Hero Read Online Free Page B

more use for it as a club than as an instrument of vanity. Roses stood out in relief all over it; the embellished thorns around the handle made it incredibly difficult to hold.
    “What’s it say on the back?” asked Trix.
    He was right; there was a word faintly etched between the petals. “‘Very’?” Saturday guessed. “Or . . . ‘Merry’?”
    “I think it’s French,” said Trix.
    “How would you know?”
    “Wednesday,” said Trix.
    Until her recent emigration to Faerie, Wednesday had often spouted impromptu poetry in foreign languages. They only knew it was poetry because Wednesday used her lofty poetry voice during the recitations, but Saturday wouldn’t have been able to tell French from Cymbalese or Trollish. Papa couldn’t tell the difference either—he’d told Saturday as much once—but he always applauded Wednesday’s performances. Animals talked to Trix; maybe some of them had French cousins. “I think it means
‘
glass.’ Or ‘water.’”
    “Or ‘flamboyant useless object’?” suggested Saturday. Trix made a face. “Well, that’s what
I
would have written. Want to see if it works?”
    In a flash, Trix leapt over the table and landed in the chair beside Saturday, much like she had vaulted the fence earlier to sit with Monday. As impressive as the move was, it was a good thing Mama hadn’t been around to witness it. “Do you know what to say?”
    “I’ll make something up.” Saturday and Peter often played rhyming games while they worked in the Wood—games that Saturday won more often than not. She could easily come up with something that might coax a smile out of her brother. She straightened again in her chair and held the great gaudy thing before them. She and Trix looked back at themselves over her outstretched arm, fascinated by their humble reflections.
     
“Mirror, Mirror, gift of doom,
Show us Mama in her room.”
     
    Trix giggled. Saturday waited for the image to blur and resolve into a picture of Mama rummaging through her wardrobe, but the mirror did nothing. She wished to see something so hard, her eyes began to hurt. It took her a moment to notice that Trix was no longer interested in the mirror, and another moment to realize what an incredible fool she’d been. She’d said “Mama,” and Trix’s mother was currently dead. It would have been just as easy to say “Papa.” Why hadn’t she done that instead? But it was too late. She almost wished the glass had shown those terrifying floodwaters. Anything but this.
    “Gods,” she sputtered, “I’m such an ass.”
    Trix left her glaring at herself in the mirror and went back to minding the stewpot. “You tried,” he said. “I appreciate the effort.”
    “I only wanted to—”
    “Just set the table, Saturday. Please?”
    “Okay.” Saturday shoved the offending mirror back into her swordbelt and went to put her stupid, idle hands to work. As she set the bowls and spoons clattering upon the table, she said, “I’m sorry,” before she forgot.
    “So am I,” he answered.
    Peter returned to the kitchen. Saturday gave him the rest of the spoons and the cloth napkins and a look that explained exactly how far she’d shoved her big foot into her big mouth. He took them all from her without a word and finished setting the table. Saturday and Peter didn’t need words to communicate, but for Trix’s benefit she said, “I’m going to fetch . . .”
    She stopped before saying “Mama” and reopening the wound she’d just kicked with her boot. She thought about switching it to “Papa,” and then wondered if Trix knew who his father was . . . or if his father was even human. As there was just no good way to finish the sentence, she fled the room.
    She didn’t bother knocking; her parents would have heard her footsteps echoing through the living room and down the small hall. Everything about Saturday was large and loud. Trying to pretend otherwise was a waste of time.
    “Dinner’s ready,”