I hop from the last step and land with a thud. At the sound, Juniper glances from the stove and glowers at me, her shoulders ramrod stiff. She’s got her spectacles on even though they’re for reading, not cooking. Behind the lenses, her eyes are squinty.
Cove perches in her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, rare lilac crescents leaking from beneath her eyes. I snore, and Juniper mumbles in her sleep, but Cove’s the one who slumbers so peacefully it’s hard to tell whether she’s dreaming or not. From the looks of her, last night was an exception.
To get through this, we need to eat. To have a remote chance of digesting a thing, we need a distraction.
Juniper cuts into a lattice mince pie, the candied aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg shimmying through the house. The slices have perfect, nitpicky angles, because Fables forbid they ruin the crisscross pattern.
I gauge which helping is hers. That’s the one I snatch.
Juniper bolts from the stove—“Hey!”—and hurls herself at me, giving chase around the table. By the third rotation, she’s got the crumbly wedge between her teeth and my elbows in her grip, and I’m squirming. We’re sort of laughing, sort of bickering. I bite into the other half of the pie. Righteously, she mashes gooey filling in my face, making me shriek.
When not rolling on the ground with us, Cove buffers our squabbles. Today, she merely watches, flabbergasted because how can we get rowdy at a time like this?
Papa Thorne strides into the room and crosses his burly arms. “Naturally,” he sighs in a civilized baritone.
“She started it,” Juniper declares while Papa mouths the words alongside her.
“If I had a copper for every time you girls have said that,” he quips.
Age crinkles the rims of his eyes and threads his hair with silver tinsel. He’s got a cultured profile, with its square jaw and dark complexion.
Papa Thorne’s been running this sanctuary forever and first crossed paths with my sisters and me at different times. We were grimy and malnourished, sprouting hair colors rarer than red. He gave us riffraff a home, introduced us to his wild preserve, and we became a tribe.
Papa’s not thrilled to find us quarreling before coffee’s been served. He grabs a pair of forks, then steps in between me and Juniper, brandishing the cutlery. “Horseplay or hunger,” he tells us. “Take your pick and stick with it.”
Dutifully, we break apart and settle at the table. Rain patters outside while the living room fireplace toasts the walls. After wiping the pulp from my face, I scoop a heaping portion of mince pie and plow it straight into my mouth, spices and the tang of dried cranberries bursting across my palate. My manners are usually better, but I’m famished after an entire night in which fear gnawed at my gut.
As much as I’d like to say our agitation doesn’t go unnoticed, I’d be lying. Papa waits for one of us to rib the other or pick another fight that doesn’t last.
Cove’s a problem. She wants to speak up because she’s the best of our trio, the most honest, and the most obedient, which makes her a shitty liar. Her eyes travel to mine, two ponds reflecting hope.
Fables, I hate it when she gives me that baby bird look. Nevertheless, bringing our father into this could get him hurt.
We trespassed on forbidden ground. We insulted the Fae.
It’s my fault, my fault, my fault. And I’m not about to drag more people I love down with me, so right here, right now? Keeping our mouths shut? I’ve got a big opinion about that.
I covertly shake my head and witness those plaintive teal irises flash with anger.
Papa’s gaze swerves from one daughter to the next. It doesn’t help that my phony grin slips, held together by strings. It doesn’t help that Cove crushes her napkin until her knuckles blanch. It doesn’t help that Juniper’s not eating her pie in the usual order, filling first, crust last.
On impulse, I pass Papa the leftovers of my slice. “Help a girl out. I’m stuffed.”
He ignores the pastry. “When are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
My sisters halt their chewing. I lower the plate.
Papa hitches his shoulder. “I’ve been taming you girls for nine years. What did you expect?”
“For it to take you ten years?” I guess.
“Try again.” But when I shuffle in my chair, a distraction about to spring off my tongue, he holds up his palm. “Enough. Out with it.”
“We’re cursed!” Cove cries out, her confession bouncing off the walls.
My eyes clench shut. Son of a bitch.
Papa’s eye bulge at the outburst, then narrow. Cove has a tendency to overreact, so he’s second-guessing whether we’re in trouble or if she’s being dramatic.
