Except the Queen (12 page)

Opening the window, I had my first glimpse of the back of Baba Yaga’s house. There were few signs of a garden, which should have been in full bloom at the height of summer. Instead, there was only a patch of choked wildflowers, their small blossoms almost colorless in the dry, rough soil. There was more garbage here, too: broken chairs and rain-soaked boxes that must have lain out for most of the summer. The only bright color came from winking shards of broken glass—brown and green bottles from the looks of them.

I shut the window and began to worry about my debt to Baba Yaga. Had she known the state of her garden? I had certainly never labored before, and the task now seemed daunting. Yet, I wanted to be brave. I wanted to learn how to survive here. I wanted to find my sister again. I wanted to flourish in spite of the Queen’s punishment. I wanted . . . 
to eat
, I realized as my stomach rumbled its own wants.

Throwing on the housedress, I went into the kitchen, sat at the table, and waited. And waited. And waited.

“Hands?” I asked. “Are you there? Please,” I said in my most polite voice, “if you may, could I have some victuals? Tea would be nice. Bread too.”

There was no answer. And only then did I recall that Baba Yaga had said her servants could choose to help me or not. It was becoming clear that I had not yet earned the right to that help. Last night, I was a traveler, a guest of the great witch, come in from the night. But today, I was a servant like them, here at Baba Yaga’s discretion. By their silence, I understood that I was expected to perform my own tasks.

Determined, I went to the stove, noting the small rings of iron, and beneath a tiny blue flame. Fortunately, the handles were white porcelain, so I experimented, turning them this way and that. At first they hissed, and then popped into a brilliant fire. I quickly learned that turning them one way brought the flame higher, the other way dampened it to almost nothing.

At the sink, I marveled that water could travel so far from its source to arrive in my little basin. I filled the kettle, set it on its ring, and turned up the flame.

The cupboards were easier. I found the tea, a brown teapot and a little silver tea strainer. There were also jars of beans, sugar, bay leaves, honey, a tin of paprika, and kernels of polished rice. When the kettle sang, I spooned tea into the pot, followed by the boiling water. A second search of the cold cupboard offered up a little milk, most of a loaf of bread, a stick of butter wrapped in white paper, a few wizened carrots, half a cabbage, and two beets. Another drawer revealed sharp knives, cutlery with antler bone handles, a butter knife carved from olive wood, and serving spoons of black-and-gold lacquer. It was a treasure trove and I marveled at how cunningly everything was put away and memorized it.

I cut the bread, buttered it thickly, and poured steaming tea into a cup into which I had also poured the last of the milk and a generous amount of honey. My preparations
finished, I brought my meal to the table and sat down again.

For a moment, I was pleased. This indeed was the first meal I had ever made for myself, except for picking berries or finding mushrooms in a hidden dell. But unexpectedly, as I sat in the silence of the little kitchen, steam from my cup gently drifting away, I started to cry. It was also the first time I had ever eaten a meal alone. No longer hungry, I pushed the plate away, cradled my head in my arms on the table, and wept inconsolably. What did it matter if I had survived my crossing over? What did it matter that I had found shelter and food? What did any of it matter without my sister?

“Serana, Serana, where are you?” I cried into my hands.

A tap at my shoulder made me sit up, shuddering with the effort of my sobs. A hand—the male one I am sure from the few dark hairs on the knuckles—handed me a linen hanky. The second hand—female from its pearl-colored fingernails—stroked my hair. The storm in my breast subsided, and in between hiccups, I wiped my eyes with the proffered hanky and finally, stood and washed my face at the little sink. Then I sat again and took sips of the fortifying tea. When I was done, I looked at the hands that were now waiting, palms downturned on the table.

“Thank you for your consolation,” I said and the female hand turned her palm up to accept my gratitude. “I need to go out,” I continued, “and I need your help.” An idea had come to me as I was splashing cold water over my face. “I need to work and to be in this world among people—even those not of my kind. So I must return to a shop Baba Yaga took me to. The Co-op. Do you know it?”

The hands waved excitedly—which I took to mean “yes.” It is difficult to tell with hands.

“Can you show me the way? I believe I can find work there . . . as a goodwife dispensing simples, salves, and tinctures.”

The male hand opened a drawer and produced a
piece of heavy cream-colored paper, while its feminine partner found a pen. She wrote the name: “Co-op” and drew a map for me, naming the streets and placing a little star over Baba Yaga’s house.

“Thank you,” I said, folding the paper and placing it in my bag. I retired to the bedroom to wrestle myself into my matron’s attire. Exploring the chest at the end of the bed, I found a pretty blue silk scarf that I tied around my throat. I combed my graying hair and twisted it into a knot at the nape of my neck. Surprisingly, Baba Yaga had a silver comb set with seed pearls and I borrowed it to keep my hair from tumbling free.

I returned to the sitting room and snatched up the key from its hook by the kitchen door. The hands were still waiting on the table and I stopped, hearing something in their stillness.

“Is there something I can bring you?” I asked, wondering what hands could possibly need.

The female hand flew to the drawer and retrieved another piece of paper. She wrote a single word and then handed the pen to her partner and he wrote something as well. Then almost shyly, they handed it to me and I read “flowers” and “cigarettes.”

“Of course. I shall bring them back for you,” I said, grateful to have found a way to honor my debt. Though I wondered what “cigarettes” might mean. I hoped it wasn’t too large to carry.

Standing at the edge of the walkway to the house, I studied the map and tried to orient myself in the correct direction. I turned the paper around and around until I was sure I knew which way it was leading me. As I began walking, I heard a sniggering, then a shushing sound. I looked about, and then down when I heard another burst of giggles near my feet. There was only a stray clump of spindled grass rising between the cracks of the path. I bent over and patted the grass, wondering if I had found a patch of stray-away-sod on this city street.

“Did you lose something?” someone behind me asked.

I glanced up and saw two stripling girls, hair pulled up on the top of their head into swinging tails like ponies. From their pink cheeks, I was certain they were biting their lips in an effort not to laugh. It only then occurred to me, that in bending over, perhaps I displayed too much of what was underneath my dress. Apparently, there was no shrift for aged flesh here at all.

“Ah no, not really, I thought I saw something . . .” I let my words fade away as the pair was anxious to get past me before breaking out into more stifled laughter.

And this is what I learned that first day: that unless one makes a spectacle of oneself—such as muttering aloud useless spells of finding when one has gone astray despite a map—women of a certain age do not exist. No one saluted me, and I quickly learned not to offer such a gesture, for it was met with a stony stare, or even worse a subtle movement away from me as though I were no more than a moonstruck fool. Much later, when my feet had grown tired from wandering in circles on streets named for trees that were no longer there, I finally saw the blue and orange walls of the Co-op. Only then did I wonder:
What can I say to make them “see” me first, in order for them to then want me?

Before crossing the street, I kneeled down in a patch of clover-rich grass growing by the road and plucked a small handful of the bright leaves and shaggy-headed purple blossoms. This too was another one of those spectacle moments. I heard as I gathered my posy the snide comments of youngsters on their way to their own follies. I no longer cared. I chose to cling to any hint of magic, any hope of charms still available to me that might secure my fortunes here. Tucking the little posy in the folds between my breasts, I hurried to the door of the Co-op.

*   *   *

“H
EY, HI
! H
EY HERB-LADY, REMEMBER
me?” a voice called out.

Turning to the benches, I saw Julia, the sweet, gormless
maid from the day before. She had gathered the thick rolls of her wheaten hair into a bright turquoise scarf that intensified the blue of her eyes.

“Good day, Miss Julia,” I answered, nodding to show that I had remembered her. In fact, I had been hoping to find her here. “I have come to offer my help, if you will have it.”

“Cool,” she said, folding up a book and tucking it into her purse. “Come on back and I’ll introduce you to the boss, Raul. We might have to talk him into it a little, but I think he’ll dig it. Oh, and what’s your name?” she said with a little laugh. “Might help when I introduce you.”

I winced remembering how easily these children gave away their power with their names. I stuttered for a moment, to hide my unease with such a request and then thought of one.

“Sophia,” I answered, invoking one of the goddesses of wisdom to help me now. What other questions had I not thought about?

“I love that name,” she smiled. “So . . . um, where are you from?”

“Russia,” I answered, thinking of Baba Yaga.

“Oh, that explains your accent. I was wondering about that yesterday.”

Accent?
How was I to know my speech was anything but common enough?

“Have you been here long?”

Questions, more questions . . . must these children know everything about one?
“I have arrived recently,” I added, for that was true enough.

“Wow, your English is like really good!” she said, impressed at what appeared to be yet another skill of mine. Of course I didn’t tell her my Russian was terrible. I knew the word babushka and that was all.

I followed Julia into the store, noting the way her freckles splashed across her narrow shoulders, like a fawn. She was slim as a reed, the thin fabric of her shirt clinging to her body.
I was like that once
, I thought with a stab of envy.
Once! I was like that only days ago
.

Despite my situation, I will say that I was born beneath the luck star, for it didn’t take Julia long to convince Raul that I was a worthy addition to the Co-op. Julia explained how I had been helpful the day before. She invented a few tales about me, embellishing the extent of my skills. I did not interrupt her because mostly what she said about me and herbs was true. Every sprite and fey, every Seelie and UnSeelie, knows these things. We learned them in the same moment we learned to walk, to fly, to swim, to speak spells. Not one day of my long life had passed without reaching for succor from Nature’s prodigious larder. Yet, I was touched that Julia had such blind confidence in a stranger that she was willing to stand up for me.

Perhaps it was Julia’s buttermilk face that made the bargain so sweet, for Raul seemed to study her intently as she spoke. And at the end of her urging, I was allowed a post behind the herb counter as Julia’s assistant, and I was to be paid, as Julia said softly, “under the table,” which seemed a rather mysterious process.

“Thank you,” I answered, bowing my head, relieved. I was quite humbled by their decision and wondered if in the past I had ever extended such generosity to a mortal.

*   *   *

I
SPENT THE REMAINDER OF
the day following Julia around the store. Together we inventoried most of the herbs, correcting the names where necessary and throwing out those that had lain too long in jars to hold any healing worth. A few interested customers came to our counter and I made simple cures for coughs and running noses—which seem abundant among these children—and one tincture for a woman plagued with screaming megrims, though she called it “stress.”

When Julia was ready to leave, she opened her money box and handed me a fistful of paper bills. There was no table to pass these things under, and I was relieved. After she explained that my labor entitled me to a lower price for goods in the shop, she went with me to help pick out
cheese, bread, a few eggs, fruit from the cooler that was fresh, and a glass jar of milk. At the last moment I remembered the requests from the hands.

“Flowers and cigarettes,” I said, “for friends. And something for a cat.”

Julia helped me select a pretty bunch of flowers and after, I was surprised when she handed me a small colorful box. I sniffed it curiously, and recognized the pungent odor of tobacco from my time with Baba Yaga. Then Julia handed me little “cans” of meat for the cat. All I had to do was pull the magic ring on top to open it.

*   *   *

I
T WAS WELL THAT
I remembered Baba Yaga’s servants. For no sooner had I arrived home than I heard a wild commotion on the balcony outside my bedroom window. The cat was there, a dove in its jaws, while the poor creature flailed its wings, crying out my Name of Finding.

Only one person besides me knows that name. I dropped my bag and ran to the window, opening it as quickly as I could. The little strip of white silk on the handle fluttered like the dove in the cat’s mouth.

“Do not harm it,” I commanded, but the cat regarded me with baleful eyes and snarled a warning from the back of its mouth. “I will feed you something else, but you must give me the bird,” I tried again, hearing the dove call my name over and over.

Slowly, the cat released the quaking dove from its jaws, but held it down under one paw, the talons digging beneath the ruffled feathers.

I reached into the bag and grabbed one of the little cans with the magical opening rings. I pulled it and the scent of meat made the cat lift its scrawny black head. I set the opened can down on the balcony and the cat released its grip on the dove. Scooping up the terrified creature, I noticed with satisfaction that Baba Yaga’s cat had buried her head in the can and was eating like a panther.