Chapter 31: Briar Triumphant

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

--Emily Dickinson, “If I Can Stop One Heart from Breaking”

The streets in Grace’s neighborhood looked different. Then again, she was viewing them from the sky. That explained it. A few buildings were spruced up. But for the most part, architecture endured what could only be called “decay.” Large chunks of cement and brick were carved away. If not by hand, then erosion.

Some buildings were familiar, but found in the wrong places. On landing, she saw street signs had different names. The streets themselves were cracked in more places than they were solid. Things like that matter little when one’s eyes are cast ahead. For Grace, there was no mistaking the building before them, nor its place in the city, the era, and her soul. Her family’s apartment was four floors up.

She left Goldtalon on the sidewalk, figuring what Astral force hid Bennu from human views ought to extend to griffins. Not that many people were on the street anyway, though it seemed a perfectly temperate midafternoon. Goldtalon suggested he drop her off on the apartment roof, but she worried the door might be locked.

It was hardly a secret he wanted to tag along. Mostly, Grace felt concerned he would be too large to fit in stairwells. For now, he entertained himself chatting with a crowd of pigeons embroiled in debating the merits of the postal system. The little birds looked the huge supernatural newcomer over with no evident surprise or alarm.

Grace pushed past the front door and ran up the stairs, counting steps as she once used to. The same number, but now the steps looked grimier, with chipped corners and edges. Natural wear-and-tear, of course.

This time of day, Rocky Ashcroft should be blasting away on his trumpet. But the floor he called home was quiet. Then, she was on her own floor. The hallway carpets had frayed in places, the cloth’s dye faded. Easily explainable by overzealous cleaners. If that were so, however, surely there would be less dust.

She did not exactly stomp to her family’s apartment, but neither were the pads of her footfalls especially gentle. The door number across the way hung on a loose nail upside-down. At her approach, it opened. Saba Grundy peeked out.

Mrs. Grundy looked even more haggard. Her hair was colored blue. Seeing Grace, her eyes bugged out. Her frown practically melted into her chin. “Ju..ju...jumbie?” It was hard to get words out with her mouth hanging so. “What’s that? Oh, coming hubbie!” She slammed her door so hard the number fell off.

Grace heard a man’s voice inside, but it sounded like it came from a television. With no distractions coming at hand, she knocked on her parents’ door. Her palm was moist with sweat.

Desdemona Grey opened the door. Grace’s mother adjusted her glasses. (The familiar ones shaped like cat’s eyes, with mini-diamonds at the corners.) She did not exactly stare, but never took her eyes off the girl. More than a few wrinkles nested under her eyes and about her forehead.

Did I make her so tired? Aloud, Grace said “I’m back, mom…” Other words were smothered by the woman laying hold and clutching the girl to her breast. The white nurse uniform was starched and scratchy, but no tortures existed that could compel Grace to complain in that moment.

“Oh baby, oh Gracie! You’re not a ghost, are you? Most frightening thing to a parent is outliving their child, so please don’t be.”

“Erhm nawt,” said Grace. Then, when she was finally allowed to breathe again, “I’m not, mom. But I think Granddad Oberon once said the same thing.”

Grace’s mother yanked her into the apartment, shutting the door. One hand gripped the girl’s shoulder, the other twisted padlocks and set chains. There seemed more than Grace recalled.

“You really met him, then? Daddy said he found our address because a little girl claiming to be his granddaughter appeared out of the blue.”

“Is he here?” Grace took a round view of her family home. Furniture and books remained in their old places. The space looked cleaner than anything seen so far in the neighborhood.

“He visits sometimes. Ohmigod baby! You have to realize: it’s been fifteen years since you dis…left.”

Dezzie,” Grace’s father threw wide the door to the room shared with Grandmam. “Condition’s worsening. Please put that hard-won education to use, and…” Daniel Grey had no glasses to adjust, but you can be sure he would have, given what he saw before him.

Grace ran to her father, grabbing him round his middle. Regardless of time’s passage, he was still much taller. He bridged the gap, lifting her easily into his arms. For several moments, she dangled in the air, but felt completely safe. (More, if it was possible to have a greater amount than “complete.”)

“You weren’t crazy, dad! If you saw a gremlin, I believe you.”

“What?” Grace’s father gently set her on the ground, but still clasped her close.

“At the asylum, dad. You told the story about why your plane crashed. I’ve never seen gremlins, but I can believe they might be out there.”

“It seemed like you disappeared,” he mumbled. “Right in the visiting center.”

“There was all this legal trouble,” Grace’s mother added. “We made sure of it, and searched out other parents whose…unorthodox children went missing in that Institute. All around the country, even. We never found who was behind the agency, but we eventually got the asylum shut down.”

“The Director disappeared before,” continued Grace’s father. “Along with that awful agent who drove you away. Last seen in…California, I think.”

“About the same time daddy made contact,” Grace’s mother said after a pause.

“Where are you?” cried a woman’s voice from the bedroom. “Don’t you know I demand witnesses? And no arguing I’ll ‘make it through’, this time.” Grace’s Grandmam was in the middle of a coughing fit when her father led them in. Grace’s mother stood back. The old woman blinked. Like Chiaroscuro, Grandmam’s vision was stricken with cataracts. There was nothing that could be mistaken for malice in her looks, however. “Hello. You wouldn’t happen to be a banshee?”

“No Grandmam.” Grace plopped onto the woman’s bed. “Real banshees don’t look like me. Or talk anything like me, either.”

“How silly, to be so mistaken.” Grandmam tried holding Grace, but her old arms shook too much to manage a firm embrace. “Obviously you’re alive—as I always said!” This last comment was directed at her son, with a wagging finger for emphasis.

Long as Grace could remember, Grandmam was old. Wrinkled and gray as her name. On the outside, at least. In spirit, she had as much vigor as the changeling girl from Ireland. It made her the perfect ally to someone young. Now, even at a cursory glance, something had changed.

Their room had the odor which only comes from being bedridden. Grandmam had some phlegm in her lungs, but on the way up, it dried to dust. Her throat wheezed. After uneasy seconds, Grace realized it was meant as a laugh. The woman did her best to smile.

“Grab my dentures, dearie. I need to beam from this occasion.” Grace’s father took them from a glass.

Grandmam’s porcelain smile was, in all honesty, horrifying. Grace knew by now, however, this was not the place to blurt something out like that. Their reunion was interrupted by a persistent tapping at the window.

“I got bored,” complained Goldtalon. “Pigeon stories aren’t interesting like ours.”

“How interesting are these stories, granddaughter?” asked Grandmam. “Introduce me to you friend.”

“Mam,” Grace’s father said after hesitating. “You all right? Sounds like you’re hallucinatin’, or…Dezzie, what’s your medical advice?”

“Leave the poor woman alone, Daniel.” Grandmam shut her eyes. “My daughter-by-law’s gone through a shock, one the two of us can’t fathom. She’s Grace’s own mother, after all. Attend to her, not me.”

“I really think we should stay,” contradicted Grace’s mother.

“Grace will be here when you get back, dear. Don’t be greedy. You and Daniel had me fifteen years. I counted days, as did you.”

Grace’s father said something about making coffee, or maybe tea. Whatever excuse, Grace and Grandmam were left in their room, with Goldtalon sticking her head through the window he insisted be opened.

“Before you wonder, yes, I can see the creature.” It was clear by Grandmam’s ragged breathing she battled for every word. “I don’t need physical eyes for that.”

“I’m a griffin,” Goldtalon introduced himself. “Half eagle, half lion. I know those words, but have never seen either living. Mommy hatched me from a gem called agate, which is why I like jewels so much. And metal. My name’s Goldtalon.”

“Yes, I see.” Grandmam nodded. “Because you have some shiny claws, like I have all my points and thorns. My name is Briar. Briar Grey. Spelled with an ‘e’, not an ‘a’, like people in this country prefer for some reason. Seems we’re perfectly named. It’d be nice if everyone was. Charmed to meet you, Goldtalon.”

“Grandmam,” said Grace. “If you can’t see, we can fix that. Griffin feathers heal blindness. I’ve seen it happen.” Then she thought bigger. “Anything else wrong…oh.” She lost herself in a groan. “If I still had Ridil, I could heal everything! But… I left it with the birds in Nephelokokkygia.”

“Oh, dear granddaughter, I don’t mean to be a bother. I’m on the way out anyway. You’re the only reason I held on this long. It was my wish to greet you when you got back. Let Goldtalon keep his feathers. What good’s a fresh-eyed corpse? Not when the soul sees just fine. Each waking day we peek through a crack in the doors to dreams, and beyond. Now, those doors open wide for me. Not much can be hidden from the dead, or soon-to-be.”

“No, Grandmam,” Grace shouted a bit more violently than intended. “Please, I only got back today! I don’t want you to go…”

“Honestly, I’m not so keen on the concept myself. Death happening to strangers is frightening enough. Consciously facing it yourself even more. Many doors mean many choices. I doubt I need to tell you, though. What must you have been through, brave girl? I’ve told so many stories, I’d love to listen to some of your own. No time, I’m afraid. Could you get me a blanket?”

Grace yanked the quilt off her old mattress. The bedspread had been kept clean, which is easy to do when something never gets used. She guided the woman’s weak, paper-skinned hands into her own. There was a noise like a car breaking down, only with slightly less smoke. Grace called her parents in. All made a righteous fuss trying to keep the old lady alive.

“I promise,” the blind woman nodded directly at Grace, “I’m happy, granddaughter. Because I now get to say: I TOLD YOU SO! I was right! I knew Grace would come back, and you were wrong, Daniel! Foolish boy, ha-huhh… ekkk-kofff!”

“Never been happier to be wrong, Mam.”

Grace could count the number of times she saw her father crying on one hand. (She felt unsure if weeping in the Institute’s visiting room counted, as her doppelganger actually saw that.) The real Grace could not touch him then, but now she grasped his hand, a bit too tightly. She felt he would be strong enough to handle it.

“This is my greatest triumph!” were the last words of Briar Grey. For this lifetime, at least.

There were three great regrets in Grace’s life. The third was not telling the adults in her life about Mr. Aitvaras, the second not checking what lay beyond the door in the Limbus Region that was identical to her bedroom’s. The first, though, would always be not bringing the sword of Paracelsus home with her. While the Nephelokokkygia birds needed Ridil to stir their potion together, once the supply was mass-produced, Grace could have taken it. After all the tasks she and her friends went through acquiring and guarding the blade, that sounded fair.

Grace’s mother checked the old woman’s pulse. Ridil was no longer relevant. The blade could heal, but not revive the dead. Later—whether hours, even a full day—Grace, her father, and mother sat in their kitchen.

Like the rest of the apartment, it was maintained as the girl remembered. Except now there was a spare seat. Instead of coffee or tea, her parents had made both. Grace tried a bit of the later, but found it hot enough to burn her tongue. When it cooled, she rejected her father’s offer of sugar.

“More for me.” The purple bags under her father’s eyes had only deepened. “We did keep looking after…that incident. I swear to you, Gracie. We stalked government offices, started petitions, offered rewards, hired detectives, even looked in morgues. Whatever it’d take to find the truth. We failed to keep you home. Worse, we failed to keep you safe. Only Mam felt sure you were alive and well.”

“I am, dad. Or was. And will be, now I’m home. But I let you down, too. I wanted to get back as soon as I could. There were all these adventures, which only felt like months.”

“Never speak that way!” ordered Grace’s mother. Then, much softer, “You did nothing—nothing—to let us down. From the start, we should have listened to what you had to say. Even about the birds. We might not have understood, but we can believe what you go through matters. More than the words of any government workers. Of course you had nothing to do with the church burning! It needed remodeling anyway.”

“Here you are,” added her father. “Over a decade for us, but apparently not all that much time for you. And you’re not a ghost. Dezzie, you checked, right?” To this, Grace and her mother both laughed awkwardly. “I can’t explain anything I’m seeing right now. Though I think your Grandmam came close with her fairytales.”

“Or something from hoodoo.” Grace’s mother leaned against her husband. She had switched out of her nurse’s uniform, as she would not be returning to work for a while. Grace’s father also meant to spend more time at home.

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Grace wiggled uncomfortably in her chair. “Mom, dad, please don’t worry. Not anymore.”

“Girl, you know we’re going to worry,” her mother retorted. “That’s the great privilege of adulthood. It’s our primary hobby. Parents don’t have everything figured out, you know.”

“I want to know,” continued Grace’s father. “What were you up to, Gracie? Mam said you’d simply gone to a fairy mound and lost track of time during one of their dances.”

“Sort of,” answered Grace. “I didn’t go to any dances, but I lost track of time. I didn’t mean to. The good thing is because of what my friends and I did, nobody in the world will be turned into zombies.”

“If you didn’t go to any dances, where did you find this dress?” asked her mother. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s rather fetching.”

***

There were previously unheard-of legal issues in someone reappearing after fifteen years, but looking just as young as when they vanished. People in ancient times who took round-trips to fairyland never had to worry about documentation, identification, certificates, and other things that were only slips of paper to Grace. She decided to leave all those matters to adults, and put her focus on caring for her griffin.

A funeral was held on an inappropriately sunny morning. Funerals ought to be cold, wretched affairs, with plenty of rain. Perhaps even thunder. Primarily, attendees were visible, mostly the few Grey relatives alive on this side of the Atlantic. Oberon Ross attended, offering any support he could to his daughter and son-in-law. Other mourners kept their presences hidden. Goldtalon—who never strayed from Grace’s side—was the least out-of-place.

Diana and Fox never met Grandmam, but they attended to support their friend. The pair did not mind so many years passing on Earth, as they had nobody waiting on them. Whatever paperwork needed filing to prove Grace Grey was very much back to being a citizen of the world, neither could be bothered to have the same done for them. They were much too busy with their apprenticeships.

Anansi inspired Diana Hemlock’s tragedies by showing her exactly what she did not want to write. The squonk (or former-squonk, depending on her mood that day) felt confident there would be an audience for wet, miserable ballads, if even just an albatross. She still had the same loose skin and red warts. Her open-toed sandals exposed a webbed foot. But she lacked the quality books said would be the death of a squonk. Diana would not melt into tears any time soon.

Tatum Esther Levinson, known as “Fox”, had a more meandering path to her calling as “interplanetary geologist.” At the start of puberty, her lithobolia returned. Often it correlated to dealing with irritating people. Other days, it seemed to flare up for no reason at all. Taking the advice (but never the food) of Dr. Bezoar, these uncertainties were managed. Fox’s eventual goal was to find where her stones originated.

Anansi and Dr. Bezoar both attended the burial, and tried keeping complaints about a lack of refreshments to themselves.

“You were expecting a wake,” observed Chang’e. William Henry had yet to finish a suit to weigh her down enough to walk for the first time in millennia, so she floated in the crowd, trying not to drift too high. The inventor himself had once again gone missing.

Everyone tried dressing appropriately for the occasion. Grace wore the green dress from O. Despite a chain of misadventures where it seemed she was injured every step of the way; the garment refused to tear or stain. It held up better than her old Sunday clothes.

Grace’s father wore his best black suit, a poor fit for his tall frame, and threadbare at best. Grace’s mother wore a black dress and veil, which, by comparison, was an evening ballgown. Oberon Ross’s suit came in three pieces, slightly asymmetrical to fit his warped back.

Diana had a gray dress that looked like it had been spun from yarn. Fox was stuck wearing khakis and a pith helmet. Chang’e “Just threw something together,” and still looked stunning (the blue glow helped). Goldtalon, Anansi, and Dr. Bezoar all went nude.

Nobody remembered the priest’s sermon, but up in a weeping willow, Bennu sang a dirge promising continued life even while recognizing death’s reality. Grace’s Grandmam never knew it, but during the time he boarded in her room while attempting to heal his broken wing, the phoenix observed her a great deal. He drew on a body of knowledge concerning what the old woman loved, said, and generally felt about the world. While beautiful, the song lacked his light and fire, nor his dancing. Dr. Bezoar pulled her hair and wailed in grief.

Grace gazed at the summer sky a moment. On a twisted branch, she would swear she spotted a raven, observing the world beneath with an evil-eye-that-wasn’t-so-evil. Then, the half-shadowy figure was gone, pursued by a skeleton. The girl was forced to focus on the casket again, and what it held. Or rather, did not.

Most assuredly, this was not her Grandmam. True, it resembled the old woman, but was merely a replacement, like a cloud clone which only reduced others to puddles of water. (Many tissues had already been used up. Diana took it upon herself to keep a stash handy for others.) The imposter-Grandmam was left on Earth to cover for the fact that Briar Grey finally returned home. Her fairy essence must still exist out there, because the energy she had in life could not be destroyed, nor created. The totality of the person Grace loved more than anyone else only changed its form. Moved to a different place the girl might find, when it was her own time to leave a duplicate behind.

That should not be any day soon, but the funeral service ended in no time at all. The box lowered into black earth; handfuls of dirt thrown on top. Fox placed a rock—picked up from the ground, for once. A tombstone would go up later.

Bennu suggested an epitaph about phoenixes. His idea before that was a Viking funeral where Grandmam’s replacement was sent to sea in a treasure-loaded boat, which would then be set on fire. “Still practicing with Yi’s bow!” he claimed.

The assembled changelings, birds, dream beings, gods, and even a couple humans dispersed. Diana and Fox had work to do, assigned by their respective mentors. Bennu needed to coordinate the muses of Nephelokokkygia. Chang’e just sort of drifted off without a clear excuse. Goldtalon tugged the end of Grace’s dress. “I’m hungry, mommy. You should eat, too. When eating, you can’t frown.”

At their apartment, Oberon set to making pancakes. (His daughter claimed it was still the only recipe he knew after all these decades.) Goldtalon could not wait, so Grace fed him slices of ham from the tinfoil spread that never emptied. That, I remembered to bring.

When Grace most desired a break from mourning, Goldtalon suddenly turned fussy, even though he acted perfectly content before. The griffin wanted fresh air and fresher prey—that meant hunting. She led him to the nearest place she thought might have game.

The park, which once seemed so huge—almost the entire world—had shrunk. Concrete and asphalt encroached on once-green spaces, only improving the area if one values parking lots over parks, as many modern people seem to. The pond where ducks once bemoaned unhappy lives while doing nothing to change them remained in its original spot, more than a little evaporated. What is more, it turned muddy, with a skin of scum on top. There were benches around, but no well-intentioned seniors to throw breadcrumbs. Grace had no one to ask whether the ducks or the feeders left first.

Goldtalon watched for geese, which Grace said no one would mind if a few were devoured, especially other geese. Actually, he knew she needed time on her own and that was his excuse.

Like the neighborhood streets, the park sidewalk was cracked. Grace went off the trail to find her own way. Grassy expanses were raked into fields of dirt. She crossed where she once saw a fat tabby lying in sunlight, the morning she first saw Bennu. The sun was still there, of course, but much hotter than it had been in autumn.

She hoped to witness a Murder.

Trees by the hollow had thinned. Main sentinels stood tall as ever, even a bit shaggier. Saplings took the brunt of abuse by human machines. Instead of providing cover that ensured privacy, they were chewed and spit out, reduced to messy chips on the ground.

Grace encountered the remains of that old stone bridge once held together by moss. The moss had apparently lost faith in its work, and left the stone to crumble. She was forced to traverse the stream on foot, but had dealt with worse than the sole of her left shoe getting moistened. Not wet, merely moist.

She made out the laughter of crows, and grinned. Grace hesitated only after realizing the voices sounded unfamiliar. In the hollow, a group of crows happily nested. But it was not the Murder she knew. On some level, she had not accepted that if fifteen years passed in the city, that same amount passed in this wild sanctuary. And even in captivity, crows lived far fewer years than humans.

“Hello,” Grace said clearly.

Most in the Murder clung to low branches, but a few rambunctious types gleefully engaged in a process called “anting,” seeking the nearest anthill and then squishing individual insects against their wings and body. Mrs. Tatters once explained acid from the crushed bugs kept their feathers clean. Jackanapes in particular loved doing it.

Grace might get use to corvids eating roadkill, but could never stomach this. She felt happy she had hair (far more on top than when she escaped the Ambrosius Institute). Though half of Goldtalon had feathers, the griffin groomed himself like a cat. A bath of dead ants mercifully held no appeal.

Giggling crows rose from anting with none of the embarrassment humans show when caught in a bath. Those in the branches acted a bit more wary. The first to acknowledge Grace had albinism, but was definitely not Albumen. For one, this crow was female.

Grace continued nervously. “You won’t know me, but my name is Grace Grey. I used to play here with my friends. Maybe you knew some? There was Mrs. Tatters, the mother, Ol’ Hoary, the father, and a bunch of their kids. Albumen, Dusky, Waif, Offal, Jackanapes, and the youngest—who I got to name when she hatched—Ragamuffin. Maybe you know her as ‘Rags’?”

There was a pause.

The albino female said “I had an auntie called ‘Ragamuffin.’ Well, great-aunt specifically. But no one ever called her ‘Rags.’ My name’s Rapscallion. Don’t remember the name ‘Gracegrey,’ but auntie always talked about a human she knew, who saved her life many times. Also said the girl could speak our language, but y’know, I figured she was just fooling. It was only a legend.”

“I heard another legend,” added a crow wiping ants from his blue breast, “About a sacred bird who could catch fire and not be hurt. What’re they called, properly?”

“Phoenixes,” said Grace.

“That’s the one.” Rapscallion nodded, almost sagely. “A phoenix. Just another impossible story auntie told.”

“It really happened, though,” Grace tried convincing them. She counted there were dozens, all giving her their attention now. “In this hollow, Bennu crashed right over there in a big ball of fire! Might still be blade marks where his enemy—a metal bird—lost feathers.”

“Okay,” said the blue crow in a tone meaning he clearly humored Grace, “You mentioned Albumen, too? He was my grandpa. Brought his mate here from the whole other side of the continent. Said they met when chasing some banshee, which we also thought was a legend.”

“Perhaps you could tell us some more stories,” Rapscallion offered in a more genuine tone. “Or we can discuss other things…”

Grace’s tongue shriveled from dryness, but she managed to say “No, that’s okay. Maybe I’ll see you around the park some time.”

Rapscallion chuckled. “You’re welcome anytime, friend of Murders past.”

Those crows who anted finished cleaning and flapped to the branches, back to jokes and gossip. Random chitchat that would never make a difference to history, but to them seemed the most important things in the world.

These crows felt so similar to the ones Grace grew up with. (Picture when you think you recognize someone in a crowd, but on turning around, you find a stranger. Not frightening, exactly, but you still come out feeling uneasy. That was how Grace felt.) Even if these crows descended from Mrs. Tatters and Ol’ Hoary, their business was not hers.

Grace walked back across the lukewarm stream slowly, not bothering to prevent her shoes and feet from getting wet. In fact, her socks were soaked through when she passed into the main park. Summer heat quickly dried them. Goldtalon thrashed about in the pond. Mud and scum hardly intimidated him, especially when hungry. “Huhh, huhh, can’t find any delicious salmon here, mommy!”

However large he might appear, it was proven Goldtalon could squeeze into Grace’s bedroom. That was all it was now. Not Grace and her Grandmam’s bedroom. Just enough room for a girl and her griffin. She was about to lead him home with promises of pancakes when she heard a familiar voice.

“I guess it really was my eighth life. Not my ninth.”

“Schrodinger!” exclaimed Goldtalon. “You’re alive?”

“Maybe. I’ll have to check before I can really be certain.” The tabby lay in the same prone position as when Grace first saw him. This time, Schrodinger was much thinner. Somehow, he snuck behind her after she already passed.

“Nine lives,” Grace mumbled to herself, then, out loud “Why do you have nine lives when humans only get one, Schrodinger? I’m not mad or jealous, exactly. I just…want to know.” She would have felt happy seeing her friend, but was too shocked.

“I’m sorry for what happened to your grandmother.” Schrodinger rose to an erect sitting position. “Really, I am. Soon as I came back, I heard the news from my cousin Maneki, who received it from Bennu of Heliopolis. Bird travels fast. The three of us, Grace Grey, are brought to life in the Astral, but ultimately gain our essence from the minds of physical creatures. Without dreams, we’re but natural forces—fire or darkness.

“Your grandmother has gone to something far greater than dreams. With regards to what that is, I’m thoroughly ignorant. There’s no shame admitting that. I know its someplace beyond Valhalla, the old, disused afterlife. Possessing bodies makes humans mortal. My kind are merely ideas given form. Now your grandmother’s become an idea. On some level, you keep her alive in your memories.”

“Well, I want my Grandmam here, not some ‘other level’.” If she were the type of person to stomp her foot, Grace would have done so now. Instead, she absentmindedly stroked the muddy plumage on Goldtalon’s neck.

In response, the griffin headbutted her, meaning “I love you” in cat sign language.

“I’d grant all your boons if I could.” Schrodinger kept pace with Grace as she walked away. “The world owes you a great deal of thanks, plus every kingdom or commonwealth in the sky. Alas, all I might offer is information, and guidance. What do you want to do now you’re back home?”

Grace stopped walking. Goldtalon and the grimalkin stopped with her.

“It wasn’t just me who beat Ostara. It took a lot of people, all working together. But I guess I’m starting First Grade in the fall. I’m starting later than everyone else, and don’t know if I need to catch up on anything before.”

“That’s only your immediate future. I mean, what do you intend to do now you’ve realized the between-state of changelinghood, as well as have a rare mythical being for a housemate? I hear Ostara’s serving a life sentence. How that works when you’re immortal, I don’t know.”

Schrodinger pausing to think about it, then purred. “Remember, however, she had many servants. Some might be angry they’re no longer getting steady paychecks. In the brief time I’ve been back, I’ve heard rumors about the former Project ARTICHOKE Ambrosius was a part of. If true, his colleagues are still active, but under a new name: MKULTRA.”

“You’re saying I should be as cautious as I’d normally be, then add half?” asked Grace. She turned to Goldtalon, who agreed that was best. “Okay, when I’m not trying to learn stuff in school, I’d like to learn more about changelings. If Grandmam were still here, I could ask her. She always said we had fairy blood.”

Schrodinger kneaded the earth. “The thing about a healthy library is there’s always enough shelf-space for more books. But they have to be placed there. None just appear on their own. I’m curious, however, why you’d want to discover more about changelings. Is it to better connect with your history?”

“No.” Grace answered a measured way, thinking words individually before speaking. “My family’s still the best, but not everyone else has it so lucky. Diana and Fox never said exactly, but their problems didn’t start at the asylum. I wonder how alone or afraid other oafs might feel. Like, you could pass one on the street and not realize, especially not looking them in the eyes. Bennu said it was like tuning to different radio stations than everyone else.”

“An apt comparison,” conceded Schrodinger. “Though I don’t trust much of anything I hear talked on the radio. Merits mentioning, though, I never know who’ll walk into the Croatoan Archives, or what they’ll walk out with. Browse the stacks sometimes, you might meet other changelings. You might not, but I’m sure there’s something worth putting on your shelf.”

“Don’t have a library card.” Grace did not even know what “Croatoan” meant. Even how to spell it!

Schrodinger flicked his tail. “You’ll have one just by asking. William Henry might have been the one to check-in the gold scroll, but you protected it better than anyone. Grimalkins will always welcome you—even to spaces still under reconstruction. Any mundane library can be a doorway to Croatoan. Simply find the quietest spot. There’s a place in every library which holds a special quality of stillness, peace, and calm. Someplace where shadows fall a bit heavier. Shadows are key.”

“But how could you read if you’re in shadows?” asked Grace. “Not everyone sees in the dark.”

“What illumination you have in the Archives is the amount you bring with you.” Schrodinger’s eyes glowed brighter than ever, showing no signs of being marred by spores. If there had been cheese on his fur, he long since licked it clean. “Let me demonstrate the path of darkness, one more time.”

Though it clearly pained him, Schrodinger dragged himself out of the sunlight. He steadily stalked to the shady base of an evergreen wider than it was tall. Every soundless pad he took seemed slower and shorter than the last. It seemed like he would never make it to the pine’s underside. In an instant, the tabby was not there anymore. To check, Goldtalon stuck his head under the tree, only coming out with some sticky-sweet needles.

In the pocket of her blue, brand-new overalls, Grace pulled out the goggles Fox gave her. “Goldtalon, do you know why I picked the agate out of Dr. Bezoar’s collection? She laid out all these rocks in front of me. Except the kidney stones, each was supposed to do something magical or be valuable. Like, there was this huge black diamond beside your egg, and a toadstone supposed to change colors near poison.”

“Well mommy,” Goldtalon started reasoning, “it can’t be because griffins know how to find jewels, or else you’d have taken the diamond right away. Griffin claws change funny colors next to poison, but you just could have taken the toadstone, and it wouldn’t need to regrow like nails after getting cut. But there’s one thing griffins can do that’s special.”

“What’s that?” Grace asked, but already knew the answer.

“Fly.”

Grace put on her goggles. Goldtalon flew to their apartment building’s roof, granting a better view of the city. Their city. He spread his strong, metal-shining wings wide in the summer sun, then swooped down to explore. Pancakes could wait.

Grace made sure he never flew too far, though, always keeping their apartment in sight. Even if surrounding architecture was knocked down, streets signs defaced, and cracked roads fell into fissures, she would always recognize home. Goldtalon loved the sky out of instinct. Grace picked up that affection almost infectiously. But they could not live so well in thin air, with little to rest on except a stray cirrus. Nephelokokkygia could be a nice place to visit—if only to see an occasional light show—but it was too crazy to deal with on a daily basis. Not when there were more solid places to rest.

Grace and Goldtalon’s family should not have to wait long before the riders returned. They all dealt with enough of that already.