“So long as you share,” said Pansy. She reached into her vest, producing two small leather bags with bulging sides, and passed them over. “You both worked with the flock this season. Here’s your share of the profits so far.”
Chicory stared at Pansy with wide, round eyes, clutching the pouch to her chest. Regan, who still wasn’t completely sure the centaurs used money, undid the knot on hers and peered curiously inside at the flat copper coins.
“They’re like really big pennies,” she said in a bewildered tone. “What’s this for?”
“People expect you to pay for things at the Fair,” said Pansy. “Chicory’s old enough to go off on her own this year, and you’re the same age, so we can’t expect you to sit idly by while she’s running around getting into mischief. Not that we want you sitting on your own, and we all have things to be doing.”
“Husbands?” asked Regan, tying the bag to the worn, tattered waistband of her jeans. They had been perfectly good for wearing to school once or twice a week. They were woefully unsuited to being her only clothes for months on end, and had been coming apart at the seams even before her most recent growth spurt stretched her upward, leaving inches of dirty ankle visible.
“That’s none of your concern, either of you, not until you’re much, much older,” said Pansy. “I’ll not be courting, anyway. I need to get these beasts to the marketplace, and see how many of them we’re to trade for supplies to sustain ourselves over the winter yet to come. You worry about baked apples and pheasant pies for your stomachs, and you let us worry about the things that shouldn’t trouble you yet.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Chicory, and “Yes, Pansy,” said Regan, and Pansy smiled, content as only an adult who believed she had addressed all the possible problems of the children in her care could be.
Regan had no concept of how much money she had, and so she put it out of her mind in favor of gazing at the landscape around them, trusting Chicory to know where she was going. They were no longer in the tree-shrouded fields she had grown accustomed to, and were passing through what looked like actual farmland, ripe and rich with artichokes and strawberries and other greens she couldn’t identify. Off in the distance stood a windmill, and she couldn’t help but think it must be manned by something other than the centaurs, whose size would make it awkward for them to climb the stairs. Birds soared overhead, their wings wide and brightly colored.
Every day, the Hooflands found another way to remind her that this wasn’t the world she came from, and that she’d never truly belong here, no matter how long she stayed. That was a good thing in some ways, because she did want to go home, she did want to return to her parents, who had always treated her well, and who had to miss her something awful. She’d never been away from them for longer than the span of a stay at summer camp before, and up until now, she’d been able to partially pretend this was just another kind of camp, wilder and wider and more like her dreams than the others, but summer camp all the same. Only, the summer was coming to an end, replaced by the chill and gathering autumn, and when it was entirely gone, could she really pretend this was a temporary thing?
One day, she’d have to wake up and face the reality that she was a runaway, that her parents were probably mourning her, sitting awake through the long hours of the night, terrified that the next time the phone rang, it would be the police telling them her body had been found, that Laurel was spreading rumors and lies all over the school about why Regan had felt the need to run, that even when she did go home, things would never be the same. And maybe that wasn’t the worst thing ever. Maybe it was time for change. Everything changes, given the right catalyst. She’d changed already, compared to the girl she’d been when she saw the door of twisted branches and shadows.
The girl she was now would be a better friend to Heather. She knew that. She had brought a unicorn into the world; she had apprenticed and was apprenticing to a centaur healer. Her ideas about “normal” had changed dramatically in just a few months, and she couldn’t imagine a world where they’d change back. She was sure Laurel would make fun of her for spending time with Heather again, but what did that matter? Laurel’s words had been enough to hurt her before, when she’d thought the world she knew was all there was. She knew better now. The world was bigger now. She was bigger now, and that made all the difference.
Bit by bit, the fields fell behind them, replaced first by livestock—goats and sheep, and the fluffy cows she’d seen before, grazing with their muzzles to the close-cropped ground. Then the livestock fell away, and it was wheat as far as the eye could see, stretching toward forever, enveloping the few trees foolish enough to grow in its path. Regan shivered and pressed closer to Chicory, who glanced over her shoulder and offered a slight smile.
“We’re almost there,” she said. “Fair has to be a trek for everyone, or it would never be able to be even as close to um, well, fair as it manages to be. Everybody travels.”
“Why does it have to be fair?”
Chicory shook her head. “It just does. And it keeps the herds from fighting for the fields nearest the Fair. Because we move around all year long, we’d disrupt the harvest and the grazing patterns of the flocks if we tried to end the season as close to the fairgrounds as possible. So everyone travels. Those fields are in the keeping of the Queen, and no one works them.”
“Huh.” It seemed like a reasonable solution to an unreasonable situation. Regan shrugged, leaning back on her hands, so her weight was resting as much on Chicory’s haunches as on her midsection. “You’ve been to the Fair before, yeah?”
“Every year since I was a foal,” said Chicory. “This is the first year I’ll be allowed to go off without an adult, I guess because you’re here to keep me company. Means it’s the first year Mama will be able to go see my father, too. I bet she’s missed him.”
“Back where I come from, mothers and fathers live together most of the time. Unless they’re divorced.”
“What’s ‘divorced’ mean?”
“It means they were married and now they’re not anymore, so their kids get double Christmas.”
“Oh,” said Chicory blankly. “What’s Christmas?”
It was rare to run into two unfamiliar concepts in one conversation anymore; they’d had long enough to talk about whatever came to mind that they seemed to have covered every subject two clever, eager little girls could cover. Regan blinked, leaning farther back, trying to find her way to the answer. Finally, she said, “A stranger in a red coat breaks into your house and leaves toys and puts walnuts and candy in your socks.”
“Oh. I guess we don’t have Christmas here because we don’t wear socks.”
“It’s hard to put candy in a horseshoe,” said Regan solemnly, and Chicory giggled, and everything was normal again, at least for a while.
Then, on the horizon, the shape of the Fair appeared. The tops of the tents were first, striped in bright colors and bedecked with flags and banners. They grew taller as the herd approached, looming more than twice the height of the tallest centaurs, and the structures around them began to materialize. There were smaller tents, wooden constructs that looked somewhere between temporary and permanent, and there were people. Centaurs like the ones Regan knew. More delicate centaurs with the lower bodies of graceful deer and the spreading antlers to match. Satyrs and fauns and minotaurs and bipeds with human torsos but equine legs and haunches, like centaurs that had been clipped neatly in half. It was a wider variety of hooved humanity than Regan could have imagined. She sat up straighter, gripping Chicory’s waist, and stared.