I knew her by her smell, but she was not what I expected. Father had said she was fey and beautiful as he handed me a bit of her nest.
“Seek!” he had ordered.
What I seek, I find.
But she was not a slip of a faerie girl, rather a lump of an old thing, asleep on a bench in the park, her hip humped up like a mountain. And snoring. I had not found her so much as she had found me. She smelled a bit like my old, dear, dead dam—and fairy—two souls in a single breast.
Like me.
What is it that makes us the same? I asked myself, kneeling and sniffing her carefully.
And then I knew that I could never give her—my new dam—to my father’s teeth and claws. Not if I could keep her secret. But it is hard, so hard, to keep anything from him when he raises his hand, when he leashes me with a look, when he strikes me with his iron-tipped stick. Then, oh then, I will do anything he asks.
But not—I decide—this.
I found some newspapers in a wire basket nearby. I placed them over her. From head to toe. To shield her. To hide her. To keep her warm. And safe.
I would guard her from afar, but I would guard her.
You may hit me with the rod, Father, I think, and try to leash my mind, but this time I shall not yield.
I hope I am right. Or that he is wrong.