Anyhow, I improvise. “Let’s see,” I say, speaking to the trees and stars.“And the Lark said, ‘Will somebody snatch these two so I can have a break?’”
That shuts my sisters up. It shuts them up so quickly that I laugh. Swinging around, I tease, “I knew one of these days, I’d make you speechless.”
I stop teasing and blink at the floor where my sisters should be.
But they’re gone.
4
I’ve seen magic tricks. I’ve seen those tricks performed at bonfires and festivals, at markets and jubilees and assemblies in town. I’ve seen pranks between rowdy, dusty pip-squeaks. I’ve also been the prankster.
And I’ve definitely played disappearing acts on Papa whenever he forbade me to go somewhere. One time I did it and never forgot what happened next.
But I’ve never seen a magic trick, or a prank, or a disappearing act that stalled my heart. I’ve never lost my breath because of a joke, because those jokes meant no harm, because they weren’t real.
This is real. This means harm.
I dash across the wagon, skidding to where my sisters were a second ago. There’s nothing but cool air and my shadow slanting across the floor.
I wheel one way. “Juniper?”
I whirl the other way. “Cove?”
If today had been a normal one, I’d be calling their bluff. I’d be poking through the caravan, knowing it’s a game, and I’mit. We’d play hide-and-seek, not caring about being too old for make-believe. I’d be gnarling my voice into a goblin’s rasp and stalking around, expecting to catch them.
But today hadn’t been a normal day. And my sisters aren’t gone because they want to be.
I remember the Fae wilderness and those hidden eyes feasting on me.
A gale blasts through the open window, blowing the door wide and snuffing out the lanterns. I snatch the tinderbox from a stool in the corner. Plummeting to my knees, I fumble with the flint and fire striker, my hands quavering something harsh as I try to reignite the wicks. The flames hiss and sputter out, hiss and sputter out, hiss and sputter out.
Another howl of wind surges into the vehicle, striking a path beneath my nightgown. I drop the tinderbox tools. Beneath the sheer material, an invisible touch skims my thighs, raising gooseflesh across my skin. Aside from in the wild, this frisky intrusion has happened at other random times in my life.
I yank the garment into place and leap to my feet, my voice raging. “Juniper! Cove!”
Why aren’t they clucking? Why aren’t they giggling? Why aren’t they jesting?
Why aren’t they here? They werejust here!
Come out. Come out, now. Come out, come out, come out.
Am I asking them? Or is someone asking me?
The unspoken questions curl like fingers. One of those vaporous digits flicks its way inside my noggin—beseeching, coaxing.
Something’s here. Someone’s here.
That something, that someone, is playing music. The notes of a flute sneak into the wagon, riding a blanket of air and tinkering around my limbs. I remember this deceptive melody. I’m fixing to shout at it, but the sultry tempo vanishes as swiftly as my sisters had.
The wind batters everything in sight. Costumes go flying, toys topple off the shelves, and the lanterns overturn.
A winged shadow slices across the rug. I veer toward the door, where an owl launches inside and flaps hectically along the walls, then circles me. I bat away the creature, and it slingshots into the night, its wings snapping into the sky.
Swiping my whip from the floor, I race out of the wagon. Ripping down the steps, I halt on the grass and gawk, locks of hair swatting my cheeks. A draft rattles the willow tree and beyond, the branches croaking, the boughs entangling.
I squint at the raptor slashing across the grove, the knives of its wings chopping through the canopy. There’s something eerie about the way it flies.
That isn’t a mortal bird.
