39. Cassiel #2
She clutches her wrist. The ink-mark on her arm is glowing, burning silver against her skin, light pulsing along the inked lines like moonlight trapped beneath the surface.
My breath catches. “That—”
I grab her wrist before she can hide it.
“What did you do?”
Her voice trembles with adrenaline and something dangerously close to delight.
“I just used the word—”
“That shouldn’t be possible.”
Runara doesn’t seem to care. “I created a barrier,” she says, almost breathless. “Cass! Did you see? I didn’t even try that hard and it—”
Her smile falters as she sees my face.
“You said… only fey can activate them.”
The glow flickers again. I release her wrist slowly, trying to hide the panic in my expression. “That’s correct.”
Runara’s excitement drains away like water through sand. “Oh.”
She looks down at her arm. Then at the desk. Then back at me, searching for an explanation, because I’m her big brother, and I should have one, some way of explaining this away, of returning the world to how it was a few moments ago, when everything made sense.
But it doesn’t, and I don’t.
“Maybe… maybe Wren did something to me,” she says quickly. “Maybe she—”
The rune pulses again. Runara’s voice becomes smaller.
“Maybe it just… stayed active?”
I say nothing, because I don’t know what to say. Robin nudges Ru’s leg, but she doesn’t seem to notice him.
Ru’s breathing grows uneven. “You said only fey could do it, so does that mean… does that mean I’m not fully human?”
It makes the most sense, but I don’t want to give weight to the thought, because if she isn’t…
“Am I not… am I not…” The sentence breaks apart in her throat. “Am I not our father’s daughter?”
My stomach drops. “Runara—”
“Am I not your sister?”
I grab her arms, holding her in front of me. “You will always be my sister,” I tell her. “Always. Do you hear? And you are my father’s daughter too. There’s no way Mother would—”
Of all the things I’m certain of in the world, Mother’s love for my father is one of them. Her hatred for the fey is another. She would never have willingly procreated with one of them—
Willingly. Willingly is key. One of the fey could have disguised themselves as my father, slipped into her tent—
The thought makes me nauseous.
“What if…” Ru trembles. “What if she didn’t know?”
I hate that that’s where her mind has gone too. I hate that she already knows how awful people can be to each other.
No, I tell myself. There has to be some other reason—
Ru’s hands start scrubbing violently at the rune.
“I don’t want it,” she says, voice shaking. “I don’t want it!”
“Ru—”
“I don’t want to be fey!”
Ink smears across her skin. The glow fades, but the strain remains.
“Ru, stop.”
“I can’t get it off!”
She scrubs harder, frantic now, rubbing until her skin turns red.
I catch her wrists.
“Runara.”
She freezes. Her eyes are wet. “If I’m not his daughter—”
“You are,” I insist, surprised by the certainty in my voice.
She stares at me. “But the rune—”
“I don’t care about the rune. You’re his daughter, and mother’s—”
“What if I’m a changeling?” she says, breath taut. “I’ve read that the faeries of old used to swap their offspring with ours—”
“I’ve been reliably informed that that’s a myth.”
“What if this is the one time it’s true?”
I have to admit, swapping the child of a fey-hating queen with one of the fair folk has a degree of merit. Letting her grow to love her, then reveal her origins, and hope she changes the law? Not a terrible plan. Cruel, but not the worst they could do.
“You are not a full-blooded fey,” I tell her. “You have no weakness to iron. You can lie. You can pass over the barrier—”
“So can Wren.”
“Wren’s a half-blood.”
“Maybe I am too.”
Again, not a bad conclusion. I’m starting to really resent my sister’s brains. “Half-bloods are rare.”
“Not impossible, though.”
“No, not impossible.” Wren’s conception was planned for decades, but it only took the once. Ultimately, it only ever takes the once.
Silence hangs between us.
The rune continues to glow faintly. Runara looks down at it again.
“I don’t want it,” she whispers.
“Then we’ll get rid of it.”
Her expression wobbles somewhere between hope and exhaustion.
“Stay here,” I tell her. “Don’t rub it anymore.”
I disappear down the hall before she can argue.
The castle is dark and quiet as I move quickly toward the supply cabinets. The servants keep them all well stocked, especially the ones near Runara’s room. She’s quite messy.
I find a bar of soap and return to her chambers. By the time I return, Runara is sitting on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped around herself.
“Is it going to hurt?”
“That depends on how much you wriggle.”
Runara pouts as if this is the biggest injustice of the night.
I crouch beside her.
“Give me your hand.”
She does.
I soak a cloth with water from a nearby basin, lather it with soap, and begin gently rubbing at the ink. Slowly, the black lines begin to dissolve, leaving only the faintest, smudged impression behind.
Runara watches the process with intense concentration, like if she blinks the rune might come back.
“There,” I say after a moment. “The rest will fade in a couple of days.”
She exhales a shaky breath and nods, but she still looks uncertain.
I pull the blankets back and nudge her under them. “Into bed.”
She doesn’t protest, even though I suspect sleep will not come easily to her. I sit on the edge of the mattress while she settles. Robin clambers up on her other side, squeezing her between us.
“Cass?”
“Yes?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Because if she isn’t human, then something awful was done to our mother, or she’s a liar, and I don’t want either to be true.
Because if Runara is anything other than my full-blooded sister, then something has been taken from her, or denied to her, and neither is fair.
Because if Runara is one of the fair folk, then that’s two girls I love whose lives are at risk, and while we are not owed fairness, the world surely can’t be this cruel.
“Because even though I know this must be scary for you, I know our parents, and I know you, and we’re due a little kindness, Ru.”
Her eyes glisten. “Would you still love me if I was fey?”
I stroke back her hair. “As much as I love Wren.”
“Oh, that’s probably quite a lot, then.”
I smile. “Indeed. Quite a lot.”
I settle in beside her, rubbing her back.
“I swear, whatever this is, we’ll figure it out together.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
I stay by her side for some time, telling her a story, stroking her back, staying with her as her eyelids finally start to droop. Her breathing slows into sleep.
I stay a while longer, just in case.
Eventually I stand, pull the blanket higher around her shoulders, and extinguish the lantern beside her bed.
The corridor is colder when I step outside with Robin. The castle feels too large tonight. Too quiet, and too full of ghosts.
I return to my room slowly. For a long time I stand by the window, staring out at the black forest stretching beyond the fortress walls. Robin stands beside me, unmoving, as silent as I am. Ru cannot be one of the fey. But she’s clearly something, and we need to know what.
There’s only one person I can turn to.
Slowly, I move towards my dresser and extract a blue scarf. I tie it to the table and drape it out of the window, hoping Anne doesn’t notice it in the morning. I don’t know how to explain it to her, and I doubt Wren will see it tonight. She could be anywhere. It could take days, weeks even.
I stare out of the window like I can speed along her appearance by will alone.
I’ll always need you, Wren, but now Runara needs you too.
I wake in the night to a slight chill in the air. My eyes blink, adjusting to the gloom. Morning isn’t far off; the darkness is losing its edge.
At the edge of the bed, Robin’s head lifts. He stiffs the air, tail thumping against the bed post.
“What is it, boy?” I ask.
“I think he missed me.”
I freeze. It can’t be Wren. It’s too soon. I’m still dreaming. I dream of her so often.
But a shape moves from beside the window. The silhouette gains colours, lines. Wren’s face materialises. Tried, withdrawn, but hers.
She smiles. “Did you miss me?”