“You’re apologizing to appease whatever guilt you feel,” I say. “But you don’t mean it. You don’t care. You’ve never cared.”
Maybe that was my downfall. I, Brielle of Thornbrook, have always cared, and because I care, I place others before myself. I become timid. I am reduced to the inked markings in my journal. I forget the parts of myself I actually like. I forget my dedication. I forget my skill with a hammer and blade. I forget my kindness. And I have failed myself, not once, but again and again in lacking the conviction to assert my boundaries, having believed I didn’t deserve that grace. How sad I feel for that girl now.
“Why me? Why wasIthe target of your vitriol? Was it because you felt threatened by me? Because Mother Mabel favored me over you?”
With each word spoken, a weight lifts from my chest. How long have I carried it? Years. But today, now, I cast it far and wide.
“Or maybe it was insecurity. Deep down, you don’t actually have what it takes to become an acolyte. You don’t study. You shirk your duties. You treat the other novitiates like dirt. You barely respect the current acolytes.” My voice—my entire body—shakes at Harper’s muteness.
“And do you want to know something truly sickening? For so long, I wanted to be your friend. I wanted to be accepted into your circle.” It seems silly, yearning for something that would never come to pass. “But I’ve felt like a stranger at Thornbrook for a decade, and that is your doing.”
Harper’s mouth quivers, then flattens to a line. Still, she says nothing.
“The thing is,” I whisper, “I look at what you’ve become and I feel sorry for you. You may acquire Meirlach first. You may even become the next acolyte. But I will fall asleep at night knowing I did right, even when I didn’t have to.”
Pushing to my feet, I stride off, abandoning Harper to her own wretched company. I cannot continue on this path. I cannot bare my stomach for someone else’s blade. That life was mine, but no longer.
Not anymore.
20
GUESTS ARRIVE BY THE HUNDREDS. Dryads and sprites and every manner of creature drift toward the sea-nymph village on their narrow vessels, propelled forward by long, slender poles. Men with feathered wings. Women with hooves and small, curved horns. Children with their eyes plucked out and their skin stitched over, and elderly fair folk so shriveled they appear to have baked in the sun for a century.
From the bench where I sit writing in my journal, I notice a man with snowy skin marked by black stripes flitting among the clustered arrivals, brandishing a long coat that clinks as he walks. He accepts coin for payment in exchange for what appear to be empty glass bottles. Only after he meanders off do I realize the man was likely trading in stolen mortal names.
A trio of women surrounds a flat stone upon which three goblets rest. Two of the women, with their flaxen hair, are undoubtedly fair folk. The first wears a stuffed vulture atop her head. The second possesses short antlers. The third, however, appears quite normal. Mortal, even. Tucked between the two bright-haired creatures, she sits demurely, a long, black braid snaking over one shoulder, hands folded in her lap.
I haven’t seen Zephyrus in hours. As the night progresses, the celebration devolves into absolute frenzy, and I am not even sure of its purpose other than merrymaking, which the fair folk seem exuberantly fond of.We shouldn’t linger. After all, Meirlach awaits, and who can say how many days will have passed when Harper and I return to Thornbrook?
Against my better judgment, my attention returns to the woman with the ebony braid. She sips from the goblet offered by the lady with antlers, who wipes her mouth with a square of cloth as though she were a child.
“Do you desire a mistress, or master?”
My head snaps sideways, and I flinch from the massive shape looming over me. It is both a man and a bear. Small, curved ears poke through the dense fur atop his blocky skull. He wears a pair of loose trousers. His bare chest is wider than two men standing abreast.
When I fail to answer, he leans closer. “Well?”
If I were to retreat any farther, I’m afraid I’d fall off my seat. “I don’t understand.”
“That mortal woman you’re staring at? She’s a pet. Those two banshees are her mistresses.”
Slowly, I shift my gaze back to the trio. I am familiar with banshees. Their lamenting wail supposedly foretells the deaths of those who hear it. And the third woman? Mortal. How is that possible? And what does the creature mean bypet?
When the hulking creature settles beside me, I slip my journal into my pack. My hand then drifts to my iron blade, and I swallow to draw moisture to my mouth. “Are there many pets in Under?”
“Oh, yes. It’s more common than you might think.”
I cough into my hand. The beast’s breath reeks of decaying flesh. “So, the fair folk take advantage of these humans?”
“You misunderstand. That womanvoluntarilyentered Under. She sought out a new opportunity, a different life.” I stare at him blankly. “You mortals are always running from something. Down here, it is easy. You gift your name to another, and all your troubles and worries disappear.”
For the first time in weeks, I wish Zephyrus were around. He knows how to navigate sensitive topics of conversation. “But that woman has no control over her life anymore.”
“It is the sacrifice one makes.” He looks me over. “Pets are well cared for. They are akin to your small, triangular-eared gods.”
It takes a moment before the inference sinks in. “You mean cats?”
“Cats, yes.” He beams. “Haughty things, aren’t they?Soself-absorbed.”
