The Real Boy by Anne Ursu

discrete entities, but of balance and harmony.
    She had one long entry about the wizards’ orchard, about the trees that bore fruit and the great network of roots hidden underneath the soil, each almost touching the others—a secret confederacy. The ground beneath our feet is home to more untapped wonder than the skies above our heads, she wrote.
    That was her last entry.
    It’s all right, Oscar told himself, rubbing his chest. This was a long time ago. Elia was a tree now. She got to nurture the soil in turn. She would like that. They would all like that.
    Oscar read on until the presence of morning could not be denied and he shut the book, giving it a little pat. The monsters of the night had been banished. The wizards lingered on—guardian ghosts. If they watched over him, he had nothing to fear from dreams.
    Oscar got up, put some water on to boil and threw chamomile in the steam basket, and tried to map out the day ahead. It was usually so easy; he could do it almost as a reflex. But the truths of the days were getting harder and harder to hold on to.
    A knocking, then, at the back door. Oscar jumped and peered out through the window, but it was only Mister Malcolm, carrying a basket. Sunday, time for bread. Oscar tucked Block into his pocket, then opened the door, the non-wooden cats swarming behind him. The smell of the bread called to Oscar, and he wanted to swarm, too.
    “May I come in?” Malcolm said, as he came in.
    “Yes?”
    “I assumed you would not be able to make it to the bakery this morning,” Malcolm said. “I was going to leave your delivery, but I saw you in the window and thought I might give you personal service.”
    The words did not make much sense, but Oscar moved his lips into a smile, because it seemed like the sort of thing Callie would tell him to do. He was full to bursting with the wizards, and nothing else seemed real.
    “Is your master away, young hand?” Malcolm asked.
    Oscar nodded. “He has business on the continent.”
    “Ah,” said Malcolm, eyes narrowing slightly. “I see.” His eyes fell on the book on the table and then traveled back to Oscar. Oscar’s heart skipped, but then eased—who would see a book and think he had been reading it?
    A yowl from the floor. Pebble, staring insistently at Malcolm.
    “May I help you?” Malcolm asked.
    Cat thumped his tail. Pebble began to crawl up Malcolm’s leg.
    “I think they want some bread,” Oscar said, helpfully.
    “I think you might be right,” Malcolm said. He reached into his bag, pulled out two rolls, and began to divide them into pieces. “Master Caleb keeps remarkable cats. I have two myself. I keep them in the cellar, as they are prone to putting teeth marks in my merchandise.” He paused and looked up at Oscar. “Your master is the only magic worker I know who keeps them.”
    “He says they’re the only animals that will stay in the forest,” Oscar said. “Besides the birds and spiders and bats and rats and those kinds of things, but they’re not as good to have around.”
    “It is true,” Malcolm said, “that cats do not seem to mind the Barrow like most animals do . . . with the notable exception of the Most Spectacular Goat.”
    “Do you know why?” Oscar asked. “Why the farm animals and messenger horses all have to be kept outside the forest? Why the City horses need Madame Elodie to tend them when they’re down here? I mean, the forest has animals, all sorts of weird ones, and they don’t mind.”
    “I believe,” said Malcolm, taking loaves of bread out of the basket and placing them on the table, “most animals do not like magic—other than the ones native to the forest, of course. But in the case of cats, I believe magic does not like them.” He brushed his hands together and began to move back toward the door.
    “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Oscar asked, squeezing the cat in his pocket. “We have things that can help you. We have—” Oscar stopped. He had told