He moved to the edge of the patio.
He turned back. Looked at me. Smiled. His ears regained their natural points. His modern clothes turned fairy-in-the-forest, rich and brown and not of this Earth, piped with gold—except for the West Side Sandwiches hat, the perfect accessory for any outfit. “Tell my sister,” he said, “that I love her.”
My heart skipped, and the phoenix lost a little altitude. “Berron,” I said, “what are you doing?”
“And tell yourself,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “the same. Except very, very different.” He doffed the cap, like a gentleman, then tugged it back in place and turned away.
Before I could let the phoenix evaporate like fog in the sun, consequences be damned, he climbed onto the ledge.
Unbidden, the words of the book I found in Prospero’s apartment,Manners for Men, came back to me.
Reliable as rocks…
His clothes roughened like bark, then his skin; fingers lengthened into branches and twigs; feet became roots that gripped the side of the building.
Judicious in every action…
And then the tree that was Berron grew and grew, reaching across the space between our building and the next, suspended in space across two root systems, a canopy exploding open like an umbrella, reaching for the phoenix.
Dependable in trifles as well as the large affairs of life…
In the space of moments, the prince’s tree grew from spring to summer, then burst with autumn apples, and then stood in craggy winter form, dry and stripped of leaves and fruit.
Full of mercy and kindness to others…
A lifeline. A lifeline meant to burn.
His life is pure and kindly.
I realized I was screaming when my throat hurt. My fire mouse burst from me and ran for the roots, tiny frantic squeaks lost in the crackle of leaves and branches growing toward destruction.
“Berron, no…” But it barely came out. My voice was gone.
The phoenix landed in the tree and the whole city seemed to inhale. The phoenix expanded, brightened, took on the color of true fire, not just silver magic, as it incinerated the tree from its crown to the smallest tendril of its roots. Ash rained down as the phoenix took flight once more, a flaming arrow aimed at the heart of the Arcade.
She turned. Her hair curled up at the tips in rage. Her eyes beamed hatred; I felt it through Mom and Poppy, too, each of us conducting power like the wires of the city itself, competing with the pull of the Arcade.
The phoenix bent its wings and plunged.
Fueled by magic, roaring with fire, the phoenix struck the Arcade full in the chest. Gold and silver and orange exploded as if the Manhattanhenge sun had fallen to earth and cracked in half like an egg.
A sound of breaking glass; of bells that would never ring again.
Stolen magic billowed free.
The city exhaled.
When the smoke cleared, the phoenix remained. It banked over the stone lions and let out a call, triumphant and musical but also a little bit like the faraway horns of morning traffic. It was a New York bird, after all. Then it glided back and landed on the edge of the roof.
The Arcade, gone. The great split-rooted, building-spanning tree, gone.
Berron, gone.
Just Mom, Poppy, me, and a phoenix. It preened its feathers and small embers fell out, scorching the fake turf.
My cheeks were cold. Wet. I let go of Mom and Poppy’s hands and approached the phoenix. Radiant warmth dried my cheeks, the salt pulling the skin tighter.
I reached a hand out, gently. Could you pet a phoenix? It had always worked for Jester. I touched the bird’s head and smoothed back the curly feathers.
