“But you have to or everyone will die of starvation,” I said, aghast.
His eyes twinkled. “See? You are at it already. If I do not feel challenged enough, I may forget to order the sun to rise.”
“You wouldn’t,” I said with huge eyes.
“I might,” he teased, making his eyes grow big and biting his lip as he drew in close to me. “I might forget.”
“You can’t,” I choked.
“Help me,” he said, hands spread wide and eyes also wide with feigned innocence.
“For how long?” I asked, giving him a wry smile.
“As long as rivers need to run and the moon needs to shine,” he said, putting on a sorrowful expression. “I fear that you will be stuck with me for exactly that long, for who else would remind me of the necessity.”
“That will be forever,” I warned.
“So it will.” And his smile was beatific again. “And will you take the occupation?”
“I fear that if I do not, the world will fall to chaos,” I said grimly.
“Your fears are well-founded.”
“Then, I will take this occupation,” I agreed and his laugh was deep and rich and told me he had tricked me into being his compatriot in the very best of ways because he dropped his teasing and the rest of his fish and swept me up in his arms and we were busy for a long while like that until our fire went out and he had to remake our crushed flower crowns.
“Can we stay like this forever?” I gasped.
“Soon,” he whispered. “But first, we have one last snake in our garden and I fear we must root him out ourselves. Let us hie us to Coppertomb’s Coronation Ball for a Battle of the Kings.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
I expectedhim to snap his fingers and take us there like he had so many times before, but to my surprise, my husband took my hand instead and knocked on the rock we’d been standing on. It began to shake, rumbling and rising. I had to grip his hands in mine as tree roots shook loose and soil and river all tumbled off the rock. And then a seam opened up, and out of the seam, a fire flared up hot and rich.
“My fire,” Bluebeard said happily. His smile was the kind of smile that could melt the rock itself, holding the light of a lantern in the darkness, the warmth of a welcoming hearth, a kind of glowing, pulsing satisfaction.
“My King,” the fire rumbled, hissing and popping.
“I require your service.”
“I am honored to serve,” said the fire.
“Is there a fire at my adversary’s Coronation Ball?” my husband asked.
“Of course,” said the fire.
“Then you shall deposit your King and Queen there, my fire, and await my orders.” Bluebeard turned and looked at me and there was a teasing smile in his eyes that turned fierce as he said, “Are you ready to turn tables and upend designs, Queen of my Heart?”
“I am,” I said firmly.
“Are you ready to untangle tangles and unravel ravelings?” He leaned in, his half-smile teasing in a way that made me melt a little.
“I’m also ready to tear down what has been built and unmake what was made,” I said dryly.
“Ah, excellent. Then we are of an accord.” He bent in to steal a sizzling kiss, his fingers trailing lightly over my waist. And then, before I had time to so much as take a breath he whirled me as if we were dancing, right through the air and into the fire.
The fire grew, burning bright and hot, though I was not scalded by it, and when it cleared enough to see out through the flames, there was a great statue that looked as if it were a depiction of Death himself, for it accurately showed his beard and fluttering cloak and it held in its hand a severed hand — my hand, I thought. But the statue was old and beaten by winds and weather to the point where the glazed-over eyes and slug tongue were worn to nubs and the face was unrecognizable.
“Where are we?” I gasped from within the fire.
