"I'll never curtsy for you," Magpie said in a low, seething voice.

"And no one will be surprised, will they, if a savage doesn't curtsy for the queen?"

"Savage?" growled Maniac.

"Aye, a little savage who doesn't know herself from a crow and wears their stink as proudly as her own. Really, you reek of cigarillos!" She wrinkled her nose and pretended to fan away a bad smell. "Surely that's just one hazard of slumming with low creatures." Her gaze fell with disdain on Maniac, Pup, and Pigeon, and Magpie felt a sudden flash of fury.

It tingled like a chill down her arms and she saw curls of light unwind from her fingertips. They spun with lazy grace toward Vesper and wreathed round her head. Alarmed, Magpie clasped her fingers into fists and shoved them behind her back. The lights faded away, and Vesper seemed not to have noticed them.

Bewildered, Magpie could only think to snap, "My brothers smoke cheroots, not cigarillos!" as she turned away. But she stopped when she saw the looks on the crows' faces.

"Jacksmoke . . . ," whispered Pigeon, still staring at Vesper.

Magpie glanced back over her shoulder and the first thing she saw was the look of confusion on the lady's face. Then she noticed Vesper's hair. "Oh," she said.

Vesper's hands fluttered to her head and jerked away. Her hair was writhing. "There. Are. Worms. In. My. Hair," she gasped between deep breaths as a look of horror spread over her face.

But she was wrong. Biting her lip, Magpie stared. Where a moment ago had been shining, perfumed black hair, now there were living worms, rooted at the scalp and wriggling. Lady Vesper didn't have worms in her hair. She had worms instead of hair.

"Get them off!" she cried.

"Uma"" Magpie said.

"Um?" Vesper hissed at her. "Whatever you've done, minx, undo it now or you'll wish you'd never breathed Dreamdark air!"

But Magpie had no idea what she'd done. She stared at her fists, clasping them tighter to quell the faint tingling, and shrugged helplessly.

The lady spun wildly around. "I mustn't be seen like this!" she said, and paused to fix Magpie with a vicious glare. "The day you next look into my eyes will go badly for you, do you hear me, savage?" A worm made an effort to explore her nostril and her hands flew to her face. She cried out in disgust and spread her wings and whirled suddenly away into the shadow of the trees.

Magpie turned to look at the birds, who were still staring, - gape-beaked.

"Gorm, Mags, what'd ye do to her?" breathed Pigeon.

She shook her head and looked again to her fingers, wiggling them hesitantly. "I don't know!"

"Jacksmoke, feathers," said Calypso, coming up behind them. "En't ye heard me calling ye? It's curtain time!" He saw the looks on their faces and stopped short. "What did ye do, 'Pie?" he instantly asked.

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Well, did ye?"

"Aye," she admitted in a woeful voice.

"She turned some lady's hair into worms!" Pup broke in breathlessly, hopping from foot to foot. "Ye should've seen it!"

Calypso's eyes widened.

"It'll be trouble," said Pigeon, glancing around nervously. "Trouble!"

"I didn't mean toa"" Magpie began, but just then one of the pomaded gents poked his head around the caravan.

"Little gypsy, do you know where the queen has gone?"

"Queen?" croaked Calypso, shooting Magpie a quizzical glance. "Since when has Dreamdark had a queen?"

"Since last moon, crow. Isn't it fine? A new queen in Alabaster Palace! Spread the news when you go. Tell everyone!" cried the gent, ducking away again.

"Ach, 'Pie! Tell me ye didn'ta"" Calypso began, turning back to her, but where Magpie had been there was only a human earring lying on the moss and a stir in the air from her hasty passage. Magpie had fled.

NINE.

The epic of Bellatrix had been put into verse by Magpie's father, Robin, years ago, years even before he had met Kite. In his wildest daydreams as a young poet he had never imagined that one day it would be performed all around the world. And certainly, not in his weirdest fit of whimsy had he imagined it would be performed by crows! But then, nor had he dreamt he would elope with the daughter of the West Wind but that had come to pass, and many a stranger thing too.

Besides, crows have a flair for the dramatic.

"The moon . . . ," Calypso, as King Valerian, opened the play, "whispers o'er the waters; come north and meet thy fate. Daughter, come forth and listen well, for destiny does you await."

When a crow hopped out onstage wearing a lady's wig, the audience burst into laughter. Maniac shuffled his feet and glowered out at them, which only made them laugh harder. "Aye, Father," he began, pitching his coarse voice high. "Destiny is the wind that carries me. . . ."

Hiding on a high branch by the river Wendling, Magpie could hear faint laughter coming from the Ring. Her cheeks burned. Maniac would not be pleased with her! She was ashamed of herself. With a crow as Bellatrix the epic became a comedy, and in the very shadow of Alabaster Palace, no less. Her hero deserved better, and so did Maniac. But she was still shaking from what had happened. Just thinking of that supposed . . . queen . . . brought a new surge of fury.

The vixen had insulted her crows! Magpie fidgeted with the feathers of her skirt. They did smell like cigars, she had to admit, just like the crows did themselves. They also held a hint of wood smoke from their campfires, and the tang of rainy skies, and the strong coffee they favored in the morning. The feathers smelled like her crows, her family, and she felt more comfortable in them than in her own unpredictable skin!

She watched her fingers warily. No more lights, no traceries, but something did shimmer in her peripheral vision and she squeezed her eyes shut in frustration.

When she opened them again and looked around she realized she must be near the old linden tree where as a wee babe she had been so cozy. Suddenly she wanted to see her old house very badly, and she gave herself a push with her wings and went drifting slowly along the curve of the river, looking at all the trees, wondering if she would know it when she saw it.

She did. Years were like days to such an ancient being, and it looked just the same, its massive trunk, its canopy of palest green leaves. Whoever lived here now was sure to be at the Ring with everyone else, Magpie thought, so with a quick glance around she stole in among the leaves, just to get a glimpse of the bright red door. But when she came to the spot on the trunk where it should have been she saw nothing but bark. She circled round and found no door and nary a window, and just when she was thinking she'd come to the wrong tree, a small dull glint caught her eye. She looked closer, reached out, and touched the little smooth spot protruding from the wood. It was brass.

It was a doorknob.

Magpie backed away on her wings and sank onto a branch. She understood. When a tree gives itself to be a faerie's home it expands to make rooms and corridors that flow within its living shape. And as it opens, so can it choose to close. The linden had closed, and the only sign her house had ever been here at all was a small protrusion of brass. Magpie dropped her face into her hands. It had been those little rooms that her mind conjured up to give any meaning to the word home, and now it was as if they'd never been.

"Magpie?" inquired a soft voice.

Magpie looked up sharply. A red-haired faerie lassa"a beautiful faerie lassa"stood balanced on the tapered end of the branch, smiling tentatively. "Who wants to know?" Magpie asked.

"It's me, Poppy," said the other lass.

"Poppy?" Magpie repeated, staring.

She came closer, knelt at Magpie's side, and tucked her huge wings behind her. "I looked for you in the play," she said. "I thought if you were in it you'd turned into a crow, though now I see you've turned only halfway." She nodded to Magpie's skirt and smiled. "Fine feathers," she said.

Magpie wondered whether she was being mocked. This faerie was certainly not the type to wear crow feathers! She was beautiful even beyond the usual measure of faerie beauty and as poised as a flower. She wore rose-colored silk and her hair was upswept in a spiral of braids, each one a different shining hue of copper, bronze, or crimson. Next to her Magpie felt like she was wearing a bird's nest on her head.

"It reminds me of that time," the beautiful lass said, "when you conjured yourself imp whiskers so you could look like Snoshti."

Magpie looked closely at her brown eyes then. They were warm as a hug, and she knew that it was indeed Poppy and that there was no mockery in her. "Poppy!" she said, and threw her arms around her earliest friend.

"Blessings, old feather," Snoshti said, coming up to Calypso behind the stage caravan where he awaited his next cue.

"Ah, madam, we meet again," he said, sweeping off his crown and bowing low.

"So ye've kept her alive, and that's something," the little imp said grudgingly.

"Been the pleasure of my long life," Calypso replied.

"Where is she?"

"Hiding."

"Eh?"

"Stage fright," he said with a shrug.

"We are talking of Magpie Windwitch?"

"Aye, but don't fret, Good-imp. It's pure the only thing that frights her."

"So she's coming on well?"

"Perfect, just perfect. Clever and kind and mysterious strong."

Snoshti squinted at him. "Gifted?"

"Aye, d'ye doubt it?"

"Does she know it?"

"I haven't told her anything, if that's what ye mean. But someone had better do, soon. She'll start thinking she's tetched."

"Eh?"

"Not an hour ago she turned the queen's hair to wormsa""

Snoshti snorted. "Worms?"

"Aye, worms. Shivered herself some, I ken. The lass has got magic in her she don't know what to do with."

"Is that why ye've come now? It en't time. She's still a sprout."

"Aye, that she is." Calypso sighed. "Didn't Algorab tell ye not to get in a fuss? 'Pie had her own reason to come. She means to find the Magruwen."

Snoshti snorted again. "The Magruwen? She's afraid of the stage but wants to find the Magruwen?"

"That's my 'Pie. Ye wouldn't know where we might find him, now?"

"Neh, bird! And ye know how we've searched!"

"Ach, well, I thought not. Now if ye'll pardon me, madam, my cue. We'll talk more later?" He hopped toward the stage entrance. "Over scones?" he called back to her.

Snoshti chuffed. Scones! Crow was begging for treats. Well, small price. Her lass was back. She reached out to catch a wandering beetle with her crook. "The Magruwen, eh, missy?" she murmured, pondering. She drove the beetles back into the forest to find a quiet place to disappear. There was something she'd need to fetch.

"Mad faeries, swooping mad shouty faeries . . . ," Batch whimpered as he skittered along the forest floor as fast as his meaty haunches would carry him. He'd never have escaped if the faeries hadn't swooped down like that, too near the crack where master lurked. They didn't know. They only saw the vultures, sure.

They couldn't know.

On wheezed Batch, grateful now he wasn't slowed by his wheelbarrow. He didn't even have the pomegranate to weigh him down anymore. Er, the turnip anyway.

Master wasn't pleased about that.

"Munch turnip, devil!" Batch muttered. A pomegranate, a turnip. How was he to know the Magruwen had tricked him? It occurred to Batch now that master didn't even eat fruits. He ate . . . Well, he didn't eat fruits. What did he want a pomegranate for? It didn't matter. Batch was out of it now.

"Scurry scurry, little furry, through the forest, what's your hurry?" he sang low and wheezy, urging himself on.

There had been such a scuffle. The tattooed faeries, swooping in with that war cry. They'd crashed a vulture and Batch had cheered them on. But then out came that liver-colored tongue, long as a lash. It got the old faerie first and the younger ones went wild and threw their knives into the dark. Sure it went quick after that but Batch was already on his way. No need to stick around for a good look.

Poor faeries.

In the darkness of the catacombs master had been just a voice to him, a terrible voice. Batch hadn't seen anything then and he'd scarcely gotten a better look since. Master was hard to look at. The eyes played tricks.

Batch scooted along, wheezing and thinking of the silver bat wings. It was a real puzzlea"he needed wings to get his wings, to flap down that horrid well and grab them! He should have ripped the pair off that old faerie chief and used those to fly down the well. Sure the codger didn't need them anymore where he was going, but Batch did. A nasty gleam lit his eyes. There were plenty more wings like those in Dreamdark, sure.

"Eenie meenie minie ming," Batch sang. "Catch a faerie by the wing . . . If she hollers, let her sing, the lovely song of a faerie scream!"

TEN.

"How did you know where to find me?" Magpie asked Poppy, looking around. The thick foliage of the linden enclosed her completely, like a little room.

"I heard from some ivy," Poppy answered, "and from a beech sapling just yonder."

Magpie cocked her head and studied her. "For true?" she asked. Poppy nodded. "You can speak with plants and things? That's sharp! What do they sound like? What do they say?"