The Wingsnatchers

by Sarah Jean Horwitz

  The teardrop of a flame floated up and out, willed on by the tiny hands that guided it carefully around delicate petals of cerulean, indigo, and turquoise. It came to the edge of a frog pond, plucked up its courage, and glided out over the water. It caught one of the last of the sun’s rays and grew a little larger, like calling to like, before the hands coaxed it small again. The pinprick of light descended ever so gently into the open blossom of an expectant water lily. Nearly a dozen floating flowers already glowed on the pond’s smooth surface. Not a single petal was singed.

  The rosebush rustled. A casual passerby would have expected a squirrel to dart out, or perhaps a small bird, but the face that peered out between the thorns was most certainly neither.

  It was a very small face; that much was obvious. The tiny features were those of a girl in miniature, though upon closer inspection, one could not help but notice the pointed ears and impossibly dewy complexion, and come to the conclusion that this face was not altogether human. The little face with the wide eyes that seemed too big for her head was neither human nor animal, but fae—a fire faerie, to be exact.

  Like all fire faeries, her eyes were a warm golden yellow. She had bits of red in her hair, though it was mostly a frizzy mess of dirty blonde tresses piled on top of her head. She was dressed in a fitted green vest and well-worn brown leggings tucked into deadly looking lace-up boots with spurs of thorns. A shiny hatpin dangled from a sheath belted around her waist, ready to be drawn at any moment. All in all, she cut quite the intimidating figure for five inches tall.

  Such an imposing costume undoubtedly warrants an equally imposing name, and so this faerie was called Grit. Grit crept to the edge of the pond and surveyed her flaming flowers with a satisfied smile. She almost wished a human would walk by to see it, but the chances of that were slim. It was nearly dark, and if all the talk around the Arboretum was true, there would be no faerie lanterns to light the paths tonight. Few humans, especially the city folk of Skemantis, would venture into the park in total darkness. The Queen of the Seelie Court had summoned all her subjects to the castle at the Great Willow for the first time in ages, and even the lamplighters were expected to be there. Everyone was expected to be there.

  Grit, for one, wasn’t planning on going. In fact, if things went her way, she’d be far away from the Arboretum before all the boring serious talk about jewel-eyed spies and the portents of death and destruction the old crones were seeing in their tea leaves started. They were always moaning about something—the encroaching iron world, the antics of the Free Folk, prophecies unfulfilled, doom and gloom and aching feet when it rained. Grit didn’t know what made this time any different.

  Like most evenings, Grit was preparing for an adventure. She breathed in the October breeze hungrily, savoring every smell it brought from the city beyond, and looked toward the South Gate with longing.

  The flames in the lilies dipped and flickered. Grit swore and lifted them back up with a flick of her wrists, but a few of the flowers wilted and sank into the pond’s murky depths. A surprised frog leapt out of their way and glared at her reproachfully.

  “Sorry,” Grit said. “I don’t have many places to practice!”

  She let the flames fizzle harmlessly into the water, but the frog hopped farther away with a pointed ribbit.

  A second faerie darted out of the rosebushes, this one with a mop of spongy green hair that looked like a broccoli floret, with light green skin to match. Her furry eyebrows gave her a look of constant anxiety, which wasn’t far from the truth.

  “Gretti—” she started to whine, but Grit clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged them both down under a nearby willow’s roots. The green-haired earth faerie let out an oof as they tumbled into the soft soil. “What was that for?” she complained, shaking dirt out of her gossamer wings.

  Grit flushed and picked a water beetle out of her hair. “First of all,” she seethed, “how many times have I asked you not to call me that? It’s Grit or nothing, especially when we’re outside!”

  “Sorry, Gretti—Grit,” corrected the earth faerie, smoothing out her leafy skirts.

  “Do you want my name to bring the whole guard down on us like a flock of pigeons on a sandwich?”

  The other faerie looked puzzled. “On a what?”

  Grit threw her hands in the air and paced. “This is why you can’t come with me, Bressel. I can’t have you slowing me down with . . . with your lack of sandwich knowledge!”

  Bressel backed away. “I was just asking where you were going,” she said quietly.

  Grit’s anger faded as swiftly as it had come. She sighed, deflating like a tiny balloon. “It’s human food,” Grit explained. “You know, like the old women leave out on their doorsteps for the garden faeries sometimes? You’d like it.”

  Bressel looked doubtful. She peered up through the roots of the willow. “Bring me another time, then, and I’ll try all the sandwiches in the city. But please, Grit, don’t sneak outside the gates tonight.”

  “Why ever not?” asked Grit, though she knew full well.

  “Because there’ll be no lights tonight, Grit! The queen said so at court! Everyone will be at the meeting.” Bressel rubbed her hands together nervously; small green vines sprouted from between her fingers. She shook them off without thinking.

  Grit only grinned. “All the more reason to slip away, then. It’ll be easy!”

  “But they never bring the lamplighters in, you know that! There might be something out there, Grit, something even more dangerous than humans, and you want to run out after it in the dark?”

  “I can handle myself, Bressel,” Grit insisted, putting one hand to her hatpin sword. “The Free Folk aren’t afraid of everything outside their own briar patches.”

  “I don’t like those street fae,” Bressel said.

  The Free Folk, or the street fae, lived outside the park’s gates in Skemantis, braving humans and iron and alley cats and all of the dangers of the city. They were a rough bunch, and Bressel knew Grit’s mother would never approve of Grit associating with such riffraff.

  “Besides”—Bressel hesitated—“how . . . how are you going to get there?”

  Grit stiffened and ceased her pacing, face turned away from her friend. Bressel let her eyes wander, just for a moment, to Grit’s back, and immediately felt guilty.

  Grit was not like most faeries, you see. She might have been the toughest fairy in the Arboretum but for the one thing that separated her from all the others: she could not fly. Grit had been born with only one wing.

  A faerie without flight was like a hornet with no sting, or a mermaid without a tail. It was an impossible thing, and yet it had happened—to Grit. There was no ignoring the whispers behind her back, or the pitying stares as Bressel gave her a boost up to a too-high branch. Grit was the best climber in the Arboretum, even better than some of the squirrels, but a faerie domain was designed for flying.

  Grit whipped around and crossed her arms, regarding Bressel imperiously. Bressel recognized the look and groaned.

  “You’re to take me as far as the Whispering Wall, of course,” declared Grit. “As usual.”

  “No, Grit.” Bressel shook her head. “I shan’t, not when the queen’s ordered everyone to stay inside until they investigate whatever’s in the city. Especially you!”

  “You will fly me to the Whispering Wall,” said Grit, “or I shall tell your sproutsitter you’ve been neglecting the leeks because you think they smell funny.”

  Bressel blushed. “Oh, Grettifrida, that’s not fair! You don’t like them, either!”

  “Bressel.”

  “Sorry, Grit. I’m sorry. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” Bressel reached out and took Grit’s hands in her own.

  Grit kissed Bressel on her fuzzy green cheek. Her heart was in the right place. “You’re a good friend, Bres,” Grit said. “So I know you won’t tell!” Grit vaulted up from under the roots, ignoring Bressel’s protests, and shot off toward the birch path
, running much too fast for her friend to catch up with her.

  The earth faerie stomped on a mushroom in frustration. She didn’t want to get her friend in trouble, but if something happened to Grit out in the city . . .

  Bressel took a deep breath. There was no other way for it; she had to call the guards.

  They only had one faerie princess, after all.

  Grit bounded through the garden as fast as her small legs could carry her, eager to get out of view of the Great Willow. She felt bad leaving Bressel behind, but there was no way she could stay cooped up tonight, not with almost the entire kingdom taking refuge there. Her mother would be in Seelie council meetings around the clock, leaving Grit at the mercy of the other noble faeries’ children. She hated the way they whispered about her—as if she couldn’t hear, as well as fly!—and their insipid chatter about dewdrops and silk spinning was so boring that Grit felt like falling asleep (as she often did, much to the queen’s chagrin).

  Most of the things she did were to the queen’s chagrin, when she came to think of it. Grettifrida “Grit” Lonewing was the sole child of Queen Ombrienne Lightbringer, the only living heir to the faerie kingdom of Oldtown Arboretum, and a future Seelie queen. This was not something of which Grit liked to be reminded.

  Fortunately, nights like this were perfect for forgetting.

  Once she was certain no one was following her, Grit poked her head above the grass. Quieter than any human could hope to hear, she put two fingers to her lips and whistled.

  After a few seconds of silence, a soft hoot sounded in reply. Grit heard the flutter of wings and ducked out of the way just in time. A small gray owl landed before her, eyeing her with a curious expression. (Perhaps this was just its face, but you could never really tell with owls.) Grit smiled and silently thanked the stars. Contrary to the superstitions of humans, owls were actually anything but wise, and she hadn’t been certain that this one would come when called. It had taken ages for her to train Dusten to respond to her signal at all, and another year to get him to fly to any one destination reliably.

  “Cheers, Dusten,” whispered Grit, reaching up to scratch the owl behind the ears. Dusten leaned in to her touch and cooed. “You up for the gate tonight?”

  She usually only flew Dusten as far as the Whispering Wall and made the rest of the way on foot or on squirrelback, but even she was leery of getting all the way to the South Gate without the steady light of the lanterns to guide her. The lamplighters were accustomed to turning a blind eye to her escapades by now; their chief responsibility was keeping danger out of the Arboretum, not keeping faeries in. But they were all at the Great Willow, and the Arboretum seemed a stranger and scarier place in total darkness.

  Grit scurried back to a hedge a few yards away and overturned a small stone with a long white scratch on it. The owl’s saddle was hidden underneath. Grit had made it herself after studying the contraptions humans put on their horses. Built with bits of leather, wire, and twine scraps collected from her adventures in the city, it was hardly beautiful. But it kept her on Dusten’s back, and that was good enough for her.

  Grit secured the harness around Dusten’s head and wings, ducking here and there as he playfully snapped at her for treats. She fished a dried beetle out of her small satchel and held it out, but the owl turned up his beak.

  “Sorry,” she shrugged. “Last-minute change of plans. It’s all I’ve got tonight.” She swung herself onto Dusten’s back, taking care not to pull his feathers too hard or prick him with her spurs.

  “Okay, Dusten,” she said. “Let’s try for up and not down, all right?”

  Dusten hooted cheerfully and lurched into the night sky.

  Grit grasped the reins and let out a whoop as they reached full height. Her hair whipped in the wind, coming loose out of its messy bun and flying around her head in a dandelion cloud of yellow and red. She was leaving the Arboretum behind, leaving behind her mother’s disappointment and frilly gowns and all of the expectations that came with them.

  Dusten soared through the gardens. He was confused about the absence of the lanterns, and Grit had to steer him more forcefully than usual to keep him on course. The lampposts, usually filled with the faeries’ golden glow, stood dark and empty. The wind whistled through the holes in the Whispering Wall, skittering around the tiny rolls of paper scrawled with Skemantians’ deepest wishes that were shoved between the stones. Dusten was nearly there when Grit heard the call: the Royal Guard was on her trail.

  She looked down to see dozens of dark shadows racing behind her on the ground, reaching amazing heights as they leapt across the grass. Grit was too high up to see their pointy feelers or probing eyes, but the armored crickets’ screeches echoed through the night with unmistakable clarity. Dusten noticed the guards chasing them and hooted with alarm. Grit clenched the reins to keep herself upright. She willed the owl to fly faster as they approached the wall, but Dusten began to descend.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” pleaded Grit, pulling on the reins with all her might, but Dusten landed resolutely on top of the crumbling stone wall. Grit lurched in her seat and felt her face plant into his neck. He hooted proudly. Owls really were the dumbest birds in the kingdom.

  “Argh,” Grit groaned. She kicked at the owl’s sides, jumping up and down in the saddle in a futile attempt to keep him going. The guard closed in below, their clicking and chirping growing nearer every second.

  The crickets reached the base of the wall. They latched on to the vines that covered the stone, sharp armor glistening in the moonlight. Grit knew if they caught her, it would be straight back to her mother and the lecture of a lifetime. She didn’t stand a chance against an entire platoon of armored crickets.

  “Dusten, I will personally find you the juiciest worm in the kingdom if you. Just. Move!” cried Grit. Desperate, she made perhaps the best, the worst, and the only decision: she pricked the owl with the thorn spurs of her boots. Dusten shrieked and shot straight up with an indignant flurry of wings that strained against his harness with an audible squeak. He bucked and twisted in the air, spinning Grit around in nauseating somersaults that left her clinging to the saddle for dear life.

  But they soon left the guard behind, the crickets scrambling up the Whispering Wall and chirruping in anger. Grit allowed herself a brief moment of triumph and pumped her fist in the air. With any luck, Bressel had told the guards that Grit was missing, but not the queen. The crickets, though excellent muscle, had no true powers of speech, and could hardly deliver a report of her flight to the queen. If she planned the night just right, her mother would never even know she’d left her hollow in the Great Willow.

  Grit guided Dusten to a hasty landing on the South Gate, where he must have looked a curious sight—a lone, tiny owl balanced precariously on the wrought iron bars. Grit slipped on her leather gloves and tucked her leggings deeper into her boots, careful not to leave any skin exposed; iron is toxic to faeries, and not only did she need to climb the fence, but the city would be full of it as well. She’d learned that tip the hard way in her early years of exploring.

  “Good boy,” Grit praised the owl and hopped down. She smoothed his wrinkled feathers and pecked him with a quick kiss between the eyes. She’d make good on her promise to fetch him the juiciest worm she could find.

  “Who needs Bressel, anyway?” Grit muttered as Dusten flew back into the Arboretum. No doubt he had his own nightly adventures to pursue.

  “We were starting to think you weren’t coming,” said a smooth voice to her left. Grit whipped around to see Ravene, a sleek-haired street fae, standing with a hand on her hip. Ravene was tall for a faerie—nearly six inches—and her silky black braid fell to the backs of her knees. The razor blades she wore tucked into her hair weren’t visible, but Grit knew they were there, and so did everyone else.

  “You know Grit,” said another street fae, floating down to meet them. “She likes to make an entrance.” It was Remus, one of the few male faeries Grit had ever met. He looked rat
her dashing in his red leathers, with wavy brown hair and tanned skin. His trusty slingshot, which he was teaching Grit to use, hung off his belt.

  “Just a small delay,” Grit replied with a toss of her head, “but I may have roused the crickets.” Ravene made a face, and Grit added hastily, “They hardly ever leave the gates. They might be seen.”

  “As we will be, if we dawdle out in the open for much longer,” said Remus.

  Grit smiled at him gratefully. She could always count on Remus to have her back. “Where to?”

  Ravene and Remus exchanged a quick look that didn’t escape her notice. Something, as the humans said, was apparently up.

  “It’s a surprise,” Ravene finally said with a smile.

  “What a coincidence,” said Grit. “That’s my favorite place.”

  3.

  A MAD, MAD WORLD

  It was true that perhaps the Free Folk were a bit rough, as Bressel had said. Most faeries were naturally inclined to live in kingdoms in forests, mountains, and other places far from prying human eyes. Yet such swaths of natural resources were growing scarcer by the year. Humans had overrun many faerie lands, chopping down their trees and polluting their rivers and streams. The Oldtown Arboretum faeries were a rare example of faeries and humans coexisting in a mutually beneficial relationship. With a little help from some persuasive magic, the humans unconsciously left the Arboretum untouched, and the faeries provided light and safety for the humans to enjoy it by.

  But a few faeries went a step further. Rather than simply tolerating human expansion, they embraced it. Some earth faeries began helping humans in small ways—keeping the bugs out of their gardens or their milk from going sour—in exchange for small tokens of appreciation, like a thimble full of sweet cream or a shiny brass button. These faeries soon left the wild kingdoms altogether for the comforts of human hearths and homes, becoming brownies, domoviye, nisse, and other household spirits. Yet even so, these faeries stayed mostly in the country and open air, far away from the hustle and bustle of human cities.