“—and then give them all back because they’re not ours,” Alice finished for him.
“Well, yeah,” Billy said. “But we’ll get the credit for finding the treasure. Come on! Sal told me we have to find a rock that looks like Calliope sleeping in the sun. That’s how we’ll know we’re close.”
They ran down the path, disappearing from sight.
The woman—Gayle, mother to Billy—shook her head. “Sorry about that.”
Arthur held up his hand. “Absolutely no apology necessary. How are you settling in?”
“As well as can be expected,” she told him. Though she still had dark circles under her eyes, they were less noticeable than they’d been upon her arrival. “We both slept through the night for the first time last night.” Gayle ducked her head. “I woke up this morning and just … breathed. It didn’t hurt like it normally did. Then I went to Billy’s room, and…” She sniffled. “He was still asleep. That hasn’t happened for a very long time.”
“I’m so glad,” Arthur said warmly. “You deserve it. Both of you do. Have you given any thought to what we discussed?”
She nodded, determined. “I have. And if the offer is still open, I’d like to accept.” She balked a little. “If that’s okay with the queen.”
Arthur chuckled. “It was Zoe’s idea. Though she is many things, the intricacies of the law escape her. Having a solicitor who understands the complexities will make things that much easier.”
“I haven’t practiced since Billy was born,” Gayle warned him. “It’ll take a bit for me to catch up.”
“Of course,” Arthur said. “And if we can be of any assistance, all you need to do is ask.”
“Then I’ll do what I can. Could you tell the queen that I’d be happy to meet with her next week?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Arthur said. “In addition, we’ve received word that a psychotherapist has decided to come to Marsyas. A selkie, from what I understand. Once she settles in, she has asked if she can set up a practice here. If at any point you or Billy decide that therapy might be beneficial, we will make it happen. I have requested to be a patient of hers as well, as it’s high time I get help to make sense of all I’ve been through. Same with our children, and for anyone else who might need someone to talk to, especially since she has experience with treating the magical community.”
“Because we can’t do it alone,” Gayle said slowly.
“We can’t,” Arthur agreed.
Then she asked the one question Arthur had heard time after time, the one question on the minds of anyone and everyone: “What if they try again?”
They, meaning DICOMY and DICOMA, who were currently enjoying an unprecedented blowback of epic proportions. After the confrontation, news had spread and spread quickly of the “Miracle in Marsyas,” or so it was called. Splashed across the front page of every newspaper and the top story on every newscast on both radio and television, scenes from an uprising: the Baker-Parnassuses standing surrounded by men in suits, the children looking fearful. Zoe descending from above, the last of her people, a queen. The banishment of the invaders. The return of Marsyas to its former glory.
But there was one image that had burned its way into the minds of almost every single person who gazed upon it: Jeanine Rowder, hand raised, ready to strike. Before her, Lucy, at most half her size, face turned up toward her.
This picture—taken by a visitor on vacation with a bird-watching group—became the indelible image of the battle for magical rights. It was printed in papers, shown on every screen, carried on posterboards during rallies where the magical community demanded equal rights. It was pontificated on by pundits who said it was nothing but anti-government propaganda, that the real issue here was that the Antichrist was allowed to run free around a village where anything could happen. “Can’t you see what they’re doing?” one such blowhard bellowed on a radio news program. “They’re going to come after your children, indoctrinate them into thinking being magical is normal. It’s anything but! It’s a choice. Now more than ever, our way of life is threatened, and we must protect our children. I can barely even sleep at night thinking of those poor, lost souls. See something, say something!”
Though Arthur would’ve given much to be a fly on the wall when Rowder, Marblemaw, and the goons in suits had suddenly appeared in the prime minister’s office, he had to settle with what came next.
Rowder—as they expected—attempted to spin her banishment by holding a press conference, saying she’d been attacked during what she called “nothing more than an inspection, something to ensure the children weren’t being abused.” She went on to say that what occurred in Marsyas set a dangerous precedent, and asked what she considered to be the most important question facing humanity today: What happens if another magical person does the same thing?
Unfortunately for her, none of the reporters present seemed interested in following her train of thought. Instead, they shouted questions at her, asking her if she’d ever struck a child in DICOMY’s care before, if Marblemaw was facing punishment for harming a yeti child in the street in front of dozens of witnesses, if the government planned on recognizing Marsyas as a country, or if they planned to go to war and invade. If so, one journalist continued, what would keep the Sprite of Oceans from banishing every single person sent? “It’s not as if you could return to lead the charge,” the journalist finished.
Rowder gripped the lectern, knuckles white. She leaned forward, practically swallowing the microphones before her. “I will say this one more time: the boy is the Antichrist. He is the son of the Devil. How is no one understanding this?”
The press conference ended without resolution.
Two weeks later, Prime Minister Herman Carmine held his own press conference in his office. Forgoing his usual pinstripe suit, Carmine instead wore a thick sweater and tan slacks, sitting in an overstuffed chair in front of a crackling fireplace. He smiled, he laughed, he poked fun at some of the journalists. Then, as if a switch had flipped, he turned grave and announced that Jeanine Rowder had decided to retire from public service to spend more time with her family. He had accepted her resignation, he said, in hopes that it would smooth relations with their new neighbor.
“In addition,” Carmine continued, “I’m pleased to announce I have picked a new head for the Departments in Charge of Magical Youth and Magical Adults. Although she will need confirmation, I doubt there has ever been someone more qualified for the position. Not only did she previously work with Extremely Upper Management, she’s … well. I’ll let her show you. Doreen, would you join us?”
Doreen Blodwell entered the office. She held herself high, moving gracefully and stopping next to Carmine, her hand resting on the back of his chair. She wore a striking pantsuit—bright yellow and white, with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination. Carmine smiled at her, and Arthur was reminded of what he and Linus had been told in the elevator before the hearing. What had Larmina said to Linus’s question?
How have they not discovered her? Or you?
Because we understand how the minds of men work. Give them a little smile, touch their arm, hang on their every word, and they believe they’re God’s gift to women. And that’s all we are. Pretty girls without a thought in our heads.
“Thank you, Prime Minister Carmine,” Doreen said, her voice soft, seductive. “It is an honor to have your backing. After I’m confirmed as the head of DICOMY and DICOMA in the new year, I’ll be reviewing any and all protocols that have brought us to where we are now. Change can be a terrifying prospect, but if we continue on as we have for decades, I fear that we’ll cross the point of no return.” She paused, closing her eyes. No one spoke. Eventually, she opened her eyes and said, “You might be thinking you have no reason to trust me. That I will be just like every person who came before. I hope that this will alleviate any concerns.”
She brought her hands to either side of her head, palms pressed flat against her hair. Then her hair shifted, first to the left, then to the right, before she lifted the wig from her head. Underneath, her shaved skull, scalp pale. But it wasn’t the removal of the wig that would be spoken of for weeks—if not years—to come. No, it was the two bony protuberances that rose from the top of her head. Each was black, two inches wide and an inch high.
As the cameras flashed, Doreen said, “I am a satyr. Half, anyway. When I was four years old, I began to grow horns. My mother took me to a doctor who told her that the horns would only get bigger. He offered a suggestion: disbudding.” Doreen’s gaze hardened. “The same thing used on livestock. Unlike dehorning, disbudding involves hot irons used to kill the horn-producing cells. It was not without pain. It was not without suffering. They will never grow back.” She held up the wig toward the cameras. “This was my armor. This was my defense.” She tossed the wig to the floor. “I no longer need it because to hide intimates I have something to hide. I do not. Change is coming, and luckily, Prime Minister Carmine has decided to be at the forefront as he understands that nothing can stop it.” She dropped a hand on his shoulder, her sunshine-yellow fingernails digging in. “Isn’t that right, Prime Minister?”
“Yes, yes,” he said hastily. “We’ll get it right, this time around.”
A week later, a letter arrived via carrier addressed to Mr. and Mr. Baker-Parnassus. Inside, written in bubblegum-pink handwriting, a short note:
It’s a start. Give me time.
Don’t you wish you were here?
xx
“Do you trust her?” Arthur had asked.
“I want to,” Linus had replied. “Time will tell, as it does with all things.”
And now, with Gayle waiting for his answer, Arthur gave the only one he could: “If they do come for us again, if after all they’ve witnessed they still try, then they will be met with the might of a queen who doesn’t have a single solitary shit left to give.”
