Page 19 of Kiss the Fae

Follow the wind.

6

When I open the front door, Juniper’s standing there, piebald in the porch sconces. Rather than surprise, her eyes draw a conclusion. And that’s before she notices the pack strapped across my back, the spool of my whip fastened to a buckle at my hip, and the envelope clinched in my fist.

It’s same type of love letter she’s pinching between her own fingers. The only difference is the evergreen seal, a crown of antlers digging into its center.

A slow drip of foreboding trickles through me. Right before the owl delivered this envelope, I’d heard hooves clomping through the underbrush toward our home. I’d also heard that watery splash.

Juniper squints at my envelope, dread climbing up her features before her eyes level with mine. We stare at each other in silence. Gentle shuffling in the grass forces us around to where Cove stands at the bottom of the porch steps. Sure enough, she’s cradling an envelope of her own, the paper quivering as badly as her digits.

She joins us at the landing, her complexion blanching into a sheet of stark, terrorized white. Without a word, she holds the woven paper to the light, a watery blue seal splattering across the closure. In the waxy puddle, a sea serpent’s tail interlocks with another.

The same confused expressions burden my sisters. But we don’t speak, can’t speak. The wind might hear us, the roots might hear us, or the nearest stream might hear us.

We shuffle inside and hike to the attic. Juniper scrutinizes my ensemble, a long, navy dress with a slit in the skirt that exposes my thigh cuff. The material moves with the wind and tapers into a camisole bodice. I feel powerful wearing it, like I’m a renegade queen who’s ready to ride a typhoon.

But when my sister’s nose crinkles, I throw up my hands. “What?”

“It’s impractical.”

“But breathable.”

Juniper sighs, then surveys her wardrobe cupboard with a critical eye. She grabs what she wore in Faerie, packs her reading spectacles and extra weather-conscious garments, then dons her clothes inside out, lest the Folk are plotting to glamour us.

Cove opts for a shell-white dress—also inside-out—that flows off her like liquid, with billowy sleeves that catch at the wrists.

I groan and mimic my sisters, flipping my dress and wearing it like they are. I’m already packed with a waterskin, dried hawthorn berries, and a pouch of salt. And the blue feather is stored in the pack’s lower pocket, hidden within the fabric. Even if it doesn’t come in handy later, I’m not leaving without it.

My studious sister gathers similar essentials, agonizes over which book to take in case she needs backup, and adds a bunch of stuff to our packs that I’m too antsy to pay attention to, mainly cheap baubles and objects to entice the Folk.

Like me, Juniper and Cove stuff their feet into mud-brown ankle boots and strap on matching cloaks with tassel closures at the throats. We hitch our packs and weapons, take a long gander at the attic bedroom, and tiptoe away.

The worst part is Papa. He’s sleeping by now, his dreams so rich and deep we’d need a hammer to wake him up. We creak the door open and watch him slumber, his thatch of tinseled hair rising from under the coverlet. Juniper’s eyes glisten. Cove clamps a hand over her mouth, stifling a cry that gets me going, too. I don’t know how long we stand there before sliding the door shut.

Downstairs, Juniper takes charge. She plucks a leaflet from the living room desk, dips a quill into the inkwell, and writes a letter while we stare over her shoulder. When she’s done, Cove and I take our turns saying good-bye.

We’re sorry. We’ll miss you. We love you.

Leaving is a blur. We spread out and head to our favorite spots, Cove kneeling by the pond, Juniper picking her way through the trees, and me climbing into the branches. I stroke feathers and pat beaks and whistle with my little friends, a lump swelling in my throat.

After that, we ride out. I mount Whinny Badass. Juniper and Cove take the albino, both animals clomping down the lane, trekking from the winding road and into the open fields. My sisters haven’t said what their notes instructed, but mine ordered me to follow the wind.

Presently, a swatch of air blows in a single direction. But I don’t need the fucking hint. I know where to go.

Juniper’s got the posture of a pencil, her fingers taut as she grips the reins. She’s all mettle and pluck, her upright spine a timber trunk, able to withstand the elements.

Cove glances over her shoulder at the cottage, where I imagine it shrinking. I picture skirts and tunics flapping from the clothesline. Our family’s mailbox, its wooden lip flipped down, its mouth empty and gaping. And the iron knob affixed to the front door.

I focus on my sisters. If I set my gaze anywhere else, I’ll lose my nerve.

The sky is a blackened carpet of soot. Dew drops bead on the elderberries. The world smells of damp earth and mule dung, probably from the star peddler’s coach—a monthly visitor who passes through selling wonders from every corner of The Dark Fables.

My hips rotate above the horse, my whip a noose swinging with our movements. I count each mile closer to that mythical place, with its livid netting of trees. Too quickly, the Triad looms. Hawthorn, oak, and ash trunks stand sentinel at the border. Beyond that, the mountain rises, with the forest at its base and the muffled babble of water echoing from inside the border.

The ground seems to tilt, and the saddle goes rigid under me. Halting at the Triad, we dismount. After kissing our horses’ snouts and whispering to the animals, we send them back home to safety. Their tails swat the air, their manes fly into the night, and their whinnies caress my ears before that’s gone, too.

Juniper’s eyes dilate, her voice cracking more sharply than my whip as she breaks the silence. “We can flee,” she snaps. “We’ve…we’ve lived on the streets before. We can…we can turn back and leave Reverie Hollow, find a new place to live, hide away. We can…”

---