for whom the only reasonable life-goal was to become a Dark wizard like the late Lord Voldemort (who, despite his defeat and death over a year previous, still apparently inspired enough fear in the Wizarding community to keep those Maeve asked from telling her everything she wanted to know). At least here, Carlota could have Gary with her. It seemed the ravenlike bird was her closest friend, and for years, he had probably been her only friend. Maeve stopped herself suddenly: When had she become so empathic? She shrugged mentally, and put it off to magic and/or maturity. She would be twelve next June, after all.
Ivy came in just after dinner and asked if anyone would be interested in playing more Dungeons & Dragons. Maeve eagerly accepted, and helped explain the rules to Carlota; as they role-played their way through a conspiracy, a dungeon, and political intrigue, Maeve saw that her friend's face was alight with a joy she hadn't seen there before, and before they left for supper, the black-haired girl actually smiled for the first time some of her fellow students had seen.
Several hours later, Maeve found herself standing on a trail in a quiet forest. The sky overhead was the silvery-white of clouds not thick enough to rain, and the quality of the light told her it was midday, even though the sun was not visible.
Wait, how did I get here? she asked herself softly. I studied most of the day, then played D&D until I went to bedbut this She glanced around, as if an answer were hiding in the deep green shadows to either side of her. I must be dreaming. Taking a step forward, and another, she continued, But I've never had a dream like thisthere's a name for it, right? Lucid dreaming, that's it She didn't want to speak loudly; it was as if the near-silence settled over the forest was a beautiful illusion that would be broken with the sound of speech above a whisper. It was not a sinister silence, or like the pressurised feeling before a storm: it was serene, beautiful, filling her heart and spirit, as if the world were the way it was meant to be. Maeve crept down the path, instinctively reaching down to pull her robes up so she wouldn't trip, and noticed that she was not clad in her school robes, as her dream-self usually had been since coming to Hogwarts: rather, she was clothed in a ruffled empire-waist white gown, woven of something softer than silk, with fresh flowers at the neck and hem. She knew she had never worn anything like it, but it seemed familiar.
Her bare feet moved along the mossy trail in silence; the distant bird-songs and other forest sounds were slowly drowned out by the babbling of a brook running across the path, and Maeve knew that whatever she was looking for was nearby. She quickened her pace, leaping across the stream and running down the soft smooth trail, which was free of the sticks and rocks that would normally stab at unprotected soles and force a slower pace. There was a clearing ahead, and she could just barely make out shimmering lights—
Maeve gasped as she stepped into the clearing. The shimmering lights were very bright now, and there was a tall mirror standing in the centre of the glade that she hadn't seen before. She was reflected in it—no, not heror was it? Maeve inched toward the great plane of glass, barely noticing the flowing characters etched around its edge, and stared at the girl in the mirror. She had Maeve's height, build, and hairstyle, but her ears were long and thin, and she had tawny hair and pale violet eyes. Her dress was the same, but instead of the daisies, speedwells, cranesbills, and alkanets that adorned Maeve's hem and collar, the mirror-girl's were studded with roses, maple-leaves, celandines, and heather. She wore a chunky ruby necklace that Maeve knew she had seen before, and smiled shyly but knowingly when their eyes met. Maeve reached forward, the tips of her fingers just brushing the image of the other girl—who mimicked her—and felt no resistance as she had expected, but rather a faintly-cool veil like water suspended in the air. She stepped forward, moving through the mirror, and felt a shifting, like some subtle and benevolent power within the forest moving to encompass her. Maeve turned to look, and the mirror-girl was standing where she had been just a moment before, but her aspect had changed: She was now apparently human. Maeve reached up to her ears and found them long and slender, like those of a Fey.
It's who I am, the mirror-girl said in Maeve's voice, and Maeve knew she was right. The shimmering lights danced around them, and Maeve knew what they were now: They were strands of magic, waiting to be used, like coloured threads to form a pattern on a loom. She reached out for one, and the scene changed
Sirius Black, Harry's companion and the man with whom Ivy had been flirting so fruitlessly, was seated on a stone, his eyes downcast. His long dark hair had slipped over his shoulders, hiding his face, but Maeve knew it was set in an expression of frustration and loss.
Ivy, lace-winged and Fey-eared, her cobalt hair and viridian gown hung with sparkling rubies, knelt before him and placed one hand on his cheek. How much longer can you deny it? she whispered. It is what we are meant for—every life since the beginning of time, and every life until time endsIt can't be, he mumbled hoarsely, though Maeve could tell he was refusing only with great difficulty. She felt very much the intruder, even without being able to guess what they must have been referring to; it was like a story in ElfQuest. Maeve's dream-self suppressed a giggle; was all of Ivy's life so fantasy-like? She turned to leave, knowing she shouldn't witness such a scene, just as a great and terrible voice pealed from the sky like thunder:
IT SHALL NEVER BE!
Ivy shrieked in anguish; Sirius let out a howl, almost wolflike, of shock and pain, as his dream-image shattered into pieces and faded to motes of light. Maeve fell to the ground, helpless, knowing that the anger of whoever—or whatever—possessed that voice was directed at her as well as Ivy. Never had she felt so unclean, so—misbegotten—
With a cry of righteous fury, she snatched at a spark-stream of magic and hurled it into the sky. Blue lightning and fire exploded across the bottoms of the clouds, and the terrible male voice cried out in pain as broken shards of sky slowly floated down to dissipate above the treetops.
We are part of this world! Maeve yelled, without understanding why, and Ivy rose back to her feet, turning to fix the girl with a look of blazing pride.
No less than I'd expect from the scion of Fairy Hogwart, she said, smiling radiantly.
Carlota's dreams, meanwhile, were far more vague and much more threatening. She tossed and turned silently in her bed, the same scene unfolding before her mind's eye that had done so many times before, forwell, years—though she could never remember what the dream was about when she woke, she knew every time it occurred that she had had it before. And yet that was never enough
What had been, moments before, secure and comfortable suddenly gave way, with great throbs of crushing pain that seemed to last an eternity each, to open air, cold, vulnerability. Carlota screamed in terror and rage, hating this place, this new sensation of looseness, drowning out the raptured cries coming from elsewhere in the room: Gen-ni-tchoh-ki, Gen-ni-tchoh-ki The feeling of a stretch, a snapping sort of tear, and something cut off and ended; her senses were overloaded with more sounds and sights than she could take in, she was cold, she was afraid, she hurt, and she didn't know what was going on
A golden light, somewhere over there; a flash, different kinds of sounds, shouts of terror that rivalled her own. Harsh clangs and screams. She looked up, focussing her slow-responding eyes on something great and sleek and crimson, something with a meaning she couldn't quite identify—and then a scintillation of silver-and-gold light was hovering over her, speaking softly, and someone's warm hands wrapped her in something tight and soft
Carlota woke up as suddenly as if jolted, sitting half-upright in bed. She looked around, her eyes needing barely a moment to adjust to the darkness of the room, and remembered where she was: The dormitory for the Fataluma first-year girls. Maeve was over there somewhere—yes, that bed. She was murmuring and twitching, but clearly fast asleep. Carlota sat upright and curled her legs under her, pressing her fingers to her forehead.
That dream—the dream she knew she had had before—was still echoing inside her brain, like when someone speaks into silence and his last word bounces around inside your head for a minute. It was slippery, harder to grasp than the river fish that Gary sometimes talked her into catching, but—it was there—she almost had it—
Oh, my God, she whispered into the sleep-silent dormitory. It was—it wasmy birth
Suddenly unable to keep still, Carlota slipped from her bed, wrapping her bathrobe round her shivering shoulders. The night was far from chilly, even so late into September, but she had always been thin enough to be sensitive to cold; still, it was doubtful that her trembling hands and chattering teeth were totally due to temperature. Gary, fluffed out and perched upon the windowsill, opened one of his shining black eyes and lifted his head to watch her approach.
[What are you doing? he asked, using the same sort of quiet, almost subconscious, speech he always had when talking to her; try as she might, Carlota could never describe exactly how it sounded to others, nor understand how they couldn't hear the croaks and clicking that she could if she concentrated on what lay beneath the words. [It's night, you know. We should both be asleep. And yes, I know you have better night vision than I do, Car. Even so.
Do you know where Mum and Dad are staying? she asked him silently.
He cocked his head, beady eyes twinkling in the moonlight. [Someplace called Hogsmeade, he told her. [It's a human-dwelling-cluster not a far flight from here. He shifted his weight, putting down the foot that had been tucked into his feathers, and pulled the other one up against his belly. [If you want to go there, you're on your own, I'm afraid. I suppose you could talk one of the owls around here into leading you, but I still say it's a bad idea to go wandering off there in the middle of the night. There aresome very strange things happening. All of my cousins around here have been talking about it—surely you heard them chattering this evening? I think it would be dangerous, very dangerous, to go to Hogsmeade—particularly since you can't fly—but I understand that I can't stop you if you're set on it. He flicked his wings restlessly, the corvine equivalent of a sigh.
Carlota nodded. I need to find out. She went to the window, stroked her friend's sleek pitch-black feathers, and let out a sigh of her own. I think I'll be all right.
She strode quietly to her satchel, pulled out her wand, and slipped her feet into the shoes she had taken off at the edge of the bed. Silencing her movements with a charm, she crept out of the dormitory and through the halls of Hogwarts.
Her heart skipped as she charmed and pushed open the huge, heavy doors of the entrance hall. Should she have brought Maeve along? No, she thought quickly, her friend probably wouldn't like being awakened in the middle of the night. Besides, it would make things easier if she could relate what she found out in the morning instead of trying to explain the odd, nagging feeling of nervousness that made her feel as if her insides had disappeared.
Carlota shut the great doors behind her, still silenced, and locked them again. Then, turning to face the sloping lawns gilded with silver light from the waning-crescent moon, she sent out a silent Call.
Within moments, birds of all sizes were gliding through the night air toward her: nightjars, owls of various species, and even a pair of massive, quiet shadows that she realised were hippogriffs, legendary creatures half-griffin and half-horse. No, wait, these weren't—they seemed to be half-eagle, half-horse, with no trace of lion. Shrugging her shoulders, Carlota went to the smaller of the two hippogriffs—its fur and feathers a pinky-tan colour she could easily make out with her superb night-vision—and asked him politely if he knew where a place called Hogsmeade was. He responded that he did, seeming rather surprised (Carlota sensed that he was not used to being addressed in so straightforward a way), and wondered what it was she needed there. He offered to let her ride him, crouching down and spreading his wings so she could easily mount, and she did so, climbing onto the sleek back and holding tightly to his wing-shoulders. The hippogriff took off into the sky, with the other beast and the swarm of owls and nightjars following in a sort of honour guard around her, having accepted her as a friend the moment she communicated with them.
It felt even more unreal than her dream, to be sitting astride a flying hippogriff in the pale moonlight, the cool wind whipping past her face and streaming her hair out behind her. A few nightingales in the Hogwarts grounds below, and the Forbidden Forest further away, were twittering their nocturnal serenades; there were even a few robins singing, though the dawn was still far off. Carlota twisted round and looked back at the black mass of trees beyond the gamekeeper's hut, her heart giving a little jump as she realised there was a faint green light from somewhere deep within it. Suddenly remembering the bizarre animal that had emerged from the forest Friday—and that her mother had attacked and slain it—made her shudder violently, and she turned back to face forward, unwilling to risk encountering one on her own.
Her mother The way things seemed now, she must be full of things she had never told Carlota, her and Carlota's father both. The thought made Carlota's throat ache. Were they even really her parents? She had the distinct impression from her dream, though she couldn't identify where the impression came from, that the woman who had actually had her was dead now, having lost her life in giving Carlota her own; that would mean she, Carlota, was adopted, an orphan
What's wrong with that? she asked herself. Lots of kids are adoptedlots of kids who don't look like their parents, because they're not genetically related And her chest tightened, as if wrapped in constricting bands of metal— if I was adopted, why haven't they told me? Do they think I'm too young to know? Or is there somesome other reasonthat they think I shouldn't know?
Carlota buried her face in the hippogriff's feathery mane; the cold wind was beginning to make her numb. Just as she had done so, the great warm body beneath her tilted down, banking and slowing until it landed gently upon a cobbled path, cantering to a stop before the aureate remnants of what had clearly been a lush garden earlier in the year; beyond the garden was a stone building.
Do you know what this place is? she asked the hippogriff, sliding down into the grass; cold, dewy blade-tips brushed the tops of her feet.
[Humans call it the Three Broomsticks, he responded, [though I wouldn't be able to tell you what that's supposed to mean.
these people she queried, sending a mental image of her parents to the birds around her. One of the little owls twittered excitedly, flapping up over her head and perching on a wrought-iron balcony some three stories above. Oh, they're here? This must be the inn, thenOh, would you please tell me your name? Carlota asked the hippogriff, stroking his sleek head. In case we meet again? I'm Carlota.
[Ka-lo-ta, responded the hippogriff, bowing its head; in fact, it went so far as to sink onto its eagle-scaly front knees. [Friend Hakrit, who islike you, a littlehumanlike, but different from human—calls me Redtail', but I prefer to go by Sunblaze'.
Carlota nodded, and mirrored his bow. Thank you for your help, Sunblaze. She didn't know who Friend Hakrit' was, but didn't think it mattered at the moment. She crossed the garden to the inn's back door, unlocked it with a tap of her wand, and beckoned the tiny owl down to guide her up the stairs to her parents' room.
She paused there, torn, not sure whether she should unlock this door, too, with the Alohomora charm and go right in, or to knock and wait for their answer; would they be upset about her coming to see them in the middle of the night? Safer to knock, surely, but what if it woke other guests, who might then want to know how she had gotten in? From what she had heard around school, Hogwarts students weren't allowed to visit Hogsmeade village until their third year, so it would lead to complications if she were discovered.
Carlota shook her head and brushed back her hair. She had to speak to her mother and father, and if she got in trouble, she'd sort it out. She took a deep breath and knocked three times on the door; the sudden sound was jarring against the sleepy silence. The little owl hooted quietly from her shoulder, then took wing as soft footsteps within the room came to the door.
Who's there? came her mother's sleepy voice from the other side.
It—it's me, Mum, Carlota answered, her voice soft and hoarse from having only used bird-speak for the last several minutes.
The latches clicked, the door flew open, and her mother was silhouetted in the doorway. Great heavens— What are you doing here? How did you get here? What's wrong? She ushered the girl into the room and shut the door; the rumpled and mounded sheets on the four-poster bed in one corner shifted aside as her father sat up in bed, brushing his long dark hair out of his eyes and gazing groggily around.
Carlota's mother sat her down on a bench and fussed with her nightgown. Your hair, your— How did you get here?I rode a hippogriff, she said simply. I'm really sorry, Mum—Dad—but II needed to talk to you. Suddenly self-conscious, she examined the fingers folded in her lap; the idea of bursting in here to discuss what may well have been a dream, and only a dream, was beginning to seem rather foolish. I— Please don't think it's weird, but—I justhad a really odd dream, and it felt very real, and itit kind of scared me.
She had been expecting her mother to crouch down before her, smoothing back her hair and whispering soothing words that it had been only a dream, only a nightmare, that everything was all right. Instead, Carlota's heart dropped out through the bottom of her feet as she watched her parents exchange a look.
What was it about, love? her mother asked softly, pulling up another chair. Are you quite sure it wasn't just a nightmare?
Carlota shook her head. I don't know. Maybe it was, but it wasso strange. I felt like I had had it before, but I don't think I could ever remember it until tonight
Her father got up and moved around the room, lighting candles and busying himself with an object in the corner that turned out to be a teapot, as Carlota explained all she could remember of the dream she had had. When she was finished, she looked up into her mother's face, and saw that it had gone very pale; she was biting her lip, brow furrowed.
I don't knowdo you think it wasjust a dream?
Carlota's father sat down next to them and handed them both a cup of tea. Well, I don't want to lie, he said, sipping at his own drink, but there are a lot of complicated details behind it, and it will take some time to explain it all. He shot Carlota's mother a look over the rim of his teacup; she sighed.
Yes, you're eleven nowyou're not a child anymoreI suppose we'd better Well, and she dropped her eyes. I am very sorry, Carlota, and I hope you can forgive us. We have not been entirely honest with you.You lied to me?No, never lied. I cannot lie— That takes some explanation in and of itself, her mother said, waving a hand, but there are things we could have told you that we did not. Things you probably should have known soonerIt wasn't that we thought you were too young to know, her father explained. You've always been smart, and I'm sure you would have understood anything we needed to tell you. We were worried that—that it mighthurt you.Well, it rather hurts to suddenly find out I was adopted and never told, she said acidly, starting to become annoyed that her parents were being so circumspect. Whatever they had to tell her, whatever the truth was, it couldn't be worse than this awful waiting to hear it.
Oh, 'Lota, her mother said, her voice thick; Carlota was surprised to see tears filling the older woman's eyes. I know, I know—we're so sorry—we never should have kept—we should have—I—I'm sorry too. It's OK, Mumyou don't need to be upset about it Carlota mumbled, pulling her legs up beneath her and staring into the teacup. But I take it, then, that I really was adopted?I wouldn't use the word her father protested, draining his teacup and setting it down on the sideboard. We raised you from the moment you were born. It's true we're not your biological parents, yes, but— whispered her mother, and he fell silent. Carlota stared at each of them in turn, feeling cold inside. A sudden vast, uncrossable gulf seemed to have sprung up between her and the two adults, who just twenty-four hours before she had loved and trusted so muchand now, she found, they weren't her real parents at allOh, Carly, love, her mother said, not making eye contact; the tears poured down her cheeks.
Who were my parents? Carlota asked, her throat so tight she was unable to speak in a voice above a whisper.
They were—atat least, your birth mother was—members of a her father said slowly. We discovered them on apolice raid.Was it—was it really a police raid? Only I know, now, that you've always known magic— Carlota glanced at the man and woman who had raised her— so you don't have to make up stories now, you can tell me the truth.
Carlota's mother let out a ragged sigh; wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she reached for Carlota's hand. Love, please don't be angry with us, she begged. Anything we might have kept from you—any lies by omission—is because we love you. We couldn't have our own children, your father and I, but we found you insteadWe're from another world, Carlota, not Carinthia, like we've always told people. It's a world just like Earth, separate but sort of connected, a kind of linked demiplane. I am a Paladin, as I said before. A holy knight, a crusader against evil. I—don't— She cut off abruptly, sounding strangled, and amended what she had been about to say. Whoever your biological parents may have been, whatever they may have done before you were born, none of it was your fault, so when my companions and I—we had sort of a Fellowship, like in Lord of the Rings, you know?—found, at the meeting we broke up, that one of the cultists was having a baby, we felt sorry for her and took the baby away to raise.We didn't know how big the cult was, her father put in, or whether they would think it was important that one of their members had had a baby during the ceremony, but we worried they might, and that someday, they might want to come find you. So we moved here, to Earth, and stopped using magic, blending in with the normal people here, and telling them we were from another country on Earth—at least, until we knew the culture well enough to not stand out.
Carlota stared at her knees; her innards still seemed to be frozen. why did my biological mother die? They didn't even take her to a hospital to have her baby?Sanctuary isn't exactly like Earth, her mother explained. Most cultures are rather like the Middle Ages. The people there don't have science or modern medicine like they do here.It's much better here, her father said genially. Indoor plumbing, for instance, and being able to heat a house without lighting fires in every room.But all—all your friends—you justleft them behind, in Sanctuary?We had to, so you could be safe, her mother whispered. Carlota felt her eyes burning. She'd learned many things tonight that she never would have suspected (though, despite the unpleasantness of most of it, she was glad she knew now), but the fact that two people would leave behind their entire lives, the world and people they knew, for the sake of protecting a little girl who wasn't even of their flesh and blood This, Carlota reflected, made her realise that her parents really did love her, quite possibly even more than her biological mother and father would have.
Oh, Mum, she cried, and threw herself on her mother's neck, sobbing into her shoulder. A second later, she felt her father's strong arms encircle both of them in a tight hug, and they were all crying on one another.
Several minutes later, Carlota wiped her face with her nightgown, feeling somehow cleaner, refreshed. for everything, she said hoarsely. I should—I should probably go back to bed soon. I think Sunblaze will be willing to fly me back—What No, no, you're not going back outside in the middle of the night! her mother reprimanded, standing up. Here, I'll kip on the couch. You sleep in the bed, and we'll take you back to Hogwarts in the morning.
Carlota didn't protest much; her desire to be self-effacing was easily overriden by the urge to return to sleep, and when the sheets and pillows had all been shifted about and everyone bedded down, she asked into the darkness, Yes, love?when I'm oldercould I go to Sanctuary?
She heard her mother sigh. We'll see, dear.Only I want to find out—someday, not today—if anyone knows anything about my biological parents. Maybe one of them could talk to birds, too.
A very pregnant silence followed this; then her mother repeated, We'll see, Carlota.
The youngest Phoenix fell asleep with her mind buzzing with the suspicion that her parents still weren't telling her everything.