Prologue
There was no roadleading into the Forest of Arden. No one who planned to make it home again ventured deep enough to need a road. The leafy canopies crowded together before me—storm clouds, threatening violence and destruction to those who did not find their way out quickly—and yet, here I was, hovering on the edge, desperate enough to throw myself into that abyssal darkness.
I hadn’t been able to slip out of the Abbey until nearly midnight. While the Sisters normally kept a watchful eye, I had helped prepare supper, and thanks to my work in the infirmary and the gardens, I knew exactly which herbs to mix with the wild rabbit and leek stew. They would all sleep a bit more soundly than usual tonight. Perhaps I would have felt guilty, were my mission not for their benefit as much as my own.
The very heart of Locksley Abbey, our Sister Superior—Sissi, to me—was gravely ill, and I would not rest until I had the power to save her. With a shuddering breath, I turned around and drank in the sight of my home one more time, trying to take courage from it. My beloved Abbey and her faithful inhabitants had withstood war and frost, famine and plague, drought and storm. For well over five hundred years, her red stone tower, with its sacred iron bell, had kept watch over the city of Nottingham. She sat outside the walls, separated from both the petty squabbles of court and the rapacious self-interest of commerce, serving ordinary citizens. Schooling for their children, medicine for their bodies, and prayer for their souls. A warm bed and a hot meal for travelers and boatmen. But Locksley also stood between the city and the Arden—a holy bulwark against the ever-present threat of the Fair Folk, who were said to inhabit the forest by the thousands.
And yet now, the greatest threat to Locksley came not from the Arden, but inside Nottingham Keep itself. From the edge of the forest, I could just make out the ramparts of Nottingham Keep, where Johar Angevin, the Unwanted Prince of Athenium, sat on his stolen throne, counting his blood money and calling for more. More from the foreign ships docking at his coastal ports, more from his citizens, who already struggled to feed themselves, and more from the Holy Church, which had never been subject to taxation under his predecessors. Without Sissi’s shrewd determination and iron backbone, Locksley Abbey would soon be shuttered, and Nottingham’s people would be all the poorer for it. My own fate was tied to that of the Abbey as well. So, at the expense of my soul and the risk of my life, I turned south again and stepped beneath the trees.
Once they had closed ranks behind me, only a few capricious slivers of moonlight lit the blackness. As I picked my way through the leaf-litter, unsure of my actual destination, I swore I heard the trees breathing. Not in a menacing way, like the red dog that rumbled behind a garden gate near the butcher’s shop. More like the lull of the Channel as it flowed, sluggish and steady, outside my bedroom window; or the thrum of the Sisters’ evening psalms; or even the beat of the boatmen’s chants. It almost lured me into a false sense of security, until the mournful cry of an owl made me jump out of my skin, and served to remind me why I was there.
Sissi. I had to save Sissi.
It had been weeks and she was showing no signs of improvement. Every pious and practiced doctor in the city had visited. The Archbishop had spoken his prayers. The Sisters had administered whatever folk remedies they knew. I had begged and pleaded and cried, then begged some more—with Sissi and with the doctors and with the Holy Family themselves.
But Sissi had merely implored us, “Make your peace with it.”
The Sisters had obeyed her wishes.
But I was not a peaceful creature, nor was I one of the Sisters, and I would be damned before I would be obedient. I only hoped that Sissi, and the Holy Family, would forgive my heresy, for heresy was the only word I had to describe seeking out a bargain with one of the Fair Folk. The bitter irony of it all was not lost on me, even as a child.
Moving further into the Arden with no sign of its occupants, however, I was plagued by a new fear: being turned away empty-handed. After all, what would a faerie even ask of someone like me—an orphaned ward of the Church—in exchange for a taste of their magyk? I had heard tales, of course. Stories of mortal women who gave up their virtue in exchange for beauty, charm, or wealth. Menwho bartered away years of their lives for power, fame, or glory. And then there were the stories abouthim.
Robin Hood.
Puck.
The Devil of Arden.
So many different names, I had heard him called, but no two stories painted him the same way. Some said he was once a human soldier, seeking to rebuild his battle-broken body with a fay bargain that required him to mutilate travelers, steal pieces of their flesh, and bring their gold to his dark master. Others maintained that he was the malevolent spirit of a hungry beggar child who had starved to death in the Arden, and now took his vengeance on those who brought their hoarded riches into his domain. More tales told of a dark creature, neither human nor fay, but the offspring of a faithless Faerie Queen—cursed by her husband after she’d lain with a snake. It was said she birthed a monstrous child who now did the bidding of her spurned King.
But it was also said of the Devil that he made bargains with simple folk who asked for simple things: A purse, full of silver shillings, to feed a hungry family. A replica of a beloved toy dropped in a canal. A wooden leg for an accident-prone boatman. A belly heavy with a long-awaited child. The only cost for humble things, according to the tales? A colorful glass bead, a red feather, a seashell, or a lock of hair tied with a blue ribbon. Pretty little things, like one might use to lure a crow.
Simple enough, except it was also said that the Devil’s bargains always came with a catch. Something to keep him amused while he pocketed your trinkets. The purse of shillings would relocate itself just when it was needed most, sending the owner into a panic. The replica toy came with a hideous odor that churned the stomach of everyone except the child who cherished it. The wooden leg came with a mind of its own, kicking out to trip random passersby without warning. The long-awaited baby would be born…odd. Too calm, too quiet, too knowing. Strange.
That was what people in Nottingham whispered about me—changeling child. A strange girl with strange, green eyes. Too fond of bugs. Too fond of saying things that ought remain unsaid. The unholy result of a bargain with the Devil of Arden, left at Locksley Abbey to atone for her parents’ sins.
As if to drive away my self-deprecating thoughts, dozens of fireflies suddenly appeared between the tree trunks. They bobbed and weaved through the lowest branches on their way to me, and I stretched out a hand to catch one on the tip of my finger. According to the Sisters, insects had always been my friends, butnone so faithful as the fireflies. They had danced with me out on the Abbey lawns at dusk since before I could remember, and always seemed to appear no matter where I went, or what time of day it was. Friar Tuck said we were kindred spirits, the fireflies and I—tiny beacons shining through even the darkest night.
“My friends,” I murmured as they gathered around me. “I missed your light.”
“And they missed yours,” replied a strange voice. I whirled, heart hammering madly, clutching the iron medallion hanging around my neck. Nothing was visible through the gloom of the forest, but then the voice spoke again. “What are you doing in my woods, girl?”
“Who are you?” I called out. “Man or monster?”
“Monster, of course,” said the voice, sounding more amused than sinister.
I straightened up, battling against the fear that had already sunk deep into my bones. “What sort of monster?”
“What sort do you imagine? What frightens you most when you lay your head down at night? Answer truthfully, now. It isn’t any fun if you lie when I cannot.”
“Then you are one of the Fair Folk. I will speak truthfully, but only if you show yourself after.”
There was a pause, then a simple reply. “Very well.”
I took a breath and turned slowly on the spot, searching the inky black spots between trees for any sign of the creature. “Men frighten me the most. Men who make war, and men who make laws, and men who make the world in their own image with no consideration for anyone who is not them. That is what keeps me awake at night, monster.”
“A wise girl, to fear such a fearful thing,” said the voice, which felt as though it were coming from all around me, both young and old, kind and cruel, welcoming and cold, all at once. “But do you not fearmeas well?”
