Dipping under the next candle, I spot a bony figure leaning against the wall, the light casting an orange hue on the dozens of tattoos scrawled from his toes to his scalp. The faerie has four limbs of debt, rendering him unemployable to most. An Unluckie. Even the whites of the faerie’s eyes are spiderwebbed black with the magical ink.
A giant, old bloodstain marks our meeting spot on the brick wall, roots curling through the cracks. The Unluckie straightens to his full height.
“Found the spot,” he says, gesturing to the blood. “Who do you think died here?”
“No one,” I answer, swinging off the pack. His black-rimmed blue eyes follow the food.
“You actually brought it,” he marvels.
“Bread, meats, and grapes, enough to feed a family of five.”
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
The crack of wonder in his voice pierces my chest. When I began stealing and distributing food two years ago, I could only find those in need through whispered word of mouth. That’s how I met my first Unluckie and realized when the High Fae said Unluckies were dangerous, they meant hungry. While each House decides what their servants can eat, Amyrian law bans any handouts to the Unluckies. It felt wrong that there was so much wasted food in the Illusion kitchens and wasted life outside them.
“Be sure everyone eats a bit of everything. Only grapes, and you won’t fill up. Bread, and you’ll burn out fast, and just meat and your head will ache from dehydration.” I open the pack so he can peer inside.
“Sorry, it’s just…” He laughs. “I just didn’t think I’d be able to get here from—”
“Don’t say it.” I hand over the contraband. “No names, either. It’s better this way.”
“And there’s nothing you want for it?”
“Only your silence and secrecy. If I lose my head or hands, the food stops.”
“Right.”
“So, for next week, send along only someone you trust with your life. If you have any doubts, come again yourself.”
The Unluckie stares into the bag, a fissure of fear splitting his gaunt face. I pinch off a grape and pop it into my mouth, the sweet juice bursting on my tongue. The Unluckie gasps, the forbidden fae food now touchable. Consumable. He reaches in, grabs a grape, and crunches on it, crooked teeth showing through a smile.
He swallows, glancing at the bloodstain on the brick. “I heard it’s from the Dark Rebellion,” the Unluckie whispers, as if members from the House of Death might appear after seven hundred years of banishment.
I take another grape. “It’s from a birth. The mother had only the roots to clutch as she bore the child.”
“And how do you know that?”
“It was my mother.”
She was quiet and hardy, my mother, sneaking me food in the Illusion kitchens each day. When she died, it was only fitting that I start a network of nourishment in her honor.
“Did you not receive the First Five?” the faerie asks, eyes dropping to my arms.
“It’s only four tattoos if there’s no Healer,” I say.
In the end, we all must go to the creditor, Healer or not, for unregistered children are slain. Debt or death, and when nature did not claim my breath that day, the Houses had to claim my skin. How painful it must have been for my mother: to hand over her untouched newborn to a life of service.
“Didn’t know it was possible to survive without a Healer,” the faerie remarks. Though many mothers don’t survive even if there is one.
“She lived until two years ago,” I say, staring at the bloodstain again.
In polite respect, the faerie offers, “May she wander well.”
“May she wander well.”
—
As I emergefrom the Peri tunnel, Jeremee lunges for a hug. His hair sticks up, so I know he’s been running anxious hands through it.
