22. Wren #2
“Now,” Nubaia continues, addressing the crowd, “there is no second son to speak of, but given how long it can take us to conceive…” Her words hang in the air. A murmur rises among the group, low and cautious, tinged with something almost like excitement.
They’re giving fate a shove, planting it firmly into motion.
“No one will be made to do anything that they do not want to do,” Nubaia says, her voice unwavering. “Apart from keep this request secret. But I am sure you are in agreement with me that we must do whatever it takes to bring about this prophecy. Whatever it takes.”
A chorus of voices rises, low and resolute. “Whatever it takes.”
Cassiel’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t speak. I can’t either. Even thought has abandoned me. I can’t decide whether to be intrigued by the idea we were bound together before we were even born, or horrified.
The vision shifts again, settling on a human village in the midst of a lantern-lit festival.
We follow the figures of the fey women as they move through the crowd, light-footed, graceful, laughter spilling from them like bells.
They flirt openly, teasing the young men they pass, tugging them into corners, letting hands brush shoulders, whispers trace along necks.
And each time, my father hovers nearby, eyes sharp, body tense, keeping watch.
Cassiel stiffens beside me. I notice the way his fingers twitch again, as though he wants to step forward and interfere.
There exists no woman from the Moonhollow who can’t handle herself. No one would cross them lightly if they knew what they could do. But they are in disguise, their otherworldly features glamoured away. Lark is there to step in if anyone goes too far. No one will have to reveal themselves.
Yet it’s clear he does not enjoy it. Each smile he gives is forced, each hand resting on a shoulder tense.
And then there is my grandmother. She attends the festivities too, catching glances and murmurs, ever aware of the attention she draws.
Men approach her often, eyes bright with hope or lust, and sometimes I think she allows herself a moment to consider, a flicker of temptation in her gaze.
But she always refuses, always turns away politely, despite knowing that it would increase the fey’s chances.
For seasons, the women move like a tide through the villages, seducing any man they can find and disappearing before dawn. Every act is a service to the Moonhollow, to the fey themselves, each kiss given to bring about…
Me.
My mother had told me that she and my father had loved each other, but I’d grown up thinking I was something of a mistake, that she’d forgotten to take a tonic or had assumed it was unlikely that she could even bear a fey child.
My father hasn’t even looked at a human woman yet. Maybe I was a mistake, but even so, dozens of women tried to bring me about first.
But it’s not the same as being wanted, because it isn’t me they want. It’s whatever my birth is supposed to bring about.
An end to the war.
The vision shifts slightly, but the warmth of the festival lingers like smoke.
The night is quiet, soft with the hum of distant laughter from the village they’ve just left.
Lark hangs back, his posture rigid, eyes narrowed, as he notices a cloaked figure slipping into the trees at the edge of the festival lights.
He follows, careful, silent as a shadow. The forest swallows them both. Branches scrape gently against the cloaked figure’s shoulders.
The hood lowers.
I gasp. Cassiel stiffens beside me, instinctively shielding me with his presence.
“It… it’s your mother?” he guesses.
I nod, speechless, eyes wide.“How can you tell?” I could understand him recognising my father, but her—
“She looks like you,” he says.
I frown. I’ve always thought of myself as almost entirely my father’s daughter.
My colouring is all his, though a little paler.
But now, in the soft glow of moonlight, I see my mother as a woman barely older than I am now.
Her eyes are large, like mine, her lips a bit less full, but the same shape.
The rest of her face, pale and warm, seems almost like a version of me, unfinished, half-formed in another hand.
My mother holds something small in her hands—a cage, woven from willow.
Inside is a bird that takes my breath away, the likes of which I’ve never seen, not in all thirteen years I’ve spent in the Duskfen.
Its feathers shimmer like fragments of starlight, each plume trembling in the dim light of the forest—deep blue, black, purple, fire red, orange.
It’s impossibly beautiful, clearly no mortal bird. It belongs here, in the forest, and my mother knows it.
“There,” she says, lifting the cage. “This is a much better place for you to be, isn’t it? Now that your wing is better, there’s no reason for you to stay with me.”
The bird hops out hesitantly, nips her affectionately, and launches into the night sky. It arcs over the trees, wings catching moonlight, then vanishes.
A single feather floats down, landing in my mother’s open hand. I blink, heart pounding.
“A feather? For me? Thank you!” She presses it to her chest like a treasure.
From the shadows, Lark smiles, unseen. He makes no move to reveal himself.
My mother stiffens, as though she senses him, and then relaxes. Slowly, she lowers her hand, tilting her head as if listening to the wind, and Lark fades back into the darkness, leaving Mother alone with the starlit forest and a single, shimmering gift.
The vision skips again, settling into another festival—brighter than the last, louder, lanterns strung between poles like fallen stars. Music thrums through packed earth, laughter spilling everywhere.
Lark freezes.
My mother stands near the edge of the crowd, hair loose, sleeves rolled, smiling at something a man beside her says. Lark watches her far too intently, rooted to the spot like he’s forgotten how to be a person.
When he finally moves, his boot comes down squarely on a rake. The handle flies up and smacks him clean in the face.
Cassiel makes a startled sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh before he can stop himself. I clap a hand over my mouth, mortified and delighted in equal measure.
My mother turns at once, abandoning the man she’d been talking to. Concern replaces amusement as she hurries over. “Are you all right?” she asks, reaching for his chin with gentle fingers.
Lark blinks, dazed, dignity in tatters. “Yes,” he says, too quickly. “No. I mean—yes. I think so. It depends on your definition of the word. There’s no permanent damage done, but my face stings quite a bit, and as for my embarrassment…”
My mother laughs, unbothered by the last statement. “You’re an honest fellow.”
His eyes are on her, dark and intense. “It’s been said.”
She inspects him anyway, brisk and thorough, until she’s satisfied he’s merely embarrassed rather than injured. Her face smiles at him, and it’s my smile I see. The one I feel in my chest whenever I look at Cassiel.
“Would you like to dance?” she asks, as if he hasn’t just been assaulted by farm equipment.
He hesitates for only a heartbeat before nodding.
They dance, folding themselves into the throngs of people. All the stillness fades from my father’s form. He comes alive to the music.
Or maybe to her.
They talk when the songs slow, laugh when they quicken. The hours slide past unnoticed. By the time the sky begins to pale, they’re sitting at the edge of the clearing, shoulders nearly touching.
“What’s your name?” my father asks.
My mother smiles. “Maeve.”
“Maeve,” he repeats, like he’s planning to tattoo the word to his chest, to carry it with him for the rest of his immortal life. “I’m Lark.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Lark.”
“Can I see you again?” Lark asks, and even through the vision I can hear the regret buried in the question, like he’s already bracing for consequences.
My mother smiles at him, soft and sure. “Meet me here at week’s end, at dusk.”