by Cutter, Leah
Only after staring for a moment did Francine realize that something had changed: All the trees grew closer together now. Not as if they’d moved, but as if they’d swelled.
“Quickly,” Francine told Pierre.
Something didn’t feel right.
Pierre directed his tune at the willow.
Francine, Papa, and Uncle Rene joined in, following Pierre’s lead: a skipping, light tune that still had a strong structure to it.
Nothing happened.
Pierre continued his melody, merely adding variations.
It still didn’t work. Not a branch on the tree so much as twitched.
Papa and Uncle Rene shared Francine’s frustration given their anxious looks.
“You gotta try something else!” Francine hissed over the music, poking at Pierre’s tune, trying to twist it.
“Not like that,” Pierre said between gritted teeth. He wove his melody more strongly around the other musicians, and Francine found herself following though she knew it was wrong.
“Francine.”
A voice called to her from beyond the trees.
Julius stood there, alone. He seemed puffed up, his suit barely containing his muscles. His powerful glare moved from Francine to the rest of them, then back to her, now with a sneer.
“That pitiful tune won’t raise a thing.”
Francine nodded. They’d failed. She should have led them, figured out how to raise a bridge somehow.
Pierre and the others continued playing, but the tune had finally changed. A deliberate thread of defense now mingled with the melody.
Francine started to back away, toward the arch. She was ready to fling deadly notes at Julius, and he knew it.
Still, Julius followed, eyes boring into Francine.
“They aren’t as good as you,” he said softly.
“Not even as backup.”
A flaming note passed by Francine’s ear and grazed Julius’ arm. She didn’t have to turn around to know Papa had sent it.
Julius’ sneer returned.
“You didn’t teach her when you had the chance.”
Now it was Francine’s turn to toss a flaming note.
“He’s still my papa.”
“You’ll never forget who really mentored you, hon.”
“That, son, would be me,” Pierre suddenly said, stepping in front of Francine, sawing furiously on his fiddle, driving Julius back.
Movement to the side caught Francine’s attention.
Warriors. Lots of them.
“Run!”
Francine took charge of the tune, tumbling them forward toward the gate.
“And the student surpasses the master,” Julius snarled.
A quick look confirmed Julius’ skin had grown mottled. His eyeteeth curled down and his eyes flamed red, not gold.
Then Francine was too busy fighting warriors to worry about her old friend. She regretted every flaming wound she caused, but she had no choice.
Fortunately, the dark archway loomed behind them.
“Uncle Rene! Now!” Francine shouted.
“Go!” Papa seconded.
Francine staggered under the loss of Uncle Rene’s fine accompaniment. He’d laid a strong bass for them to follow, and the tune trembled when he stopped playing.
“You next,” Papa said through gritted teeth. He laid a line of fire along the feet of the warriors to his right.
“You go first,” Francine shouted, throwing line after line of swirling dark notes at the warriors on her left, forcing them to dodge and making it impossible for them to come closer.
“Both of you. Now,” Pierre ordered.
“I’m not coming back to save either of your asses. Again.”
Francine gulped and looked at Papa. The strain showed on his face, his stumbling feet.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Papa asked.
“Three, two, one,” Francine said, literally throwing Papa through the gate, herself on his heels.
The arch vanished as soon as Francine stepped into the Seelie woods, making a loud popping sound.
Pierre hadn’t even had a chance to step through.
Francine rounded on Jacque, who stood there slack-mouthed.
“What the hell happened? You were supposed to keep it open!”
Jacque shook his head and sank to the ground. He shook his head again, moaning in pain as he lay down on his side, curled in on himself.
“What happened?” Uncle Rene was suddenly kneeling next to the young man, running one of his big hands down Jacque’s arm, squeezing his shoulder.
Brooks knelt down as well, a glass of moon wine suddenly in his hand. He lifted Jacque’s head, but Jacque barely took a sip.
“Something.” Jacque’s voice cracked.
He cleared his throat, took another sip of wine, and tried again.
“Something else tried to come through. Not Pierre. Not—Fée.”
He shivered again, a full body shudder, before he closed his eyes and curled up on his side again.
Francine went back to where the arch had stood.
A twisted, burned tree limb lay across the threshold.
Francine poked at it with her bow. It tried to twist itself around the end of the bow before the limb dissolved into black ash.
The Unseelie trees didn’t belong here.
“We have to go back,” Francine said, still looking at the limb, her failure also tasting like ashes.
“They’d be waiting for y’all. You wouldn’t get two feet into their woods,” Brooks said flatly.
“But Pierre’s there! And the queen!”
Francine finally looked up, her rage mixed with sorrow.
Brooks bit his lip.
“Pierre can survive.”
“What do you mean?” Francine asked, fear building deep inside her gut.
“He turned himself into a tree, didn’t he?” Papa asked.
“He hates doing that,” Francine said quietly.
Brooks grimaced.
“No, he hated it when the queen forced him into it. This was his choice.”
“It’ll be hard for the Unseelie to hurt him, when he’s that way,” Papa explained. “Plus, ya know, he’s in a thicket of trees. If they hurt him, the trees standing beside him will also be hurt. They’re all interconnected.”
Francine opened her mouth and shut it.
That meant Pierre now also felt the anguish of the queen, beating in time with his heart, and could never escape it.
“How do we rescue him? And the queen?” Francine asked.
“You must wait.”
Startled by the new voice, they all turned. Lady Melisandra stood beside them, tall and foreboding.
“The tree that holds Yvette will only rise with the turn of the season,” she scolded.
“Why did you think you could trick it?”
Francine’s chin raised in defiance.
“We could have done it.”
She knew, now, exactly what to play, to trick the tree into thinking winter was there. Carols and hymns, jazz funerals and dirges all came to her mind.
Lady Melisandra chuckled.
“Youth. So impatient. Y’all need to wait. The wheel turns. It’ll be as it should. There’s other things you need to do. Other bridges to build.”
She looked pointedly at Francine, then at Francine’s Papa. Then she shook herself and her presence shrank until she was merely another lady of the court, beautiful and perilous, like all the Fée.
“Now, who’d like some sweet tea?”
* * *
Trees stood silent in the thicket, their winter-thin branches overlapping. The nearby stream had dried to a trickle, and leaves covered the ground. No birds sang; they’d all gone somewhere else for the winter, abandoned their homes in hope of sunnier places.
Still, Francine stubbornly walked there every morning. It was where Pierre had first tried to teach her, the place where she’d found him and gotten him into this mess.
She walked
farther up into the woods, to the deepest part of the creek, where the water was at least a foot deep, and started playing. Today she tried dancing tunes, light airy pieces that both Pierre and the queen would have liked.
After a day of playing, the stars rose in the dark of the afternoon, but a bridge never did.
Francine walked back to the Great Hall, stumbling with tiredness. She was surprised to see Papa there, standing on the stage, practicing a quiet country jig.
“Hey, Papa,” Francine called out as she came up to him.
“Hey, darling,” Papa said. He came over to the edge of the stage and sat next to Francine.
“How’s my best girl?”
“Tired,” Francine admitted, resting her head on his shoulder.
“I keep trying, Papa.”
“I know,” Papa said.
He hesitated, growing stiff.
Francine pulled back in worry. He was gonna do something stupid again, wasn’t he? Forbid her from trying?
“I know you been trying to raise a bridge, or something. I—I can try, too, if that’s what you want.”
“Really, Papa?” Francine asked, surprised.
“Of course.” Papa looked off into the trees.
“Sometimes it’s better to do things together. Even idiotic, scary things.”
“You mean especially the idiotic, scary things,” Francine teased.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” Papa said, still looking away.
Francine took one of Papa’s big hands in hers.
“I promised I’d always be careful in the woods, Papa. And I am. But I gotta go deep, too. You said I could.”
Papa finally looked at Francine.
“I know darling. I do. And I’m proud of you.”
He took a deep breath.
“Let’s go deep together. Let’s find that bridge.”
Francine nodded, unable to trust her voice.
It was all she’d ever wanted: her stubborn papa at her side.
* * *
Dark green pines circled the small pond that Papa led Francine to the next morning. Cool gray water reflected the steel-colored clouds above. The frost-covered grass crunched under their boots as they walked.
Francine hummed in quiet anticipation. They had to get this right, today, now. It wouldn’t be long before the longest night of the year, when the Unseelie would bring the queen back to the surface and drain away the last of her power.
Papa pulled out his sleek black fiddle that shone like a dark mirror. Francine still had her bone-white one, with the golden metal strings.
“Any ideas?” Papa asked as he plucked a few notes with his thumb, trying to get a feel for how they’d sound here.
Francine shrugged.
“I’ve tried just about everything. Court music, zydeco, jazz—nothing worked.”
Papa shrugged.
“Then here goes nothing but the joy of playing with you, darling.”
Francine hid her smile as she brought up her fiddle, following his lead.
The song was light and airy, complicated and fey. Francine had never heard it before, but it made her chest warm with joy.
“You wrote that, didn’t you?” she asked when they’d finished.
Papa nodded.
“For you. When you were born.”
“How come you never played it for me?”
“Because we weren’t here.”
“Is it a bridge song?” she asked suddenly.
“Were you trying to bridge human and Féerie?”
“No, never,” Papa said, laughing.
“Your mama was always my bridge. I walked all the way across, too.”
“She was our bridge, sometimes,” Francine said.
“That she was. She’d be proud of you, you know.”
“Proud of us,” Francine insisted. An idea tickled at the back of her mind.
“Papa, would you call that court music, what you just played? For the Féerie?”
Papa thought for a bit.
“I suppose so. It ain’t quite classical, is it? It’s just—like here. Fits here.”
Francine nodded. The song Papa had played was similar to what Pierre played for the court: a light, complicated dance of notes that echoed the moonlight glitter of the Fée.
While Francine’s music, like the human boots she still wore, drove a solid beat against the earth.
“Stay there,” Francine told her papa. She walked around the pool, not stopping until she stood on the other side.
With a nod, Francine began, starting with a light tune, something Pierre had taught her. She tossed it over to Papa, who picked it up, taking it higher. Francine began laying a more solid line underneath it, a syncopated jazz pulse that made her move her feet and started the water bubbling.
They passed the melody back and forth, each adding elements to it, a zydeco riff from Francine, a fey flourish from Papa.
For the first time, a structure began to form out of the water.
Francine felt her heart catch.
It was beautiful.
She couldn’t believe they were doing it, finally—bridging the two worlds with their music. She didn’t let the tune falter, though. She ran with it, chasing all of Papa’s notes up through the clouds to the endless blue sky she knew was waiting for her, then back down the rough tree trunks and into the sweet, rich earth.
The bridge continued to rise. It looked like it was made out of hardened water, clear and gray. The shorings curved like church arches, and the stairs had delicate carvings in the center of each, sprays of flowers and trees, clinging kudzu and delicate butterfly wings.
Without worrying about the consequences, Francine put her full weight on the first step. Papa grinned and joined her. They matched each other’s steps, meeting in the middle as the song finally reached its end.
“Papa, we can save her,” Francine said, bopping up and down on her toes. She knew this music would work.
They could build a bridge between the two courts.
“Yes, darling, we can.”
Neither of them spoke the other words they both heard clearly: We can save us, too.
* * *
Uncle Rene met the pair of them as they walked back to the Great Hall.
“It’s time,” he told them grimly.
“What do you mean?” Francine asked, though her heart was already sinking below the dirt path they walked along.
“The priests have raised the binding world. If you want to go watch the queen rise, you have to be bound first.”
“Bound?” Papa asked, growling.
Francine raised an eyebrow, surprised. Generally he knew all about these court rituals.
“Swear not to hurt the Unseelie while in their court.”
“All right,” Papa said, looking relieved.
“What?” Francine asked.
“They could have asked for a lot more,” he said, shrugging.
“What’s to bind the Unseelie from hurting us?” Uncle Rene asked as he fell into step with them.
“They’re bound by the traditions of hospitality,” Papa explained.
“They have to be good hosts, or the magic would scar them just as badly. But—they’re still Fée. Don’t ask for anything, or your wish might be twisted.”
Francine nodded, not surprised by either the bond or the tricksy nature of it.
Only a few of the Seelie court still remained under the growing dusk in the Grand Hall. Francine, Papa, and Uncle Rene rushed to join them.
Gray clouds covered the sky of the world they stepped into. The field before them was filled with dried winter grasses that muffled their steps. No colorful leaves or moss grew on the nude trees. Even the dirt seemed a faded brown.
Francine tried to watch just the Seelie in front of her and not look at the Unseelie surrounding her. But she couldn’t help the glance at Julius when he circled around them.
He wore an immaculate three-piece suit, rich brown in color, with subtle gray pinstripes. A cream-colored
shirt set off his dark skin, and the points of a yellow handkerchief stuck out of the front breast pocket.
He didn’t look at Francine once as he moved to the front of the group.
“Anyone who tries to leave this circle without completing the ceremony is fair game for the warriors,” he warned.
The warriors, who now stood in a loose circle all around the Seelie, gave a rumbling growl that sent shivers down Francine’s back.
Next the Unseelie priests stepped forward, in their blue robes and heavy ropes of jewels. They chanted something that sounded like French, but older.
Then they switched to the language Lady Melisandra had used, ancient and powerful. Francine listened carefully—could she capture it in a song someday? The priests started spinning out sparkling silver nets of magic, weaving them together with the words. As the priests floated the net higher, they switched back to English, calling on the saints to watch over the proceedings, like Saint Matthias and Saint Isidore, whom Francine had heard of. But also saints she didn’t know, like Saint Buford and Saint Odilia.
Francine chanted with the others in the Seelie court, promising no harm through action or inaction. She shivered with the rest when the priests dropped the net on them. It dissolved into cold spiderweb threads on her skin when it touched.
After the ceremony ended, Francine turned with the others to go to the Unseelie court.
Suddenly, Julius was pulling on her arm, his hot hoof scalding her skin. He thrust her in front of an Unseelie priestess.
“Did the magic really work?” he demanded.
“She’s not fully Fée,” he sneered.
“We’re all a mixture here,” the priestess chided. She looked at Francine, her gaze going slowly from her hair to her toes.
Francine looked back. Instead of blue robes and jewels, this priestess was painted bright blue, with tree limbs crossing her skin, as if someone lay on their back and looked up through the trees on a sunny day.
“She’ll obey while she’s in our lands,” the priestess said slowly. Then she winked.
“She’d never harm the Fée, sugar. She’s a healer, too.”
Julius sighed as if he’d been asked to do something unreasonable.
“All right.”
“I’m sorry, Julius,” Francine said quietly.
