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“And who do you take after?”

Hawthorn thought back to his garnet nursery, his great toad, his father and his hat, his ood, creamy mortar and nice thick stones and new riddles every year He thought of everything that had ever happened since he had been born, which was really not so s, but to Hawthorn was the whole of the universe

“I don’t know!” he cried “I mostly take after my Toad, I think”

The Red Wind grinned, her red lips curling under her red iven a present just specially for her, all wrapped up in red “Oh,stumpy mushroom-lad! Quite so! And a toadout a nasty cla into a prince A toad obbling up everything it touches A toad olden balls and wells and cursed princesses and archery contests and swellingfrom towers and the enchanted bowers of fair maids! Choose, Hawthorn, the Toad’s True Son—a life in the tourist industry, sticking close to ho poor backpackers who never har, splendid ?”

Hawthorn hopped fro his brow He could feel his fret starting up in hi He could see the gorgeous land the Red Wind spoke of on one side of his heart, opening up like a book of many colors, like his book of maps, wonderful, new—and on the other side he saw his beloved whale-skull bed and the opal porridge his father boiled up on Thursday s and the dear, familiar shops of Skaldtown all lit up for the holidays The Equator glittered beneath his feet Each stone seeh which the troll kneould find another Hawthorn, a boy he could not even iht noho had chosen adventure and towers and flowers and whatever boere, who had a gleam in his eye like a lad who had placed his bet and won

Hawthorn wanted to meet that boy awfully

The Red Wind gently pulled a strand of Hawthorn’s saw puzzle, darling troll Your worries are the corner pieces, and your hopes are the edge pieces, and you, Hawthorn, dearest of boys, are the middle pieces, all funny-shaped and stubborn But the picture, the picture was there all along, just waiting for you to get on with it Now, grab hold of that bit of grass That one there, under the guavas Get your nails underneath, that’s a lad”

Hawthorn, his fret still squeaking and swelling, did as he was told He squooshed his thick fingers into the Jungle earth It was as soft and sweet as ware of the blue grass, the edge of the map, came up in his hand The Red Wind had snatched up a stretch of cantaloupe-continent, and as Hawthorn watched, she heaved it up, up, up, over her head The Panther of Rough Storms bit a pale swath of moonflower-arctic in his black ritted his sharp teeth and pulled harder, hardest, until his scrap of sea came up as well, and they all three tripped and turass and flowers and stones behind the sun was gone They crouched together, breathing fast, huddled inside the bundle of the world like a fort of blankets The rich s, rhys swirled and danced in the shadows Hawthorn’s fret popped in an ereat bright criarnets and Redcaps and poison apples

“There isn’t really a choice, is there?” he whispered “Adventure cheats It’s so much shinier and louder than Not-Adventure”

Solemnly, the Red Wind held out her free hand to the troll in pajaether

“Aren’t you the cleverest thing,” she said, and pulled him in close to her scarlet side, to her Panther, to the Equator, and the infinite sea of , red fist

CHAPTER II

HOW TO SEND A TROLL BY POST

In Which Hawthorn Chooses Between a Variety of Attractive Packaging Options, Meets a Certain Benjamin Franklin, and Receives a Commemorative Stamp

I have told you three ti you say three times must be true But now I shall tell you how the world is shaped for the fourth time