Chapter 9
Once more, Dalla stood at the base of the extravagant tree in the main hall.
She caressed the baubles with her fingertips, quick images flashing in her mind: a lavish dance, a child’s laughter, a vagrant cowering between two buildings in the snow.
Perhaps it was that her own memory was contained in one of these now, but she felt the pull of them even stronger.
“Which one?” she asked.
Kolfrosta kept a farther distance from Dalla than she had in the garden. In fact, her demeanor altogether seemed more aloof. Dalla suspected this was due to her time being up soon, despite Kolfrosta’s admitted soft spot for her. How it must’ve weighed on Kolfrosta’s conscience.
So much had happened that Dalla barely had time to process her feelings.
If she’d been told some fairy was kidnapping people and murdering them, she would be objected to it morally.
But what if those people were terrible sovereigns who lifted themselves up on the backs of others?
What if they allowed people to die as punishment for not bowing low enough?
What if they let people die as punishment for being born poor?
Dalla shook out her hands. She could reconcile those two things in her head: that the people who raised her were awful, and that she’d also had tender moments with them.
There had been many instances when she understood the level of their cruelty—or indifference—toward herself.
So of course people they weren’t related to, people who lacked esteem, would be subject to worse.
And Dalla did not come here to avenge anyone. She came here to protect her brothers. And, if she was being entirely honest with herself, to satiate her curiosity about the fairy who had haunted her dreams for a decade.
“This one,” Kolfrosta said. She pointed to the bauble, and Dalla picked it from the tree.
Dalla wasted no time: she threw it to the ground, and it shattered.
The vision overwhelmed her senses. The colors were off, sparkling in odd places, unlike the ordinary appearance of her mother’s memory.
The vision showed a farmer, crying and holding their spouse in a field. It was hot—the height of summer, likely some time before the solstice. The field was empty and dead.
Then the vision was over.
Dalla chewed over the simplicity of this memory. She did not know the farmer, nor did she know to whom the memory belonged.
“This is from earlier this year,” said Kolfrosta. “Do you still think Puck listened to you about supporting your kingdom’s staple crops?”
Dalla bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. “This is your memory,” she said.
“It is,” said Kolfrosta. “Never forget that Puck only looks out for himself.”
He hadn’t listened to Dalla; of course, he hadn’t.
It brought him no benefit to follow her orders, and he safely guessed she would not investigate his work.
He likely thought Dalla was the odd one out—that he would do the same as always and wait for her younger brother to pick up the slack once she was gone.
Dalla ran a thumb over the pommel of her dagger.
“I have a favor to ask,” she said, keeping the anger out of her voice.
“A favor?” Kolfrosta repeated, genuinely surprised.
“I would ask you to keep me around this year. Give me one more year to prove I can make the changes we need to happen.”
The request was met with silence.
“I had hope in you,” Kolfrosta started. “Back when I brought you home. I had hope that your parents were the root of the evil in your kingdom, and that Puck was using them. But when I took your parents, they showed no remorse for their actions—they couldn’t be changed. Your siblings were not much better.”
“I can be better,” Dalla protested. “I want to be.”
“You have been,” Kolfrosta conceded. “I just don’t know if it’s enough.”