Page 76 of Curse the Fae

Those magical beings might prey on the elders of our town, but my sisters and I are too young, only ten. The Folk have never stolen anyone our age.

Please, please, please let that be true. And what about other night walkers and prowlers? What about hags, bandits, pirates, or trade poachers? What about wolves? Are there wolves in Middle Country, or do they reside only in the north?

Fate may chastise us yet for being disobedient. In fairytales, children are often punished in some way, especially when they sneak out at night. If Papa Thorne finds out, he’ll be so very angry, and we’ll be in so much trouble.

The distant call of a nightingale’s song flutters into my ears. That’s Lark’s favorite sound.

I bypass the entrance to the woods, where leafless branches crank and resemble stag antlers. That’s Juniper’s favorite animal.

Air rattles from my lungs. Fear propels me down the brook, the frigid temperature biting my heels and numbing my toes. Maybe Lark and Juniper are by the creek, expecting me to wander there. I pray to the almighty Fables I’m right, otherwise I’m destined for either the forest or nightingale territory. The latter is too close to the glassblower’s forge, which is a creepy place with its rickety facade and the strange caws resounding from there.

I don’t want to search those places first. The creek is safer.

High grasses fence in the babbling current, the surrounding foliage too condensed to scramble through. This brook is the only passable route. The icy current freezes me to the bone, and my teeth clatter like loose tiles. But the stalks towering on either side like sentinels protect my small body from the blue-black shadows of eventide.

At last, the brook winds down a little hill and spills into the creek. At this hour, the surface is as glassy as a mirror, reflecting a spray of constellations.

I halt at the bank, tears leaking down my face. “Lark?” I blubber. “Juniper?”

Branches crackle in the wind. A fish plops beneath the depth, its descent forming rings that multiply across the water’s surface.

They’re not here. They’renot here!

I hiccup, shove the serpent mask to my forehead, and twist left and right. If I were to follow the creek, I’d soon find my way home. But I’m not going anywhere without my sisters, never without them.

If only I had brought my spear. Juniper had wisely thought to bring her archery tonight. Why can’t I be as smart as her? Why can’t I be as adventurous as Lark?

I would bet my favorite stuffed python that neither one of them is weeping. My hiccups stutter to a halt. I swipe a forearm across my wet lashes and suck up the last of my tears.

After tiptoeing closer to the bank, I squint through the darkness at the rings vibrating across the creek’s surface. They’re not branching out as they should be. No, they’re traveling, as though someone’s dragging the current.

A fleet of copper fish dart beneath the ripples, creating a miniature tide. Such freshwater fish are common here, yet there’s something strange about the way they surf through the depth like moths drawn to a flame.

My unshod feet carry me down a lane parallel to the creek. I trail the school of fish, their journey ending half a mile down the path, where a flat expanse of grass stretches into the water like a short jetty. There, a decrepit stone rotunda rises from the ground.

Uh-oh. I stifle a petrified breath. This must be the ancient well that Papa had once talked about, the one long rumored to be cursed. The first residents of Reverie Hollow had built it centuries ago, but they stopped using it after the tales began to circulate. This harbinger has something to do with old dark magic, but I can’t remember much else.

Chills race down my spine. I thrust the serpent mask over my face while scuttling backward. My gaze jumps across the landscape and returns to the well. Only the base remains, the blocks of stone weathered and barely holding together its cobbled shape. It looks like any old well, crumbling with age and disuse.

Except wait. Is that glass?

My flight stalls. Propped upright inside the well is a translucent chute, pipe-shaped and flooded with liquid. Murky water swirls inside the glass cylinder, bubbles frothing from within.

The creek fish gather beside the embankment, their animated fins and tails beating through the water in a frenzy. It’s as though they’re anxious to enter the well, to be invited into the confines, to join whatever’s inside.

Whatever’s inside …

Inside…

I don’t know what comes over me, but I find myself floating toward the glass, toward my blurred reflection caught in the facade. Above and below, grids of iron are faintly visible, which means the glass must be hearty and thick to endure the weight. The grates seem to form doors, preventing entry and exit. The well drills into the grassy jetty, and the bottom closure cuts through the water leading into the creek.

The bubbles simmer and thrash about inside the cylinder. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess the water has a temper, or something’s trapped in there.

My fingers reach out. In my reflection, I see my wide, teal eyes peeking through the serpent visor.

Then I see gold.

Then I see a fist.

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