Over the Moon Read online

  But when I slip inside, no one is mentioning the horses at all. They’re toasting Honor’s father, who has been promoted to Head Guardian of the valley mine.

  I slip into the kitchen. If this really works out—flying horses around to the mountaintops—I can eventually leave the Tumbrels for good. But eventually isn’t today. So my plan is to do even more work than usual to ensure I get paid something for the week.

  The thought of someday still adds a sure-footed boldness in my steps, though. Today, I’ll be knee-deep in dirt. But this evening, I will be flying through the skies, saving my little brother from a future in the mines. Yesterday, I only hoped for change. But this is better than anything I could have hoped for.

  I pull the slop bucket and mop to the middle of one of the bedroom floors to start my chores. I’m smiling, actually smiling, because I know as soon as this is done I’m riding horses. My horse. I’m riding a Starbird!

  Before I even realize what I’m doing, my finger’s drawing stars in the dust. Mama and Papa told me what the stars look like: round centers. Shiny spikes. A thousand different colors. And the stars tell stories, Papa told me once. Trace the colors and you’ll find shapes of hundreds of different creatures. A bear. A whale. A lion.

  “Leo,” I whisper, drawing the pattern of freckly stars I saw on my horse’s hip yesterday. It is the name of the star lion in one of Papa’s tales. I can’t wait to tell my horse that it’s his name, too.

  “Green is a terrible color on you.” Honor Tumbrel stands in the doorway, one foot propped over the other. He looks the same as he did yesterday in the forest: new clothes, new boots, fine jacket, polished sword. I’m in old rags with my hair tied back. Honor has a streak of blue swiped through the blond across his forehead.

  He fiddles with the silver buttons on his sleeves, grinning. “My mom asked for a hundred more powder cakes. I’d get started on those immediately, if I were you. Then you can finish up these floors and my laundry, and, best of all”—he smirks—“you can polish the chandelier in the kitchen.”

  I anticipated this, all of it. I knew he would pick the chores that took the longest today.

  “I’ll still be at the mission,” I tell him. “No matter how much you give me, I’ll be there.”

  “We’ll see,” he says, and he watches silently while I begin my work.

  Powder cakes are a special kind of terrible. They’re two inches high, two inches around, and must be the exact same shape each time. The sugar dusted over the top must be the exact same thickness on every single one. They’re a waste of time and taste awful, but valley people love them. One time I made them, I used salt instead of powder on top. While I got my point across, the incident got me fired and landed me with the Tumbrels.

  So, for over an hour, I pound out powder cakes and place them in equal rows on the gleaming kitchen counters I just cleaned. Then I spin into the cupboard for more flour to make a second batch.

  “Congratulations, Otis!” I hear someone say in the next room. Through a wide slat in the pantry I see them all: the adults shaking hands, congratulating one another. Men in capes. Women in fussy velvet dresses. Their screeching laughter always makes my head hurt. Otis, Honor’s father, shakes the man’s hand. “Grateful you could come and celebrate, friend!”

  “Of course!” the man says. “And young Honor will follow in your footsteps in no time. I see you’ve already bought him a sword.”

  Otis chuckles deeply and sips from his copper cup. “Honor can barely hold a sword. Much less fight with one.”

  I agree with this statement completely.

  “The Starbirds,” the other man says quietly. “You think … it’s a good idea?”

  I strain to hear what Otis says. This is the first I’ve heard of the horses all day! But the music has swelled up again, and people are dancing in circles, kicking up the Dust that’s crept through open windows and doors.

  “Time will tell,” Otis replies. He mumbles something I can’t hear—mumble, mumble—and then, “… Mortimer.”

  The other man curves so his shoulder is to the crowd and says something low that I can’t make out. I wish I could train Honeysuckle to swoop in and spy for me. “… you know to use this sparingly,” the man says. “You know to use this well.”

  The man hands over a small sack, tied in plain twine. Otis peeks inside, and I see a hint of dull yellow powder. At first, I think it’s gold powder, but no—gold has a shine to it. This is more like the powder Adam pointed out in the West Woods. Otis bows his head in gratitude and tucks the bag into his coat.

  I take my bag of flour, silently, and step back into the kitchen to work.

  Once the powder cakes are all done, I wipe my forehead and get started on the kitchen floor.

  Which takes a long time since Honor keeps coming to “check on me” and drag his boots all across it.

  I hear his heavy footfalls walk in the door now—a third time—and I swirl around, throwing my dirty rag at his shoe as hard as I can.

  “Watch it!” he shouts. “If you ruin these boots, you’ll buy me new ones.”

  And then I smile. I can’t help it. “You’re afraid I’m going to beat you. That I’ll be a better rider than you.”

  He laughs. “Not remotely, Mallie in the Muck. And sadly, I won’t even get to see you try.” He pulls the timepiece from his pocket and holds it up for me to see. It swings in the light with a hypnotic shine. The smile slides off my face now. I didn’t realize how late it was …

  “Because you can’t ride if you don’t know how. And you have too much work left to do to make it to practice. I’m headed up the mountain now. Should I tell them not to expect you today?”

  My heart sinks. I haven’t paid attention to the dimming of the sky. I’ve been working too hard trying to finish everything! “I’ll be there,” I say as I set my jaw and climb the ladder to get started. Honor walks away laughing. Honeysuckle—my bright yellow beacon of hope—darts through the open window and settles on the chandelier.

  “I’m supposed to be in the clearing,” I tell her, through clenched teeth. And yet, as always, I’m Mallie in the Muck—perched on top of a rickety ladder, pulling candle wax from crystals on a chandelier. Piece by piece. There are hundreds.

  “I’ll never wear a piece of jewelry made of a cave crystal,” I mumble.

  Honeysuckle chirps once in total agreement.

  Cave crystals are a grisly red color, and each one makes a faint screeching sound if you barely even touch it. But I work carefully to clean each one.

  I feel every second.

  Every minute that stretches …

  Honeysuckle flaps over to the top of a blue china cabinet, bouncing anxiously. Time is running low …

  “Last one,” I promise her. My fingers are throbbing now.

  I freeze as I hear high-heeled boots climbing the steps. Mrs. Tumbrel is coming to find me. Honeysuckle is chirping, bouncing. I know what she’s trying to say: Run. Go. She’ll find more for you to do!

  I bound down the ladder, store it, and run and hide behind the door. She’ll definitely see me here, but there’s nowhere else I can hide.

  “Mallie!” Mrs. Tumbrel calls my name.

  Through the crack in the door, I see Honeysuckle bite a flour bag on top of the pantry, which spills in a waterfall of white on Mrs. Tumbrel. I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I scramble quietly out the door, Honeysuckle flapping along behind me.

  I run for the West Woods, where I belong.

  “Where’ve you been?” Adam shouts as I sprint up to the edge of the clearing. His sleeves are cuffed, and his cheeks are red; he’s been riding. They’ve all been riding. I’m so far behind.

  “I waited as long as I could for you at the boundary,” he says, scampering along beside me. “What took so long? And why are you gripping your elbow?”

  “Where’s Leo?” I ask, running ahead of him. Drops of sweat trickle down my forehead and sting my eyes. I can barely get any words out of my chest. I’m not remotely wor
ried about my arm, which is just a little sore from wearing the old Popsnap. What I’m worried about is the fact that I’m late on day one of horse flying practice.

  Because I’m assuming flying isn’t something that comes naturally. A little practice would be nice.

  “Who’s Leo?” Adam asks, confusion in his voice.

  “My horse,” I tell him as I jog toward the horses. “My arm is fine.” I run toward the ruckus of sound ahead of me. The winged horses are all clustered together in the middle, standing in a half circle against the tree line. They’re stomping their mighty hooves against the ground, flapping their wings. The flapping sound is what sends wonderful shivers down my spine; it’s like they’re slicing the wind in half. It’s like they are the wind.

  The horses are all different colors: black, tan, gray, silvery white. Some of their wings are plain, the same color as their hair. Others have wings with patterns of wild, glorious colors. But I can’t find my horse.

  “Am I too late?” I ask breathlessly. “Did I miss the mission?”

  “No,” Adam says, his voice softening. “But you did miss the entire riding lesson. It’s been pandemonium, so nobody’s going to notice you were gone. Iggy’s going to bring Leo, and maybe she’ll give you the highlights.”

  “Who is Iggy?”

  “She’s one of Mortimer’s helpers. Just stand here for a second, Mallie. Take some deep breaths. The horses can sense it if you’re fired up.”

  I can see that this is accurate. Everyone is in a frenzy trying to get their horses saddled and bridled. The horses clearly haven’t done this in a while. In ever, maybe. Did the Weavers use saddles long ago? I don’t know. Neither do the Guardians. They look as confused as the riders when it comes to saddling a flying horse. They must not have lived on the mountain back when the Starbirds were here. They don’t know how to treat them.

  Some boys have managed to walk beside their horses, calming them. I notice now they all have a new twist of color in their hair. We’ve all been marked by our rides.

  “Where’s Mortimer?” I ask Adam.

  “Not here yet. I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about you.”

  I realize that I’m gripping my arm again. I let go, quickly.

  “Well, I am worried about falling off my horse midair,” I say. “And don’t say anything to anybody about my arm, okay? Just don’t point it out. The other day, all those guys wanted me to leave because I was a girl. Mortimer didn’t seem to care about that. I don’t want him to think the arm is an issue. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me and I don’t want people to be inspired because I wear a Popsnap. I just want to ride—”

  “Hey.” His voice softens. “I didn’t mean to get you worked up. It’s called concern. Friends are allowed to be concerned for each other. Have I ever taken it easy on you because one arm is shorter than the other?”

  I grin. “Nope. I like that you haven’t. I just wish this orange Popsnap wasn’t the first thing people notice about me.”

  “Well, it might be.” Adam shrugs. “People notice I’m tall. That’s always what they see first. I can’t change that. If they talk to me for more than a few minutes, they know it’s just one of a zillion traits that make me … me.” He cocks his head and points to the Popsnap. “I thought you lost it in the woods?”

  “I have an extra one,” I tell him. “An old one.” That hurts like the dickens, I think.

  “Do you think it will be hard to ride with a Popsnap?”

  “Yesterday it was just hard, period—and we weren’t even riding yet. I don’t know if the Popsnap mattered. The only thing I’m worried about is the reins. How to hold them, how to steer.”

  Adam chews on his lip, thinking. It’s like watching him work out a math problem back at school. “Iggy can help with that.”

  I want to know how this Iggy knows so much about Starbirds but something distracts me before I can ask.

  “Hey,” I say, reaching for the twist of silver in his hair. “This is new. It looks cool.”

  “Not as cool as yours,” he says. He reaches for my green stripe of hair, pulls it through his fingers. I know he’s only touching my hair because it’s suddenly green green, grassy green. But I can’t help the flutter inside me when he does it. His face reddens and he drops my hair, stepping back.

  Seeing Adam with a twist of silver hair makes me wonder what he will look like as an old man. Will we still be friends when we’re old? Will we talk about this moment—these days—when we flew on wild horses side by side?

  I clear my throat and look away. “If this Iggy person doesn’t bring my horse, I’m going to go find him myself.”

  “No need,” Adam says, tapping my arm. He points toward the tree line of the clearing. Leo’s running toward me, looking even more beautiful than he did yesterday. His shiny black coat. His leathery wings. Every horse here looks different, but Leo is the most beautiful. Some wings have patterns on them, bright as butterflies. Some look painted, with spots and star shapes. But Leo’s wings are dark and shiny. The color of water at night. The color of magic, I think.

  Leo is ready for riding—or flying, I guess. He’s saddled, with a bridle. And even though he’s massive, I hold out my arms like I’m waiting for a puppy to jump up into them. He calms when he’s close enough for me to hug his soft neck.

  “Leo,” I say softly.

  I pull back, and his gentle brown eyes meet mine, his wings folded against his back. He leans low, touching his velvety nose to my forehead. “Hi,” I say. “Do you like your name okay? Leo?”

  Leo closes his eyes, then nudges my forehead with his muzzle, like a kiss. My heart melts at the sight of the green stripe glimmering in his mane. I’ve heard about girls in Windy Valley who give ribbons to their friends—rare silky ribbons, sewn with diamond thread. They wear the same color so people know they’re connected. Now Leo and I have matching stripes in our hair. We’re connected, him and me.

  I rub the soft skin of his nose, and he closes his eyes in happiness. “I came up with your name because of your freckles,” I whisper. “The freckles on your sides—they look like the Leo constellation. My papa says the Leo constellation is shaped like a lion. I think you are lionhearted, too. I think you’re brave.”

  “I would say you’re both that way.” Mortimer Good is standing behind me. He’s wearing another fine suit today: black velvet jacket, pants with silver side stitches, and shiny riding boots. And he’s wearing a dashing grin, which makes me smile nervously in response.

  Mortimer reaches for the green strand of hair framing my face. “I see the horse has marked his rider. He won’t let anyone else get on his back now.”

  “I named him Leo.”

  Mortimer smiles. “Call him whatever you like. You’ve got more to worry about than names. Remember what you learned from Iggy so you don’t kill yourself up there.”

  I gulp and nod. The problem, of course, is that I haven’t learned anything from Iggy.

  As Mortimer strides away, he says, “Give Miss Ramble her Keep, Iggy.”

  At first, I see no one behind Mortimer. Then someone clears their throat, and I look down.

  Iggy—I’m assuming this is Iggy—is the same person I saw with Mortimer the day we rode into the woods. Standing no more than three feet tall, she wears all brown—baggy pants, jacket full of pockets, slouchy brown boots. Her hair is tucked up into a brown knit hat on her head. Iggy’s not a rider, but she’s clearly familiar with horses. I can see by the way she reaches for Leo, no fear at all. He nuzzles into her small hand. Plus, she’s clearly respected by Mortimer. I have a feeling that earning his respect is a big deal. Maybe we could stick together, us girls. I wonder if she’s as happy to see me as I am to see her.

  Iggy doesn’t make eye contact. She points to my shoes. “No riding boots, I see.”

  “Just work boots.” Does anybody have riding boots? Did anybody have time to change after work? I doubt it.

  “Won’t be easy,” Iggy says. “Flying in a dress.�
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  “I didn’t have time to change,” I admit. My cheeks are warm with embarrassment. I’m doing the best I can, and I don’t enjoy these reminders about how unprepared I am. I don’t know why Iggy is even mentioning all this. “I’ll make it work. I’m Mallie, by the way.”

  “I know who you are. Here’s your Keep. This is the sack for your gold powder. Hooks to your belt. When you spy some gold, unhook the Keep, scoop up what you can. Give it an easy shake and it’ll sift out any dirt, debris, or pigeon poo you happen to collect accidentally. Any questions?”

  Yes! I want to shout. But I say, “Could you maybe, um, go over the highlights again? Of how to fly?”

  Iggy finally looks up at me like she’s thoroughly annoyed. She has one brown eye and one that’s the brightest blue. She’s very pretty, I think. Also, she has a very crabby attitude. “I won’t tell Mortimer you were late,” she says softly. “But I don’t give special lessons to latecomers, either.”

  Any hope of friendship I’ve been holding flies out the window. I wonder if Leo will snort at her, the way he did at some of Mortimer’s men yesterday.

  He doesn’t.

  Leo leans down and nuzzles her face. That traitor.

  For the first time, a smile quirks the edge of her tiny mouth.

  “Be good to this horse,” she says, turning up her nose and marching away. “Trust him and you’ll be fine.”

  “Gentlemen!” Mortimer calls. “And lady.” He bows to me. Some of the boys laugh. “It’s time for your first mission. Mount your horse, if you haven’t already, and ride to the edge of the cliff just over that rise.”

  Easy enough, I think. I tuck the toe of my boot into the stirrup and grab the front of the saddle, groaning as I try to pull myself over the horse.

  Which doesn’t work.