When Francine looked up from the ground, Queen Yvette gave her a predatory smile, her teeth shining as whitely as her gown. All of the warnings about how perilous the Fée were came rushing back at Francine.
The creature before her was not human; none of them were.
But then again, neither was Francine, not completely.
She pulled herself up to her full height and smiled back at the queen. She’d called Francine cousin. Did that mean Francine and her papa were some type of royalty? Did Francine have some sort of position of power here?
Queen Yvette seemed pleased with Francine’s reaction.
“Pierre. You will make the introductions,” she instructed.
“Thank you, my lady,” Pierre said. He took Francine’s elbow and turned her, leading her to the side, toward the column of trees that made up the long edge of the court.
“Just follow my lead,” he whispered. “The queen has called you cousin, and put you in the care of the Master Fiddler for the court. This means you have enough potential position to matter to the court. Everyone will want to meet you.”
Pierre directed Francine to stand under the bow of a tree.
People immediately began to drift from the dance floor and form a line to the right of them.
Francine wondered at the jostling as ladies and gentlemen laughed and tried to cut in, stealing each other’s place.
Pierre just rolled his eyes.
“They’re all trying to pull rank, to see who gets introduced to you first.”
A spur of embarrassment went through Francine. These gorgeous ladies and gentlemen were fighting to see who talked with her? Nothing like that had ever happened to her. She’d dreamed about it: forming a famous band, writing killer songs, and starring in videos. But that would have been based on skill, talent, and hard work. Not on who she was or who her relations were.
Finally, the first lady stepped forward. She wore a gown of the brightest robin’s-egg blue. Intricate silver lacework decorated the sleeves and hem. The plunging neckline showed off her ample breasts, while the dress clung tightly to her womanly curves. She appeared mostly human, except when the light caught her skin just right, making it appear a curious gray color.
“Lady Melisandra, this is Francine Adelaide Giscard, daughter of Charles Guiscard.”
“Charmed,” Lady Melisandra said, holding out her hand.
Francine took the lady’s hand, surprised at how hotly it burned. The lady caught her eye. Something gleamed there, ancient, powerful, and alien.
Pierre nudged Francine subtly, then cast his eyes toward the ground.
Francine gave a low curtsy.
“Absolutely charmed,” Lady Melisandra repeated, smiling at Pierre. “I will be inviting y’all for some sweet tea later.”
Pierre smiled. “It would be an honor to attend your table, ma’am.”
After she moved on, Pierre leaned over to speak in Francine’s ear. “That went exactly as planned,” he murmured. “Stay on her good side.”
Francine bit back her sigh. Had Papa been right? About the politics and the cliques? Only this would be worse than high school, because she had no cousins or family to escape to.
Pierre gave Francine clues for how to treat everyone who came up. Some received a curtsy, while others got only a brief nod.
Francine would never remember who’d received what treatment. Of course, if this were anything like high school, she wouldn’t have to—they’d remember her greeting and would snub her accordingly.
At least everyone had their human face on, with only a hint here or there as to their mixed parts: maybe twig-like hands, or horned-owl tufts for ears, or even a dog’s snout.
A commotion toward the end of the line cut short Francine’s greeting of an older man with cat eyes. A young man with the head of a donkey came barging up to Francine.
“Cousin!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide.
More than one person in the line sniggered softly.
Francine froze. Was this really a relation?
Pierre scowled. “Jacque. Come to make an ass of yourself again, I see.”
Jacque shook his head and the glamor of the donkey head disappeared, replaced with a sly, mostly human face. His white skin was covered with orange freckles, and his hair curled tightly around his scalp. His eyes seemed extra wide and sparkled with an unnatural green.
“Couldn’t possibly do that as well as you,” he said, turning his attention to Pierre.
Before Pierre could reply, another young man came running up, holding his hands out to Francine.
“I just heard!” he said. “I’m Brooks. We’re cousins!”
While everyone Francine had met was beautiful, Brooks outshone them all. His hair was black and perfectly cut around his face, his dark skin looked smoother than polished obsidian, and his brown eyes held specks of gold and green, like brilliant stones.
Jacque threw his arm over Brooks’ shoulder. “Me and Brooks thought we’d come back when we heard news a relation had shown up.”
Francine looked carefully between the two, startled to see that though their eyes were different colors, they still looked similar.
“Brooks,” Queen Yvette said, coming up. “How nice to see you.”
All the light faded from Brooks.
“Mother,” he said formally bowing his head. Jacque did the same.
“I don’t suppose you’ll be staying,” Yvette said.
Francine found it difficult to read the queen’s expression—her gator eyes made her face too alien. She still thought Queen Yvette wanted them to stay, at least for a while. “I’ll be playing later,” Francine offered.
“Will you now?” Jacque said, looking intrigued. His features had shifted as he’d stood there, looking less human and more rabbit, with a dark nose, whiskers, and floppy ears, what Francine guessed was his true nature. He and Brooks exchanged a look.
“Yes, of course. She must win her place in the court,” the queen said. “Prove her worth.”
Shock made Francine take a step back. She wasn’t accepted yet? She had to show them she could play? Then why had she been introduced to everyone? And hadn’t they heard her play the other night? Hadn’t that been enough?
“Merely a formality,” Pierre murmured.
“A formality,” Brooks said, crossing his arms over his chest. “For a cousin.”
Queen Yvette shrugged.
“Then maybe I shouldn’t waste any more of the court’s time with introductions,” Francine said, fuming.
Who were they to turn her away? She’d show them.
Brooks turned to Francine.
“As much as I might love to see you show them all up,” he said, “Jacque and I really must be going.”
“When you get tired of playing at tea parties, let us know,” Jacque added with a wink. “We know where the real hootenanny is.”
“Boys,” Yvette said, a warning edge in her tone.
“Goodbye, mother,” Brooks said with a bow.
Jacque repeated the words and they sauntered across the grand hall, arm in arm, before disappearing into the trees on the far side.
“So you want to play for us,” Yvette said.
Francine looked at her, confused.
Wasn’t that why she was here? Because she could play? Wasn’t that what drew them to her initially?
“Yes, ma’am,” Francine replied finally, still wary.
“Pierre, you’ll be playing against her.”
Pierre grew stiff beside Francine.
“But, my lady—”
“You were her champion. Surely you don’t think she’ll take your spot.”
“Take your spot?” Francine asked.
“As Master Fiddler for the court,” the queen explained.
“How about just for the evening?” Pierre proposed. “Master Fiddler for a day?”
“No,” Queen Yvette said. “I don’t want you throwing this competition. You will play for your position. And you will beat him, or else,” she added, turning to Francine.
“Or else?”
“We’ll drag you back to the crossroads at dawn,” Yvette said, smiling sweetly at both of them before she walked away.
“Pierre—” Francine started.
“I can’t lose my place,” Pierre interrupted her. “I’ll lose my standing at court.”
Francine stared at him. How did that compare to her not being allowed to live here at all?
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Maybe she’ll decide it’s only for a day,” Pierre murmured, not paying attention to Francine.
Brooks suddenly reappeared behind them.
“No, she won’t,” he said. “You know how much she likes these games.”
“What am I going to do?” Pierre asked, looking lost.
Francine bit her tongue to keep herself from telling him to grow up.
“You’re going to play your heart out,” Jacque said, coming out of nowhere. “That’s what she’s going to do.” He paused, then added in an over-solicitous tone, “You do still have a heart, don’t you? Haven’t sold off that body part yet?”
Pierre scowled at Jacque. Then he looked at Francine, and the lost expression filled his face again.
“What about…” he said, waving vaguely in her direction.
“What about me?” Francine asked, crossing her arms over her chest. If Pierre thought she might have any regrets beating him in this contest, he was sorely mistaken. She’d been so attracted to him before. Now, she wasn’t sure if that attraction had been a mistake.
“We’ll take care of her,” Brooks told him solemnly.
“She’ll be in good hands,” Jacque added.
“She better not actually end up in anyone’s hands,” Pierre growled, glaring at both of them. “She’s a virgin, and she should still be one by the end of the night.”
“I think I can make my own judgments about that,” Francine said hotly, stung by how freely he shared this information.
How had he known? How was it anyone’s business?
Pierre said softly to Francine, “Just make sure that you do.” He paused, then added, “I really hadn’t expected this. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know,” Francine said.
Pierre’s standing in the court seemed to be too important to him for him to knowingly jeopardize it. But his assumption that he would win also added fuel to her already burning anger.
“She’ll be safe with us,” Brooks promised.
Pierre merely nodded, then walked away.
“Come, cousin, let’s get you dressed for battle,” Brooks said, extending his elbow to her.
Francine didn’t want to go with this man. She didn’t want to have to prove herself again.
She also didn’t want to be judged as inadequate and thrown out of the fairy realm. She couldn’t go back.
Gingerly, Francine took Brooks’ arm.
“No gowns,” she said firmly. Dressing up like some court mannequin was the last thing she needed.
Brooks laughed.
“Oh cousin, I have something much better than that planned for you.”
* * *
Francine slid the ivory silk shirt over her shoulders, buttoning it quickly. She believed Brooks and Jacque when they said they wouldn’t peek through the vast shrubs of the grove where she changed her clothes. Yet, it wouldn’t do to tempt them by moving slowly.
The shirt felt cool against her skin and didn’t seem to warm like normal clothes. On top of the shirt, she added a black vest that fastened tightly just under her breasts, emphasizing them. Even without a mirror she knew she looked good in them. She quickly changed into the black jeans that Mama always fussed about, saying they were too grown-up for her. They fit her legs tightly and made them go on forever. After trying on the fairy boots, she put back on her own; the new ones didn’t have the weight she was used to.
With a final sigh and a wish for a mirror, Francine walked out of the grove.
Jacque gave her a low wolf whistle.
Francine found herself smiling at him.
“You look like a proper warrior,” Brooks added.
“You just need one more thing.”
He brought his hands forward from behind his back with a flourish. He held a beautiful fiddle made out of smooth white wood. Gold lined the scrolls of the head and around the openings in the middle of the body. The silver metal strings gleamed.
Francine took it from Brooks reverently, feeling its weight. She plucked one note, then another, then shook her head and handed it back to him.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s a beautiful instrument. But I need to play my own fiddle, the one I know.”
While Francine suspected this new instrument could easily become an extension of her soul, it would take time—time she didn’t have. Better she stayed with something familiar for now.
However, based on the matching grins Jacque and Brooks gave Francine, she knew she’d made the right decision. The boys weren’t trying to trick her or put her at a disadvantage—she didn’t know what they had against Pierre, but they really wanted her to win.
“Any advice?” she asked as they walked back toward where the court was gathered.
Brooks shrugged. “The queen always changes the parameters to these sorts of challenges, so you never know what’s expected. Just—play your heart out.”
Francine nodded. She wouldn’t try anything too fancy, just pour everything she had into her music, as always.
The atmosphere in the grand hall under the trees and kudzu sparked now, not sparkled. Ladies and gentlemen lined the walls, clustered in tight groups, whispering urgently to one another. Francine thought she saw money being passed between them.
Were they betting for her, or against her? It didn’t matter. She was determined to win.
Pierre already stood at the front of the hall beside the queen. His outfit was similar to hers, except in different colors: a blood-red shirt covered by a green vest so dark it seemed black. His instrument would have matched the one the boys had tried to give her, only instead of white and gold, it was black and gold.
At the prompting of Brooks, Francine sank into a low curtsy as she was presented.
“I approve,” Queen Yvette said, her golden gator eyes sparkling.
“Thank you, your majesty,” Jacque said woodenly. “You know I live for your approval.”
“None of your cheek,” Pierre said hotly.
“Save your ire,” the queen said calmly.
“What are the terms of the battle?” Francine asked. She really wanted to know what was expected of her.
“A duet,” Queen Yvette said, looking between the pair of them. “Followed by each of you playing alone.”
It seemed strange to Francine that they’d play together first—maybe the queen wanted to make sure that she wasn’t a hothead, unable to play with anyone, though she’d shown that already at the crossroads.
Pierre picked up his fiddle, cradling it gently against his chin.
Francine followed suit, bow raised. Anticipation and relaxation ran through Francine. Nothing felt better than playing, even in these circumstances.
When the notes spilled out, Francine cursed. She’d let Pierre pick the tune, without insisting he play something she know. It put her at a disadvantage, forcing her to play second fiddle.
Pierre smirked as he speeded up, Francine’s fingers tripping.
Francine refused to give up. She picked up the melody by the second time Pierre looped around to it, adding her own flourishes and arpeggios. She couldn’t steal the lead from Pierre, not when he went into the bridge. She skipped up and down it as best she could, adding sweet harmonies and a syncopated beat. They ended with a prolonged improv at the end, both trying to outplay each other and get the last note in.
The court applauded politely. Francine grimaced. Though the queen awarded that round to Pierre, she felt they’d both lost.
No one had gotten up to dance.
Now, it was Francine’s turn to do her solo. Without a second thought, she started in on “Zydeco Queen,” the song she’d written. It moved fast and hard.
Francine felt like a wind that had finally been set free. She whirled in place, unable to stop herself from moving, stomping her boots and letting her fingers fly.
She poured all her anger into her song. She’d lost both Mama and Papa. Not even those who called her kin accepted her. She hated being called young and inexperienced, which Pierre had done with his comments about her being a virgin.
But mainly, Francine wanted those creatures to move. Proper zydeco was music that you had to dance to. Done right, even the dead would rise and twirl to her tune.
When those in front started swaying, Francine knew she’d won.
Before the second verse, the power of Francine’s heritage washed over her and the thrill of magic coursed through her. She couldn’t control it—she didn’t really even know what to do with it. She felt like she’d finally come home. This was what she’d been born to do: to bring this music to life, to make it solid and real.
By the time Francine reached the final chorus, the court wasn’t merely swaying.
More than one had started dancing.
Francine had expected them to do a type of courtly dance, partnered and refined, though speeded up for her zydeco.
Instead they stomped in time, like how old people did when they could no longer swing their hips. They’d also lost some of their human countenance: The man closest to her now had the head and claws of a wolf, while the woman he danced with shimmered with the sleek black skin of a rat snake.
Queen Yvette frowned at Francine, but she didn’t care. It didn’t matter to her if she lost to Pierre. Tonight she’d played better than ever before.
Tonight she’d finally tasted real magic.
Francine threw in an extra chorus. All the court moved now. They formed lines and stomped back and forth. Animal howls echoed through the great hall. At first they startled Francine, then she used them, incorporated them into the song, casting it higher.
The queen had said only that Francine would play alone. She hadn’t specified the number of songs she could play. So Francine slid into another tune without stopping, “Run, Gator, Run.” She didn’t speed up the melody—it was normally played triple time—but she did hit the bass notes hard, sometimes slipping down into a lower octave, to drive the tune forcefully.
Cool moonlight joined Francine’s tune, curling around it and casting the notes far and wide. Even the trees’ limbs started swinging in time. Kudzu shivered in invisible winds, twitching with the steady beat.
Francine laughed as the court danced. This was the power she remembered from her few gigs, only amplified ten thousand times. She controlled the court, directing them from the sidelines. They might be fairies, inhuman and alien, but she held their hearts and minds.
Something coolly whispered to Francine that she could make them tear each other apart if she wished. It would be easy to cause them pain and make them hurt like she’d been hurt.
The magic inside her welled as she made her notes brighter, sharper.
The court responded with a swelling growl. All the hairs on the back of Francine’s neck stood up. She remembered Uncle Rene’s backyard suddenly, the trees there.
Beautiful and perilous.
Quite possibly deadly, if under her command.
“Stop!” Queen Yvette commanded.
Francine kept playing, but she turned her attention to the queen. The intensity of the music faded and just the notes continued.
“You will stop. Now.”
Slowly, Francine let the melody die away, the tune left unresolved. The court growled again, sounding frustrated.
“That music isn’t appropriate for the court,” Queen Yvette declared.
“I don’t care,” Francine told her hotly. “That’s the music I want to play.”
“Then play it on your own,” the queen told her.
Pierre spoke up. “What you played—it’s the music of war. The court needs a different kind of music. Something lighter, more playful.”
Francine gritted her teeth. Damn them all for letting her think she might have a better life here.
“So I should leave, then?”
Queen Yvette blinked at her. “Heavens, no, child. What gave you that impression?”
With a snap, Francine closed her mouth. What kind of game was the queen playing? She’d just been told to stop playing, which meant she’d lost, right?
“Y’all are powerful, but undisciplined,” Queen Yvette continued. “You can stay, and learn, under Pierre’s guidance. You’re too untamed to be the Master Fiddler, even for a day. Later, though, she still may take your place,” she warned.
“Thank you, my queen,” Pierre said, stumbling forward, bowing low.
At Pierre’s nudging, Francine also said, “Thank you, Queen Yvette.” She gave a curtsy, but not as low as before. Anger still shimmered through her blood.
Though Francine had no doubt she’d won the contest, she still felt as though she’d lost, too.
* * *
Pierre insisted on playing the next piece alone: A slow lullaby that calmed Francine’s shimmering rage. The fairies were more affected by it, quickly dropping their claws and fangs, becoming more human, their heads nodding. The lights in the trees dimmed, and the branches inched higher, as if giving one last good stretch for the night.
Francine gathered her things together and stood awkwardly to one side, shifting from one foot to the other, while Pierre played the last few notes. She wished Pierre would at least play a waltz, but he seemed determined to keep the fairies from dancing.
When Pierre finished, the court drifted away, flitting off into the woods, disappearing up the dirt trails. After he put his fiddle away, he turned to Francine and told her, “There’s a place set up for you. This way.”
They walked straight east, along a twisting path. The woods seemed more welcoming to Francine now; she could see several paths opening through the thick undergrowth. The moon had set, but leaves and branches shifted out of the way, making it easy for her walk and not stumble.
The trees opened up to a small clearing. At least half of it was taken up by a flattop hill. A steep ladder lay against the side of it.
“You’re kidding, right?” Francine asked. She wondered if she was supposed to camp out.
“You’ll see,” Pierre told her, inviting her to climb the ladder first.
Francine put her foot on the first rung. The ladder looked as though it was made out of bamboo—skinny and green—but it easily took her weight. The wood felt smooth under her hands and smelled newly cut.
At the top lay a collection of stumps covered in kudzu. Between two trees at the back hung a living curtain of purple flowers. Though it was pretty, Francine still didn’t see where she was supposed to live. She supposed that two of the stumps that kind of grew together might have served as a couch, but there was no bed, no place private.
Pierre stood expectantly at the top of the ladder, looked at her. “Well?”
“This is where I’m supposed to live?”
Pierre pressed his lips together and kept his expression bland for a few moments, before he grinned at her.
“No. Not here. Come.”
He walked across the hill and pulled aside the flowers. Warm light spilled out.
Francine shook her head and walked into the space. It didn’t belong there: the hill should have ended at the curtain. A tiny thrill went through her that her even her house was magic.
The first room didn’t remind Francine of any place she’d ever been. It felt like a nest. Small woven branches made up the walls, with wide openings that looked out over more woods. Overstuffed pillows, brightly colored in gold and red, lay scattered across the grass floor. The kitchen had a wooden table and chairs on one side. On the other wall hung a single shelf. Half a dozen fluted glasses stood in front of three golden tubes that ran from floor to ceiling.
The bedroom contained a mattress heaped with pillows, furs, and soft blankets, as well as a cupboard built into the wall. It smelled like fresh-cut pine. For a moment, Francine missed the cedar-lined wardrobe that Uncle Leroy had built her. Then she saw the clothes.
“Are those for me?”
Rich silk shirts and jackets, mainly in whites and blacks, hung there. Only two gowns were included; one in a dark brown, the other, a light blue.
Pierre smiled at her.
“Consider them payment for your playing earlier.”
“What do you mean?” Francine bristled.
“You surprised the queen with the power of your music and passion. I don’t know why she was surprised—your father was that good. You shook up the court. Gave them a new experience. They value those.”
Francine bit her lip, but finally asked, “What happened, exactly, when I played? And what was that challenge all about?”
Pierre looked at the ground.
“I’m sorry about what happened,” he said. “Let’s...let’s talk.”
He led her back into the kitchen and showed her how to open one of the tubes and pour out some of the moon wine contained there, then led her out the back door of the kitchen into an intimate yard.
The space immediately reminded her of Uncle Rene’s backyard. A fountain in the center splashed water against a fluted white bowl. The scent of mint filled the air.
Pierre gracefully sank to the ground, sitting cross-legged.
Francine followed suit. They toasted each other and Francine took a sip. The moon wine was cool like the best lemonade, tart and sweet, and it filled her up completely, more so than any drink she’d ever had. Just a mouthful and she was satiated.
No wonder the fairies didn’t cook.
Francine put the glass to the side, determined not to drink too much, not yet, while she waited for Pierre to start explaining.
“I don’t have any noble blood,” Pierre said softly. “My mother isn’t recognized by the court. I was born and raised in the fairy realms, on the outskirts, though my father was human. I had to earn my way into the court. Without my position, I’m nothing. It took me years to get any status. Just losing the one battle meant I would have lost everything.”
Francine tried to understand.
“Wouldn’t your friends have stuck with you?”
“Ma chérie, still so human,” Pierre said, shaking his head.
“We don’t have friends, not like that. The only family that counts are the royals. No, I would have lost it all, and had to fight for years to gain it back again. Or be forced back into the woods, no civilized place to call home.”
So Papa was right. But she didn’t say anything about that. Instead, she asked, “What happened while I was playing?”
“Fairies go to war sometimes. Amongst ourselves, mainly,” Pierre said. “The battles are driven by the music, by the fiddlers and drummers. A good general is nothing compared to a good war tune.”
“I didn’t mean to play war music,” Francine said, frowning.
Pierre shook his head.
“It didn’t matter what you played, what tune. Your passion, and your anger, changed the music.” He looked directly at her.
“You gotta learn to control yourself. Or you’re going to get yourself, and others, hurt.”
“What do you mean?” Francine asked, stung.
“As the queen said, you’re very powerful. Undirected, your music could make someone attack, without knowing what they were doing.”
Francine nodded, remembering those few moments at the end when she’d twisted the music, turning it sharp and bitter.
“Teach me,” she said after a moment. “Teach me how to use what’s in me.”
She’d always wanted magic, power, and control. This was her chance.
“I will,” Pierre said. “Not just the war tunes, but the joy as well. The laughter and fun.”
He smiled at Francine and she remembered how attractive he’d been when she first met him. The attraction was still there. He was as beautiful as all the fairies, a great fiddler, and she could learn a lot from him.
“All right,” Francine said slowly. She was willing to learn it all.
But she really wanted to learn how to fight, too.
* * *
After Pierre left, Francine went back out into her backyard. The trees sang quietly to her. She got out her fiddle and played to them, creating soft lullabies. Flowers growing up the walls blossomed, their stamens glowing. The sweet smell of midnight jasmine crept through the air.
When Francine lay down on the ground in the middle of the yard and looked up, she saw millions of stars. The trees understood where she looked and slid their branches out of the way so she could see more. The moon had set long ago, but the sun seemed reluctant to come out and start the day.
Francine didn’t recognize any of the constellations. Either she was now someplace completely different, or there were too many stars for her to recognize.
The first time Francine thought she heard someone calling her name, she wondered if she’d fallen asleep and it was part of a dream. The voice came in under her usual hearing, she felt, pinging bone and not ear.
Finally, Francine realized someone was just beyond the gate in the back, calling to be let in. Francine roused herself and threw it open.
Brooks stepped across the threshold.
“This area is private,” Francine hissed.
“Sorry,” Brooks said, not looking repentant at all. “I wanted to see you, and it’s better if no one else sees me.”
Francine nodded, though she still wasn’t happy.
“Why don’t you come in for a minute?” she asked, indicating the kitchen. “I have some moon wine,” she said.
Brooks ducked his head, then nodded.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, preceding her into the house.
Francine got out two fluted glasses and coaxed a tube to drip into them, filling them with the golden, sweet liquid.
“Cheers,” she said, handing one to Brooks. They clinked glasses, Brooks catching her eye. The way he smiled at her made her heart beat faster. She told herself not to be stupid. This wasn’t just her cousin: He was a wild, unknown character, as well.
“We’re only related through marriage, you know,” Brooks said, as if he’d read her mind.
Francine’s cheeks grew warm and the flush moved through her body.
“No, I didn’t,” she said, glad that she kept her voice steady.
“I don’t know how I’m related to anyone, here.”
“The queen—my mother—is a lot older than she looks,” Brooks warned. “Centuries old.”
That surprised Francine. The trees gave a feeling of great age, not the people she’d met.
“She’s outlived more than one husband. Rumor is that she killed some she grew bored with.” Brooks grimaced.
“She killed your papa?” Francine asked, horrified.
Brooks laughed.
“No, mine merely died. Jacque’s father—he was banished. We’re half-brothers.”
“You don’t live with the court, do you?”
“No. We live out on the edges, near the swamps, in the bayou.”
“Why?” Francine really wanted to know what had driven him away. Were these the outskirts that Pierre dreaded so much? She wasn’t sure she wanted to stay in the court, but these woods were more home than anywhere she’d ever been. She didn’t want to leave them.
“Mother has certain ideas of what is fun….” Brooks paused and sighed. “Let’s just say tonight’s entertainment, forcing a man to choose between his protégé and his position, was tame. Though you certainly surprised them.” He raised his glass and clinked it with hers again.
“You were part of the ’entertainment’ once, weren’t you?” Francine asked, sickly certain.
Brooks nodded.
“That’s why I’m here. If you ever decide you want to stay in Féerie but not in the court, you’ll always be welcome with us. Jacque and Josephine and the others. We’d make you a house—as good as this. Maybe better.”
Francine had the feeling Brooks wasn’t telling her everything.
“Why?”
While it was nice her cousin wanted to help her, it wasn’t just because she was kin.
Laughing softly, Brooks shook his head and studied the glass in his hands.
“I told Jacque you were smart enough to ask.” He sighed, then looked up. “The lands of the court—they’re real. Or real enough. Where we are is only as real as we make it. Your music, though, could make it much more real.”
“I don’t understand.”
Brooks waved his hands around. “This all feels solid, smells and tastes like life. Is it?”
Francine blinked, remembering stories of fairies paying travelers with gold coins that turned into acorns and leaves, beautiful palaces dissolving into hovels at dawn. She looked around carefully, but it all seemed real to her.
“At the heart of all of this is fairy magic. And that doesn’t exist in the human world,” Brooks said softly.
“So it isn’t real.”
Brooks shrugged.
“It’s real here. Where we live is less so. You’d make it stronger.”
He handed her what looked like a glass lily with obscenely red petals and a sprinkling of orange pollen at the center of it.
“Break this in your hand. The door to the wilds will appear.”
“Thank you,” Francine said.
After Brooks left, Francine spent a long time looking at the glass flower, wondering how real his offer was as well.