by Cutter, Leah
Francine was suddenly glad that the trees had grown silent; she’d been afraid she’d hear Pierre’s screams in their shuffling branches.
“You upset the queen by wearing an unknown person’s favor.”
Francine frowned.
“I thought she approved of my outfit.”
Lady Melisandra shrugged.
“She liked the dress. She didn’t like not knowing who it was from.”
“How did the queen know that I didn’t know who’d given it to me?”
Lady Melisandra blinked. “Not that you didn’t know. That no one knew. I thought you knew.”
Francine shook her head.
“It came from me, my dear,” Lady Melisandra said, standing.
“Why would you give me something that you knew would upset the queen?”
Lady Melisandra shrugged.
“I was only thinking of currying your favor. Not of what effect it would have on her.” At Francine’s puzzled look, she continued. “I wanted to become your patron. Steal you away from the queen and the court. Have you attend only me. It was the only way I could think of to protect you.”
The tears that Francine had been expecting all night suddenly welled in her eyes.
“You were trying to save me, to keep me here,” she whispered.
“And a mess I’ve made of that. Come.” Lady Melisandra led the way into her home.
Francine took one last look at the lands of the fairy court—the beautiful trees, the graceful paths, and the cruel shrubs with their palm-length thorns.
The front half of Lady Melisandra’s home was decorated in rich reds and browns, giving it a homey feel. Shelves covered the walls, covered with beautiful leaves, unusually curved branches, and odd-shaped stones. A round mantel stood on one side, and for the first time, a cheery fire burned in the hearth. It startled Francine—she hadn’t seen a fire the entire time she’d been there, she realized. She drew closer to examine it, then leaned back, disappointed. The fire was magic: It burned with a blue hue, but gave out no smoke, no heat, and was strangely silent.
Lady Melisandra waited for Francine in the kitchen.
This felt more fey to Francine.
Gauze streamers of blue and red hung from the ceiling, hiding the solid walls they were tacked to. The colors changed as the fabric slid across itself, making the room fluid and airy, the boundaries unknowable.
Lady Melisandra turned ancient eyes to Francine, eyes that had seen plagues kill babies and long winters madden strong men. Her eyes didn’t remind Francine of an animal, plant, or even stone. She was just other.
“Ask what you want of me,” Lady Melisandra intoned.
“Send me to the wilds of Féerie,” Francine asked formally.
“What have you brought to ease the passage?”
From under her cloak, Francine produced the glass flower.
“Clever, very clever,” Lady Melisandra crooned. Her hair had turned white and her back had bent, as if her age could no longer be denied.
“This would have made you obligated to them, if you had used it.”
Francine nodded. She hadn’t known; however, she wasn’t surprised to learn the truth.
Lady Melisandra curled over the flower, her head bending farther down until it was even with Francine’s waist. She held the brilliant glass in one hand while she bobbed her other hand over it, fingers drooping, as if dripping unseen magic onto it. She spoke in a language Francine didn’t know but still felt in her bones. It stripped skin and moved blood, saying only the truth of things.
The obscene red of the flower dripped out between Lady Melisandra’s now-wrinkled fingers, leaving the petals a hazy purple—the color of smoke in bars.
“That’s more like it,” Lady Melisandra rasped. She grinned at Francine with a toothless mouth, her skin all wrinkled and covered in age spots.
“This is what you need.”
When Lady Melisandra placed the flower in Francine’s hand it had a pulse, like a triple-time waltz. Her heart speeded up to match the beat, and she couldn’t stop her head from nodding in time to it.
Lady Melisandra chuckled.
“Exactly what you need.”
Francine expected to be able to say goodbye, or at least thank you. But Lady Melisandra grasped Francine’s wrist, turned her hand quickly, and smashed the flower against the table. Glass shards pierced Francine’s skin, making her cry out.
“Blood given for blood received,” Lady Melisandra crooned.
Smoke rose up from Francine’s hurt hand, mingling with the gauzy streamers. Francine blinked surprised tears away, drawing her hand up and cradling it against her chest, examining it carefully. The glass shards sank under her skin, drawing the blood with them. She shivered and felt nauseated.
What had Lady Melisandra done to her?
When Francine looked up, she stood in a very different woods with her knotted scarf and the white fiddle at her feet.
Her human fiddle was gone.
* * *
The trees—leaner, darker, more sinister here than in the fairy court—swayed with the syncopated beat Francine generated from snapping her fingers and stomping her boots as she danced across the winter meadow. At the edge she swayed as well, bending almost in two, dancing like the trees around her did, before picking up the white fiddle and carrying on with the tune.
Golden drops of honeyed liquor bobbed in the air, clustered together like a small cloud. Without missing a note Francine leapt up and sucked one into her mouth. It exploded against her tongue: sweet with a dark warmth, spiced with nutmeg and chicory. Francine laughed and twirled, hazy ropes of smoke spiraling out from her fiddle.
If any of her cousins saw Francine like this, human or otherwise, they’d think she was insane, dancing like a wild woman with no one around.
She stubbornly didn’t care what they thought, what anyone thought.
She was finally able to make the music she wanted, the music she loved. She felt more complete than ever before.
Francine lived off the music, the trees, and the meadow. She coaxed sweet dew from the grass to quench her thirst and cool her off when she got too sweaty. Branches easily formed into a nest for her, rocking her gently to sleep. Honeysuckle, moon wine, and sweet berries fell into her hand when she wanted to eat.
Time seemed irrelevant to Francine. She ate when she was hungry, slept when she was tired, and danced and played music the rest of the time. Though the fairy court had felt right, it had only fit one side of her. Here, she could be gentle and harsh, fast and slow, ride the delight she felt up into clouds of ecstasy or slide down into the depths of mourning. She’d never given such free rein to her emotions before, though she’d always felt deeply.
The trees challenged Francine sometimes, acting indifferent to her music. Then she’d whip them into a frenzy, causing rain to lash down while thunder and lightning tore the sky apart. She suspected it was what they wanted, why they’d ignore her, to get her riled up.
Today, Francine played with rhythm as opposed to notes, knocking with her knuckles on her fiddle, finding new patterns. She’d play a melody off and on, incorporating all the parts of the song together, then focusing on just one bit or another.
When Francine reached the end and turned, she saw a figure step out from under the trees on the far side.
Francine didn’t stop playing. It was her best protection.
The figure approached slowly, using a dancing step, then paused and looked around before coming forward again. It seemed as if he was the one who might spook and run away, not Francine.
She did but didn’t care if he made it all the way across the meadow. She’d missed her cousins sometimes, and mourned the loss of her parents, but the trees and the wilds made up for so much.
Only when the figure drew closer did Francine realize he was a faun. From his waist down, he had the furry legs of a goat. His cloven hooves shone black against the brown winter grass. Perched on his forehead rose two small horns, starkly white against
his thick curls. His eyes had that same golden gator glint that Queen Yvette’s had, making Francine wary. She played to the trees, waking them to the possible threat, knowing they’d protect her if she couldn’t defend herself with her music.
The faun nodded to Francine, then started to dance nimbly, bolder now that he was closer.
Trees whispered at Francine, urging her to challenge him.
Francine picked up the pace, changing the tune. The wind swirled around her, making little dust demons of fallen leaves dance with her.
The faun grinned and kicked up his heels, happy to move to her beat.
So Francine added more. A storm brewed up fast, reflecting Francine’s emotions.
Why hadn’t the other court accepted her like this stranger appeared to? Why hadn’t they liked the music of her heart? Why hadn’t her papa?
Thunder rolled across the land.
Francine howled as she played, stomping down the grass with her heavy human boots, throwing not just smoke but blue fairy fire from her fiddle. Sparks cascaded around her, falling silently to the ground.
Without hesitation, the faun kept up, losing himself in Francine’s power and song. He sweated freely, drops thrown from his body to the ground by the fierceness of his dance. He gladly went where she directed, laughing as his legs and arms moved faster, his body contorting in its attempt to manifest the music. He clapped his hands and seemed to feed the energy Francine spewed back to her, like an appreciative audience did, though he was a single person.
Francine could have gone on for days, fed by the trees and the dancer, but her curiosity eventually got the better of her. She rounded up the chorus, playing a frenzied closing before halting with three grand, drawn-out notes.
“Whew!” the faun said. He bent over, placing his hands on his knees and breathing heavily.
“That was sure something. Mmm mmm.”
“It was,” Francine said, finding herself grinning. She felt good and loose, like all her stored-up tension had just been flung into the creek. The storm clouds started peeling away, leaving gray skies of indecision behind.
“I’m Erastus,” the faun said, extending his hand.
“You can call me Francine,” she replied, taking it.
His hand was surprisingly dry given how much the rest of him was sweating. It was also smooth and overly warm, like Lady Melisandra’s had been the first time she’d touched it.
Erastus brought the back of Francine’s hand to his mouth for a kiss.
It wasn’t like when Pierre had kissed her hand—this kiss chased fire into her blood, quickly spreading up her arm.
Flustered, Francine drew back. She raised her fiddle again, ready to drive this strange being away.
“Aw, sweet girl, didn’t mean nothing,” Erastus said, ducking his head.
“Can’t help it. Just in my being.”
Francine viewed the faun suspiciously but lowered her instrument.
“What do you want?” she asked, deliberately being rude and not asking if he was hungry.
Her mama would be ashamed of her, but Francine didn’t trust this stranger.
“Come play for me. At my court.”
Francine’s spine stiffened at the mention of a court. She took another step backwards.
The faun chuckled.
“I see you’ve had dealings with Yvette.”
Then his eyes narrowed.
“No one told you there was a second court, did they?”
“No,” Francine said, anger spiking through her. Of course they hadn’t.
“They think they’re the most special fairies of all,” Erastus said, shaking his head and grimacing.
“Please, darling. Let me show you a real court. One that isn’t all tied up in tea parties and fancy dresses. You can play whatever you like for us.”
The offer tempted Francine.
Fairies who let her play her own music? Dancers that moved like the faun had, letting Francine direct them however she chose?
“I give you my solemn word that you can leave and come back here anytime. No tricks.” Erastus stood with his hand over his heart.
Francine brought her fiddle up and played a quick tune, weaving the three notes of Erastus’ name into a melody, then breaking them apart.
Erastus cringed, his back bowing as if he’d been hit.
“If you break your vow, I’ll hurt you,” Francine promised.
“That you will,” Erastus said, straightening slowly.
Francine turned her back on the faun and walked over to the closest trees. They shifted branches down for her to take and hold.
“I’ll come back,” she promised.
She’d never leave these trees forever.
* * *
Erastus made a doorway that Francine easily stepped through. She almost stepped through sideways, still wanting the myth of lost time to stay true. Instead, she walked through head-on, willing to face whatever was ahead of her.
The trees on the far side were darker than even the trees that Francine had left behind. Their bare limbs didn’t sway to meet her as much as try to scratch her. One large oak reached down with a branch and tried to push her into the thorny underbrush. She saw faces in their bark: mean, scarred fairies who hadn’t become trees for punishment, but because they would always be around to pick on others.
Francine wasn’t scared of bullies.
She brought up her fiddle and played a stilling song, the one she’d used to turn the water in the fountain in her backyard into glass, the one that she often played to settle her own trees before going to sleep.
The trees here mocked Francine, their branches shaking with laughter as they continued to try to knock her around. They started shifting their roots under the path, trying to unsettle her feet.
Glaring, Francine changed her melody to a whirling song. This caught the trees’ attention. First one, then another, stopped trying to push Francine or pull her hair. Their boughs raised and they swayed together, then apart, knocking into each other in a rough dance. The wind hooted around them, loud and obnoxious. Even the underbrush drew back in on itself, the bushes crackling and rustling in a syncopated beat.
“I knew you were something,” Erastus said from behind her.
The woods settled down at the sound of his voice.
Francine finished off the tune quickly, lowering her fiddle but keeping it in her hand.
“Was that a test?” she asked, still angry.
“Good heavens, girl, no. That was just me taking my sweet, idiot time. I’m sorry I left you alone with these hoodlums.”
Francine shrugged.
“I took care of them.”
She reached out and stroked the rough bark of the nearest tree, unsurprised when it pricked her finger.
“They just want a taste, to get to know you,” Erastus assured her.
It was more than that, Francine knew. They’d been testing her, wanting to see if she was easily cowed. She knew they’d try again. They would tease her, and try to trip her still, but they also now respected her enough to let her be when she asked.
The dirt path smoothed out under Erastus’ cloven hooves until it reminded Francine of the trails in the other court. She ran her hands over the top of the encroaching branches, fingering the dead leaves, wondering what they’d look like come spring. Fog circled the bases of the trees, hiding their roots. The scent of dried winter grass filled the air, spiced with juniper, crisp and clean.
Francine was surprised when they passed what she had called the fern house. Here it was smaller, more rundown, the moss grown black and the bushes twisted.
Like in the land of the other fairy court, they climbed a ridge, then paused to look down.
Kudzu also covered this grand hall, a long raised rectangle where many were gathered. But the rough trees didn’t merely stand at the sidelines: Twisted limbs reached right into the center, dancing with those gathered there. These fairies wore jeans and boots, not gowns or finery. The musicians played on a stage to t
he right, casting out music with a driving beat.
Francine grinned at Erastus. The lights shone with a neon glow, strange and familiar at the same time, casting double shadows on the fairies gathered there, as if they were dancing, too.
This looked like her kind of party.
Erastus skipped ahead, as if he were unable to hold himself back, joining a group of dancers at the center.
Francine made her way to the musicians. She caught the eye of the stork-like man playing the guitar, then held up her fiddle, questioning if she could join them.
He nodded at her.
Francine listened to the other musicians for a few minutes, finding her place in the tune before stepping in, adding a frenzied descant above the main melody. The other musicians followed quickly, as did the dancers. Their hoots and hollers rang loudly through the trees, echoed back by the night creatures drawn to their light. The band gelled quickly, each anticipating the other’s rhythm and tune, supporting and showcasing one after another.
When it was Francine’s turn, she stepped forward and played her heart out. The entire court moved to her music. She gave them everything she had and they gave it back, loud and distorted, better than any rock band concert. She felt as though she could dance on air, the energy a solid force all around her.
Francine knew she could get used to this.
Chapter Eight
Francine danced around the stage with the other musicians. The stork-like man with the guitar leapt into the air, easily going above Francine’s head. A woman with a pointed face and buckteeth like a beaver played a blood-red accordion and wove in and out with Francine. At first Francine thought the rub board man wore fancy picks on his fingers, but eventually she realized they were claws.
Though Francine was new here, had only just arrived and asked to join in, these fairies all smiled at Francine, invited her to play the lead, and happily followed her wild bridges and driving beat. They encouraged her to go faster, almost daring her, like the trees had. They’d only played a few songs together, but Francine already felt more welcome here than she had after weeks and months at the other fairy court.
