She turns toward us and blinks. Any other time, I’d admire her renegade train of thought. But Cove and I continue to watch Juniper, waiting for her sense to catch up with her tongue.
If we flee, they’ll find us. Or they’ll target Papa.
Juniper nods weakly, more to herself than anybody, then extends her hands. We thread our fingers and squeeze, then we let go and brandish our weapons.
As we step past the Triad, I listen for instruments and ominous caws. Our boots crush dead leaves. Nearby, the stream bubbles—the bright one that almost blinded me yesterday.
Inside, everything’s the same. The gnarled boughs. The reek of poisoned plums. The syrup browns, yew greens, and peacock blues. The Colony of Fireflies, where the molten orbs float, hankering to give us love bites.
My palms sweat into the whip, Juniper aims the crossbow, and Cove grips her spear. We trek to the cul-de-sac, where I’d stashed myself before. The instant we reach the rocky alcove and hesitate—What now?—the landscape oscillates. The recess sheds itself like a second skin, a gap appearing in the facade, opening its maw to us.
Of course. The Triad and just beyond are accessible, but the rest of this land will appear only if it wants to be seen or intruders penetrate the cul-de-sac with iron fire. During The Trapping, the villagers had melted iron and dribbled the fluid onto their torches, which had breached the enchanted barrier.
It’s a border within a border, unfurling into an extension of this realm, the hub of Faerie materializing. The colors are more vivid here, denser than globs of paint yet sparkling like dyed glass bottles set in the sun. The browns are chimerical, the greens as saturated as parrot wings, and the blues swirling about in a cast of tints and shades that rival mermaid scales—or so I’d imagine.
My heart damn near stutters at what I see. Three paths lead to three landscapes.
One, a mountainous incline of stone steps framed by scalding torch poles.
Two, a woodland arcade of oak trees, where a ribcage of branches balances flickering candles, showcasing a path strewn with toadstools.
Three, a stream flanked by glowing lanterns, with flat rocks trotting down the watery center. The serpentine current rushes into a tunnel and slides down an unseen slope.
At the start of each path, three notes hover at eye level. We read the names on the respective leaflets, the letters embellished in shimmering ink.
Lark
Juniper
Cove
No. Just, no.
I remember Cove teaching me one of the village litanies against the Fae. The one that people recite when they’re afraid of losing somebody to those creatures, or when they’ve already lost somebody to that world, or when they’re desperate to get that somebody back.
If all three apply, I wonder whether a person has to repeat the chant three times. When that person is threatened in a way she hadn’t expected, suddenly those litanies seems a hell of a lot more necessary. Suddenly, an invocation seems like a fine fucking idea.
This is a nightmare, and I’ve gotta wake up, yet I can’t. I know what those notes mean. This was supposed to be one game, one place, and three sisters. But it’s not.
We’re not playing the same game. We’re not even going in the same direction.
They’re separating us.
A feminine wheeze tears through the silence. Juniper and I swerve toward Cove, who’s hyperventilating. Her chest pumps, her eyes glaze over, and she thrashes her head from side to side. “I-I don’t understand,” she panics, her lisp getting more pronounced. “We did nothing wrong. We did nothing wrong!”
I snatch her into a hug, and Juniper wraps her arms around us both. Cocooned between us, Cove squeaks over and over, “I don’t understand. We did nothing wrong. We did nothing wrong!”
“Shh,” I murmur, stroking her hair and trying not to bawl along with her. “Shh, now.”
Weeping is music to their ears. It’ll do her no good.
Juniper whispers something else to Cove, who slumps on a hiccup. My sisters and I untangle ourselves. Cove wipes her face and hikes up her unsteady chin, the sight wringing out my heart like a cloth.
We approach the leaflets and grab them from thin air. The sound of ripping paper shreds through the wild, louder than birdsong, rickety boughs, or hissing streams. Juniper scans her note, her pupils jumping across the sentences while Cove mouths the contents of her missive.
My eyes burn a trail across the scourge of words inked into my note. It’s an invitation, all right.
For your trespass, be our sacrifice—to surrender, to serve, and to satisfy. Under the vicious stars, three sisters must play three games.
