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“Okay.” Her dad kissed the top of her forehead. “I’m headed out.”
“Poker night?” she asked.
“No, just a few rounds of darts with some guys from Doolin’s.”
Joy whistled. “Look who’s Mr. Popular!”
“It starts by getting out of the house,” he said. “You really ought to try it someday.”
Joy mock frowned and crouched over her phone. “Outside bad! Dark. Scary. Inside good! TV. Food.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “Don’t wait up.”
“Bye!” She waved over her shoulder. “Have fun!”
“Emergency number’s on the fridge in case you decide to break another window...”
Would she ever live that down? Joy turned and shouted, “Bye, Dad!”
He grinned boyishly as he shut the door.
Joy shook her head and typed a final message to Monica.
Guys r weird.
Monica’s reply came in all caps:
AMEN, SISTER!!!
* * *
With an hour to burn, Joy decided to clean her room rather than surf online. It would be tougher to tease her brother for being the family slob if her room looked messy when he got home. After filling her trash bag and emptying the hamper, Joy dusted off her dresser and wiped down the shelf that held three printed invitations to various swanky parties in Zurich, Melbourne and Moscow (care of Nikolai, on tour); a heavy glass snow globe from Glacier Bay, Alaska (from Enrique’s latest adventure); a cashmere infinity scarf (from Luiz in Paris); and an odd collection of figurines—what Ilhami called “booby dolls”—from various cultures around the world. She had eight so far, wide-hipped, big-bellied and well-endowed, lined up in a row. Ilhami thought sending them to the “Cabana Girl” was hilarious. He had even scribbled eyes on one of them in Sharpie marker, which was probably sacrilegious, but Joy got the reference: knocked up by Indelible Ink.
As if on cue, Ink zipped into her room through the space next to her nightstand.
“What are you doing?”
Joy shrugged and put down the booby doll. “I’m cleaning,” she said into the mirror, which failed to catch Ink’s reflection behind her. “I was bored.”
“I see,” he said with a smile. “You know, if you are ever bored, you can always call Inq.”
Joy neatened her ponytail. “I’m not that bored.”
He laughed. “Probably wise,” he said. He draped her pink bathrobe across the bed and picked up the sword. He inspected the weapon closely, watching the light gleam off the nicked and pitted blade. “The Bailiwick often says to be wary of wishing for an interesting life,” he said casually. “And while I have been gone, I have discovered many interesting things.”
Joy twisted her fingers in her shirt. “Such as?”
Ink’s eyes flicked to her. “I went back to the edge of the Glen where we fought,” he said. “And you were right—I do not think this was an idle threat.”
Joy crossed her arms against a sudden prickly chill. “So do you think that one of the Folk was really trying to kill me?”
“I do not know.” Ink’s boyish face grew serious. “To know that, we must bring this—” he hefted the sword “—to Graus Claude.”
Joy scraped her bare feet against the carpet. “‘We?’”
“Of course.” Ink grinned and held up her discarded clogs in his left hand. “Clearly, I can’t leave you alone for a minute.”
“Ha ha.” Joy took her lost shoes and slipped them on. “Monica and Gordon are on their way here,” she said. “To keep me company.” She almost added, I wish you could meet them. Almost. But didn’t. It was impossible, dangerous and probably stupid to expose her friends to her other life in the Twixt. And Monica and Joy’s motto had always been No Stupid.
“It will only be a moment,” Ink reminded her.
“If that,” she said, smiling. “I remember.” And took his hand.
A flick and a swish of citrus-scented breeze and Joy stepped from one world into the next.
TWO (#ulink_d9525521-8561-5395-9c4c-1f5e6f6781cd)
THE BAILIWICK’S GRAND brownstone was both impeccable and impressive. Its stone steps were swept clean, the ironwork polished and the miniature evergreens flanking the door had been replaced with urns of hardy bamboo. The stalks rattled in the wind as Ink rapped the brass knocker twice.
Kurt answered the door in his crisp black suit with white mandarin collar. Joy was overly conscious of her dusty clothes, but she’d arrived in worse states before. The butler stepped aside, making just enough room for Ink and Joy to enter past the bulge of his gun under his jacket. Today, Joy took comfort in Kurt being cautious.
She was about to say hi but then noticed that they were not alone. A strange woman sat in one of the foyer’s wingback chairs, her fist pulling a hooded cloak tightly around her face. She looked nervous, her yellow-gold eyes wide. A strange sort of squiggle ran along the edge of her jaw. She tucked her feet under her chair, politely allowing Joy to pass, but kept staring at the sword in Ink’s hand. Joy quickly sat in the second wingback chair, noticing that it no longer matched its twin—it had a different, though complementary, floral pattern, and the crystal bowl of eggs was notably missing. Joy wondered if she’d been the cause of both changes to the décor.
Ink offered Kurt his calling card, but the butler held up a gloved hand and beckoned them to follow. Ink withdrew the card and nodded to Joy. She gave an apologetic smile to the shrouded woman, who’d clearly been waiting there first, and hurried down the sconce-lit hall after them.
Kurt knocked on the great double doors before throwing them wide. The windows were open, flooding the office with light, and a fresh breeze tickled the gauzy inner curtains. Twin basins of lotus flowers lent a watery scent to the air, and jewel-winged dragonflies hovered over the fat lily pads. Natural light spilled into the room, reflecting off the emerald-green lamp and the crystal bowl of roe, now resting on the Bailiwick’s enormous mahogany desk. The Bailiwick himself stood up from his chair like a giant amphibious king before his court.
“Master Ink, Miss Malone, welcome.” All four of the great toad’s hands bade them enter. Two smoothed the edge of his tailored, pinstripe suit jacket, erasing an offending crease, while two more gestured to the chairs before him. “Please, sit.”
Kurt backed out of the room, but as he closed the doors, Joy caught a quick smile and a nod, which made her feel better. His stiff, formal demeanor as butler and bodyguard felt unfamiliar to her now. She’d last seen him on a beach in Mykonos, dunking Invisible Inq in the surf.
Graus Claude settled into his high-backed chair, the great wooden throne groaning under his monstrous bulk. “I have directed Kurt to grant you two immediate audience when I am available,” the Bailiwick said. “Given your recent propensity for dramatic and often untidy entrances, I thought it might be prudent.”
Ink settled into a chair. “Should that be considered a ‘dubious’ honor?”
Graus Claude smiled, his ice-blue eyes sparkling. “Quite.” One warty olive hand plucked up a fountain pen while a second clicked the wireless mouse and the third and fourth delicately steepled their fingertips together. “Now, then, to what do I owe the pleasure of this nearly pristine visitation?” Joy wiped her hands against her pants and tried not to think about her muddy shoes. “Might I presume that it has something to do with that sword?”
“Perhaps,” Ink said. “I would like to know if the Edict is still in place. The one protecting Joy?”
Whatever Graus Claude might have expected, it wasn’t that. His eye ridge rose, exposing widened icy blue eyes. “Of course. Why do you ask?” he said. “Even if we had held you to your declaration that you were no longer formally involved with Miss Malone, the Council’s decision was based on her service to the Twixt and not dependent on her status as your lehman.” His eyes flicked to Joy. “Although there has been no precedent to rescind an offer due to a change in status since the role of a chosen human consort has always been a permanent one.” Graus Claude’s voice purred. “Yet ‘permanence’ does not seem to apply when it comes to you, Miss Malone.”
Joy twitched, oddly chastised by his stare. Ink placed the sword on the great toad’s desk with a mellow thunk.
“Joy was attacked this afternoon by one of the Folk bearing this,” he said.
Graus Claude picked up the sword and examined it with all his hands. “It is an elemental blade,” he said. “It’s old. Poorly kept. Recently discharged...” The Bailiwick’s nostrils flared and he glanced at Joy. “Are you certain this wasn’t simply a threat, Miss Malone? I warned you that there might be those seeking to test your mettle and that you must not rise to the bait. A human provoking one of the Folk has the onus of fault.” His ice-blue eyes blinked. “Do not let them taunt you into ill-advised action.”
“He didn’t taunt me,” Joy said. “This armored guy showed up after work and tried to kill me. When I ran into the woods, he threw that—” she pointed at the sword “—into a tree and blew it to pieces.”
Graus Claude sniffed the blade. “Hmm. Definitely not a mere threat,” he murmured and placed the sword gently back onto his desk. “This was an uncommon weapon forged once upon an age, clearly fallen into disuse, but I cannot imagine how any might attempt to use it to circumvent the Edict. The protective safeguards would be enacted almost instantly.”
“That ward was you?” Joy asked. “I thought that was Ink.”
“Not I, Miss Malone,” the noble toad said. “But rather the Council. I am merely one of its members, the comptroller between worlds, hence my title as the Bailiwick of the Twixt.”
Joy picked a flake of bark off the desk where it had fallen from the sword. “Well, I don’t know why you think that some Council ruling is enough to keep me and my family safe,” she said. “People break laws all the time.”
“People do. Humans do. The Folk, however, do not,” Graus Claude said. “We aren’t subject to laws the way you are to yours. Human laws are collaborative suggestions that can be bent or broken, but our rules are absolute. Rules of magic dictate how our world works, irrevocably. It is part of the Twixt—we cannot change our true nature any more than our True Names.” Graus Claude spread his hands across the desk. “What the Council decrees are not mere words, Miss Malone. They are laws like sunlight and gravity. They are.”
“And yet they say that I am safe from the Folk,” Joy said. “But I’m not.”
“Let’s not be overly dramatic.” Graus Claude’s voice rumbled deep in his chest. “You are safe and sound. You’ve simply been frightened, and for that I apologize on behalf of the Folk. As you know, subtlety is not always a valued trait amongst my people, and they delight in pushing interpretation to their advantage.”
“No, you don’t understand—if Ink hadn’t shown up...” Joy trailed off, realizing that she still had no idea how Ink had found her in the middle of the woods. She glanced at him. It was hard to tell if he was avoiding her eyes or not.
Had she managed to call him without his signatura on her skin? Could that happen? Once she’d removed the mark of his True Name, Joy had severed the bond between them, much as she had cut the bonds that linked Aniseed to the millions she’d planned to kill with her magic-borne disease. Afterward, Ink had refused to redraw his mark, insisting that she was better off free, an unclaimed human, despite her asking. They’d decided to base their relationship on choice rather than magic.
But then how...?
Ink tapped the sword. “The question on the table is whether or not Joy is safe,” Ink said. “Currently, the answer is ‘no.’ This means that either the Edict has not been implemented, has been rescinded or is fundamentally flawed.” The Bailiwick’s eyes narrowed, but the Scribe continued, unshaken by his employer’s displeasure. “In any case, I would ask that you confirm its present state and status with the Council.” Ink straightened as he added a conciliatory, “Please.”
The Bailiwick sat back and reconsidered the sword on his desk. He let out a long, slow sigh. “What you ask is fair,” Graus Claude grumbled. “And, in fairness to you both, I will investigate your request as well as offer you some information and advice.” He shifted in his seat much like a frog settling onto its haunches. “Once you exposed Aniseed’s plot to foster a Golden Age by mass human genocide, we found that, while we had apprehended many of her supporters, her guiding sentiment had gained popularity.” The Bailiwick coughed politely as if it could mask his distaste. “As a martyr, Aniseed’s death has given it voice.” He stuffed his fountain pen into its holder in disgust. “The Council has been forced to recognize a faction calling itself the Tide, whose representatives have invoked old precepts that would grant them formal audience as well as a seat on the Council.” He smoothed his four hands over the carved armrests. “If there were any who would be most interested in this sort of base revenge, it would be the Tide.” Graus Claude extended one pointy claw. “And they are most interested in you, Miss Malone.”
Joy gripped her chair arms. “What? Why?”
“As an extremist, separatist faction, they see you as the primary example of the danger posed by humanity,” he said. “Sol Leander, the representative of the Tide, accuses the Council of negligence in allowing you to flaunt their jurisdiction by wielding power without authority.”
Joy gaped. “That’s not true!”
“Actually, it is,” Ink said. “You ended Aniseed’s reign by erasing her mark as well as Briarhook’s signatura. As well as Inq’s. And mine. Such a thing has never occurred before, and certainly never without consequence.”
“But I didn’t know—” she began, but Ink continued.
“In addition, you continue to wield the scalpel, an instrument exclusive to the Scribes, without anyone being able to stop you or lay claim to you, since you are already protected under the Edict. You are what all the Twixt has ever wanted to be—both powerful and free.” Ink’s voice remained neutral, but Joy could tell that he said this with no small amount of pride. The dimples were back.
Joy tried to put her thoughts into words. “So the Folk...are jealous of me? Or afraid of me?”
“It is enough to make anyone afraid,” Graus Claude said. “Sol Leander enjoys reminding everyone that his commitment, his auspice, is to survivors of unprovoked attack, like everyone in the Twixt.” He tapped his pen with one hand as another gestured to Joy. Hands three and four held the armrests. “You have abused a system that you cannot possibly understand, and without Master Ink’s signatura, you currently exist outside our parameters, yet inside our protections, which does, indeed, flaunt the authority of the Council.” He lowered his head to Joy’s to impress the weight of his words. “To put it bluntly, you are considered rogue, Miss Malone.”
He sat back with a satisfied air as Joy nervously tugged at her cuff. “And therein lies the heart of my advice,” he said. “I suggest that, for the sake of peace, you consider the following options—either return the scalpel that can erase marks to Master Ink, thus negating the concern of your power going unchecked, accept his signatura, which would bind you to the laws of the Twixt, or quit this world, Miss Malone.” Graus Claude folded his four arms together. “Walk away from this life and never return.”
A heavy quiet made the room seem darker. The Bailiwick sat patiently. She blinked at him. What? Was she supposed to decide now? Joy staggered under the dual weight of Ink’s gaze and Graus Claude’s words. Had Ink known this was going to happen? Had she been blind not to see this coming? Or simply hopeful? How long had she thought she could go on without being forced to make a choice? The Bailiwick had warned her it was impossible to be of two worlds and, one day, she would have to choose.
She took the scalpel out of its pocket. “I’ll give it back.”
“You cannot,” Ink said. “It was a gift and I gave it willingly.” He turned to Graus Claude. “It is done and cannot be undone. Not even by the Council.” Ink cast a quick warning glance at Joy. Without the scalpel, the Folk might discover that the power of erasure lay not in the scalpel, but in her.
“So you say,” the Bailiwick answered. “Yet ‘undoing’ seems to be Miss Malone’s specialty and expertise. Besides,” he said, “there are other options.”
Joy held the scalpel, the metal warm in her hand. It was important to keep up the ruse, protecting her magic and her life, but it was also important that she keep other things, like being human. And being free.
“Ink doesn’t want me to have his signatura,” she said.
“Because it binds you,” Ink said.
“Yes,” Graus Claude agreed. “Precisely its purpose, as a matter of fact.” The Bailiwick tapped his manicured claws against the wood. “Signaturae were developed to safeguard against human entrapment, making slaves of the Folk under the yoke of their True Names. By transferring our magic to sigils, we have secured our freedom. The Scribes, Invisible Inq and Indelible Ink, were created for the sole purpose to mark humans with signaturae.” The great toad’s eye ridge twitched. “That is what they do.”
“But it must be given willingly,” she said. “A signatura taken by force is powerless. So if Ink doesn’t agree, then that’s that.”
“I believe you have remarkable talents of persuasion, should you wish to employ them,” Graus Claude said drily. “And it need not be Master Ink’s signatura. It could be anyone’s, but the bond does carry certain obligations and responsibilities that are essential to the Twixt.”
Joy hadn’t realized that she and Ink had been bound to anything other than one another. When she had been marked as his lehman, Joy was considered to be his human lover/slave/helpmate. What other promises had Ink made by marking Joy? What did the Council know that she didn’t?
“She is human,” Ink said. “And, unlike us, she has her freedom.” Ink placed a hand over Joy’s. She looked at their joined fingers: human and almost-human, wound together. “She should not have to give that up under pressure from the Council.”
“Well, I’m not giving you up,” Joy said, dismissing the third option. She looked defiantly at Graus Claude. “I won’t.”
The Bailiwick sighed around his chins. “One cannot have it all, Miss Malone,” he said, giving his head a palsied shake. “Every choice has its price.”
Ink regarded Graus Claude coolly. “There must be another way,” Ink said. “And if anyone would discover it, I trust that it would be you.”
The massive toad’s great eye ridge arced in surprise. “Flattery?” the Bailiwick asked, smiling. “That is a new trick for you, Master Ink.”
Ink shrugged. “I am learning.” He touched the skin of Joy’s wrist gently, as if remembering how her touch was his first hint at being human, the music of fingers touching, skin on skin.
Graus Claude rearranged random things on his desk before two of his hands opened a polished wood case and a third withdrew a set of gold-rimmed spectacles. “Very well. Leave me the sword—let me ruminate on the rest. See if I cannot invent some solution.” He nodded to Joy. “Miss Malone, I ask that you consider the obvious alternatives within the month. By then, the Council will most likely demand a formal audience with you, and while I have labored to shield you from them, I cannot sway them from such an action as it would be well within their rights. They will customarily ask you for your voluntary acquiescence to respect their ruling and it might be in your best interest to express a preference with humility and sincerity. The Council is more impressed with a show of vulnerability than strength.” He peered through his tiny lenses, his nostrils squashed flat against his face. “In the meanwhile, Master Ink has informed me that your home is still well fortified with wards of his design. You should be safest there. Wait for my summons, and we shall see what cleverness I can devise.”
Ink tapped Joy’s hand, but she was the first to speak.
“Thank you, Graus Claude.”
“And thank you for your efforts to protect both our worlds,” he replied. “For anyone on the Council to condemn you without question is poor recompense, and I assure you that I, for one, will not allow it.”
Ink stood. “We are in your debt.”
Graus Claude speared the Scribe with a sharp glance. “Mind your debts, Master Ink,” he said. “I am certain your sister would counsel likewise.”
Joy thought back to Inq’s centuries-old deal with Aniseed, the one that might have first inspired the dryad alchemist to try spreading her fatal disease through signaturae. That one tiny trade almost destroyed all of humanity and the Twixt.
As if by magic, the doors parted and Kurt stood ready to escort them out. “Away with you, now,” Graus Claude said good-naturedly. “Master Ink, always a mystery. Miss Malone, always a pleasure.”
Ink bowed. “Thank you again, Bailiwick.” He held Joy’s hand as they left the office, exiting into the now-empty foyer with its dark wainscoting, oil paintings and ivory-colored walls. Joy wondered what had happened to the frightened robed woman. Perhaps she’d grown tired of waiting? Joy was suddenly exhausted. An eight-hour shift plus a run for your life, a hot shower and a formal audience with an eight-foot, four-armed amphibian took a lot out of a body.
“I think we’re starting to annoy him,” Joy said to Kurt as they approached the front door.
“Nonsense,” Kurt said in his smooth tenor, which Joy still thought at odds with his heavy muscleman body. “The Bailiwick looks forward to your visits. He remarks that they are rarely dull.”
“I’m so glad that my life is entertaining,” Joy said.
