2
When I open my eyes, I find the world has turned an unsettling shade of violet. It covers everything, from the officer frozen in place mid-grab to his sylph companion and the two aristocrats, also motionless. Even Podaxis and I are now purple. Stranger yet is how everything—me, my crustacean friend, the people surrounding me, the street, the buildings—has changed. All matter is now composed of swirling, pulsing particles of violet light, constantly in flux despite how still every living being has become. Or nearly still, as each person continues to move almost imperceptibly.
It’s always this way when I disappear. And yet I’m still not used to it. Not sure I’ll ever be.
I take off toward the building, but instead of running on swift legs the way I intend to, I sort of float from one step to the next. It feels as if I’m wading through dense sand or swimming through muddy water. My moves are fluid, and my feet find solid ground, but my body doesn’t react the way it does in the real world. That’s because I’m not in the real world.
I’m in the Twelfth Court.
There are eleven courts on the isle of Faerwyvae, each named for a different element, season, or celestial entity. Each court hosts a different climate and terrain to exemplify the court’s elemental affinity, and each is ruled by two fae royals—a seelie and unseelie monarch. They rule separately and are each responsible for different aspects of the court. The seelie ruler oversees matters of everyday life, finance, and human-fae relations, while the unseelie ruler advocates for nature and upholds ancient tradition. But there’s a twelfth court, one that has no king, no queen, no division of seelie versus unseelie. In fact, it isn’t a true court at all. It’s the home of the All of All, the realm where fae magic originates. And, no, it is not normal to pay a casual visit like I’m doing now.
The first time I came to the Twelfth Court was by accident. It was almost a year ago during my early days in the Star Court when I first learned to steal. I got caught lifting a watch and was hauled by a pair of patrol officers to the city jail. After they shoved me and Podaxis into a dark cell in their fae ward, all I could think about was my desperation to shift forms. Most fae can shift, alternating between one’s unseelie and seelie forms at will. A fae’s unseelie form is their natural body, often animalistic or ethereal in nature, while seelie form is humanoid like the one I wear now. But I’m not like most fae. I’m a selkie—a seal fae. Unlike nearly every other kind of fae, selkies can’t simply shift by intention alone. We change into seelie form by removing our sealskins, and we can only return to our unseelie forms by donning our skins again.
I don’t know why it must be so complicated for selkies when every other fae shifts with nothing more than a dainty shudder, but here I am, highly inconvenienced at all times. And there I was, thinking I’d ruined my wholehide foreverplan, wishing I could shift like normal just by touching the magic of the Twelfth Court like everyone else does when they alternate forms. Of course, even if I’d had my sealskin, it wouldn’t have done much good. The officers would have soon been back to process me. They’d have forced me to reveal my true identity regardless of what form I wore. That, in turn, would have revealed me to the very person I was trying to evade. However, my desire to shift wasn’t because I thought unseelie form would save me. No, it was comfort I sought then. Fur and blubber and everything I once associated with safety. I figured if everything were to go up in flames, I’d at least be comfortable. So I closed my eyes and tried. Really, really tried.
And then I found myself here, in a time without time, a form without form.
I made my escape then like I’m making it now. And about a half dozen times in between, if I’m being honest.
I breathe deeply, and my lungs respond too slow, filling with air that doesn’t feel like air. My pulse is all wrong, somehow beating both sluggishly and rapidly at once. I make it to the door of whatever business my unlucky fate has brought me to, and step through it, not even bothering to open it. There’s no need when all matter consists of buzzing particles of light. A quick look around reveals tables and chairs—a restaurant—all made of the same violet molecules. I see no bodily shapes, so the restaurant must be closed. I make my way toward the back of the room, still feeling as if my legs are being restrained by mud. I’m almost to the kitchen when the nearest table catches my eye, adorned with flatware. My gaze locks on four prongs and a long stem. A fork. While I can’t see it for more than a silhouette of shifting, buzzing violet light, the scalloped end of the stem is unfamiliar to me. And I’m willing to bet it’s silver. If I had a real nose right now, it would tingle. I glance down at Podaxis, still clutched to my chest. Luckily, he’s completely unconscious of what’s happening, otherwise he’d tell me not to do what I’m about to do.
“I have time,” I say in a voice that sounds too flat to be my own. With a slow grin that lags to catch up with my excitement, I make my way to the fork and pocket it.
My stomach lurches and a pressure begins to build behind my eyes.
“Shells,” I mutter. Again, my voice sounds wrong in my ears. “I guess Idon’thave time.”
Keeping my gaze fixed firmly ahead to avoid further temptations, I leave the dining room and race through the kitchen. And by race I mean crawl. Float. Running that isn’t running. Pressure continues to build in my head, tingling through every purple particle that makes up my flesh, blood, and sinew. My momentum starts to slow, and my legs feel too heavy, my feet too thick, but the door is just a few steps away.
The violet light begins to disperse, and more colors start to show through it. The particles grow thicker, their buzzing slower. I reach the door and push against it, finding it far more solid than the first one I walked through. Still, I try, pushing aside molecules that were once the size of pinpricks but are now more like grapefruits. My vision grows blurry just as my hand breaks through the other side. With all my waning strength, I pull myself out, inch by inch, breath by breath.
Finally, I emerge on the other side just as the world returns to normal.
* * *
Gasping for air,I lean against the wall next to the restaurant door. I can’t bring myself to open my eyes, but the quiet combined with the stale rot invading my nostrils suggests I’m in the alley behind the building.
“Oh, for the love of shells,” Podaxis says. “You did it again, didn’t you? You really ought to refrain.”
I clutch him tighter as I sink to the ground, tears streaming down my cheeks in my efforts to catch my breath. “You’re the one who insisted we don’t go back to jail,” I manage to bite out. My throat burns, my voice as weak as my limbs. My body is racked with sudden chills. There’s a reason I continue to steal the old-fashioned way instead of utilizing my strange ability to enter the Twelfth Court.
In his silence, I can sense Podaxis’ desire to scold me, but instead, he nestles closer, patting my shoulder with his claw.
It takes several minutes before I regain my strength. When I think I’m ready to walk again, I open the flap of my satchel, allowing Podaxis to scurry inside, and then rise to my feet on wobbly legs. I make my way carefully to the mouth of the alley on the opposite side from where I was almost caught. Hopefully, the patrol officers have given up their search for me by now. They’re probably still marveling over how I could have disappeared in the blink of an eye. Finding nothing to alarm me on either side of the street, I wait for a group of inebriated young men dressed down to their shirtsleeves to pass before I follow behind, adding a swagger to my step in my attempt to blend in.
After a few blocks, I reach Orion Street and break away from the group. It’s quiet here, being so far from the stunning spectacle that is Halley Street. Instead of towering hotels, elegant theaters, and ostentatious street performers, there are unique galleries, obscure wax museums, curios, cafes, and fledgling clubs. Perhaps the most fledgling of all is the Vulture’s Prose Theater. Which is also where I call home.
I reach the theater with its telltale chipped black paint marring the façade. At least our sign is new, hanging above the door, statingVulture’s Prosein freshly painted red letters to match the red-headed vulture wearing a tutu leaning against theEinProse.
I enter and find the main room empty, the stage dark with not a single light left illuminated. The last performance of the night should have ended at ten, and all patrons are long gone, leaving no need to waste precious light. Not that we waste much at all. We rarely even utilize electricity, favoring the nearly archaic gas lighting instead. While electricity is readily available from the ley lines of fae magic that crisscross the isle, it still costs money to use. According to Mr. Tuttle, manager of the Vulture’s Prose, the theater needs far more vital improvements before electricity becomes a priority. Try to argue, and he’ll go on and on about how back in his day, audiences were awed not by tricks of fancy stage lighting but by an actor’s stellar performance.
Needless to say, I’ve learned not to haggle with him over the cost of light.
I’m halfway across the room when sounds of laughter reach my ears. Four figures enter from backstage, and their expressions brighten when they see me.
“Pearl,” Martin says with a glowing smile. The blond-haired half-fae boy strolls over to me, hands in his pockets, while the other three—Nadia, Klaus, and Stanley—follow behind. Martin deals cards at a club at the other end of Orion, while the latter three are residents of the Vulture’s Prose like I am. Unlike me, however, these three are regular performers at the theater, while I am just the thief that helps fund their artistic ventures.
Martin shifts awkwardly from foot to foot and looks at me from under his lashes. We spent a couple nights together a few weeks back, and he’s been acting increasingly attentive ever since—something I try not to feel too flattered about. It wasn’t supposed to last. He knows that.
