Chapter 23
The boys must have heard about Tink’s attack, because when I return to my room after setting traps the next day, I find an assortment of gifts on my bed.
None of them left a note with their gifts, but they didn’t have to.
There’s a whittled wooden lock for my journal from Benjamin, along with a fresh quill pen from Freckles. Simon has gifted me another one of his shirts, which is probably the most practical of the gifts, since Tink shredded mine at the waist last night.
There’s also a palm-sized bag of crushed leaves—that one actually does have a note telling me it’s rushweed and can be used as a paralytic if necessary. As it also says, I told you this island was dangerous, I’m assuming that one came from Victor. He’s also left me a warning. Don’t soak the leaves. It’ll delay the effect. Unless you’re trying to poison someone and don’t want the effects to show up until later. But be careful—soaked, it causes breathing difficulties.
It’s a peculiar way to express affection for me, but I decide to take the gift in the manner it was intended.
John is livid, of course, that anyone would dare hurt me. I try to laugh it off and tell him it was only Peter’s suspicious ex-lover, jealous for no reason at all.
This doesn’t appear to comfort my brother.
That night, when the Lost Boys ask me for a story, I finally agree.
We huddle in the Den. Peter drags over the same stool he sat upon while playing with Michael for me to use. My youngest brother comes and crawls on my lap, playing with a bracelet of beads Peter must have gifted him. Thankfully, none of the boys snicker about him being too old for such things.
“I’m really not the best storyteller,” I say.
“She’s right,” says John, propped up against the wall, paces away from the rest of the boys. “She gets the inflection all wrong.”
I crinkle my nose at my brother, and when he laughs, it’s not the wry dismal sort I’ve gotten used to hearing over the past few weeks.
“Oh, shut up,” I say, though there’s no truth in my words.
John sticks his tongue out at me playfully. When I glance at the boys, all crowded on the floor in front of me, I can’t help but suppress a smile. They’re all gangly limbs.
And then there’s Peter. He’s the only one standing, propped up against the doorframe of the hallway that leads to his quarters. Like he’s already planned his escape when he grows bored of my story.
Still, there’s a twinkle in his eyes when he examines me unabashedly from across the room.
I clear my throat and avert my eyes from my captor. “In ages past, there were three Sisters. The eldest two loved one another dearly, though they never seemed to find connection with the Youngest. She had been created centuries after her Sisters and lacked the camaraderie the eldest two shared so deeply. Still, the love the eldest two Sisters shared for one another was enough, and they paid it no mind that the Youngest always lingered outside their exclusive ring of trust and devotion.
“You see, the three Sisters were created for a specific task. Each realm the Creator had formed was beautiful, but they had a tendency to meld together, to cave in on one another, until beings from one land might find themselves thrown into another, causing chaos. It was the task of the three Sisters to weave the Fabric that now separates the Realms, that keeps them from bleeding into one another.
“It was a pleasant life, if not a dull one, so the three Sisters found ways to entertain themselves. A favored pastime included weaving their own stories into the Fabric. While it started innocently, they soon found their stories reflected in the lives of the beings who lived in the various realms. Fascination sparked in the hearts of the three Sisters, though the Youngest was skeptical. She warned that, should they allow themselves to be swept away, there would be dire consequences to meddling in the lives of fae and mortals.
“So the Sisters designated roles. Only a select few of the beings would they exert control over, and only in certain areas. The Eldest Sister was a romantic at heart. She took it upon herself to find individuals, split apart by great distance, though who, if ever to meet, would surely fill the gaping hole in the other’s soul. Into these she wove her golden thread, marking them for one another. That way, should their paths ever cross, they would be at no risk of allowing their true love to pass by them unnoticed on a crowded street.”
The fire crackles in the hearth. As I tell my story, the boys’ eyes trace the Mark across my cheek in wonder. In vibrant curiosity.
“The Middle Sister was more practical-minded. Or so she thought. She often lamented over the injustices committed by the sentient beings who roamed the realms. While some injustice was to be expected and even tolerated, it was those who committed great atrocities that she desired to thwart. Rather than staking her claim for love, she took up the mantle for death. Learning that some wove themselves on a path bent for destruction despite her attempts to redirect their stories, she took it upon herself to exterminate those whose intention was bent toward evil.”
“What about the Youngest Sister?” asks Smalls, who immediately receives the brunt of the most aggressive hushes I’ve ever heard.
“She’s getting to that,” says Nettle.
In the back, hiding in the shadows of the dimming light, Peter’s eyes laugh.
“The Youngest Sister was the most practical of them all and sensed that meddling in the lives of those below would end in great tragedy. She vowed to keep watch on her elder Sisters, to steer them away from great trouble, for she knew the elder two would not dare dissuade one another from the musings of their hearts, misguided as their hearts may be.
“For many years, the Sisters worked in harmony and found contentment in the roles they had undertaken. But over time, the Eldest Sister, after watching countless humans and fae find their mates, began to long for a mate of her own. She found him, though whether he was truly meant for another is still under question to this day. He was a beautiful man—a farmer—kind of heart and brave of spirit. She’d seen him coming years ahead, through the threads of her tapestry. One night, she used the very golden thread upon which she’d marked his skin, and took it to her own flesh, threading it into her forearm.
“Instantly, she felt the immense connection to the farmer. She had thought herself infatuated with him before, but this? This was love.”
Smalls gags. “You didn’t tell us this was going to be a love story.”
“I get the feeling it’s not,” drawls Peter from the back, and I can’t help but meet his mischievous grin with one of my own.
“The Eldest Sister soon began making visits to the object of her affection, hoping to woo him. Of course, the farmer was hardly immune to the Mating Mark that wove their souls together, so he found himself captivated by her immediately.
“The Youngest Sister questioned the ethics of the Eldest’s choices, but she remained quiet in the matter. The Middle Sister, of course, only cared for the Eldest Sister’s happiness, and it would have never crossed her mind to oppose her.
“But something else bothered the Middle Sister. As she wove the Fate of a certain mason she’d been keeping an eye on, one predisposed to great atrocities, his threads kept creeping ever closer to the section of the Fabric occupied by the Eldest Sister’s lover. The Middle Sister had seen its like before, and she fretted that when the path of her murderous mason crossed that of her sister’s lover, tragedy would ensue.
“Seeking to save her eldest Sister grief, she crossed over the Fabric and into the realm in which both the farmer and mason inhabited. For years she’d attempted to redirect the path of the mason, but his will was too forceful, and she often woke from slumber to find that he had rewoven the threads she had plucked from his path. There was nothing else to be done; she must end the man, the threat to her Sister’s happiness, with her own hands.
“When the Middle Sister arrived at the mason’s cottage, she found him not at all as she’d imagined. It was one thing to peer at the likeness of a man through the tapestry, but now that she was in his presence, there were details she realized the tapestry could have never captured. The musky scent of hard labor on his clothes, the texture of his dark beard, the way the firelight glinted off his beautiful eyes, the deep gravel of his voice when he spoke to her. Most of all, the fire that lit in her heart when he laid eyes upon her.
“Over time, the Middle Sister came to discover that the mason was gentler, kinder than she had expected. Unfortunate circumstances had led him to harden his soul. He needed only true love to spark in his heart to steer him in the correct direction.”
Benjamin shakes his head in the corner, placing his forehead in his hand.
“The Middle Sister found herself visiting the mason often. It wasn’t long before she knew with all her being that her immortal heart belonged to him, his mortal heart to her. She didn’t need the validation of golden threads marking their skin to know they existed for one another. All she needed was the soft press of his lips to hers and the caress of his adoring words against her ears.
“Up to this point, there was no joy in life that the Middle Sister had ever refused to share with her Eldest Sister. Though she was happy with her lover, she found herself wishing for the Eldest to know of her newfound delight. Now that the mason’s heart had been mended by love, there could be no evil in him. With that in mind, the Middle Sister determined that she would introduce him to her Eldest Sister.
“The path to the farm that the Eldest Sister’s lover inhabited was an arduous one, but the Middle Sister did not mind the journey as long as her mason’s hand was in hers. When they arrived at the cottage, the Eldest was overjoyed to discover her Middle Sister at the door. Even more so, to find her sister in love, for the Eldest valued romance above all else. The four ate, drank, and were merry. And all was well.
“But in the middle of the night, the Middle Sister rose to the sound of the Eldest crying out in anguish. When the Middle Sister reached her, she found the body of the farmer dead on the floor, the mason’s knife jutting through his chest.
“The Middle Sister knew not what to do, for she was sure her eyes were deceiving her. Her mason, now truly a murderer, stood over the corpse with rage glinting in his eyes. He explained that the farmer had once cheated him out of his family’s estate. Horror overtook the Middle Sister. She cried out, lamenting that she had helped to fulfill the very fate she’d been attempting to thwart. The Eldest Sister let out a shriek, and taking hold of the mason by the throat, determined to kill him. But even in her anguish, she knew that such pain would not be punishment enough for her Middle Sister, with no golden thread binding her sister to the mason’s soul. She could not possibly know the misery she had caused.
“So rather than killing the mason, the Eldest Sister set upon him a curse. That his heart would be knit to that of another woman. He would fall so ardently in love with a girl, the Middle Sister would be but a distant memory to him in comparison. One would think this would have provoked enough pain. But the Eldest Sister was certain her own pain would last an eternity, and as she wished the same for her foolish Sister, she added to the curse. The mason would fall in love and bear children. Should he sire a son, the Middle Sister would be cursed to love his eldest male offspring, for all generations.
The Eldest Sister, in turn, made it her mission to ensure the offspring never loved her sister back.
“And thus is the story of the three Sisters. It is said that the Eldest, to this day, weaves the hearts of Mates together as a tribute to her dead lover. The Middle Sister has gone mad with rejection as she seeks the male offspring of her mason, never to receive their affection in return.”
“And the Youngest Sister?” asks Peter from the back.
“It’s said that she minds her own business, occasionally cleaning up messes made by the other two.”
“Sounds familiar,” he says, and I press my lips together to hide my smile. “Though I’ve always heard she assists the dying with letting go.”
My heart thuds as a conversation of my mother’s I wasn’t supposed to overhear taps at my memory, begging to be let in. But I don’t want to relive my childhood panic in front of the boys, so I just say, “If you mean that she poisons them, then yes.”
Peter cocks his head, examining me. I break the stare.
Huddled in a semicircle on the floor, the Lost Boys appear as young as ever. Faintly, I’m aware that developmentally, they’re only a few years younger than I am. Though I suppose I still don’t know how old they really are. Not when I’m unsure as to how time works in this world or when the fae stop aging. But as sleep encroaches on their expressions, it softens them, giving them all boyish qualities.
Even Victor, with his harsh features and shadows framing his eyes, seems to have softened a bit.
“That’s a dreadful story,” says John, tossing a loose twig he picked off the walls my way.
I feign shock. “I always thought it was your favorite.”
I could name off John’s complaints with the story using all ten of my fingers, but the rest of the Lost Boys are beating me to it.
“Yeah, it’s kind of creepy that the Middle Sister falls in love with her lover’s sons and grandsons,” says Nettle.
“That’s the point of the curse, stupid,” says Freckles.
Benjamin frowns. “I thought the point of the curse was to make the Middle Sister miserable.”
“Wouldn’t you be miserable if you fell in love, then were cursed to be a creep who pined after your lover’s descendants?” scoffs Nettle.
Simon places his hands behind his head. “Yeah, it’s basically incest.”
“It’s not at all incest. It’s not like they’re related,” says Joel.
Benjamin scrunches his nose. “They might as well be.”
Grunts of agreement rumble through the boys.
I try not to, but I find myself glancing at Peter every so often. As always, his expression is unreadable. A mask of quiet amusement obscures whatever’s prancing through his mind. I can’t help but wonder how he feels about the way the Lost Boys have taken to me. If he’s still thinking about the conversation we shared while playing with Michael, or if he’s contemplating what it would have been like to watch me fall from a slick cliffside.
Unsettled by the notion, I return to the comfort of the Lost Boys’ bickering. Something in my heart unfolds, and it’s possibly the most dangerous thing I’ve experienced yet—the sense of peace that’s settling over me as, without my express consent, my mind reframes my prison into my home.