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“Well, no,” said September, touching her throat again.
“That should have been your first clue.” Death chuckled. “I haven’t gotten to do this often. Forgive me, I am enjoying it so much.” The lady in black looked pointedly at September’s feet. She followed the dark gaze of her own death.
September was wearing a pair of rich, soft green hunting boots. She had never seen them before in her life.
“What’s happening to me?” She searched the face of her death and found only mischief there.
“I only ever got to see it once before. A man named Mabry Muscat. He gave his life for a girl he loved. King Goldmouth cut him down and I picked him up again.”
September looked at her legs again. Now, she was wearing green jodhpurs. And green gloves. And a green dress. And her own green smoking jacket. And a green carriage-driver’s cloak.
“The Green Wind told you: The new Blue Wind must steal something from the old one to take her place. The Red Wind must be bested in single combat. And the Green Wind … whoever gives up their life to save the old wind blows green and bright through the world on the back of a Leopard.”
September laughed. She touched her long hair—it had gone a deep, wonderful green.
Death curled September into her great long arms, so long that they swallowed up all the green of her into shadow. And in the moonlit half-world of the Worsted Wood, Death began to sing September Bell awake.
Go to sleep, little skylark,
Fly up to the moon
In a biplane of paper and ink
Your wings creak and croon,
borne aloft by balloons
And your engine is singing for you.
Go to sleep, little skylark, do.
CHAPTER XXII
WINDS OF CHANGE
In Which Everyone Arrives at Their Destination
September opened her eyes. All she could see were clouds streaming by and a sky so blue it dazzled her. All she could feel was the beating of a Leopard’s fierce, th
undering heart beneath her.
“Hullo, Imogen,” the Green Wind said to the Leopard of Little Breezes.
“Hullo, September,” said the Leopard to the Green Wind. “I solemnly swear I will never bite you.”
The Green Wind laughed. “I don’t mind. I know a wombat who has quite a philosophy about biting.”
“So do I,” purred the Leopard of Little Breezes. “She’s just down there.”
September looked down and felt sick for a moment—she could see all of Fairyland racing by, every beach and mountain and long desert. And down by one particular sea and one particular shore lay Pandemonium, its bright woolen towers so achingly familiar and beloved, the green spike of the Briary gleaming in the sun. The two of them drifted slowly down past the clouds and the torches and the towers. The Leopard of Little Breezes took extra care not to jostle the landing. A handsome young man with a neat golden mustache and golden hair met them at the Ghostloom Gate. He wore a plain but very handsome maroon shirt and trousers.
“Mabry Muscat,” he said, kissing her hand. “At your service.”
And then he seized September up in his arms and spun her around so that her green carriage-driver’s cloak and her green dress fanned out like sails. “Everyone’s been waiting for you,” he said. “I told them what happened—I couldn’t let your mother worry like that! Seeing you sprawled out on the ground like a crime scene! My stars!”
“My mother?” September gawped. “What are you talking about?”
But Mabry Muscat only laid his finger aside his nose. “Wait.”
