Chapter 1
If life is what you make of it, then we are shoddy craftsmen, with no time to start over again once the art is set in motion. Not that it is always art, in the eyes of the beholder. Sometimes it is a masterpiece, and other times it's a tragedy, but in the eyes of the creator, it is always cursed and beloved. Responsibility and ownership coagulate and there is no question that, to that person, the art belongs, and only they have the right to remove what they created from existence.
There were four. They were all wet, all young, and all hungry, crouched with their stiff fingers stretched toward the fire that Jack made, trying to chase away the damp chill that bit straight to the bone. It was not working very well; in November, one could almost say that the chill came from inside. None of them were clothed very warmly or very stylishly, none of them gave a thought to the coming darkness because it was well known by then, and none of them complained about their situation, but every now and then, a soft sound in the woods was enough to make their breath catch, their eyes glance sharply toward the bracken, and render them motionless until a slightly more uneasy silence was resumed, leaving them to restless dread.
They were at a place between child and adult, awkward and wide-eyed and overestimating their own wisdom. Ronnie was the youngest, a girl of about thirteen, with pink cheeks and a torn dress that did not go past her knees. Her stockings wouldn't stay up, her hair was desperately in need of a good combing, and her eyes were raw. She never cried, despite the fact that she looked like she did many times a day. "I'm tired of this. I want to go home," she whispered, swallowing, folding her arms over her bodice.
Green eyes glinted from across the fire as it was tended to by nimble hands that did not seem to feel its heat. "You should bite your tongue if you just want to complain, girl. We'll kill you without blinking if you annoy us."
"Not 'we,'" said a quieter, softer voice. "I won't, Luke won't. This is all difficult enough without the blood of Village Child on our hands."
"I don't understand why you just can't let me go home," Ronnie said sullenly. "I don't understand why you're taking me away from my village instead of just leaving me behind. I wouldn't cause any trouble."
Jack, the green-eyed fire tender, laughed harshly. "No trouble. No trouble. Did you hear that, Syris? 'No trouble.'"
Ronnie drew herself up sharply. In the dark, their hair was all the same shade, but near the fire, hers was clearly straw-colored. "It's your fault," she spat. "If the half-wit hadn't drawn attention to himself in the village... if he hadn't been in my mother's garden by the well..."
"Don't say 'half-wit.' It's unkind," said the softer voice in the darkness. "Blessed as he is with ignorance, his innocence is holy, and Luke is ours. We would not let him endanger us."
Ronnie hissed sharply as she accidentally shifted her weight onto a bruised ankle. Lowering herself back to a sitting position near the fire, she addressed the outlines of Syris and Luke, just visible in the shadows. "You wouldn't let him endanger you? Then what do you call what has happened? Because of what I saw, I've been kidnapped by Fae."
Jack fed some dried grass languidly to the fire. As their leader, he had to treat such accusations with cool detachment. "If we were Fae, do you think we would be running away from your village? Surely it would be easier to disappear, or trick your eyes, rather than drag you along with us." He certainly sounded like he sincerely regretted the way things had turned out. "Syris! You and Luke get over by the fire, it's going to be a bastard frigid night."
"Luke is afraid of fire," Syris answered. Something like spun silk glistened near his shoulder as he turned.
"I don't give a damn. Not tonight," Jack said. "You'll both freeze if you don't come closer." Syris had a gentle, coaxing quality to his voice, and even though Luke was rigidly clumsy and resistant, he managed to bring him closer to heat and light. The boys were a study in contrasts; Syris had a face like a sculpture, porcelain and translucent, framed with even paler white hair. The other, Luke, was constantly in motion, tall and lanky and dark-haired. He glanced occasionally at Ronnie, breathing shallowly and quickly, rocking back and forth while shaking one limp hand fretfully. Syris was ethereal, and Luke was feral. An albino and a halfwit, Ronnie reflected; though she had seen them several times before, their oddness always caught her off guard.
Jack grunted curtly, a short nod demonstrating his approval. He looked and behaved more conventionally than his companions; he was olive-complexioned and chestnut-haired, with green eyes and a muscular build. Of the three, he intimidated Ronnie the most.
Thunder rolled softly in the distance, and Luke raised his head, stretching a long-fingered hand toward the sky as lightning flickered on the horizon. Jack groaned. "Syris... help me with the tarp. Luke says it's going to rain."
There were four. They were all wet, all young, and all hungry, crouched with their stiff fingers stretched toward the fire that Jack made, trying to chase away the damp chill that bit straight to the bone. It was not working very well; in November, one could almost say that the chill came from inside. None of them were clothed very warmly or very stylishly, none of them gave a thought to the coming darkness because it was well known by then, and none of them complained about their situation, but every now and then, a soft sound in the woods was enough to make their breath catch, their eyes glance sharply toward the bracken, and render them motionless until a slightly more uneasy silence was resumed, leaving them to restless dread.
They were at a place between child and adult, awkward and wide-eyed and overestimating their own wisdom. Ronnie was the youngest, a girl of about thirteen, with pink cheeks and a torn dress that did not go past her knees. Her stockings wouldn't stay up, her hair was desperately in need of a good combing, and her eyes were raw. She never cried, despite the fact that she looked like she did many times a day. "I'm tired of this. I want to go home," she whispered, swallowing, folding her arms over her bodice.
Green eyes glinted from across the fire as it was tended to by nimble hands that did not seem to feel its heat. "You should bite your tongue if you just want to complain, girl. We'll kill you without blinking if you annoy us."
"Not 'we,'" said a quieter, softer voice. "I won't, Luke won't. This is all difficult enough without the blood of Village Child on our hands."
"I don't understand why you just can't let me go home," Ronnie said sullenly. "I don't understand why you're taking me away from my village instead of just leaving me behind. I wouldn't cause any trouble."
Jack, the green-eyed fire tender, laughed harshly. "No trouble. No trouble. Did you hear that, Syris? 'No trouble.'"
Ronnie drew herself up sharply. In the dark, their hair was all the same shade, but near the fire, hers was clearly straw-colored. "It's your fault," she spat. "If the half-wit hadn't drawn attention to himself in the village... if he hadn't been in my mother's garden by the well..."
"Don't say 'half-wit.' It's unkind," said the softer voice in the darkness. "Blessed as he is with ignorance, his innocence is holy, and Luke is ours. We would not let him endanger us."
Ronnie hissed sharply as she accidentally shifted her weight onto a bruised ankle. Lowering herself back to a sitting position near the fire, she addressed the outlines of Syris and Luke, just visible in the shadows. "You wouldn't let him endanger you? Then what do you call what has happened? Because of what I saw, I've been kidnapped by Fae."
Jack fed some dried grass languidly to the fire. As their leader, he had to treat such accusations with cool detachment. "If we were Fae, do you think we would be running away from your village? Surely it would be easier to disappear, or trick your eyes, rather than drag you along with us." He certainly sounded like he sincerely regretted the way things had turned out. "Syris! You and Luke get over by the fire, it's going to be a bastard frigid night."
"Luke is afraid of fire," Syris answered. Something like spun silk glistened near his shoulder as he turned.
"I don't give a damn. Not tonight," Jack said. "You'll both freeze if you don't come closer." Syris had a gentle, coaxing quality to his voice, and even though Luke was rigidly clumsy and resistant, he managed to bring him closer to heat and light. The boys were a study in contrasts; Syris had a face like a sculpture, porcelain and translucent, framed with even paler white hair. The other, Luke, was constantly in motion, tall and lanky and dark-haired. He glanced occasionally at Ronnie, breathing shallowly and quickly, rocking back and forth while shaking one limp hand fretfully. Syris was ethereal, and Luke was feral. An albino and a halfwit, Ronnie reflected; though she had seen them several times before, their oddness always caught her off guard.
Jack grunted curtly, a short nod demonstrating his approval. He looked and behaved more conventionally than his companions; he was olive-complexioned and chestnut-haired, with green eyes and a muscular build. Of the three, he intimidated Ronnie the most.
Thunder rolled softly in the distance, and Luke raised his head, stretching a long-fingered hand toward the sky as lightning flickered on the horizon. Jack groaned. "Syris... help me with the tarp. Luke says it's going to rain."