Page 27 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“I left 1918 behind,” he says.
My head feels full to the brim, close to bursting. If there are humans from every era running around, no wonder the teg I’ve met so far all seem a little bit mad.
“And there will be a war?”
The soldier nods rigidly. “With more to come, or so I’ve been told.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Lord Branshaw encouraged every lad in the valley to sign up. That’s how I ended up in France. I went over the top many times. Last time, I didn’t make it back. I was lying in the mud and then I smelled something like home. You know how Wales smells. That clean, sharp air, and the earth and coal underneath. I lifted my head and there’s a forest. Green as the valley; green as home. And, somehow, I got up. I walked into the tree line and now I can’t get out again. I never stop bleeding, but I can’t die. I’m stuck.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? You get to live.”
“Is this living?” He stares at his hands. “I need to get back.”
“You’ll die, surely.”
The soldier finally meets my eyes and there’s a certainty there that shouldn’t belong to one so young. “People aren’t meant to be stuck.”
I think of Ceridwen sick in her room, Gran living every day of her life in the same house, always waiting for her sister to come home. Dad never leaving the mine—not really, not even when the bell rings, because a part of him is trapped down there. My mind even wanders to the Branshaws, and their generations of eldest sons all with the same name, attending the same schools, living and dying in the same big house. And I think of me, just down the road, behind the counter at the local shop. Same customers every day. Same thingsto sell. Knowing there is so much world out there and it can never be mine.
“What did you want to be?” I ask.
“A musician,” he says without hesitation. “I play the violin. What about you?”
“I don’t know—no one’s asked me that before.”
“Why not?”
“There’s expectations.” I shrug, looking toward the village lights. “I wouldn’t know what to be anyway. Clever girls become teachers, don’t they? I don’t have the patience and I’m starting to think I’m maybe not that clever.” A small laugh escapes me. “I always wanted to leave home. First time I did was to watch a bunch of toffs in wigs condemn my dad. Can’t see much worth in dreams if they all go wrong anyway.”
“There’s more to life than that.”
“Not for me.”
Mother, teacher, maid. I’ve never dreamed for a minute of being a musician. I’ve never even touched a piano.
“Get some sleep,” says the soldier. He rolls onto his side, away from me.
I lie on my back, head turned to watch him as his breathing slows. Every time I shut my eyes I see the hag, my sister, Neirin. I see the forest, and the dark encroaching on every side.
10
y ffordd yn ôl
(THE WAY BACK)
I roll over and collide with the hard toe of a boot. “Must you keep so close to me?”
“We have a deal,” replies a voice that douses me with cold water. “And I always uphold my end of a bargain.”
I’m on my feet in seconds, backing away. The soldier sleeps by the fire, heavy with exhaustion, and Neirin stands before me. He wears a frilly, high-necked shirt beneath a deep-purple coat with the silver buttons—very different from his earlier attire. His arms are crossed but his fine face is amused.
I throw my arms up in exasperation. “I know it didn’t take you all this time to pickanotherridiculous shirt.”
He looks down at his clothes as if he’s forgotten, then laughs. “I thought you could use a good scare, Habren Faire, and to see what happens to human girls who go running off alone into the woods.”
My hair stands on end at the barely hidden warning in his words. He must have known where I was, seen the danger I was in—and still he chose to stay back until I was sufficiently chastened. I refuse to give him that, so I hold my chin up and meet his eyes with a glare.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why?” Neirin takes an elegant step closer, wearing a smile Byron would have struggled to copy. “Fair you are, so ‘Faire’ I will call you.”
