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  “Oh Oliver where is he?” Alice asked suddenly, heart racing and hopes soaring and hands shaking. “Where did he go?”

  “Not so fast,” Oliver said, holding up a hand. “First we solve my task, and then we get your father.”

  “But that doesn’t seem fair—”

  “It’s the only deal I’ll offer.”

  “We both have something to lose,” she protested. “If you don’t finish your task—”

  “I know,” he said, cutting her off with an unkind look. “I already know what will happen to me if I don’t finish my task. You don’t have to say it out loud.”

  Alice was about to say it out loud anyway when she remembered something awful. She fell back against the tree, gasping “Oh no, oh no” over and over again.

  “What?” Oliver tried not to look concerned. “What is it?”

  She looked up. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow is the first day of spring.”

  “So?”

  “So,” she insisted, irritated now. “Tomorrow I will be getting a task of my own!”

  “You’re twelve already?” Oliver gaped at her, running both hands through his hair. “I thought you were nine.”

  Alice chose to ignore that last bit.

  Instead, she said, “What if I have to catch a dragon like Fenny Birdfinsk? Or if I’m sent to the stars like Sellie Sodcryer or, oh, if I have to spend a year mending a cow with nothing but a silver penny!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Oliver said. “No one has ever had to mend a cow with a silver penny. They’ll let you use a gold nickel, at the very least—”

  “Oh kick the cow, Oliver, it will be impossible for me to help you!”

  “Right,” he said, dragging a hand across his face. “Yes, right.”

  Alice’s hopes had been dashed. They fell into a neat pile beside her feet.

  “Unless,” Oliver said suddenly.

  She looked up.

  “Unless—” he said again, then hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Unless you waive your Surrender.”

  Alice gasped.

  Waiving her Surrender was an option that had never been an option. Her Surrender was a ticket to something new—a task that would set her life in motion. Every child in Ferenwood grew up aching to be tasked—awaiting adventure and the thrill of a challenge.

  Alice had been dreaming of this day her entire life.

  Different though she may have looked, her heart was a Ferenwood heart, and she had the right to her task just like everyone else. She’d clung to this all through kindercare and middlecare and hometeaching with Mother—this hope, this truth—that one day, no matter her differences, she would be just like everyone else in this small way.

  Losing it would break her heart.

  Just as losing Father had broken her heart.

  Picnicsticks, she didn’t know what to do.

  Alice wandered toward town in a daze. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was headed this way, but today had been a strange day, and she couldn’t face going home just yet. Still, she seldom traveled this far out, because going into town was a painful treat. There was so much she wanted to explore (and purchase!) but with just one fink in her pocket, Alice could only do so much.

  She ambled down familiar grassy lanes toward the stone-paved streets of town with none of her usual excitement; she kept tripping over roots and sleeping birds and had to pause occasionally to rest her head against a tree trunk. There was so much on her mind she hardly had room for things like balance and hand-eye coordination. Alice sighed and prepared to set off again, but then she heard a rustle of paper and soon spotted the culprit: the town newspaper caught in a tree, clutched in a fist of branches. She managed to tug the paper free, scanning the front page with little interest. Boiled potatoes were five finks a sackful. The town square would be under construction in preparation for the Surrender, please excuse the mess. Had anyone seen Mr. Perciful’s pygmy goat? Zeynab Tinkser was selling a lemon canoe for fifteen tintons.

  Alice’s eyes went wide at that last line.

  Fifteen tintons was more magic than she’d ever seen. She couldn’t even imagine what she’d do with it all. (Though that was nonsense, wasn’t it? Of course she could. She’d use it all to find Father.) Not for the first time, Alice wished she was old enough to earn a few stoppicks of her own and not have to rely on Mother’s unreliable ways.

  Alice tucked the newspaper under her arm.

  Ferenwood never had much news to tell; things were always predictably lovely. The most recent trouble their little town had encountered was losing a few pigs to a particularly strong gust of wind, but that was a few days ago. The worst thing that had ever happened in Ferenwood was losing Father, of course. That had been the strangest thing of all, because leaving Ferenwood was something no one ever did. Not really.

  Alice had certainly never left Ferenwood. None of the other children had, either. Being tasked was the one great exception —it was an adventure on which every Ferenwood citizen was expected to embark—but everyone always came home in the end. Besides, they were surrounded by sea on every side but one, and to get out to the great unknown they had to pass through Fennelskein, which, as I mentioned earlier, no one ever visited, for obvious reasons. (I should note here that these reasons were not readily obvious to me, an outsider, but try as I might, I couldn’t get anyone to explain why, exactly, they never visited the town of Fennelskein. I think the unexciting answer was that they found the town unbearably dull, but we may never know for certain.)

  But the simple reason no one ever left Ferenwood for very long was that Ferenwood folk needed magic to survive. Father had been gone for more than three years, a length of time that was considered unsurvivable. The children of Ferenwood were taught—from the moment they could talk—that leaving for long would never do. Magic was what they ate and breathed; it was the essence of all they were. Their relationship with the land was entirely symbiotic: They lived peacefully among the plants and trees, and in return, the land helped them thrive. The seed of magic inside all people of Ferenwood was nurtured and sustained by the land they tilled and harvested.

  Without that, they’d be lost.

  And this was the real problem, the real heart of the hurt, the truth that made Father’s loss so much more painful: that there was no magic outside of Ferenwood. Certainly not anywhere anyone had heard of. There had been rumors, of course, of other distant, magical lands, but there were always rumors, weren’t there? Rumors bred of boredom and nonsense born of recklessness. And everyone in Ferenwood knew better than to believe nonsense. Ferenwood didn’t hold with nonsense. At least, Alice didn’t think they did, but she was never really sure. Losing Father to the great unknown had made Alice a believer in all kinds of nonsense, and she didn’t mind that it made her odd. Maybe Father had found a bit of magic elsewhere, and maybe he was holding on. Maybe, she thought, he was still trying to find his way home.

  Alice lived in a time before proper maps, before street signs and numbered homes. She lived in a time when leaving home meant saying good-bye and hoping you’d be able to find your way back.

  Hope, you see, was all she had, and she would hold on to it, come hills or high water.

  The center of town was always a bit of a shock for Alice no matter how many times she’d wandered through, and I can’t say I blame the girl. It was a bit of a shock at first glance. The endless sequence of bold buildings appeared to be shoved together in what was, apparently, a fine show of geometry well studied. Curves shook up and into straight lines, tops capped by triangle or dome or dollop of roof (depending on the storefront) while walls were textured by octagonal, triangular, and starlike tile work. Chimneys were spirals of brick charging into the sky, doors were tall as walls and nearly as wide, and—as you might have already imagined—colors were sharp and bright and
endless. (Indeed, one might occasionally be pressed to wonder whether the aesthetic of Ferenwood wasn’t a direct answer to the question, How many colors might we fit in one place?) It was a string of streets woven together in no particular fashion and for no particular reason other than to accommodate the buildings that appeared to have sprouted straight from the ground.

  Alice’s family was one of the very few that lived so far from town, and though it was sometimes hard to be high up in the hills and far from the heart of things, she was also seldom bothered with the business of seeing old schoolmates or nosy grown-ups who thrived on the buzz and babble of crowds. For the most part, Alice relished her occasional ambles into the middle of the middle; but though she was eager for a peek at the excitement, she was always swiftly reminded of her place within it.

  Alice stood at the very edge of it all and let herself be swallowed up by the sounds and scents of city life. Rainlight ensured that the day was warm and the flowers fresh, and bells rang out while friends called to one another. Fathers clasped hands with mothers who called for children to please be still while shopkeepers stood on stoops and waved their wares. Alice felt the weight of the single fink in her pocket as she stared and wished, as always, that Father were there to hold her hand.

  But no matter.

  Alice held her own hand, one clenched tightly in the other, and pushed her way through the throng. She wasn’t tall enough to see very far ahead, but she was certainly short enough to be knocked into by strangers and occasionally snapped in the cheek by a windblown skirt. The air had been tousled by the hands of careful spicekeepers, and Alice tasted mint silk and snips of coconut and nearly everything she touched left her smelling like saffron.

  A gaggle of children had crowded around Asal Masal & Chai, eagerly testing samples of a tea that guaranteed they’d grow a full inch by morning. Teenagers were digging through ornate tubs of temporary enchantments—

  FIVE FINKS TO FALL IN LOVE

  SEVEN FINKS TO GROW YOUR HAIR

  A STOPPICK TO DISAPPEAR

  —while the older crowd was found relaxing at a series of tables and chairs pressed with intricate patterns of colorful glass. The ladies and gentlemen old enough to indulge puffed on curlicued gold pipes and smiled, blue and red and purple smoke escaping their lips as they laughed. Alice snuck a sniff as she tiptoed past and felt her head go sideways with the weight of it. She smiled despite herself and, not for the first time, found herself wishing she were old enough to do more interesting things.

  Alice pressed forward, determined, toward Shirini Firini, the absolute best sweets shop in town. She scrambled over gentle mountains of handwoven rugs, each dense with color and detail. She slowed only to stare in awe at a stall stacked with warm, freshly baked discs of bread, all golden-brown and haphazardly kneaded. Poor Alice was so distracted by the aroma of baked goods she nearly collided with a crowd of men singing in the street; she managed to dart away just in time to avoid the sight of Danyal Rubin, who’d been crossing the road to join the crooners. Alice fought back a scowl.

  Oh, there was always someone to be envied, wasn’t there?

  For Alice-of-little-color, Danyal Rubin was a nightmare. He was the most radiant twelve-year-old she knew, with his rich black hair and ink-like eyes. His skin was the color of dusk: auburn and magenta and cinnamon all at once. He had color and he wore it well, framing his already-luminous eyes in kohl that served only to make Alice feel worse. She’d heard the whispers; she knew the rumors. The town was betting on Danyal to win the Surrender this year, because someone so colorful was undoubtedly the most magical. In the hearts of Ferenwood folk, Alice didn’t stand a chance.

  But she would prove them wrong.

  Alice clenched her fists and pushed forward through the crowd with such force that she nearly knocked into a group of girls tinting their nails with henna. For just a moment Alice froze, overcome by a great longing to join them, but quickly shook it off, keeping her head down as she passed, ever mindful of the limitations of her pocket. When she finally reached Shirini Firini, Alice was out of breath and exhausted. Coming into town was always a trek, but she should’ve known better than to have ventured out today, on the eve of the Surrender. All of Ferenwood was out to celebrate, and the festivities would likely last all week. Alice checked the sun as she stepped inside the store and noted she had very little time to get home before dark.

  The moment she stepped over the threshold, Alice was overpowered by a heady perfume of sugar. By second three, she was in a happy daze, her every thought sweeter, her very heart lighter, and her hands happily grabbing for everything in sight. Alice knew better than to let the sugar dust get the better of her, but she was happy to rest for just a moment longer before she found the strength to fight again. As soon as she shook off the daze, she found herself sifting through candies with a more stable mind. One fink wouldn’t afford her many options, but she liked to look around all the same.

  Glass apples were hung from the ceiling, honey-canes gift wrapped in packs of three; figcherry jams were stacked in windows and honeysuckle taffies were spilling out of wooden barrels stacked in each corner. There were walls of iced plums and pomegranates, bushels of baskets weighed down by gold-chocolate leaves and tens of jars of apricot honey that fizzed in your mouth. Alice looked and looked and never tired of the splendor, but she very nearly gasped herself silly when she saw the trays of zulzuls. A zulzul was a spiral of fried dough soaked in honey and covered in sugared rose petals; and on any given day, Alice would tell you that zulzuls were her favorite pastry. (Note that this confession would be entirely ridiculous, as Alice had never tasted a zulzul in her life. But she could imagine herself loving zulzuls, and somehow, that was enough.)

  Finally, reluctantly, Alice selected a single dillypop from a small plastic bin and promised herself that one day, someday, she would return with a pocketful of finks and choose as many sweets as she liked.

  One day.

  Her single task now accomplished, Alice was in a hurry to get home. There was very little light left, and if Alice was late one more time, she didn’t know what Mother would do.

  She hurried down sidewalks and tore through spice stalls and slipped between racks of skirts. She spun around shopkeepers and nearly tripped passersby and only glanced up once or thrice to sneak looks at her most favorite storefronts as she rushed home. Knot & Tug was selling self-sewing needles for only three finks apiece, and Alice tucked the information away. Sabzi, the local grocer, was selling lemon blossom twists, two finks a pound, and Alice took note for Mother. But The Danger & The Granger—the best bookshop in town—had new books on display in the window, and Alice was thrown off course. She stopped so suddenly she nearly fell over and, despite her better judgment, she snuck closer to press her nose against the glass. Once near enough to the window, the first thing Alice noticed was a small crowd of people buzzing animatedly around a man sporting a very trim beard. He wore several spectacles and an oversized tunic and Alice realized then that he was an author, ostensibly there for a reading of his book. She squinted to scan the title of the tome in his hands—

  The Birth of the Stoppick: Inside the Mind of Fenjoon Heartweather and Salda Millerdon, the Greatest Harvesters of Magic in Ferenwood History

  —and sighed, disappointed. Alice didn’t much care for the history of harvesting. She found the business terribly boring and, if she were being honest, she might even tell you she resented the whole of it simply because she feared it would be her fate one day. Alice had worried all her young life that she’d end up good for nothing but tilling the fields. Tilling was honorable but it was an exceptionally unglamorous job, and Alice preferred to be on the other side of things: taking raw magic and transforming it into usable matter.

  Anyhow, she was about to push on when she remembered the very reason she’d stopped. There were two books on display in the shop window.

  The Surrender, The Task, and the Long Way
Back:

  How to Cope When Your Child Leaves Home

  and just beside it

  Champions of Recent Past:

  Remembering our Ferenwood Heroes

  Alice’s eyes nearly split in four as she shoved herself through the shop doors and ran for the books in the window. Limbs trembling, heart racing, Alice picked up a copy of Champions of Recent Past and ran her hand over the cover. There, with a small selection of other town heroes, was a picture of Father, aged twelve and glorious, the winner of his own Surrender just thirty years prior.

  Alice had always known Father was a Champion. Father won the title for his dexterity of mind and for his ability to retain and re-create images at will; his task was to travel the land and work with the Town Elders to become the first true cartographer of Ferenwood. He and the Elders had been working together to create maps so precise and so easily navigable that one day all Ferenwood residents would have a copy of their own, enabling them to travel from one neighborhill to another without complication or confusion. In fact, his work had been so remarkable that he’d been asked to stay on with the Town Elders ever after. This kind of treatment was fairly customary for Champions, who were considered the single most talented citizens of their year; but Father had been more than just a Champion. Father was a friend to Ferenwood. He was loved by all. In fact, it was often whispered that one day Father would be named a Town Elder, too. Instead, Father had left, and not a soul knew why.

  Mother was making tea when Alice finally made it home—just before dark. Alice pushed open the front door with a secret weighing down her skirts: Inside her pocket was the one dillypop, carefully wrapped, to be saved for a special occasion. Alice would have to wait weeks to get her hands on another fink but she’d made peace with the loss of the last of her money. The triplets were eating appleberry jam straight from the jar, small purple fingers sticking to their faces. Mother was humming a tune as she moved about the kitchen and, even though Alice stood before her, Mother wiped her just-washed hands on her apron and didn’t seem to notice her daughter at all.