Page 82 of Curse the Fae

“No,” I whisper, my chest heaving. “No.”

No, indeed. Helpless, I watch them fly into the clouds and disappear.

After retrieving the spear, I manage to slog home without my family discovering I’d been out. My sisters lay bundled in the same position, and Papa is a deep sleeper despite the uproar coming from town. Our house is located far enough away to blot out the shouts.

I’m not sure what else is happening out there, be it in the creek, in the woods, or where the nightingale sings by the glassblower’s forge. I don’t care to know. All I want is my bed, so when I arrive home, I change into my nightgown and crawl under the blankets. But it’s a long time before I can breathe again.

The next day, news of the escape reaches my family. Three young Faeries had broken free from their bonds and released the surviving caged fauna. I had witnessed two of them, the viper and that winged figure. As for the third, I don’t know. But when that infamous rebel is whispered about later in the market square, Juniper’s face turns pasty.

Apparently, a fourth captive had tried to get away—another Fae with wings. Though, that one had died in the attempt, a fate that makes Lark’s eyes glisten. My sister isn’t one for sentimentality, but she has a soft spot for any creature that can fly.

That evening, I simmer hot chocolate for the three of us and read from the Book of Fables, using a soothing voice while Lark rests her head on my lap, and Juniper balances her cheek on my shoulder.

The villagers mention blue hair, stag antlers, and golden eyes, but they never say just how young The Three are, and as with any tidings that pass from mouth to mouth, the details vary. Some accounts place them younger than us, while some say they’re older. The villagers who originally trapped the Faeries, and the ones who’d chased after the captives, also disagree on the ages.

Even the glassblower, who had confined one of the Faeries in his forge, can’t get his story straight. I have a feeling he doesn’t want to admit the Fae’s age and appear incompetent or weak. In any case, the tidbits range from vague to elaborate.

I never confess. Instead, I keep what I’ve witnessed to myself. I volunteer no information or corrections, not even to my family.

Months pass, but the viper doesn’t return for me. Eventually, remorse squats in my gut—the shock of what I had attempted to do, without truly knowing who he was.

The feeling never goes away. I rescue animals with my sisters, give counsel to my neighbors, and donate my free hours to worthy causes and charities. I spend my time comforting others, offering tender words and a willing ear, drawing blankets over shoulders, and chatting woes away.

I know how to distract and console, so long as I’m tending to someone other than myself, because I don’t deserve to nurse my own wounds. Kindness and generosity become my safe havens, my chance to atone for what I can’t undo, for the one moment in which I was anything but good.

New details manifest about The Three. They arrive through messages and warnings from the Fae, delivered to Reverie Hollow in the form of glamoured humans or threats penned in the water, carved into the trees, or whispered in the air. That’s how we learn about the weapons they brandish and the instruments they play to enchant mortals.

The viper’s ability to blind others is a parcel of knowledge that comes later. A peasant who’d been bathing in the creek stumbles into the square, his vision blurred before disappearing altogether. “It was him,” the man croaks, his words tripping over themselves. “One of The Three, the one w-with the g-golden eyes. He d-did this, I s-saw those eyes right before it h-happened.”

But why hadn’t the Fae blinded me back then? At any time, he could have robbed me of vision.

Maybe the iron had weakened him too much, along with being in captivity for thirteen days without nourishment, then trying to outrun his captors. It would explain why I’d almost succeeded in drowning a water Fae. He’d been struggling against me, after all. And he began to sink before that winged savior came to his rescue. Yes, that must be it.

Years pass. I’m still alive, but I’ve never recovered.

Three months shy of my twentieth birthday, my sisters and I trespass into Faerie.

That same night, my sisters vanish while we’re huddled together in our wagon hideaway, where we’d been recapping the incident. A moment later, I hear splashes outside the vehicle, and I race outside to follow the sound. The noise is impossibly loud, stretching a distance it shouldn’t be able to. It guides me to one of the streams—the saltwater one I haven’t dared to revisit since that night.

There, a black silhouette ripples from under the surface. I blink at it for several awful seconds before the figment disappears, a message vibrating in its wake.

I have not forgotten.

A petrified scream lodges in my throat. Had he taken my sisters hostage? Is this delayed retribution? Is this about The Trapping or the trespass? Is this punishment forthenornow?

The next thing I know, my sister’s voices carry on the wind, a blessed sound that shouldn’t reach me from the wagon but does. I rush back to join them, only to learn they’re just as confused about my whereabouts as I am of theirs. If this world were exclusive to mortals, our disappearing acts wouldn’t make sense.

Yet more than humans thrive in The Dark Fables, so this trick makes absolute, vicious sense.

The following night, the envelope arrives. The missive surfaces in the pond where my rescue snake lives, while I’m taking solace in the reptile’s company. The woven paper floats to me, a puddle of blue wax sealing the closure and embedded with two interlocking sea serpent tails.

The instant I fish the message from the water, the paper dries. My fingers shake so wretchedly, it’s a chore to break the seal, the cracking sound puncturing my ears. I read the message and heed the call.

An hour later, I stand at The Triad with my sisters and cry while they embrace me. “We did nothing wrong!” I insist.

But I’m lying. Years ago, I did something very wrong. No, I haven’t forgotten, and neither has the viper.

He’s expecting me. Tonight, I’m being fed to a monster.

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