His gaze slackens, processing what I’ve done. A single digit drags along the side of my jaw, sharp and tender, resentful and affectionate. I close my eyes, feeling the gentle sweep of his touch—and then his lips.
The air whirls around us. My heart flaps madly as his mouth brushes mine, sweet and weightless. I pucker up and kiss him back, tears springing to my eyes.
At the workshop’s rear, the glassblower audibly tethers his horse to a post. Meanwhile, the gust of the Fae’s mouth disappears. The wind stirs around my calves, threatening to shove down my cloak’s hood and expose my hair.
“Go,” I hiss, squeezing my eyes tight.
There’s a moment’s pause, then a voice floats into my ears, the thread of a whisper. “My name is my own. No, I’m not an owl. And yes, I can talk.”
Gasping, I flip my lids open.
He’s gone.
On a cry, I dash outside. Quavering, I close the door and jerk the bolt in place, then keep to the trees and skirt to the opposite side of the forge. I hear the glassblower plod to the threshold, a ring of iron keys clinking.
I sprint, following the wind. Gripping my mask in place, I stumble across the grass and elderberry bushes.
One more glimpse. One more.
In an open field, I skid to a halt and crane my head to the sky. The air teases strands of white dangling around my face. No bird, no wings, no plumes. Only stars over a mountain range, home to countless monsters that I hate and one monster I’ll never see again.
I clutch the blue feather in my free hand, angry tears seeping into the quills of my mask. Now I understand. It’s possible to love the enemy.
Papa and my sisters are my first family. But he was my first friend.
Days later, the villagers recount the mysterious escape. That’s how I learn what happened next, how the Fae boy was recaptured that very night. My neighbors murmur that he’d tried to attack, so they’d run him through with an iron dagger. He died like that, flightless in the grass, gawking at the heavens.
And that’s why I continue weeping into my pillow for weeks. Because it’s my fault, because I did that to him. Because that’s how Fables end, with a lesson learned and a heart broken.
18
An owl’s hoot pries me from slumber. Snippets of my dream skate along the outskirts of my mind, delicate and winsome, before thinning out. I wake up on the tail end of a whimper, with my body coiled above the sheets, the mattress plump and the bedding soft. Although I didn’t make it beneath the covers, it’d been the deepest sleep since leaving home.
Amber strings across the chamber from the sconces. Past the windows, scarves of white gauze sail past a full moon. The tripod table beside the curtains balances a capped trencher that emits the savory aromas of pastry and spices. A corked bottle of fresh water and a pot of coffee stand beside the covered platter.
Enchantment? Or did somebody tiptoe inside while I slept?
No time or luxury to act bullheaded. Dignity’s one thing I won’t forfeit, but pride’s got no place on this mountain. If I want to win, I’ve gotta take care of myself.
I take a flying leap to the chair, lift the trencher’s cover, and moan. Compared to its size, the platter reveals more fare than should be possible, including pheasant and shallots drowning in cider, a steaming pie loaded with apples, and a medley of strange, frondlike greens. I give the contents a hearty sniff and devour everything, then pull the bottle’s cork and chug. Last, I drain the coffee.
While licking my fingers clean, I pad into the bathing chamber. Tiles cover the floor and form the roof. The night sky spans a vaulted window, the split curtain drawing in fresh air.
Instead of a tub, there’s an alcove with bell-shaped nozzle sprouting from the ceiling. Curious, I stand beneath it, and water rains down, the warm spring dousing my dress and cloak. I jump back with a surprised laugh, then get naked and step beneath the cascade.
A stool holds bottles of milky liquid and bars of shimmering soap that emanates a minty fragrance. I snatch a bar and glide it over my skin. The suds swell into bubbles and float without popping, the orbs glistening like transparent pearls. Next, I pour the milky liquid over my head and knead through the roots, inhaling a floral essence. If this bathing chamber didn’t belong to a villain, I might stay here forever.
Juniper and Cove would love this showering alcove. Thinking about them brings Papa Thorne to mind, which brings home to mind. The aromas of eucalyptus and jasmine. The clatter of crockery as one of us takes our turn at the stove. The croak of Papa Thorne’s chair as he sits by the fire and recites from the Book of Fables. The wild racket of animals—fluttering wings, swatting tails, and splashing fins—greeting us as we mind the sanctuary. Lanterns painting our shadows across the wagon floor as we narrate folklore.
Everything I had. Everything I lost. Everything I miss.
Guess sorrow’s like this. One moment it’s gone, then it surges back with a jolt, kicking you right in the teeth.
What if I succeed but my sisters don’t? What if they succeed but I don’t?
What if I never go home?
I won’t cry in his tower. I won’t cry in his tower. I won’t cry in his tower.
