Oxygen returns to my lungs. I wobble as though I’ve been sleepwalking, as though I dreamed the whole thing.
But I hadn’t. Although he didn’t touch me, I still feel those graceful digits scraping every exposed part of my body.
My sisters shout again. I bolt out of the enclosure, surging through the hedges at a breakneck pace and crashing into them outside the wagon. Juniper’s spectacles have been knocked askew, and Cove’s hair is a knotted mess. They cry in relief. We fling our arms around one another, shaking and muttering over each other.
“Are you all right?” and “What happened?” and “Where were you?”
I pry myself from the hug. “What do you mean, where was I?”
“You disappeared,” Juniper says frantically, then turns to Cove. “So did you.”
“That’s n-not true,” Cove bleats. “I-I was here. You two were gone. I searched everywhere.”
We trade confused glances. The caravan brims with warmth. Did they relight the lanterns? Or had the wicks never blown out?
No. It was real. He was real.
And tonight was an introduction, I realize. That Fae came here to play with me, to show how easily he can take away what matters most, even before the real fun begins.
Actually, it hadn’t just been him. When he issued that exit threat, he hadn’t been referring only to himself.
…now you know we can.
“Did you hear anybody?” I ask. “Or see anybody?”
A gust pinches our nightgowns. Juniper presses her lips together, and Cove shuffles her bare feet. They’re holding back. I know those gestures too well, but while Cerulean cautioned me to be wary of what I tell my sisters, like hell am I gonna let that monster control me.
I open my mouth, however Juniper cuts me off. “There was no one.”
“I didn’t see anyone, either,” Cove claims.
So I muzzle up, too. We absorb the lies, pretending we can’t tell, pretending to believe each other.
5
Raindrops slide down the sashes, droplets tapping the roof. It’s morning, time for the rooster to piss everyone off. At the first bumpy string of crows outside, I groan and roll onto my back. I’d slumbered too fitfully last night, then jolted awake as the sun rose.
Cerulean’s fiendish whisper surfaces in my mind—residue of the ruthless dream I’d had.
Very, very careful.
Blessedly, the grub bell rings, pulling me from the memory. It’s Juniper’s turn to cook breakfast, and she despises tardiness, especially in times of crisis.
I flop out of bed, slip into a pair of leggings underneath my nightgown, and toss on Papa’s long knit sweater. While piling my hair into a lopsided bun at the top, I descend the stairs on a hunger mission.
My family’s got a sturdy home built from logs and stones. It’s got nicks and chips, but it fights the hard weather fight, and its bones will last longer than I will. With two floors and an attic, shutters framing the iron windowsills, and a wrap-around porch, the Fable Dusk Sanctuary is our whole world.
Papa and Cove have decorated the living room with a tapestry rug, a cluster of lanterns in a corner, and watercolors mounted on the walls. The smells of coffee and freshly baked pastry flood the kitchen. In the corner, a pail of milk sits on the floor next to a barrel of fluffy spelt flour, and a dozen eggs nest in a basket on the counter.
Protectiveness wells in my belly when I spot Juniper at the stove and Cove at the dining table. I remember the poacher judging us for being strays—foundling fleabags, as he’d called us—who grew up on the streets until we were ten. And well, he’s right.
Trade poachers had been forcing Juniper to work for them. Apparently, tykes have a better shot at being quiet while hunting. Hence, her tattoo.
As for Cove, she was a left-handed pickpocket, though she doesn’t practice that skill anymore because she’s no longer hungry.
Me? I was a chimney sweep with a cloud of white tresses buried under a layer of soot.
I don’t like talking about my past any more than my sisters do theirs.
I hop from the last step and land with a thud. At the sound, Juniper glances from the stove and glowers at me, her shoulders ramrod stiff. She’s got her spectacles on even though they’re for reading, not cooking. Behind the lenses, her eyes are squinty.
Cove perches in her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap, rare lilac crescents leaking from beneath her eyes. I snore, and Juniper mumbles in her sleep, but Cove’s the one who slumbers so peacefully it’s hard to tell whether she’s dreaming or not. From the looks of her, last night was an exception.
To get through this, we need to eat. To have a remote chance of digesting a thing, we need a distraction.
Juniper cuts into a lattice mince pie, the candied aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg shimmying through the house. The slices have perfect, nitpicky angles, because Fables forbid they ruin the crisscross pattern.
I gauge which helping is hers. That’s the one I snatch.
Juniper bolts from the stove—“Hey!”—and hurls herself at me, giving chase around the table. By the third rotation, she’s got the crumbly wedge between her teeth and my elbows in her grip, and I’m squirming. We’re sort of laughing, sort of bickering. I bite into the other half of the pie. Righteously, she mashes gooey filling in my face, making me shriek.
When not rolling on the ground with us, Cove buffers our squabbles. Today, she merely watches, flabbergasted because how can we get rowdy at a time like this?
Papa Thorne strides into the room and crosses his burly arms. “Naturally,” he sighs in a civilized baritone.
“She started it,” Juniper declares while Papa mouths the words alongside her.
“If I had a copper for every time you girls have said that,” he quips.
Age crinkles the rims of his eyes and threads his hair with silver tinsel. He’s got a cultured profile, with its square jaw and dark complexion.
Papa Thorne’s been running this sanctuary forever and first crossed paths with my sisters and me at different times. We were grimy and malnourished, sprouting hair colors rarer than red. He gave us riffraff a home, introduced us to his wild preserve, and we became a tribe.
Papa’s not thrilled to find us quarreling before coffee’s been served. He grabs a pair of forks, then steps in between me and Juniper, brandishing the cutlery. “Horseplay or hunger,” he tells us. “Take your pick and stick with it.”
Dutifully, we break apart and settle at the table. Rain patters outside while the living room fireplace toasts the walls. After wiping the pulp from my face, I scoop a heaping portion of mince pie and plow it straight into my mouth, spices and the tang of dried cranberries bursting across my palate. My manners are usually better, but I’m famished after an entire night in which fear gnawed at my gut.
As much as I’d like to say our agitation doesn’t go unnoticed, I’d be lying. Papa waits for one of us to rib the other or pick another fight that doesn’t last.
Cove’s a problem. She wants to speak up because she’s the best of our trio, the most honest, and the most obedient, which makes her a shitty liar. Her eyes travel to mine, two ponds reflecting hope.
Fables, I hate it when she gives me that baby bird look. Nevertheless, bringing our father into this could get him hurt.