Chapter 9
“ I ’m going to find a hag,” I declare the next evening, jumping up on the balls of my feet as I hang pink lanterns across the courtyard.
Shiva scoffs from her armchair between bites of pumpkin seeds and harissa-drizzled butternut squash, her silk vermillion dress draped across her short, thin legs.
Strong arms circle me from behind, and I settle in against Obi’s warm chest as he drags a knuckle across my stomach.
“You’re not talking about finding a hag again, are you?” Obi asks. I don’t reply. He had enough to say about it this morning.
“Unless anyone knows where that mist is, that’s my only choice.”
Obi didn’t really buy my ideas about the Nori when I told him about it. He had a lot of questions about how I knew that’ll get us home, to which I could only respond that I’d overheard it. He seemed unimpressed, but unless he asks outright, I’m not going to offer up that I’m the one who got myself stuck in here
Turning me, he presses a finger against my chin and tilts my head up. “Hags are dangerous. And escape is a lethal goal. Promise me you’ll be careful.” His eyes narrow as he licks his lips.
“Promise.”
“Good. Hey, Shiva,” Obi says, eyes still boring into me, “how does that work?” Without shifting his gaze, he points his chin at Abnehor, who has arrived early and is swirling down the marble staircase.
Shiva laughs. “How long have you been waiting to ask?”
“A year.”
Shiva smirks. “They’re shapeshifters, Obi. He transforms into anything I need.” Shiva shakes her head and wanders off toward the kitchens.
“So, all your mum did was beg and plead for a favour?” I ask, pressing my fingers lightly against Obi’s cheek to bring his attention back.
“Yeah, I guess.” Obi’s eyes grow a little unfocused. I imagine the ghost of his mother trading away his life like it was nothing is playing across his eyelids. “She said it three times, in a row. ’Please, I’ll do anything,’ like a chant.”
I nod, a flutter in my stomach.
Back in my cell that night, I listen for Obi’s breaths, waiting until they turn long and slow. Closing my eyes, I whisper the chant three times, preparing to pay any price, praying someone will answer. I open my eyes.
Nothing has happened. I close my eyes again, say the words, and open them. Still, nothing has happened. I cross my arms with a heavy sigh. I try saying the words with my eyes open. I try saying them backwards. I say them while doing a handstand. My jaw begins to hurt from how many times I try saying the same words over and over, but still, no hag appears.
For the next few nights, I say every possible version of those four little words, in every possible location, under every possible condition. Obi and Shiva avoid me, as I snap and obsess my way through my project, becoming impossible to be around, driven by one singular goal.
Still, the hag never makes an appearance.
After a particularly long night begging the hag to make an appearance, I lie down on the bed, exhausted, and dream.
I dream of the week before the Incident. In the garden. Dad was there, and Mum was standing in the grass, hands on hips, brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong?” Dad had asked.
“That tree’s moved.” Mum tilted her head.
“Trees don’t move. You’ve imagined it.”
“No,” Mum said firmly, chin held high—she didn’t know everything about Dad, but she knew enough. “I know it’s moved because last night I was complaining to Elysia that it was blocking the sunlight from my vegetable garden, and that’s why my strawberries weren’t growing. And now, it’s out of the way, and the sun is hitting them perfectly. See.”
“The sun shifts throughout the day. It’s normal,” Dad explained. “Trust me, trees in your world don’t move.”
Mum narrowed her eyes. “This is the work of one of your lot.”
“My lot don’t come here.”
Dad walked back to the garden entrance and stood beside me. As Mum turned back around to frown at the mischievous tree, he bent down at the hips and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially.
“Good girl,” Dad said, “but don’t make it so obvious next time.”
I wake in a panic, my fingers going numb as I choke on nothing.
The next day, I gorge on rhubarb and hibiscus tea, salted peanut butter-stuffed dates, and persimmon pudding. Despite its horrors, Faerieland has one redeeming quality—endless, delicious food.
But even that can’t satisfy the craving I have for real junk food. Once Mum is safe and I am home, I vow to head straight for the chicken shop, the pizza shop, the corner shop—anywhere I can get my hands on a packet of biscuits. Or if I’m too sick, father can go for me.
I close my eyes, trying to block out the screams echoing from an alcove in the courtyard. Kick. Kick. Kick. The screams stop. Witnessing the constant brutality makes it impossible to maintain a mask of blissful ignorance.
Squeezing my eyelids shut, I pretend to dance, acutely aware of the bright white eyes watching me from the shadows. I am getting good at sensing when a Jinn has me in its sights. This one moves on. A girl across the courtyard isn’t so lucky. Her skin pales, her body shudders, as the Jinn invades her mind, frightening her to death.
Her face contorted in a primal scream, she crumples to the ground with a sickening thud. Wildflowers spring up instantly, concealing her body from the courtyard’s casual cruelty. Coblynau scurry around, erasing any remaining trace of the tragedy.
With the hag a dead end, I am back to gathering information, hoping to overhear something useful, some slip of the tongue that will reveal a way out. Shiva, when she isn’t screaming at Abnehor or pleading for someone’s life, proves to be a invaluable fountain of knowledge.
She has taught me about the different features of Faerie fruit. Pomegranates induce frenzied dancing. Raspberries bring on fits of laughter and oblivion. Pears, thankfully rare, instil paralysing fear. But the plums are the worst—a single bite, and you are utterly obedient. I have stopped using them as props after learning that.
“It’s a court,” Shiva explains. I let her continue, unwilling to reveal that I already know. “Abnehor and some of the others are permanent members, but most are visitors. They come and go. That’s why some nights are worse than others.”
“Why are there no grownups?” I ask, realising that none of the Fae or Jinn seem older than forty.
“The King sent them away, apparently.”
Interesting. We link arms, my pomegranate a shield against the Fae. Suddenly, the hair on my arms prickles. Goosebumps erupt across my skin.
A jolt of energy surges through the room, electrifying everyone. Abnehor’s eyes flick to me. I quickly look away, dropping Shiva’s arm and fading into the crowd. The music stops. The revelry dies. Faeries and humans alike freeze, heads snapping around like meerkats, searching for the source of the disturbance.
Then, an announcement booms from the marble staircase, echoing off the topaz walls, shattering the uneasy silence.
“The King has returned from his visit with Delhi. Welcome home, King Daesryn.”