Papa Thorne’s a gentle soul. He’ll come around.
Without Juniper and Cove brightening the corners, sorrow takes a bite out of the house. They haven’t come back, which means they’re still astray in the wild, still toiling for survival.
Papa settles on the couch, nestles me against him, and we cry ourselves out. Then we pour words into the quiet, stories about Juniper and Cove, until we’re hoarse and able to chuckle without choking.
After that, I’m anxious to see my sanctuary friends. Papa says I need rest, but I protest—and then pass out anyway.
In the middle of the night, I stumble outside in my nightgown to hug Whinny Badass and feed her a carrot. Then I dash to my makeshift aviary, climb up the tree, and greet the avians who flock to me. When they recognize my voice and settle along my arms, I sob all fucking over again because I’m happy.
Time passes. One week, I reckon. I don’t pay much mind.
I sleep like a stone, alternating between Juniper and Cove’s beds. In my nightmares, branches strangle Juniper, a water rapid swallows Cove in its vortex, and I repeatedly drop from a bridge. Faeries cackle while I crash into the forest valley with a bloody splat.
Papa lunges into the room whenever I spring from the mattress in a cold sweat, my lips sputtering names and words that dissolve before I can catch them. He feeds me mince pie and warm milk, then sits with me until I fall asleep.
Another week passes. It’s my turn to linger at his bedside, watching him slip into dreams.
By the third week, we’re slumbering, eating, and working to our regular schedule. I help Papa tend the animals, reuniting with the avians and taking solace in their company. I stroke the starling’s feathers and feed it birdseed from the basin of my palm. With my bare toes swinging over a branch, I admire the falcon’s aristocratic profile and the pinchers of its beak, whistle with the hermit thrush, and share tales about the raptors I’ve seen in another land.
I coddle Juniper’s companions, promising her favorite fawn that she’ll return soon. I play-splash the pond serpent and make the same pledge on Cove’s behalf.
To my surprise, half a dozen village lads and girls volunteered to help Papa while I was gone, since he’d needed the extra hands. At seventeen and eighteen, they’ve taken to the animals, so I show them more of the ropes.
What I don’t do is indulge the cluckers of this town. I’m only one person, so I’ve gotta pace myself, dish out my tale in crumbs if I want a chance for peace someday. Restraining myself isn’t hard, seeing as I’m reconciling my own thoughts, and I’m not ready to talk about everything in detail.
So when they ask, I’m careful. Yeah, I was in Faerie. Yeah, I made it out alive. No, I don’t want to chat about it yet, other than to say I won my freedom fair and square.
I want to say that I made allies along the way, because not all of them are like we thought. Most of them are vicious, but some aren’t.
One of them has a grumpy disposition but a fragile heart.
One of them has an arrogant smirk but an infinite soul.
They have families, like us. They live amongst beautiful and fierce fauna, same as we do.
But I save that for later. The villagers won’t be willing to digest that yet. And the last thing I need is an outraged mob targeting my family.
Since my return, no humans have disappeared or been glamoured. My neighbors pay heed to that while keeping their guard up. Don’t blame them, since there are plenty of Fae who aren’t about to change their ways in a blink.
That’s the week I stop having nightmares and start dreaming about a blue feather, a flute’s melody, and the texture of wind. I dream about masculine whispers, hands that manipulate quills midair, and a flying javelin. I dream about an owl mask. I dream about that mask coming off, revealing the face beneath. I dream about naked bodies splayed on the grass, his body filling mine. I dream about a kiss at the top of the world.
I dream about loss and longing.
Comes with the territory, I guess. There’s a hurt that only one person can put on you. It’s a hurt they’ve invented without knowing it, one created solely for you.
At the end of that first month, I huddle on the front porch, swaying on the rocking bench. I hear Papa washing the crockery from our supper. Overhead, the stars wink, dappling the lawn.
Whinny Badass neighs from her stall, the falcon cries, and the hermit thrush whistles. I cuddle into the womb of Cove’s oversized woolen sweater, the knit dwarfing my nightgown, the scent of jasmine wafting from the collar.
The front door sighs open. Papa pads across the boards and reclines next to me, his arm slinging across the bench and cupping my shoulder. He inspects the trio of lanterns by the railing. Still haven’t mustered the grit to visit the wagon, but I light the lanterns each evening, just in case.
A ceramic bowl of apple crumble appears beneath my chin. “Guilty pleasure,” he says. “When Juniper gets home, don’t tell her I forgot to grate fresh nutmeg.”
With a mild snigger, I take the bowl and stuff the contents in my mouth. A moment later, he grunts affectionately, “You’re eating too fast, Lark.”
I swirl my spoon into the dish, the cutlery clattering. “The slow-poke doesn’t get seconds.”
“Are you quoting fromThe Viper in the Waterfall?”
