Cove chirps, “I vote we spend those seven minutes cursing that brigand for paying Lark a visit.”
I recall my whip flogging that poacher to the ground. “He paid all right. After getting what he wanted. Right lousy lover, if there ever was one.”
A rosy pool surfaces on Cove’s cheeks. “Was he gentle?”
When I give her a smarmy look, she amends, “Were you gentle?”
“Now what do you take me for?”
“That’s rudimentary,” Juniper declares. “Every time you look at a man, you either take his virginity or resurrect it.”
“For Fable’s sake.” Cove points to her chest. “Sister. Sitting right here.”
I kick her ankle playfully. “Someday, an irresistible bloke will take you by surprise. I can’t wait until your time comes.”
“I’m perfectly fine making you wait. And I do not want to hear another word.” She covers her ears. “Do not want to hear it. Lalalalalalaaaaaaaaaa.”
Our chuckles peter off fast. Cove glances at the starlight leaking through the wagon window. Her lisping tongue slips over itself as she collects our hands. “Whatever happens to one of us, happens to each of us.”
“Together,” Juniper agrees with a nod.
“All or nothing,” I say. “So how’s about a Fable?”
Juniper chooses the first one that we ever read, back when Papa Thorne was teaching us our letters. We wiggle toward the flames, our voices ghosting through the space.
“Under the vicious stars, in the rural plains of Middle Country, it’s dark and light at the same time,” Juniper starts.
“Under the vicious stars,” Cove continues, “mystical tales float through the sky, and root themselves in the woodland, and swim in the river.”
“Under the vicious stars, the crests rise, and the forest sniggers, and the waters rage,” I narrate. “Under the vicious stars, an Owl crossed paths with a Lark. And the Lark said…” My mind stutters. “And the Lark said…”
For crying out loud, I can’t remember the next damn line. How is that possible, when I babbled it hours ago?
Cove’s about to chime in when Juniper caws at her to let me figure it out. While they bicker, I get up and pace, thinking, thinking.
“Juniper, would it burden you to show mercy for once?” Cove pleads. “Let me help her. A mere hint is what she needs.”
“It doesn’t work that way.” Juniper snatches one of her books off the floor and gives it a hearty shake for emphasis, her spectacles twitching. “Fables must be recited smoothly and without preamble, in order for them to have the most thorough impact. You would know that if you’d studied The Nature of Fable & Fae Narrative: A Very Concise, Very Annotated History. I’ve read it twice.”
“In that case, you can read my middle finger just as many times.”
“How quaint. Cursing without actually cursing.”
“I didn’t have to study that book. You parroted the whole forsaken thing to me while I suffered from harvest fever.”
“Were you truly listening when I read it?”
“Show-off.”
“Slacker.”
“Fables eternal,” I chuckle while strutting to the door, cranking open the tiny window, and letting the restless night comb through my hair. “Quit your jabbering, and lemme think.”
Yet I can’t think. My sisters are still arguing, but they’re not serious anymore because they’ve started chortling. Any minute, they’ll be tumbling around, swatting each other out of jest.
Usually, I’d join in. But I’ve never had trouble remembering this Fable. It’s called An Owl Meets a Lark—ha!—and it’s about Faeries finding their mates, which happens either when they’re linked by a force of nature or…
I forget the second way. I think it’s got something to do with kissing.
Anyhow, I improvise. “Let’s see,” I say, speaking to the trees and stars. “And the Lark said, ‘Will somebody snatch these two so I can have a break?’”
That shuts my sisters up. It shuts them up so quickly that I laugh. Swinging around, I tease, “I knew one of these days, I’d make you speechless.”
I stop teasing and blink at the floor where my sisters should be.
But they’re gone.
4
I’ve seen magic tricks. I’ve seen those tricks performed at bonfires and festivals, at markets and jubilees and assemblies in town. I’ve seen pranks between rowdy, dusty pip-squeaks. I’ve also been the prankster.
And I’ve definitely played disappearing acts on Papa whenever he forbade me to go somewhere. One time I did it and never forgot what happened next.
But I’ve never seen a magic trick, or a prank, or a disappearing act that stalled my heart. I’ve never lost my breath because of a joke, because those jokes meant no harm, because they weren’t real.
This is real. This means harm.
I dash across the wagon, skidding to where my sisters were a second ago. There’s nothing but cool air and my shadow slanting across the floor.
I wheel one way. “Juniper?”
I whirl the other way. “Cove?”
If today had been a normal one, I’d be calling their bluff. I’d be poking through the caravan, knowing it’s a game, and I’m it. We’d play hide-and-seek, not caring about being too old for make-believe. I’d be gnarling my voice into a goblin’s rasp and stalking around, expecting to catch them.
But today hadn’t been a normal day. And my sisters aren’t gone because they want to be.
I remember the Fae wilderness and those hidden eyes feasting on me.
A gale blasts through the open window, blowing the door wide and snuffing out the lanterns. I snatch the tinderbox from a stool in the corner. Plummeting to my knees, I fumble with the flint and fire striker, my hands quavering something harsh as I try to reignite the wicks. The flames hiss and sputter out, hiss and sputter out, hiss and sputter out.
Another howl of wind surges into the vehicle, striking a path beneath my nightgown. I drop the tinderbox tools. Beneath the sheer material, an invisible touch skims my thighs, raising gooseflesh across my skin. Aside from in the wild, this frisky intrusion has happened at other random times in my life.
I yank the garment into place and leap to my feet, my voice raging. “Juniper! Cove!”
Why aren’t they clucking? Why aren’t they giggling? Why aren’t they jesting?
Why aren’t they here? They were just here!
Come out. Come out, now. Come out, come out, come out.
Am I asking them? Or is someone asking me?
The unspoken questions curl like fingers. One of those vaporous digits flicks its way inside my noggin—beseeching, coaxing.
Something’s here. Someone’s here.
That something, that someone, is playing music. The notes of a flute sneak into the wagon, riding a blanket of air and tinkering around my limbs. I remember this deceptive melody. I’m fixing to shout at it, but the sultry tempo vanishes as swiftly as my sisters had.
The wind batters everything in sight. Costumes go flying, toys topple off the shelves, and the lanterns overturn.
A winged shadow slices across the rug. I veer toward the door, where an owl launches inside and flaps hectically along the walls, then circles me. I bat away the creature, and it slingshots into the night, its wings snapping into the sky.