Before our sensitive sister can elaborate, Juniper takes the initiative. She raises her hand, and even though this moment doesn’t require a hand raise, it gets our father’s attention.
Amused, he quirks a brow. “Yes, my tree of knowledge?”
“It’s the willow,” Juniper lies, referring to the tree outside our wagon. “Cove accidentally snapped a branch while trying to scrape the bark. She wanted chips to make tea.”
Faeries treasure willow trees. If a human damages one, it’ll tick off the Folk. Although breaking off a twig is a minimal offense, it doesn’t matter in Cove’s case.
Juniper and I give our sister private, insistent looks until she sniffles and nods, confirming the fib. Papa scans her miserable face, then expels a breath and pats her hand. “Oh, my girl. It takes more than that to curse yourself.”
“I told her so,” Juniper states, as though she truly had.
I make a suggestion, one that we could use. “Tell us a Fable?” I ask Papa.
Juniper straightens, the prompt reinforcing her posture. Cove’s joints unwind, and her teal eyes sparkle. When we were little, one of us would always use this line after a meal, and Papa would recline beside the fire to narrate whichever dark tale we requested.
Nobody lives on this continent without owning a copy of the Book of Fables. Our grand anthology of otherworldly creatures offers cautionary guidance about magical beings and how to keep our wits amongst them.
After a moment, Papa’s face lifts. We gather in the living room, where he settles onto a plush chair adjacent to the sofa, the fireplace crackling and bathing his smile in ochre. My sisters and I hunker onto the floor at his feet like we used to. As we scoot about, I know this was the right move. Levity fills the room, sweeping aside the bad shit.
We take refuge in Papa’s voice as he spins a tale from the north.“Once, a snowy Hare confronted an Elf…”
***
By nightfall, the rain stops. Juniper and Cove retreat to the sanctuary to spend time with their favorite animals. I’m keen to visit my aviary, but I pad into the attic instead. Curling up on a patched chair beside the triangular window, I chew on a strip of my hair while contemplating the misty range. I’d planned to have a solution by now, to share it with my sisters and then hear what they’d cobbled together. Yet my mind’s a barren field. As far as options go, all I’ve got isrunandhide.
The roof steeples above my head, swatches of moonlight leaking across the ceiling. The walls creak for no reason, since Papa Thorne has gone to bed.
The blue feather rests on my nightstand, the sight of it tugging on a distant memory. It dredges up an old vision of young, unearthly eyes staring from behind a bird’s mask, the pupils impish and furious.
Last night hadn’t been my first encounter with a Fae. Though back then, I was too young and smitten to be guarded.
My sisters don’t know about this secret. Every time I’ve tried to tell them, I bowed out.
If I could revisit the past, would I change it? My mind says yes.
My heart says something else.
From the market square, the bell tolls. Hooves punch the dirt, followed by a splash of water. A breeze sulks through the open window, nudging down the strap of my nightgown. I should close the shutters, block out that gust. Instead, I peer into the night, daring the wind to bother me.
It dares right back, in the form a winged creature headed this way. Framed by the summit, a span of bronze plumes cruises the air. It dives, the notch of its beak aiming toward the ground.
I lurch from the chair as the creature swoops level with the grass. The bird skims the green blades, then shoots for the attic. I brace myself, lacking the time to do anything else. Legs and talons thrust forward, gracefully avoiding the iron sill and clamping onto the chairback.
My eyebrows slam together as the owl and I take each other’s measure. The bird launches off the rim, flaps around me once, and drops an envelope onto the seat cushion before darting back through the window. Swiftly, the avian vaults into the cathedral of trees, slices through the branches, and vanishes.
The envelope is made of woven paper, a cloud of white wax sealing the closure. Embedded within, a pair of wings expand over a mountain. An icy draft courses through my veins. With a tied ribbon buried under the waxen coin, the missive resembles some fancy ball invitation, with inky script flying across the sheet.
Mutinous Lark
So Cerulean fancies himself a quipster? Well, he can take this wily salutation and shove it up his glamoured asshole. I tear into the missive, cracking the emblem in half.
Inside the envelope…is another one.
Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast.
Hot damn. He’s one sick fucker.
The message bears no other instruction, so I pry the slit and flip open the parchment. The same handwriting leers at me. Scanning the contents, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
