Page 87 of Kiss the Fae

Hope circles in the cage of my chest. Terror, too. Both whisk up a blizzard’s worth of emotions that shove my voice to the surface. “Um, is anyone there?”

It’s like speaking into the womb of a canyon. A current of air grabs hold of my question and carries it away, funneling it someplace I can’t see. All at once, the sky dances, pivoting into a brilliant mobile of dots.

The motes shiver into being. Faint winged outlines manifest, attached to swishing tails and oval muzzles. On a gasp, I step closer.

Pegasi. The sylphs are Pegasi.

In physical form, they’re extinct. As apparitions, they live on.

Their ancient voices collect and vibrate into a single force. “Welcome, Lark of Reverie Hollow. What may we do for you?”

“I…” Licking my lips, I speak quickly, afraid they’ll vanish. “I seek the truth, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“And why would you seek this truth?”

My heart speaks for itself. “To let it go.”

Silence. But when they finally reply, they sound intrigued. “Indeed, that is a first. Very well, then. Make your offering and ask your question.”

Hadn’t known I’d been intending to let the truth go. It just came out, uprooting itself from a spot buried deep inside me. If I know the truth, I can free myself from the past—whether that means releasing my guilt or affirming what I’ve been brooding over since last night.

With shaky hands, I dig into the pocket of my navy dress and fish out the blue feather. The one tender relic of my past. The one treasure I’ve managed to save during this game. The last prized possession I’ve been willing to give up.

Nine years since I last saw him. Five years since I stopped waiting for him to rise from the dead. Three years since I stopped crying.

The Horizon will only answer your question if you offer it something, and it will only answer a question about the offering you’ve given.

I hold up the plume. “I’ll give you this feather if you tell me something about it. The quill once belonged to a Fae. Is he alive?”

“Yes,” the Horizon choruses.

“Where do I find ’im?”

“You already have.”

The wind slows. Quiet descends, so that I hear my thunderous pulse.

Everything drops to the ground. I falter, my knees plummeting to the grass. Then my heart follows, shattering on the way down. The feather is last, floating from my fingers.

In a helpless daze, I watch it swing on the breeze. The air scoops up the plume and loops it back into the hemisphere. It spirals into the vista, where the Horizon swallows it whole.

He’s alive. All this time, he’s been alive and right in front of my face.

Why am I prostrate? Hadn’t I already known?

But it’s one thing to learn a secret by accident or surprise. It’s another to see the revelation, the confirmation, coming.

It’s one thing to figure out the truth. It’s another to hear it spoken. And it’s a whole other thing to accept it.

So much for letting it go.

I shake my head. “How, if that boy died nine years ago?”

“Did you see it happen?” the Horizon counters.

I hadn’t. But in the aftermath of the Faeries’ escape, I’d heard the villagers in the market square, heard them whispering about that infamous night and that boy, how he tried to get away. Where did the cluckers go wrong? Why didn’t I investigate more instead of choking on that grapevine?

“You mortals are quick to believe the words of others,” the Horizon says. “Rather than respect knowledge by examining it closer, by taking a deeper and patient look for yourselves, you accept secondhand narratives. You choose that, rather than seeking the truth on your own. Do you place so little value on your own perceptions, that you would take the first spoken word afforded to you?”

---