A branch drifts down with an aged creak to skim my back, the way a mother might console a disappointed child. “Do not fret,” soothes Willow. “Trust that what will be, will be.”
What did I expect, exactly? Comfort, perhaps. Reassurance of the Father’s warmth, proof of Mother Mabel’s investment in my future. But all I feel is the hollowness where my heart once beat, cotton stuffed in its place.
“Very well. Thank you for your guidance.” It’s silly to have believed I could change something beyond my control. I had hoped—too much, I think.
Soft grass muffles my footsteps as I turn to go. Pushing aside the strands of blue lights, I step into the clearing. Darkness rests as a veil over my vision, a relief after the piercing brightness. Zephyrus, however, is gone.
6
IWHIP AROUND, SQUINTING THROUGHthe cerulean glow as my pulse begins to climb. Only minutes have passed since I felt Zephyrus’ solidity beside me. Now? I cannot pick out his head of oaken curls, nor his fluid, slim-hipped gait among the trees.
“Zephyrus?”
The blue strands sway, bright beads nestled in translucent casings. There is a distinct lack of wind.
I’m moving before I realize it, my pace surging to match my racing heart. I’m running,sprinting, feet pounding the grass in a furious rhythm. By the time I return to the lake I feel ill, ensnared once more by the red glare flooding the massive cavern. The fair folk, with their horns and claws and teeth, continue to slink across the floating platform, gulping wine with abandon.
My dagger is all that grounds me. What are the odds that, were I to draw my weapon, I could fight my way out of here alive? The fair folk are incredibly swift, impossibly strong. I may be experienced with a blade, but I am mortal. I cannot fight my way forward, for I do not know the way.
Something brushes my neck. I whirl, blade extended, to face a rotund creature with white skin the texture of parchment.
“Red,” coos the creature—a girl. The tips of one clawed hand tangle in my copper hair. I recoil, imagining the lash of those talons across my throat, a scarlet line that swells, then bursts with blood.
The girl smiles, twisting one of my curls around her knobby finger. She is tiny, with a face made of points. She wears a loose white dress beneath a fraying waistcoat. Her hair, the same snowy shade as her eyebrows, has been lopped at the chin.
Thankfully, she steps away, tilting back her head to look at me. “Do I frighten you?”
It seems too innocent a question. The fair folk cannot lie, though I’ve heard they’re able to sense untruths regardless.
“Yes,” I whisper hoarsely. I fear Zephyrus has abandoned me to this place.
Her lips part to reveal a mass of rotting gums. “Wonderful,” she sings. “Absolutely wonderful.” Slipping her small hand into mine, she tugs me through the crowd. We skirt the edge of the rocky shore, pushing through a group of creatures with necks encircled by rings of thorns. Their pierced skin weeps blood.
“How are you enjoying Under, sweet?” The girl appears unaffected by the incessant drumbeat and wild cries.
“It is… unusual,” I say.
She pats my arm in comfort. “And this is only the beginning. Soon, we will have our tithe. But you know this, coming from the abbey.”
“How do you know I’m from the abbey?”
“Your dress. It is quite drab—no offense intended.” A pause. “What is this?” She lifts the ends of the white cord around my waist.
“It’s called a cincture,” I reply stiffly. There must be something I can do, a way to escape this place. “I mean no insult, but what manner of creature are you?”
“I am what they call a sprite.” She does not appear offended. Pleased, rather. Practically gleeful from the attention. “My mother was a nymph. She taught me everything there is to know of the healing arts. Unfortunately, I never knew my father. I was hatched from an egg along the lakeshore.” She rubs the crown of her head against my shoulder like a cat. “What about your parents? What manner of creature are they?”
I do not know who my father is. As for my mother, I try not to think of her. Most days, I’m successful. “They are human.”
“How quaint.” She hums as a drink appears in her hand, though I did not see anyone place it there. Her white fingers curl around the glass, which contains a dark, viscous liquid.
We’ve stalled near the fringe of the celebration, where the shore has climbed to a natural outcropping jutting from the wall. From this vantage point, I’m given an unobstructed view of the chamber. Its hollow holds fast to echoes. The lake appears still despite the activity rocking the platform, and the reddish lights swirling inside the spheres that dot the lake’s surface appear restless, seeking escape.
The sprite turns to me. “You must be thirsty.” A harmless smile, meant to reassure.
I accept the glass with a nod of gratitude and make a show of taking a sip. My lips, however, remain pressed firmly shut. Lowering the drink, I search for a man dressed in a green cloak, but Zephyrus is well and truly gone.
“Good?” the sprite wonders. I nod vaguely and abandon the glass on the ledge, then begin to wander back toward the boardwalk. Every so often I glance down to make sure I keep to the grass.
