Fern Capella's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Fern climbed down from the slide with the prince's route mapped in her head. She had a perch. She had a plan. Then the wind shifted, and she smelled the hounds before she saw them. Spore caught her wrist. "Their noses," he said. "You smell like sugar and wet moss. They'll find you before you reach the swing." Fern looked past the rose hedges. Two long gray hounds paced the inner grounds on braided leashes. A third sniffed the base of the painted playset where she had just stood. Court-day children scattered from the slides. The hound put its nose to the mushroom stool she had touched and growled low. Her ribs went cold. She had thought about guards. She had not thought about noses. "I can't wash it off," she said. "It's my skin." "No," said a soft voice behind her. A boy drifted out of the tree shadow, feet not quite touching the moss. She could see the bark through his chest. Mushrooms grew where his hair should be, pink and pale purple, the same shape as her own caps. Oliver Whisperwood. She had met him once by the firefly pond. He had counted to forty before letting the last one go. "Oliver," she said. "Hello, Fern." His face brightened. Then he looked at the hounds and it went flat again. "They'll tear you." "I know." "I can carry the smell." He held out a translucent hand. "Ghosts don't smell like anything. If you press your hands on me, the scent goes on me. I walk the other way. They follow me. I can't be bitten." Spore's wing-caps lifted. "That works." Fern hesitated. "They'll chase you the whole court day." "Yes." "You wanted to catch fireflies tonight." "I did." He smiled small. "Another night." She pressed both palms flat to his cold chest. Her hands sank in to the wrist. She rubbed the sweet mushroom oil from her skin against the inside of him until her fingers came out dim and clean. She smelled like nothing now. Like river stone. Oliver floated backward toward the far hedge. He waved once. Then he darted low across the meadow, dragging her scent behind him like a ribbon. All three hounds jerked their heads up. The handler shouted. The leashes snapped taut and the dogs bolted after the ghost, baying, tearing across the grounds away from the castle gate. The path to the playset stood empty. Fern ran. Her bare feet made no sound on the moss. She reached the tallest slide and climbed. At the top, she stood level with the pale stone turrets and the arched library window of the castle. Below her, the courtyard filled. Trumpets sounded inside the walls. The prince was coming out. She had traded a friend's evening for a clear line of sight. She meant to use it.