The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland In a Ship of Her Own Making by Catherynne M. Valente Page B

rarely tire, and their gait is remarkably even, considering the poultry-like disposition of their feet. Secondly, when they do tire, they snore, and no ravening bandit would dare to come near. Thirdly, being French in origin, they have highly refined tastes and are unlikely to seek out unsavory things to eat, such as knights’ gallbladders or maidens’ bones. They much prefer a vat or two of truffles, a flock of geese, and a lake of wine, and they will certainly share. Lastly, their mating seasons are brief and infrequent, and the chances of experiencing one of them is so small as to be beyond the notice of any native guidebook, or indeed the concern of any small girl with brown hair who might be utterly innocent of such things. Truly, it hardly bears mentioning.
    September knew none of this. She knew only that A-Through-L was huge and warm and kind, and smelled like roasting cinnamon and chestnuts, and seemed to know simply everything. The rest of the alphabet held considerably less charm once she saw the world from her perch on his back.
     
    A-Through-L walked late into the afternoon. The alpine grass full of little red flowers turned gradually to a wide, wet valley, full of rich chocolate mud and bright, iridescent flowers nodding on pearly stalks taller than September. September tried very hard to look intrepid on her beast’s back, and Ell tried on a look of grim determination. It did not seem to be moving Pandemonium any closer to them. After a long while, she tucked the sceptre between two links of chain and laid her cheek against Ell’s back. Perhaps a city takes a long time to rouse in the morning, when it has not had its breakfast yet, she thought. Or perhaps it has other young girls to tend to first.
    And then, suddenly, a house rose up before them, as though it had been crouching in wait for hours and sprang out when it thought it might scare them most. It looked much like a Spanish mosque--if a giant had firmly stepped on it. All the curly door-frames and tiled mosaics were broken and leaning, each blue-green wall propping up the other. Fragrant red wood lay about in rough piles, and pools of seeping black mud dotted the halls. Moss covered every shattered pillar. September and her Wyverary stood before a beautifully carved archway leading into a little courtyerd where a shabby fountain gurgled valiantly. The arch read:
     
    The House Without Warning
     
    “What is this place?” breathed September, climbing down the Wyverary’s red flank. She was becoming quite agile at it.
    A-Through-L shrugged. “Too many W’s,” he whispered. “If only my sister were here!”
    “It is my mistress’s house,” came a thick, wet voice behind them.
    September turned to see a most curious lady standing serenely on a patch of tile depicting a great blue rose. The woman stood in the precise center of the rose. A rich, clean perfume surrounded her in a light pinkish haze, for the woman was carved entirely from soap. Her face was a deep olivey green castile, her hair a rich and oily Marseille, streaked with lime-peels. Her body was patchwork: here strawberry soap with bits of red fruit showing through, there saffron and sandalwood, orange and brown. Her belt was a cord of hard, tallowy honey-soap, her hands plain blue bathing soap, and her fingernails smelled like daisies and lemons. Her eyes were two piercing, faceted slivers of soapstone. On her brow someone had written TRUTH , in the kind of handwriting teachers always have: clear and curling and lovely.
    “My name is Lye,” the soap-woman said. A few bubbles escaped her mouth. She was utterly still. No soapy muscle trembled. “It is my part to welcome you, to show you to the baths, to tend to you and to all weary travelers, until my mistress returns, which will not be long now, I’m sure.”
    “Why does it say ‘truth’ on your forehead?” asked September shyly. She could be quite brave in the presence of a Wyverary, but tall and lovely ladies made her shy,