Miriam looked wistful, and Willow softened toward her just a little. It was as if Miriam grieved for this fae girl, the one who’d been the last of her kind. You didn’t grieve for someone you invented. Did that mean Miriam’s story might... be true?
“Her name was Blue,” Miriam said. “She loved a mortal girl named Evie, and Evie loved her back. Loved her enough to help her escape when it became clear the time had come. One night, under the light of a full moon, Blue and Evie hiked high up into the mountains to a jagged peak called Overlook Rock. Below them lay a raging river—and certain death. Behind them was Hemridge and its townsfolk. Pitchforks, shotguns... you get the picture.”
Willow’s muscles tensed in sympathy.
“Blue had to go forward,” Miriam said. “It was her only chance at safety. But the closest peak to Overlook Rock was miles away, and between the peaks was only air. And no one, not even a faerie, can walk across air.”
“So what happened?” Willow asked.
“Blue had a token. A ring, some say. Or maybe a necklace or a charmona necklace or maybe just a stone from another world. With this token, they say, Blue summoned a bridge made of moonlight. And when the bridge appeared, they say, Evie heard the most beautiful singing in the world.”
Miriam dipped her chin. “And so, Blue crossed that moonlight bridge. She made it to the other side of the veil and was never heard from again.”
“But . . . what about Evie?”
“What about her?”
“If Blue loved her, and she loved Blue... did they find each other again? How did their story end?”
“Well, years passed, and eventually, Evie married a man in Hemridge.”
“What? But you said she loved Blue.”
“She did. But Blue was gone.” Miriam looked melancholy. “Don’t be too hard on her, Willow. Love is complicated. And remember, if Evie hadn’t gotten married, you would have never been born.”
Willow struggled to put together the pieces, but her head remained in the mist-tipped Smoky Mountains. “Are you saying I’m related to Evie? That she’s my great-great-great-great-grandmother or something?”
Miriam laughed. “She wasn’t so old as that. And you, Willow, aren’t so young as you sometimes seem.”
Willow bristled.
“But, yes,” she acknowledged. “Evie was your grandmother’s mother.”
“Then Wrenna was Evie’s daughter.”
“Evie died when Wrenna was very young. Wrenna’s father, a man named Silas Bratton, drowned his grief in alcohol, and he died soon after, leaving Wrenna to fend for herself.”
“Okay,” Willow said slowly, but her mind had snagged on something else. “But hold on. You said Wrenna had the Old Blood. Fae blood. But Blue was fae, not Evie.”
Miriam smiled. “Do children these days still prick their fingers and mix their blood to become blood brothers—or bloodsisters, if we’re speaking of girls? Or have health concerns relegated that ritual to history?”
Willow could imagine her mother’s horror if she heard what Miriam was talking about. Although Willow’s mother wouldn’t hear a word of it, of course. Not if her mother’s circle ofprotection had anything to do with it.Mixing blood? Oh, don’t tell Mercy. It would be too much for her, poor woman.
“So they mixed their blood,” Willow said softly. It was kind of gross. But also... kind of beautiful.
“It’s the only explanation that makes sense. And Wrenna—Evie and Silas’s daughter—as she grew older, she gained a reputation for being somewhat strange. People said she was a witch, although it’s my guess that she was more of a medicine woman. She was good with potions—ointments and tinctures and that sort of thing.”
Miriam adjusted her shawl. “The people of Hemridge loved Evie and tolerated Silas, and as I understand it, they were fond enough of Wrenna when she was just a little thing. But as she grew older, she grew wilder. Wild girls never have an easy time of anything, do they?”
“Plus, her parents were dead.”
“Yes. That’s right. And to complicate things further, Wrenna was very pretty. Pretty girls don’t always have an easy time of things, either.”
Willow fisted her hands in her lap. It wasn’t a girl’s fault for being pretty. What didprettyeven mean? If the world were fair—which it wasn’t—it would be the men who leered at pretty girls who didn’t have an easy time of things. If the world were fair, those men would be pushed into pits of tar, where their flesh would melt and drip from their bones. Willow would happily do the pushing.
“But Wrenna fended for herself well enough,” Miriam said. She fingered the edge of her shawl, and Willow forced herself to focus on that. Such softness, such beauty. Better to think of those things than tar and melting flesh.
“I’ve told you that a tiny streak of fae ran in Wrenna’s blood, and that whiff of magic made her very good at what she did.She’d tromp off into Deadman’s Hollow and come back with leaves, roots, mushrooms curled up like tongues.”
