The Twixt

It was another secret standing between them.

It was amazing how close secrets were to lies.

Joy tried not to think about it as she opened the door, crossed the courtyard and the street, and stood waiting at the corner of Wilkes and Main. She tried not to dwell on it as she watched the vintage car take the turn, and attempted to put it out of her mind as she settled into the buttery leather seats, letting sleep overtake her in its customary way as she slipped from Glendale, North Carolina, to Boston town.

She tried very, very hard, but she felt guilty all the same.

Joy blinked awake as the Bentley slowed to a stop in front of the grand brownstone, and she waited politely for the driver to open her passenger door. Wiping the gunk from her eyes, she scraped her heel against the edge of curb just to convince herself once again that this was real—she’d traveled hundreds of miles in a matter of moments during a spell-induced catnap. She’d never get used to it.

Joy climbed the stone steps and rapped the old-fashioned brass knocker twice. She had her tablet under her arm and a new pair of shoes, but she still felt unprepared for her meeting with Graus Claude.

Kurt opened the door and ushered her in with one white-gloved hand. The fact that the other wasn’t tucked into his jacket over the bulge of his gun made her feel better—what did it say about her that she felt comforted by the fact that this wasn’t one of those times when someone was actively trying to kill her?

Joy stepped into the foyer as the Bentley rolled away in a hush of white-rimmed tires. She followed Kurt as he walked through the cream-colored foyer, down the long hallway toward the great double doors of the Bailiwick’s office.

“Any hint of what I’m in for?” Joy whispered.

Kurt said nothing, only knocked upon the ironwood doors and then opened them both at once. He was in butler mode—silent, efficient, precise, unhelpful. Joy sighed and walked inside.

“Ah, Miss Malone.” Graus Claude got up from his enormous, thronelike chair and stood behind the great mahogany desk. The grandiose amphibian stood eight feet at the shoulder, his hunchback somewhat lessened under a tailored pinstripe suit with extra-wide lapels. All four of his arms ended in crisp cuffs folded back from his manicured claws, and his smile was full of sharp teeth. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs facing him with two of his hands; the third clicked the wireless mouse and the fourth flipped open a pocket watch on a chain. “We have a lot to go over in a regretfully brief time, so I shall begin my duties as your sponsor in the Twixt with all due haste.” The gentleman toad’s icy blue gaze swept over her. “I would advise you take notes,” he said. “Starting now.”

“Right,” Joy said, flipping her tablet and attaching the keyboard. She placed it on the edge of the desk and clicked open a new document.

“Now then,” the Bailiwick said, lumbering out from behind the desk. “Since you have already accepted your True Name, there is no need to go into a detailed synopsis. Your unique sigil will protect you from undo harm and direct spell manipulation, save from those to whom you give it willingly.” He paused, giving weight to his words. “This is something I do not recommend.” Joy underlined the sentence in her document as he continued. “However, my research indicates that your case falls neatly between two known categories—that of a changeling and that of a halfling.” He threaded two clawed hands together while the others gestured as he spoke. “A changeling is a Folk child, disguised as a human child, who is switched shortly after birth for the human mother to raise out of infancy—” He paused at Joy’s look of horror. “This practice rarely occurs anymore.”

Joy rolled her eyes. “Why? Did somebody finally figure out that it was wrong?”

Graus Claude’s head stilled as his eyes narrowed. “There has not been a birth in the Twixt for over a thousand years. It is considered a sensitive subject.”

Joy blinked. “Oh.”

The Bailiwick smoothed the gold watch chain against his side. “As I was saying,” he continued, “halflings, on the other hand, are the product of a Folk-human pairing.” His palsied shake returned as he circled the stone basin of floating lily pads. “While, technically, you would not be a halfling—I might estimate closer to a two-to-the-sixth-power-ling—if we theorize that those with the Sight are descendants of mixed heritage, then this category would most aptly suit your situation. In fact, it serves our purposes nicely as halflings traditionally make their way back to the Twixt by their own means, like hatchling turtles making their way home to sea.” He gave a solemn nod. “We can use this to explain your unusually dramatic and unanticipated arrival Under the Hill.”

Joy finished typing and looked up at Graus Claude’s expectant expression.

“Okay,” she said. “Great.”

“O-kay,” Graus Claude rumbled and took a deep, bellows breath. “As you know, the Folk are few and thus bloodshed is highly discouraged.” She all but felt the Bailiwick’s stare touch her shoulder, the place where her Grimson’s mark burned. Inq had put it there after Joy had killed the Red Knight; her act of self-defense was only considered acceptable because the assassin had broken the Edict. “Indeed, this is one of the reasons that the Scribes were created—to take on the risks inherent in marking humans claimed by the Folk without putting any of our own people in danger.”

“But Ink and Inq are your people,” Joy said, turning in her chair. She rankled at bigotry in either world. “They are part of the Twixt, too.”

Graus Claude shifted his elephantine feet. His shoes were topped in immaculate peach spats. “Technically, Master Ink and Mistress Inq are not Folk, per se,” the Bailiwick said. “They are homunculi, constructed instruments that attained consciousness over time. While they are, indeed, part of the Twixt, they are not, strictly speaking, part of the Folk. They were made, not born.”

“So it’s okay to put them at risk,” Joy said hotly. “Sort of like stealing babies?”

The Bailiwick sighed. “Miss Malone, this is not an ethical debate. Please, try to stay on topic.” Joy chewed the inside of her cheek and typed The Council Sucks!!! in bold font. Graus Claude either didn’t see it or chose to ignore it as he ambled past. “This paucity of numbers has created a symbiotic network among the Folk, a web of alliances, threats and favors that have ensured the collective safety and status of practically everyone within the Twixt. That network must now adapt to include you.” He paused by her chair as if to emphasize the point. Joy felt a warm breath puff her hair. She kept typing. “The Folk must find a place for you and will attempt to weave you into their matrices like so many spiders spinning their webs. They will wish to sway you to their favor, bow to their behest, absorb your resources into their positions of power—in essence, the Folk will jockey to claim you under their influence.” He brushed away a line of imaginary dust. “This will be cloaked in etiquette at best and intrigue at worst. My charge is to educate you on the finer points of protocol and proper behavior so that you may forge your own alliances wisely and not place yourself in any undo danger by giving offense.”

“Danger?” Joy said, looking up from the keys. “What danger? I thought you said that the Folk can’t off one another.”

“Well, certainly they can—” he said with a casual flip of one hand. “The Red Knight was an excellent case in point. By triggering fresh incarnations after the Council’s initial binding spell was cast, the new Knight was not included under the Edict and therefore was unaffected by the rule, free to hunt without recrimination. In essence, the spell did not call him by his True Name, and therefore, he was not bound to obey it. A neat little loophole you closed up nicely.” The Bailiwick tapped the basin’s edge. “But do not make the same mistake that many mortals do—just because you cannot be killed outright does not mean that you cannot die due to injury, foolishness or being maneuvered into a less-than-desirable position.” He smiled, all teeth. “It is one of the finer diversions of a prolonged existence, the subtle art of abiding by the rules that govern our world whilst applying a deft hand to their creative interpretation.” He raised one manicured claw. “If you were to change an enemy into a tree or a fly or bury them a thousand feet underground, then, technically, you would not have killed them, but it can make life considerably inconvenient for the offender, not to mention quite brief.” Joy stared at the giant toad’s beatific smile. He noticed her expression and lowered his head to hers. “Therefore, the most prudent thing to do is not to offend.” They locked eyes for a long moment. Graus Claude tapped her screen. “Write that down.”

She did.

For the next several hours, she dutifully typed everything that the Bailiwick dictated about the Council, its representatives, the Hall and Under the Hill, the Glen—the First Forest, which was how the town of Glendale got its name—as well as outlining several key Houses and Courts that divided the Folk into categories based on their origins or common alliances. Some of them were familiar, like Water, Earth, Forest and Aether, others had strange names like the Middle Kingdom, the Fortunate Isles or the Silver Ley Axis, but whenever she tried asking about them, she was immediately shushed and ordered to keep typing.

“When you are greeted by your given name, you must respond with grace, with thanks and in kind,” he said. “If you do not know a person’s given name, then they have you at a disadvantage and have asserted themselves into the superior position. This can be counteracted if you know their proper title, address or that of their superiors...” Graus Claude paced the room as he orated, recollecting details and nuances and innumerable ways one could possibly offend someone or attempt to avoid domination, sometimes mumbling vague complaints under his breath.

“By the swells, this is going to take forever...”

“Sounds painful,” Joy muttered as she typed.

Graus Claude stopped. “What was that?”

“Sorry,” Joy said and cracked her knuckles over the keyboard. “I know this is serious. I’m just getting punchy staring at the screen.”

“No.” The hunchbacked frog drew closer. “What did you say?”

Joy swallowed, wondering if she had already given some offense. Graus Claude hadn’t covered Folk swearing. “Um... I said, ‘Sounds painful’ having the swells.” She tucked her hands under her lap. “‘By the swells’? Get it?”

The Bailiwick examined her face, staring into one eye, then the next. “You should not have heard that,” he said, grimacing, eyes narrowing to icy slits. “He said you were not Water, but then how...?”

Joy was growing increasingly uncomfortable under his close scrutiny and the proximity of his many teeth. “Who said?”

Graus Claude made a sound like waves crashing together, driving flotsam into the undertow. Joy was surprised that she recognized it.

“The hippocamp?” Joy said. “Oh. He said I had an eelet.”

“An eelet?” Graus Claude said, surprised. “Where did you get an eelet?”

“From Dennis Thomas,” she said. “Before he turned me over to Aniseed, back when he’d asked me to deliver a message to Ink. He tipped me a seashell, which evidently had a thing inside it that went into my ear—” Even talking about it made Joy want to stick a finger in her ear and fish it out. “It lets me hear Water Folk.” She debated trying to pronounce the water horse’s name but quickly ditched the idea. “The hippocamp told me that this eelet was some royal, deep-water breed.”

Graus Claude rose up, nearing his full height, and stared down on her.

“You always bring me the most unusual surprises, Miss Malone,” he said. “As your sponsor, I imagine that I shall grow to expect them over the years.” Joy wasn’t certain if this was meant to be a compliment. He reached one claw out and tapped the tablet. “Keep typing.”

Joy’s hands were stiff and the pads of her fingers pink and swollen by the time Kurt entered with a rolling tea tray and a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice. Joy inhaled a tall glass in several gulps. She had begun to feel the effects of going too long without food, but hadn’t wanted to risk annoying Graus Claude despite the growing headache and winking lights on the edge of her vision. Kurt was both aware of her blood sugar and possessed excellent timing.

She poured herself another glass. “If having the Sight means that I am part-Folk, then why haven’t any others been found out before now?” Joy asked her question while the Bailiwick sipped his tea so that she could not possibly be accused of interrupting him again. It was sneaky, but she was desperate for answers.

“Well,” Graus Claude said, warming to the topic, “I must admit that I do not know how many humans born with the Sight were ever marked, let alone had experienced prolonged involvement with the Twixt or were otherwise affected by such a wide variety of individuals from our community as have you.” He wiped his lips with several napkins.

Joy scoffed, “That’s because you blinded them first.”

“Which, logically, would place them under Sol Leander’s auspice,” Graus Claude mused. “They would be survivors of an unprovoked attack.”

“Ugh! I couldn’t stand being under his auspice,” Joy said and tried not to think too hard about how Monica, her best friend, had Sol Leander’s mark—a mark she’d all but put there and one that she could have erased...but hadn’t. Guilt still burned like a slow coal in her gut. The idea of Sol Leander watching over her made her ill.

“Fortunately, this was a fate you were spared by becoming lehman to Master Ink,” the giant toad said. “Still, if those with the Sight are, indeed, descendants of our bloodlines, then one would think that, as survivors of an unmitigated assault, they would have been claimed by Sol Leander and discovered for what they were. And, if not, why not?” He pursed his olive lips. “It would be a closed loop to both abide by the rules and yet refuse to acknowledge claims. Hmm. Perhaps the base theory is flawed...” The Bailiwick settled himself back into his chair. “There are a great number of Houses that account for all the denizens of the Courts, as well as old families, oath societies, political factions and formal alliances that make up the modern Accords. Any one of them might have records about a circumstance resembling yours, yet none have come forward.” He spread his four hands. “Therefore, it is all a matter of where you fit into the Twixt.”

“So where do I fit?” Joy asked. “What House do I belong to?”

Graus Claude placed his teacup in its saucer. “Usually that is a matter of the maternal or paternal progenitor stepping forward and acknowledging their claim,” he said. “However, since we have only recently entertained the possibility that those with the Sight share a common ancestry, I would not imagine the Malones have been registered as being under Folk scrutiny.”

“The McDermotts,” Joy said. “I inherited the Sight from my mother’s side, not my father’s.”

“Hmm. It is good to be aware of such things,” he said as he applied a pat of rich butter to his bread with even strokes. “The Folk take pains to keep track of their progeny, else the past has ways of catching up when it is least expected and most inconvenient.” Graus Claude lifted another one of his covered plate lids and began dicing a huge steak into pieces with the dance of four hands. “In any event, we can simply wait to witness your change,” he said casually. “Then your genealogy should become fairly evident.”

“Change?” Joy said. “What change?”

The Bailiwick lifted a polite finger to wait as he skewered four pieces of steak into his mouth. He swallowed. “Once you manifested your True Name and accepted your place within the Twixt, the change would have begun,” he said simply. “Hence why I described you as being betwixt categories, as it were—halfling and changeling.” He dabbed at his wide chin. “Essentially, after taking on your True Name, you will take on your true nature as one of the Folk.”

“What?”

Graus Claude blithely ignored her outburst as he stabbed more cubes of steak. “The change is already under way,” he said. “I suspect it began when Master Ink first marked you, alighting the magic in your blood.” He tapped one of his skewers against the side of the plate. “It is my theory that if those with the Sight are marked by one of the Folk, it ignites the latent, recessive genes into activity. The signatura ritual brings it to the surface, completing it. Or, perhaps, it is triggered by heightened physical response—panic, elation, fear, desire.” He gave a double shrug. “As this has never happened before, I can only hazard an educated guess, but you ought to be experiencing some of the effects by now.”

Like heat and light and a glow in her veins—the elation of dancing and the pain of grief. She’d felt...something. What happened at the funeral? Has it already begun? Joy hugged her arms to keep herself from shaking.

“But I don’t want to change!” Joy said with spiky terror, her mind racing through the myriad of misshapen creatures that she’d met inside the Twixt. “I don’t want to grow feathers or claws or whatever—” a horrific thought struck her “—I don’t want to be invisible to my parents!” Panic scrabbled inside her, roiling acid hot and squeezing her voice thin. “I want to go to college! I want to graduate and have kids someday! I want to be seen on TV!” Joy didn’t know where all the words were coming from; they were bubbling out of her mouth in a rush. She thought she might throw up. “I’m still human—part-human—and I want to keep that!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I want to keep being me!”

Graus Claude gave one of his deep-chested sighs. “Miss Malone, I feel that we keep returning to this same conversation, ad infinitum,” he said. “You, yourself, were the one who chose to exercise this option, and now you are having some difficulty accepting its outcome.” His gaze grew sharp. “Did you think this is an honor we bestow upon a mere human? Your choice—and here I must emphasize the word choice—was to join this world. And you have—or you will—when the change is complete.” He lifted an enormous, fluted glass filled with water in two hands. “Those are the rules, Miss Malone, not guidelines or suggestions—they are the very words that created this world. They are.”

“Rules can be changed,” she said. “Rules can be broken.”

“Not by you,” Graus Claude said dangerously. “And not by me. Nor by anyone on the Council or anyone in this world—and they would all tell you the same.” He huffed like a sneeze. “Human laws can be changed, Miss Malone, minds can be changed, fates may be altered, and fashions might fall out of favor, but the rules that created our world were the ones that cleaved order from chaos, light from darkness, and forged rational thought out of the wild abyss. They are absolute. They cannot be changed.” A contemplative quiet passed over his features, which faded as he set down his glass. “Even the human world recognizes the power of words that set the wheels of life into motion. Do not presume that you are an exception.”

“I’ve been one before,” she said, which earned her a darker glance. “Even you admit that my circumstances are unusual.”

The Bailiwick’s expression didn’t change in the slightest. “I can hardly contain my astonishment that the word unusual would be closely associated with your person, Miss Malone. In point of fact, during our brief association, I find that adjective to be most appropriate.” He sat back in his chair, which settled with its familiar, wooden groan. “But not this time. Despite circumstantial evidence, it would seem likely that you will follow the pattern woven into the very fabric of life in the Twixt. Best accept that inevitability as the choice you have made.”

Joy sputtered but couldn’t help remembering Ink’s advice when she’d first encountered the Bailiwick. Respect him. Always. She counted to ten in her head. Then upped it to twenty, clamping her fingers under her armpits to keep herself still. She could buy a glamour if she had to, right? She could look the same. But she would know the difference—she and all the Twixt. She couldn’t imagine looking into a mirror and seeing an unfamiliar face any more than she could imagine looking into a mirror and seeing nothing at all.

“What is going to happen?” Joy asked. “What about me is going to change?”

Graus Claude sat back, his ire abating as he wove his double set of fingers over his chest. “The changeling acclamation can affect any number of characteristics, depending on one’s genealogical source,” he said. “Once you adopted your signatura, you placed yourself within the magics that make up the Twixt, the last vestiges of magic on Earth. Just as you accepted the Twixt, now the Twixt must accept you.” He leaned forward slightly. “You must adjust yourself and your expectations to the rules that bind our world—the rules that will shape and govern the rest of your life—and that, I suspect, will be the thing that will change you the most.”

Joy tried to follow the implications of his pretty speech. “I’m becoming magic?”

Graus Claude looked askance. “You are magic, Miss Malone,” he said. “All humans and places who have a modicum of magic are the very people who are chosen by the Folk and thereby claimed under an auspice, subsequently marked by one of the Scribes. You were marked by Master Ink, therefore it is no wonder that you should have originally possessed some of that magic in the first place, having been one with the Sight, and now that magic has been activated, either instigated by his hand or by your own actions during your latest display in the Council Hall.” His browridge quirked. “Indeed, given your history, we should have expected something like this.”

Joy marveled at the ever-widening definition of something like this.

There was a knock at the door, and Kurt entered bearing a silver tray with a single calling card. The Bailiwick wiped each of his four hands on cloth napkins before taking it primly in his claws. Graus Claude squinted at the words, and two hands pushed against the arms of the chair as he heaved himself up, still staring at the piece of card stock. One hand folded the napkin over his plate as the fourth brushed crumbs from his suit.

“Let him in,” Graus Claude said.

Kurt bowed and departed. The Bailiwick eyed Joy, who had stopped eating.

“Remember what I told you,” he said quietly.

Before she could reply, Kurt opened the door and Sol Leander walked in.

Joy’s stomach flipped as he strode across the room, his sunken eyes sharp and ferret-bright beneath his dramatic widow’s peak. The cloak of starlight wheeled about his legs in a haughty sweep, and his arms were tucked into bell sleeves that made him look like a rather severe-looking monk or a vampiric Jedi knight. He bowed to the Bailiwick, who inclined his head in return.

“Welcome, Sol Leander,” Graus Claude said magnanimously. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

The Tide’s representative stared right past Joy and rendered what he must have thought was a smile. It looked like it hurt.

“I am pleased to find you both here,” he said. Joy privately suspected that he had spies watching her and had known that she was here all along. When he spun to face her, she flinched. “I came to bid you welcome, on behalf of the Council.” He raised his hands in grandiose greeting. “Welcome, Joy Malone. Welcome home to the Twixt!” He slid his hands together, tucking them once more beneath his sleeves. Joy was surprised that his voice held not a hint of mockery. Sol Leander was very, very good at this game.

She, on the other hand, was new at it. Dangerously so. Joy could feel the Bailiwick’s eyes on the back of her head. She’d just written this down. Respond with grace, with thanks and in kind.