Page 74 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“Why?”
“You have little else to give, other than your ability to lie.”
I laugh drily. “Sounds about right. Will I see you at Christmas?”
“I’ll be in your village come dead midwinter,” Mari replies. “Whether you will be too, Sabrina Parry, is up to you.”
I shiver at the sound of my name on a fairy’s tongue. I’m glad I never gave it to Neirin. It’s like a hand stroked down your spine, making you arch like a cat. Mari Lwyd could ask me anything, and I would have to say yes.
But she asks nothing, only stares.
“Don’t tarry here any longer,” Mari tells me. “Your quarry waits elsewhere. And be careful of who you share your fire with, girl—not everyone will let you keep it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Perhaps I’ll see you again.”
I toss the apple across the fire, and it lands in her white-covered lap. For a moment, I wonder how she’ll pick it up, if skeletal fingers will emerge to claim her prize, but then I blink, and she was never there at all.
23
chwiorydd
(SISTERS)
I leave my fire burning and rejoin the road. The sun’s rising in the sky, painting it red as a warning. The lamps that frame the path are doused and the cobbles are coated with a layer of black dust that shifts under my feet and clings to the hems of my coat and skirt. Ahead, the trees begin to lose their leaves, and their rich brown trunks turn ashen.
Further up the road, the leaves are already rotting in fetid piles. Brittle boughs form a web against the cloud-banked sky. Eu gwlad has been so bright, so sunny, that I’d almost forgotten the flat gray blanket that I’ve grown up under. The trees are dead, the land barren.
As I walk even further, the trees start to disappear entirely. They’re spaced oddly, like their neighbors have been ripped from the ground. Here there are no more plants, no more moss, no branches. Hills rise on the horizon, cloaked in mist. The north is silent and cold, a patient on their deathbed waiting for the infection to claim them whole.
I pass the last of the dead trees, and the road snakes between barren hills that grow quickly into mountains. These peaks are still green and untouched by the disease, a sequence of purposeful, jagged ledges that rise into grand, sky-piercing points.
A bird cries overhead. It dives and rises, and it quickly becomes clear that it’s circlingsomethingon a low ledge. The road leads that way.
I start up the steep, worn path. My breath mists in the crisp, cool air. It’s sharp in my lungs, whipping through my ever-damp clothes. I huff as I reach the next small peak, where a coaching house sits alone.
It’s a large stone building, and three carriages sit, forgotten, just outside. Two have faux horse attachments, like Neirin’s cab, while the reins and bridles of the third have been hastily cut, as though to allow real horses to bolt. The doors on all three are open, as if the passengers fled before they could continue their journey. There’s a shoe stuck in the dirt, and more thick, sticky mud clings to the carriage wheels. Trunks still sit on the roofs and rear racks, though a few have been knocked to the ground. One suitcase spills its contents—an eerie selection of white dresses—onto the filthy ground. The wind riffles through the dirtied clothes, catching a silk stocking and blowing it toward the coaching house.
The main building also serves as a post office, judging by the deliveries waiting at the doors. One panel sways slightly in the breeze, creaking on old hinges, the only sound for miles. I creep closer and poke my head inside. It’s freezing, the fires long burned out, and a ledger lies open, its pages rustling in the wind. The rancid smell of foul food hits my nose. I grimace and wonder how long this place has been abandoned.
I slip away toward the stables on the side of the office. Below a half-finished sign, a ladder lies on the ground, knocked down in the commotion, an overturned bucket leaking blue paint onto the cobble path beside it. There are no horses in the stable, either.
I carry on up the road and find a lone carriage with its doors closed, seemingly untouched by whatever scramble happened here. I wish I could tell you that this carriage too was driven by magic, or that the owners had time to free their horse, but I cannot. The horse attached to the front is dead, the corpse emaciated and plagued byflies. I don’t wish to say any more, as I did not like seeing it, so I will spare you the rest.
With one hand covering my nose against the reek of rotten flesh, I draw my rapier and approach the cab slowly. Someone has jammed a broom against the door handle, the bristles resting precariously on the carriage step. I clamber up onto an overturned case and it sinks deeper into the mud, almost jostling me off, but I grab the side of the carriage and hold on. I raise my hand to the darkened window, shielding my eyes to peer inside.
A teg family sit on the carriage bench, the mother and father wrapped in furs, their eyes closed as if they’re only sleeping. They look ellyll,with pointed ears, lithe bodies and faces too elegant to be real. The only visible sign of danger is on the boy squeezed between them, slumped against his mother with hunks of coal growing over his eyes.
A hand slams against the glass from the inside. I yelp and jerk back, barely keeping my balance on the trunk. The hand is covered in growths, a little bracelet poking out from the spreading stone. I catch a glimpse of what might once have been a young girl with gold ringlets, before I jump down and turn away quickly. The carriage rocks and groans behind me, and I know that makeshift doorstop won’t last long.
I don’t slow until I’m down the other side of the mountain and I can no longer see the coaching house when I look back.
My teeth chatter as I follow the road, my body aching with shivering spasms that don’t subside. I’m cold to my bones and getting colder still. On one side of the path, the mountains plateau into a placid lake, and I stumble from the road to kneel by the smooth water’s edge. It’s mirror flat, and I catch a glimpse of my short hair, hanging slightly jagged just below my jaw, the curls bouncing in the wind. I smile, and it’s strange to watch my reflection copy me.I don’t think I’ve ever smiled at her before. I reach for the water and carefully raise it to my mouth.
“Don’t drink that!”
I start, almost falling into the lake. I stagger up as quickly as I can, and when I turn, I find a girl standing behind me. She points to the other side, where filthy dark-gray scum like fallen ashes covers the water. She’s barefoot beneath her long skirt, and her hair looks like it’s been freshly brushed and oiled by a maid—how did this pampered princess sneak up on me?
I wipe my wet hand on my skirt, and the girl tucks a red curl behind her human ear. She smiles wide, and I remember where I’ve seen her face before.
