Page 17 of The Filigree Key

Mrs. Bilberry smiled at that. “You’re welcome anytime, milady.”

With that, she showed me where she kept the flour and got me a jar I could use for the starter. I created a gloopy sludge of flour and water with a few whisks of a fork, covered it in a spare tea towel, and nestled it by the ovens where some of the miserly heat could keep it warm. Ish.

I retrieved the half of the game hen, bade the badger cook farewell, and went about my next task: sneaking out of the castle to find Shari.

CHAPTER SIX

The porcupine resided in a domed hut of interlocking sticks, much like a dead hedge or a beaver dam, on the far side of the estate in the woods beyond the red cedar colonnade. Not too far a walk from the hydrangea garden and its dormant water fountain, if you were exiting the castle over the wall of the rambler rose courtyard, but a bit of a hike if you were leaving by the front door. Especially if you didn’t want to be discovered.

And since I was all out of masking sand, I had to tread very carefully.

I had no idea where Ossian was, but the buzz in the castle said the Brotherhood was spread across the whole town, including the hamlets in the farm country. “Investigating disturbances” was what I’d heard. That could be code for “kidnapping more magical folk for Ossian to drain” or it could be the populace waking up. If Mrs. Bilberry was remembering what a dishwasher was, I had hope for the latter.

Keeping to the bushy boughs and shadows of the cedars, I crept down the colonnade. I kept the castle on my left, always in view between the trees. I wasn’t near the raven/crow sentries posted on the brick wall that encircled this part of the estate, so I feared no alarm raised by them. But you never knew who could be watching in the Court of Beasts. If there were mice in my walls, there were spies in these woods.

A clearing separated the younger trees from an old-growth forest of moss, rotting logs covered in mushrooms, and towering trees. And, of course, Shari’s solitary abode.

“Shari,” I whispered as loudly as I dared when I reached the hut.

From the surprised squeak inside, I didn’t need to follow up with an, Are you there?

Without waiting to be invited in, I swept aside the red crochet flap that served as a door and ducked inside. The low ceiling forced me to hunch, and the hut was so packed with crafting supplies I had to shuffle to get away from the door lest I break something.

Skeins of yarn in every color, thickness, and texture were stacked like scrolls against nearly half the rounded wall, followed by bolts of fabric, spools of thread and other crafty bits and bobs, and finally, upon the sliver of shelving that remained, snacks.

Fire burned within a small, brick-lined pit dug into the packed-earth floor; smoke wafted up through a small hole in the ceiling. With wide eyes and her fingers frozen mid-stitch, the porcupine sat on the only piece of furniture in the hut—a little bed. It was covered by a white drop cloth (the better to spy dropped needles or misplaced thread), and beneath its hem peeked a patchwork quilt. There was a stack of firewood by the snack shelf, a kettle on a little grate by the cooler end of the firepit, and a mug of something steamed on the floor by the cot.

Little did she know, the wooden holder that kept the ball of yellow yarn from wandering all over the cot as she crocheted was the exact one Charlie had given to her for her birthday.

“Um, hi,” Shari said, blinking rapidly.

I forwent the greeting and checked the little windows and peeked through the door curtain one last time. Then: “You were right, Shari. About having two memories, about everything.”

Her paws clamped down on her crochet and her quills shot straight out from her body. “I knew it,” she hissed triumphantly. “But how do you?”

Crouching down, I unzipped the foraging bag and extracted Sawyer—who was still ripping apart pieces of that game hen. Now at eye level with the porcupine crafter, I revealed quietly, “I was literally blasted back to reality after trying to go through the portal last night.”

“You were rejected,” the quiet crafter said shrewdly. “Why?”

“I want to explain, Shari, but let me get this out first.” Out of habit, I cast another look towards the curtain door, specifically towards the little gap between its hem and the ground. No shadows flickered across the dirt. We were still alone, for now. “In case anyone asks, we’re designing my wedding dress. He wants to marry before we go to Elfame.”

Shari’s eyes popped wide before she gagged.

“Yeah, I do that a lot now too.” I inched closer until my knees pressed against the edge of her cot. We were almost nose to nose. “But the real reason I’m here is to make sure that never happens.”

“You’re going to go through the portal without him.” Her crochet hook dropped from her fingers as she covered her mouth. “But, Meadow, you can’t. He’ll release his rage on us!”

“I know, and I’m trying to figure out a way where that doesn’t happen. Maybe a trap, a prison. But in the meantime: Plan B. I—we—need to be prepared to fight back. We’re going to start a revolution, Shari, with you as my first renegade.”

The porcupine retrieved her hook and twisted and twirled it through the yarn at a dizzying pace. “I’m not as helpful as you think,” she mumbled down at her paws. “I might remember some events two ways, but only some.”

“It’s a start.” I laid my hand over her crafting project, forcing her to stop and look up at me. “Do you trust me?”

She searched my face, and I witnessed the maelstrom of her mind behind her eyes—her desperate attempt to reconcile two fragmented realities and not lose her sanity in the process.

“What do you need me to do?” was her answer.

I squeezed her paws before straightening. “First—”