“Information,” said Bitterblue. “Education. Knowledge.”
Quona nodded. “Knowledge is power. Zilfium is also power. If the rumors about your zilfium stores are true, Lady Queen, you’re going to be in a position to make important decisions on behalf of the entire world.”
Bitterblue studied Quona for a moment, taking a few bites of cake, creamy and rich.
“The truth is that I don’t entirely trust you,” Bitterblue admitted. “But I’d like to have a correspondence with you, once I go. As you say, I have zilfium, and I believe that you know a lot about what having zilfium means. I need help understanding not just the political repercussions, but the environmental ones. I need recommendations for scientists and engineers. People to help me find a safe path, if one exists.”
“I’d like a correspondence too, Lady Queen,” said Quona flatly. “Your future decisions are liable to have an enormous impact on the things I treasure most.”
“I’m wary of your methods,” said Bitterblue. “But in fact, I think we’re on the same side. Why would I want to develop a resource if doing so poisons the earth?”
Now Quona was the one studying Bitterblue, with pursed lips. “We have stories in Winterkeep that come from the silbercows,” she said. “About a gigantic sea monster called the Keeper, who protects the planet for us. They’re funny, scary stories.”
“I’ve heard the stories,” said Bitterblue. “I’ve wondered if anyone believes they’re really true.”
“I don’t believe there’s a character in a story who’s going to take care of us,” said Quona, with sudden, real scorn. “But I believe we should try to be the keepers of each other. If you mean what you say, Lady Queen, then I think you believe that too. I would want such a person to be the guardian of the world’s biggest store of zilfium. I’m disposed to be honest with you.”
“Thank you,” said Bitterblue. “It would be a great help.”
As they sat watching the ocean, Bitterblue looked for flashes of purple on its surface, remembering her time in that water almost as if it were a dream. A new cat, a little gray one with a sideways gait, entered the room, then came to rest against her foot. Giddon had told her about the little gray cat who loved feet. She reached down to touch it, to thank it for comforting Giddon.
“Tell me,” she said, suddenly remembering. “Do you know what happened to that fox who was bonded to Ferla Cavenda?”
“According to Ferla,” said Quona, “he died in the fire.”
Bitterblue fought back the shock she felt, because by no means should she seem devastated that Ferla’s fox was dead. But she was.
She left soon after, before it became too much to hide.
* * *
—
Outside, it was snowing, a gentle but steady fall of big, thick flakes. Bitterblue had the sense that it had been snowing for months; it seemed impossible that it was still October. Poor fox, she thought. It’s hard to think we only knew each other for a couple weeks.
She commanded her guards Ranin and Mart to give her some space, gently. They needed her kindness too.
Then she glided along the path above the sea. As she passed the Cliff Farm that was part of the academy, she wondered if she could turn existing institutions and industrial centers in Monsea into schools.
There was so much to think about.
Bitterblue dashed quickly across the wooden footbridges that appeared now and then in her path, then skirted Flag Hill, not wanting to go anywhere near the remains of her own prison. She took the route above the beach where she and Lovisa had slept, then through the harbor. Working her way up staircases and along narrow streets, she eventually reached a fork where she couldn’t remember which way to go. People on this street were staring at her. She was small, good at hiding inside a hood, and she’d wanted to take this journey alone, or at least, as alone as she was ever allowed to be. Bitterblue wanted to prove to herself that she wasn’t afraid of Ledra, or afraid to be alone. But it was probably too much to expect Ledrans not to guess who she was, especially with two large, pale foreigners dogging her steps.
Excuse me, said a small voice.
Bitterblue jumped.
Little queen? said the voice.
Bitterblue whirled in astonished circles trying to find him, because she knew that voice. Fox? she said. Fox! Then she saw his nose peeking out from behind the slender trunk of a tree beside a building. Fox!
Yes, he said. Greetings. You should walk along normally and stop standing there gaping. People see you.
Oh, right, said Bitterblue, picking up the pace again, trying to look like she knew where she was going. Swept along by happiness and relief. But I’m confused. They told me you were dead!
I faked my own death.
Oh! she said, understanding. How clever of you! Do you happen to know which street I want? I’m going to a hotel called . . . She couldn’t remember what the hotel was called. Where is my brain?
I don’t know the location of Hotel Where Is My Brain, but the street on the left will take you into an amble.
No, my, oh—never mind, said Bitterblue. What’s an amble?
A shopping area.
Oh? Shopping sounds nice. I never go shopping.
It isn’t nice for humans. You’ll have to buy something.
What do you mean? There’s nothing I need.
If you enter the amble, they won’t let you out unless you buy something.
This sounded extraordinary to Bitterblue. I think I have a coin, she said, wrinkling her nose. Is there anything you need?
She asked because it was a practical thing to ask at that moment, but also because the fox seemed different. Oddly subdued. His tone was tentative, almost depressed, and she was trying to figure out what was wrong. She wondered where he lived now. On the street?
I am a bit peckish, he said.
All right, said Bitterblue, realizing that she herself was ravenous, with that sudden, almost violent onset of the feeling common to a person who’s been recently underfed. She turned left. Is everything all right?
Certainly.
Oh, good. Do you know Quona Varana?
Yes.
Do you know about her seven secret foxes?
The fox didn’t respond at first, just scampered on ahead, trying to keep a low profile behind signposts and under counters. But he sent her a tired kind of uneasiness.
What is it? she said.
They’re my siblings, he said. Rascal, Rumpus, Lark, Pickle, Gladly, Genius, and Sophie. Sophie is short for Sophisticated.
Oh! she said. Your siblings! What a coincidence. That’s—nice, isn’t it?