Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan by Seanan McGuire Page A

and the diner is back again.
    The diner remains as I finish my trek across the parking lot, and the
burnished metal door handle is cool and solid as I curl my fingers around it. I
can hear music from inside, Glenn Miller singing about that old black magic.
That song got a lot of radio play in the weeks before I died, hit of the early
summer, soundtrack of Gary's hands cupping the curve of my waist and his breath
coming hot and sweet against my neck.
    I open the door, and step inside.
    The diner melts away—as I more than half-expected that it would, carnival
illusion meant to call the faithful and the faithless alike—and I am standing in
a saloon pulled straight from the American West, miles and centuries away from
the time and place that I came walking from. There are easily two dozen
routewitches here, talking, laughing, eating. One pair is making out in a
corner, randy as teenagers. I've never seen this many routewitches in one place
before. Their sheer power of the road distorts the fabric of the room, dragging
it into a shape that I don't know.
    "Told you she wouldn't stay on the curb, Paul," calls one of the
routewitches, a middle-aged Hispanic man with a bristling mustache. "You owe me
a cup of coffee."
    The apprentice who met me at the gate scowls and kicks the bar, refusing to
look at me. Every society has its hazing rituals. I'm not sure I like being part
of this one. "Excuse me," I say, looking around the saloon, studying the
routewitches. The oldest I see must be in his nineties; the youngest, no more
than eight. The road isn't picky about who she calls. "I've walked the Ocean
Lady to see the Queen. You think that could happen today, maybe?"
    "That depends," says the mustached routewitch. He stands, walking toward me.
"What are you here about? This isn't a place for ghosts, little one, even those
who've died on the road. You have your own cathedrals."
    "The Queen of the Routewitches doesn't visit our cathedrals." And neither do
I. Hitchers are spirits of the running road, the diners and the dead ends. The
cathedrals of the dead are built in frozen places, moments sealed in ice and
locked away forever. Road-spirits can't last in places like that for long, not
without curdling and going sour, turning into nothing but sickness and rage. I
avoid the cathedrals of the dead whenever I can. Stay in them too long, and I
wouldn't be Rose Marshall anymore. "My mama taught me that when you can't get
the mountain to come to you, you'd better be prepared to go to the mountain."
    "So you hopped onto the Ocean Lady like she was just another road, and
thought our Queen would see you, is that it? Seems a bit arrogant for a
long-dead thing like you."
    "Yeah, well, your attitude seems a bit asshole-ish for a guardian of the
American road, but you don't see me judging, do you? Oh, wait. I just did." I
cross my arms, glare, try to look like I'm not a reject from a 1940s prom night
that ended more than half a century ago. "I'm here to see the Queen. A
routewitch named Eloise told me how to get here, if I ever had the need."
    His mustache curls upward at the corners, his grin spilling out across his
face like it's too big to be contained. "Shit, girl, why didn't you say? How is
that old
carretera bruja
? She running hard?"
    "She's a phantom rider driving the length of California, giving rides, giving
advice, and picking oranges, last time I saw her. She said it was more fun than
the alternatives." I continue glaring. "Was this some sort of trick question to
get me to prove that I didn't know her? Because math would be better if you
wanted me to give you a wrong answer. I suck at math."
    "You're Rose Marshall, the Shadow of Sparrow Hill Road," says one of the
other routewitches, as she stands and walks toward me, expression lively with
undisguised curiosity. She's a tiny thing, a whisper somehow stretched into a
slight sigh of a girl, Japanese by blood, American by accent, dressed in jeans