Dispatches from Mythikal Spiriticus — Entry 009
From the field journal of Tamsin Quill, Cartographer of Questionable Roads
The parcel on the counter was the size of a small book and considerably more suspicious.
It had been wrapped in blue paper, tied with gray cord, and addressed in three careful words:
TAMSIN QUILL. EVENTUALLY.
“How long has that been here?” I asked.
The brass dragon knocker leaned around the open door as far as its hinges allowed.
“Long enough to learn patience.”
“You are bolted to a door.”
“Which is why I recognize the condition.”
The black ledger lay open beside the parcel. Gold writing gathered across the page.
PARCEL RECEIVED: BEFORE RECIPIENT. DELIVERY CONDITION: THE CARTOGRAPHER MUST RETURN FROM A ROAD THAT REMEMBERS HER.
Flour still whitened my boots from Hearthmere. One dusty print marked the floor behind me.
“That seems unnecessarily specific.”
“Specificity is what separates prophecy from poor filing,” said the moon-moth.
It had followed me into Mythikal Sundries™ and now perched on the parcel with the air of an inspector who had appointed itself.
I slipped one finger beneath the cord.
The knot tightened.
“Excellent,” I said. “It bites.”
“It objects,” said the moon-moth. “Different department.”
The gray cord had nine knots. Each was tied in the shape of a tiny road crossing another road. I turned the parcel once, then twice. There was no seal, no postage mark, and no return address.
But one corner of the paper had been folded the way my aunt Orla used to close a field map: left edge inward, lower corner up, thumb pressed twice along the crease.
I had not seen that fold since I was twelve.
Orla Quill taught me three rules of cartography. Measure twice. Mark fresh water. Never draw a road merely because someone powerful insists it belongs there.
She also taught me how to open one of her knots.
I placed my thumb on the crossing and pulled both roads apart.
All nine knots loosened at once.
The moon-moth fluttered backward.
“I was about to recommend that.”
“In writing, I’m sure.”
Inside was a flat wooden case worn smooth at the edges. It smelled of cedar, rain, and the cupboard beneath Orla’s worktable. A brass key had been stitched into the lining with green thread.
Beneath it lay a map.
Not a professional map. The rivers were too wide, the hills looked like sleeping cats, and every tree had been given far more branches than space allowed.
Across the top, in the determined handwriting of a child, were the words:
HOME — IF LOST, START HERE.
I knew the handwriting because it was mine.
The map showed a crooked house beneath a copper-leaf tree. A path ran from its front door to a row of seven stone steps, then vanished beneath a blot of purple ink. Beside the house I had drawn two figures: a tall woman carrying rolled maps and a small girl in a weatherproof hat much too large for her head.
The hat had a compass rose stitched on the brim.
My hand rose to the hat Nella had given me.
“That is either a coincidence,” I said, “or the universe has a very limited wardrobe.”
The ledger wrote again.
CONTENTS: ONE MAP, ONE KEY, ONE UNFINISHED DELIVERY.
“What delivery?” I asked.
The ledger shut.
I have found that magical books become private at exactly the moment they might be useful.
The moon-moth settled beside the map. Its silver satchel gave a small chime.
“There is postal ink here.”
“There is no address.”
“There is no address you can see.”
It opened the satchel. Moonlight spilled across the counter, although dawn had already brightened the emerald windows.
Silver letters appeared along the map’s purple blot.
RETURN TO: ORLA QUILL THE UNFINISHED HOUSE BELLWEATHER STEPS
Below the address, smaller writing surfaced.
IF THE HOUSE IS MISSING, ASK THE KEY.
I picked up the brass key. It was cold for one breath, then warm as a hand held near a fire.
“Where is Bellweather Steps?” the moon-moth asked.
“It used to be north of the Glasswood.”
“Used to be?”
“The steps were removed from every royal survey after the Border Atlas was redrawn. Orla’s house went with them.”
“Houses dislike being redrawn.”
“So do cartographers.”
I opened my field journal to the northern road. The page showed the Glasswood, two wells, and an empty margin where Bellweather Steps should have been.
The brass key turned in my hand.
A narrow keyhole appeared in the paper.
I did not put the key into it.
This was not cowardice. It was professional caution, which is cowardice with better stationery.
The shop gave a quiet creak.
One of the midnight-blue walls lengthened. Shelves slid apart, carrying bottled starlight and a jar labeled Thunder, Mild . Behind them stood a door I had never seen.
It was painted the same blue as the parcel.
Seven shallow steps descended from its threshold, though the shop floor remained perfectly level.
At the bottom waited the shadow of a copper-leaf tree.
The dragon knocker cleared its throat from the front door.
“Before you go wandering into a wall, wipe your boots.”
“I already did.”
“Then take the mat with you. It has better judgment.”
The moon-moth landed on my shoulder. I put the map in my journal and slipped the key into my coat.
On the blue door, fresh silver letters formed beneath my name.
DELIVERY ATTEMPT TWO.
Something knocked from the other side.
Three slow taps.
The same signal Orla once used when she came home after dark.
I reached for the handle.
Next dispatch: “The House at the Edge of Every Map.”
Follow Tamsin’s dispatches through Mythikal Spiriticus, the original fantasy world behind Mythikal Sundries™. Begin with Entry 001 and read the adventures in order.
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