Page 8 of Kiss the Fae


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The darker it gets, the brighter the stars get. As the hour clicks from one to the next, sleepy blue glosses the sky. We shuffle down the back-porch steps, our sheer nightgowns ballooning, about to take flight. If we had wings, I wonder which of us would soar the highest, the fastest, and the farthest.

My sisters and I skitter through the grass like we’ve done since we were runts, carrying lanterns twitching with fire. It’s late, almost midnight. Juniper strides toward the pen where a foundling fawn waits on its stalky legs, the tuft of its tail flicking. Approaching the creature, she brushes its spotted fur and whispers secret tidbits.

Cove tiptoes to the pond where a gleaming water snake zigzags through the ripples. That breed of serpent is native to Middle Country; the trade poachers who’d coveted the brown marbled scales had gutted the reptile’s family. Not long after, Cove had found the lone survivor wounded.

The snake relishes her play-splashing and retaliates with a watery thwack of its tail, sprinkling Cove’s nightgown.

I head for the makeshift aviary. At the base of a tree, I set down my lantern and whip— keeping my weapon close feels necessary after today. I climb the trunk ladder, ascending the rungs, and burrow into the leaf-crusted awning. A dozen cages and nests dangle from the boughs, the doors permanently open so their inhabitants can fly in and out, so long as they’re able to. Until they can return to their habitat, the net I’ve arranged in the rafters protects them from predators.

A starling rides on a swing near one of the birdseed funnels. I’m glad to see her broken wing has mended. She’s ready to be released.

Above her, the aristocratic resident falcon stands vigil. That’s a defensive one, make no mistake. Poachers stole him from an outlying acreage last year, and the trauma did a number on the bird’s sense of trust in humans.

That’s the thing about our home. It’s a refuge for stray, orphaned, and foundling animals. My family’s rescued too many creatures to count, giving them a home at the Fable Dusk Sanctuary.

Atop one of the branches, I make myself comfortable and whistle. A hermit thrush flutters onto my thigh and whistles back, and we start a tune.

Afterward, I scurry down the tree, then grab my lantern and whip. Deeper into the sanctuary, an enclosed wagon hunkers beneath a willow. Tendrils of verdant leaves droop from the boughs and encompass the oval vehicle, faded teal paint coating the caravan’s exterior, reminding me of an ancient jewel box propped on wheels.

I hop up the iron steps and duck through the door, setting my light and weapon on the rug. The flame illuminates a treasure trove of chipped and scratched toys. A stack of shelves along the back display a stone maze set; a woodland board game, the pieces shaped into raccoons and chipmunks; and a little glass fish tank.

Costumes hang from pegs. An owl mask and a pair of moth wings. A crown of deer antlers, a fox muzzle, and a cloak of porcupine quills. A seahorse tail and a serpent visor with a forked tongue.

Normally, this wagon offers comfort. No such luck tonight. I still hear that flute and feel those mysterious eyes on me.

I need to get rid of the burden. I need to do something that’ll tickle my funny bone.

When Cove glides into the wagon, I restrain myself. However when Juniper marches up the steps, her studious mien appearing through the door’s small window, I yank the curtains closed in her face. Cove chokes back a laugh, and I snort.

Cove’s a beanstalk, whereas I’m average height, but Juniper’s short legs ensure that she doesn’t have to bend under the door jamb. She stomps inside and smacks my shoulder while I plaster a bunch of sloppy kisses on her cheek, squishing her face until it resembles a sponge.

My sisters add their lanterns to mine, and we settle cross-legged around the candlelit blaze. When Juniper isn’t carrying a weapon, she’s fondling an encyclopedia. Sure enough, she plucks reading spectacles from her nightgown pocket, reaches for a book from the floor stack, and thumbs through it. “Tell me again—”

“Let’s recite our favorite Fable,” I prompt.

Juniper snaps the book shut. “No. Don’t you dare, Lark.” She turns to our sister while gesturing at me. “Cove, tell her.”

“We don’t have a favorite Fable,” Cove supplies.

“Not what I meant.” Juniper bristles, then levels me with an I’m-not-fucking-around scowl, her eyes narrowing through the lenses askew on her nose. “This is hardly the appropriate time for a distraction.”

“You’re never in the mood for a distraction,” I say. “What’s a few lost minutes? I promise, you’ll be the only sister to predict our fates. Nobody in this wagon’ll have the answers before you do, so loosen your knickers.”

“I resent that.”

“To be fair, you resent anybody who’s smarter than you,” Cove reminds her.

“Choose diversions wisely, lest they lead to downfall,” Juniper says, quoting a lesson from one of the Fables—I think it’sThe Fox and the Fae—before moving on toThe Stag Hunts a Doe. “Intelligence is the ally of intention and the foe of lethargy.”

“How’s about I go first?” I clear my throat.“Under the vicious stars—”

A pillow smacks me in the beak. “Will you please stop tarrying?” Juniper grouses over my curse, too exasperated to adjust her lopsided spectacles. “You need to take this seriously.”

“You think so?” I snap, rubbing my nose. “As opposed to the fun I was having while galloping for my fucking life?”

Cove sighs. “One day, I will get you to stop cursing.”

“One day, I’ll get you to start.”