Chapter Five Lor The Woodlands Fourteen Years Ago
Irun through the forest, my bare feet squelching in the mud. My tunic is streaked with dirt, the hem lost to the thorns of a rosebush an hour ago. Mother will be less than impressed. It’s not often we venture into the city for new supplies or clothing. “Someone might see us,” she always says with her hands clasped, her worried gaze pinned to the door. I don’t know why no one should see us, but I’ve learned to accept this fact. Perhaps this is how all families live in the forest.
Tristan and Willow are off in the trees, concealed within the many paths and shadowed corners. It’s Tristan’s turn to find us today. Willow is the most skilled at hiding, but I’m taking a page from her book and being sneaky right now. I venture further than I normally do, splashing through a small stream that runs across my path. The icy water chills the tips of my toes, but my feet are accustomed to the elements, my soles toughened from the countless hours we spend exploring our isolated environment.
A rustle in the trees brings me to a stop as I listen intently. Is it my brother? He couldn’t have found me already. Not even Tristan is that good.
Whoever loses today has to chop firewood for the week, and I hate doing it. I’m not strong enough to lift the axe, and Tristan loves to annoy me by pointing it out. Eventually, my father will take pity on me, all while grumbling at Tristan that this is actually his job.
But if I win, then Tristan has to grind flour for an entire month. The only task I dread more than chopping wood is pummeling wheat into a fine powder before sifting it for stones. It’s mind-numbingly tedious, and I have better things to do with my time.
If Willow wins, Tristan and I technically have to handwash all the sheets, but she never actually follows through on making us do her chores.
A moment later, a squirrel skitters in my path, and I grin. Tristan hasn’t found me yet. I plunge deeper into the trees, picking my way down a path barely worn into the earth. Far in the distance, I hear the screech that signals Willow’s capture. I stifle a giggle and continue running, determined to evade my brother.
After shoving through a thick line of brush, I come to a halt. A woman sits in a clearing, tending to a small fire with a charred stick. She looks up at my entrance and smiles, no hint of surprise in her serene expression.
“Hello there, little one. Who are you?”
I take a tentative step, instantly drawn towards her.
She’s High Fae, with delicately pointed ears and glowing skin. I’m High Fae too, but no one else knows that. It’s another thing Mother says we must hide from the world.
The woman is beautiful, with flowing silver hair and piercing blue eyes. I take another step, reeled in by her calm like she’s a still lake on a hot summer day.
“I have some faerie cakes if you’re hungry,” she says softly, her smile hugging her eyes.
I nod as I take another step, bridging the distance. I’m not used to strangers, and her presence is a novelty I can’t overlook. Besides our rare visits to The Woodlands’ markets, my entire world consists of Tristan, Willow, Mother, and Father. I never get to meet anyone new.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a package wrapped in white paper, the crinkle making my stomach rumble. Everything we eat is homemade, but sometimes, when we’re in the city, we pass the bakeries and patisseries with their colorful towers of cookies and cakes and confections. We’re never allowed to buy any, but I imagine what it would be like to swirl my tongue over their bright, sugary frosting as it coats the inside of my mouth.
The stranger unwraps the paper, producing a shiny white box trussed up with a wide gold ribbon. She eases the bow open and lifts the lid. By now, I’m standing directly over her as I anticipate its contents like a wolf sniffing out a burrow of orphaned bunnies. Six small cake squares are decorated with colorful icing and flowers dipped in sugar. They look like sculptures of art and are almost too pretty to eat.
“Go on,” she says. “I don’t mind sharing.”
I hesitate for only a moment before picking one out and sinking my teeth through its moist layers. The flavors burst in my mouth like a rainbow unfurling. Lemon and vanilla and something else that can only be described as the taste of happiness. I chew slowly, closing my eyes and savoring every delicate note. The way it crumbles in my mouth and the way the sugar grinds against my teeth. While Mother’s sweet buns are my favorite dessert, this is far and away the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I devour it in three ravenous bites, and the woman holds up the box, offering me a second. This time I don’t hesitate to select another, but I take my time with smaller nibbles as I attempt to parse out each flavor and sensation.
“You like it,” she says with an indulgent smile.
“I love it,” I say with my mouth full, a few crumbs spraying out. She laughs warmly and then closes the box, much to my disappointment, which I try not to let show. I watch her every movement as she wraps it up and then holds it out to me.
“You can have them.”
My eyes widen. “Really?”
“Anyone who appreciates them this much should have them all,” she says.
I look around the clearing. I’m not supposed to accept gifts from strangers. I shouldn’t even be talking to her, but I can’t help myself. She seems nice enough, and anyone giving me cake can’t be all bad, right?
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Lor,” I say without hesitating, and she smiles.
“Well, Lor, they’ll go to waste if you don’t take them. They were intended for my daughter, but I fear I’ll have to make a detour on my return journey, and by the time I get home, these will have dried out. You’d be doing me a favor.”
I find myself nodding, reaching to accept the gift. My fingers close around the slick surface, but the woman doesn’t release the package. I frown at her, tugging on the box, but something has changed. Gone is her kind smile, darkness reflecting in the azure swirl of her eyes.
This was a mistake.
Finally, she frees the box from her grip. It rebounds from our opposing forces, crashing into my chest, where I nearly crush it.
“Oops. Careful,” she says, her tone pitching into condescension. “You don’t want to ruin them.”
But she’s smiling again, and it’s warm and comforting. I must have imagined what just happened. I was up too late last night reading under my blanket with a lantern, and my mind is playing tricks on me.
“Thank you,” I say and take a step back. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, don’t leave yet,” the woman says. “Won’t you join me for a minute longer?”
She pats the spot on the log next to her and gives me another enchanting smile, but I’m sure I’m no longer imagining the vicious gleam reflecting in her eyes.
“No, I should really get back.”
I take another step, searching the edges of the clearing, listening for the sounds of Tristan’s approach. Where is he? Why hasn’t he found me when I actually need him?
“I insist,” says the woman. “I gave you those lovely treats. It’s the least you can do.”
“No,” I say again, shaking my head, fear pricking up the back of my neck. “No, I have to go.”
Then I turn on my heel and run, the box of cakes tumbling from my hands before I plunge into the trees.
But she’s already pursuing me.
With her longer strides, she catches up easily, snagging the back of my tunic so hard I hear the stitches pop before she bands an arm around my waist.
“Not so fast, little one,” she snarls in my ear. “I know who you are. What you are.”
I kick and flail. I need to get away.
“You’re coming with me,” she says, her voice rough, devoid of her earlier kindness, as she turns and heads back towards her camp.
“Tris—!” I scream as a strong hand clamps over my mouth, muffling my terror.
“There will be none of that, little one.”
I continue bucking and fighting, but she’s so much stronger. I have to do something.
It all happens so quickly that I don’t have time to think about it. I know it’s forbidden, but I pull on my magic, feeling it spark under my skin. Lightning, bright and red, flashes from my hands, funneling into the spot where I’m gripping the woman’s arm. She screams as she drops me to the ground, the plummet knocking the wind from my lungs before I roll away.
She clutches her forearm as she screams—the fabric of her coat singed and the skin beneath melting off the bone.
She snarls and stomps towards me, but I scramble back, throwing out my hand as another fork of lightning bursts from my fingertips, striking her in the chest. I’m screaming, too, tears running down my cheeks as I fling out my magic over and over, bolts of lightning sparking and cracking until it encases us both. She collapses to the ground, her body twitching as I siphon in more and more of my magic.
“Lor!” someone shouts, and I dimly register the sound of my name. “Lor! Stop it! She’s dead!”
Finally, I force myself to let go. My fingertips hook inward as I seize on the last pulses of my power, tugging it in. When it’s once again tethered under my skin, I find Tristan standing over me. The air crackles with remnants of lightning, hovering like errant wisps of smoke. We both stare at it and then at the body of the Fae. There’s almost nothing left. She’s just a black husk, barely recognizable as anything but a heap of scorched ruin.
“Oh gods,” I sob, clutching my hand to my chest. I did that. I didn’t just stop her, I destroyed her. “Tris. She grabbed me, and I didn’t mean—”
I’m not sure what I’m trying to say.
I did mean to hurt her. She was going to hurt me, there was no doubt. But did I mean to do this?
“It’s okay,” Tristan says, understanding what I can’t seem to say. “We should get out of here, though.”
Tristan shoves his hands under my arms and lifts me up. The lingering crackles of lightning slowly dissipate into hazy red mist, like the atmosphere is burning. Tristan stares at it for a moment and then at me.
“Have you ever done anything like that before?” he asks.
I shake my head, wondering why he looks so worried.
“We should go,” he says again. “Don’t tell anyone about this, okay? Willow went back to the house, and it’ll be our secret. We’ll just worry Mother and Father. She’s gone now, and no one ever needs to know.”
“Okay,” I say, understanding he’s probably right, though I hate lying to my parents. With our hands linked, we head home, running as fast as our feet will take us.