She joins us at the landing, her complexion blanching into a sheet of stark, terrorized white. Without a word, she holds the woven paper to the light, a watery blue seal splattering across the closure. In the waxy puddle, a sea serpent’s tail interlocks with another.
The same confused expressions burden my sisters. But we don’t speak, can’t speak. The wind might hear us, the roots might hear us, or the nearest stream might hear us.
We shuffle inside and hike to the attic. Juniper scrutinizes my ensemble, a long, navy dress with a slit in the skirt that exposes my thigh cuff. The material moves with the wind and tapers into a camisole bodice. I feel powerful wearing it, like I’m a renegade queen who’s ready to ride a typhoon.
But when my sister’s nose crinkles, I throw up my hands. “What?”
“It’s impractical.”
“But breathable.”
Juniper sighs, then surveys her wardrobe cupboard with a critical eye. She grabs what she wore in Faerie, packs her reading spectacles and extra weather-conscious garments, then dons her clothes inside out, lest the Folk are plotting to glamour us.
Cove opts for a shell-white dress—also inside-out—that flows off her like liquid, with billowy sleeves that catch at the wrists.
I groan and mimic my sisters, flipping my dress and wearing it like they are. I’m already packed with a waterskin, dried hawthorn berries, and a pouch of salt. And the blue feather is stored in the pack’s lower pocket, hidden within the fabric. Even if it doesn’t come in handy later, I’m not leaving without it.
My studious sister gathers similar essentials, agonizes over which book to take in case she needs backup, and adds a bunch of stuff to our packs that I’m too antsy to pay attention to, mainly cheap baubles and objects to entice the Folk.
Like me, Juniper and Cove stuff their feet into mud-brown ankle boots and strap on matching cloaks with tassel closures at the throats. We hitch our packs and weapons, take a long gander at the attic bedroom, and tiptoe away.
The worst part is Papa. He’s sleeping by now, his dreams so rich and deep we’d need a hammer to wake him up. We creak the door open and watch him slumber, his thatch of tinseled hair rising from under the coverlet. Juniper’s eyes glisten. Cove clamps a hand over her mouth, stifling a cry that gets me going, too. I don’t know how long we stand there before sliding the door shut.
Downstairs, Juniper takes charge. She plucks a leaflet from the living room desk, dips a quill into the inkwell, and writes a letter while we stare over her shoulder. When she’s done, Cove and I take our turns saying good-bye.
We’re sorry. We’ll miss you. We love you.
Leaving is a blur. We spread out and head to our favorite spots, Cove kneeling by the pond, Juniper picking her way through the trees, and me climbing into the branches. I stroke feathers and pat beaks and whistle with my little friends, a lump swelling in my throat.
After that, we ride out. I mount Whinny Badass. Juniper and Cove take the albino, both animals clomping down the lane, trekking from the winding road and into the open fields. My sisters haven’t said what their notes instructed, but mine ordered me to follow the wind.
Presently, a swatch of air blows in a single direction. But I don’t need the fucking hint. I know where to go.
Juniper’s got the posture of a pencil, her fingers taut as she grips the reins. She’s all mettle and pluck, her upright spine a timber trunk, able to withstand the elements.
Cove glances over her shoulder at the cottage, where I imagine it shrinking. I picture skirts and tunics flapping from the clothesline. Our family’s mailbox, its wooden lip flipped down, its mouth empty and gaping. And the iron knob affixed to the front door.
I focus on my sisters. If I set my gaze anywhere else, I’ll lose my nerve.
The sky is a blackened carpet of soot. Dew drops bead on the elderberries. The world smells of damp earth and mule dung, probably from the star peddler’s coach—a monthly visitor who passes through selling wonders from every corner of The Dark Fables.
My hips rotate above the horse, my whip a noose swinging with our movements. I count each mile closer to that mythical place, with its livid netting of trees. Too quickly, the Triad looms. Hawthorn, oak, and ash trunks stand sentinel at the border. Beyond that, the mountain rises, with the forest at its base and the muffled babble of water echoing from inside the border.
The ground seems to tilt, and the saddle goes rigid under me. Halting at the Triad, we dismount. After kissing our horses’ snouts and whispering to the animals, we send them back home to safety. Their tails swat the air, their manes fly into the night, and their whinnies caress my ears before that’s gone, too.
Juniper’s eyes dilate, her voice cracking more sharply than my whip as she breaks the silence. “We can flee,” she snaps. “We’ve…we’ve lived on the streets before. We can…we can turn back and leave Reverie Hollow, find a new place to live, hide away. We can…”
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