Francine puttered around her bedroom and spent at least a minute—maybe two—debating about the outfit she’d wear to that night’s ball.
Pierre had sent over a gown that was both elegant and deceptively simple.
Francine had loved it when she’d tried it on. The pearlescent colors shimmered when she walked. It accentuated what little bust she had as well as her thin waist. The sleeves fell only to the middle of her forearms so she could easily play.
It was gorgeous.
It was also safe, and not her.
Another gown had appeared on Francine’s front porch late that afternoon. The fiery red made her pale skin glow. Rich gold laces strapped around her torso and her waist, then hung down the front and sides of the skirt like parade streamers. The material didn’t glitter like most of her fairy clothes; instead, the color subtly shifted from red to burgundy to almost black. It felt heavier than it looked, and that weight made Francine more comfortable. Though it covered her more demurely, it gave the impression of being more daring.
Francine didn’t know who had left it for her. Brooks? Lady Melisandra? Or someone else? She didn’t care either. It fit her perfectly, both her spirit and her body.
The mask that came with the dress was made out of nice-smelling leather and painted red and gold. It swirled up above her right eye and down along her left cheek. The way the mask curved reminded Francine of the cutout in the body of her fiddle.
After Francine put the dress on, she went into her backyard and played a smooth tune on her fiddle, turning the water in her fountain glass-still so she could see herself.
For the first time Francine saw some of the differences Pierre had mentioned.
Large golden eyes stared back at Francine through the mask. They weren’t gator shaped, though the color was the same. She thought they looked more like a bird’s. Her dark hair had blue highlights in it, deeper and richer than any her aunts would have been able to give her. The dress made her look taller and thinner, more willowy. She realized with a start that she looked like Pierre. She wondered if they were closer kin than she’d realized, or if she merely looked like a fiddler. She checked carefully for wings, but only saw her human arms and hands, her skin pale as white feathers.
Stepping out of her house and heading toward the grand hall, Francine could taste the excitement in the air. It might not be a stomping party or a fais do do, but it was still a party. Everyone wanted to have a good time.
The fairies wore splendid costumes that night. Francine was glad she’d chosen the gown she had. While some wore paler colors, most of the outfits had richer, darker hues.
For the first time, she looked as though she fit in.
Francine didn’t know the court well enough to recognize any of the masked ladies and gentlemen. She passed fairies wearing cat, butterfly, pelican, and bat masks. Some had simple dominos with feathers floating three feet up above them. One group of four fairies Francine passed she would have called elemental: The ends of the one in the red mask flickered upward like flames; the gray mask swirled like water; the blue and green one looked like the planet Earth; and the silver gauze one floated in midair, never still, like wind.
Other musicians had already started playing by the time Francine got there. She nodded to the few she knew, then got out her fiddle and joined in. She played support, not the lead, in the music they made together. She wasn’t bored—the musicians were too good for her to be uninterested.
It still wasn’t music that stirred her soul.
Suddenly, the soft waltz they were playing changed into a stirring march.
Francine frowned, but followed along. She saw Queen Yvette walking from one end of the hall to the other and finally understood: Though the queen didn’t have an anthem, the musicians were expected to still announce her.
When Pierre arrived, Francine had second thoughts about her dress.
Pierre wore a long gauzy jacket that would have matched the gown he’d sent her.
She decided when she went to stand next to him that they complemented each other anyway: While he was light, she was dark, while he was air and floated, she was earth and grounded.
The edges of his white mask rose at least a foot in the air and looked like snow-covered branches.
Of course, Pierre didn’t see it that way.
“What are you wearing?” he asked, dismayed.
“A gown,” Francine said simply, smiling at him.
“Yes, but whose?” Pierre asked. At Francine’s shrug, he continued. “You know that wearing a person’s gift shows you favor them. It isn’t an innocent expression of thanks.”
Francine glared at Pierre, angry with him as well as herself. She should have thought through the consequences. She didn’t want to care about the court alliances, but Pierre kept telling her that she must.
At Francine’s continued mute treatment, Pierre finally sighed.
“I hope you know what you’re doing. The outfit you were supposed to wear came from the queen.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Francine asked, even more angry now.
“You let me think it came from you.”
“Would that have mattered?”
Francine bit her lip. She honestly didn’t know.
Pierre led the next dance, a beautiful waltz that had everyone dancing, the women swirling in their beautiful gowns. Francine watched and listened carefully; she knew she could still learn a lot from Pierre.
Then it was Francine’s turn. She picked a faster two-step. The beat wasn’t as quick as she would have liked, but it was fast enough that the fairies twirled and leapt.
Pierre and Francine played together on the next few songs, finding a sweet rhythm between Francine’s need for faster music and Pierre’s preference for slower waltzes. The queen walked the hall while they played, stopping to talk with small groups of people. When she reached the stand where the musicians played, she asked a gentleman in a bright red fox mask to dance.
“She approves,” Pierre murmured.
Francine knew that should make her happy. Instead, she merely shrugged.
More important than the queen’s approval, Francine needed to be happy as well.
When the song ended, Queen Yvette clapped her hands. Instantly, everyone’s attention was on her.
“Tonight we will watch a different type of battle,” she said. “Pierre and Francine will play for favors.”
The crowd grew more still. Francine’s back stiffened. What did that mean?
“All I would ask for is a single kiss,” Pierre said with a sweeping bow.
Francine’s cheeks grew red. She still didn’t know if she liked Pierre or not. Or rather, she liked him, but only sometimes.
“And the lady—being too demure to ask for herself—shall get a day of service,” Queen Yvette announced.
Francine glanced at Pierre.
He grinned at her and nodded, happy with the proposed prizes.
Francine gave him a shy smile, pleased that this time, the stakes weren’t so high.
That didn’t mean Francine didn’t intend on winning.
They each played two sets. Francine kept her rhythms modest, well in keeping with the preferences of the queen.
Then Pierre played a different piece by Paganini. Fast, full-throttle.
It wasn’t the same as Francine’s beloved zydeco. Pierre kept the music classic and traditional. It had tremendous zing, though. More than one of the court swayed, twitched, or otherwise looked like they wanted to move with the driving music.
Francine hung her head. After Pierre finished, it was obvious to her who had won. She’d have to give up a kiss, and maybe that was okay.
Queen Yvette stepped forward.
“Thank you, Pierre, for such an exhilarating experience.”
“I live to serve,” Pierre said grandly with yet another sweeping bow.
The queen looked between the pair of them.
“In the opinion of the court, Francine is the victor here.”
“I beg your pardon?” Pierre asked before Francine could ask the queen what game she played.
“I liked her music better.”
Francine didn’t need to tell Pierre the queen lied. He could see it. She mouthed, “I’m sorry,” as she moved forward, taking the queen’s hand as requested. She curtsied low to the court.
“You’ve been promised a day of service, haven’t you, my dear?” Queen Yvette purred.
The hairs on the back of Francine’s neck stood up. Fear gripped her sides, forcing her to breathe shallowly.
“Yes.”
“And you love the trees here, don’t you?”
Francine couldn’t stop herself from looking up. The branches moved; maybe there was a high wind she didn’t feel, or maybe they were waving.
“Yes.”
“Then Pierre shall serve you best as a tree.”
“No!” Pierre screamed.
The force of the magic hit Pierre like a gale. He threw his hands up to cover his face, but they kept going, up and up, as his arms elongated.
Francine shook in horror as loud cracks filled the air: Pierre’s bones breaking as the magic took hold.
His white mask branched into more tree limbs and his body took on the mask’s white sheen, looking cold and alien in the warmly lit hall. A large, black knot formed over Pierre’s open mouth, effectively stopping his screams but not Francine’s shudders. Roots grew out from his feet, rippling across the stage.
The queen laughed and merrily skipped out of the way as they tried to trip her.
The roots made a wide path around Francine. She didn’t know if it was because Pierre pitied or despised her.
“Shall I transport him to your backyard?” the queen asked sweetly. “Or leave him here?”
Francine wondered if Pierre could hear them, if he had an opinion. She didn’t know if tearing up Pierre’s roots, making him grow them again would be more painful than making him stay here, in full view of the others.
However, it would be more painful for Francine if Pierre were forced into her private space, particularly like this.
“Leave him here.”
“So we shall. Let’s dance! Play something cheerful for us,” Queen Yvette said, twirling away.
Francine glanced at the other musicians, then out at the court. No one else seemed to be horrified at what the queen had done. Francine swallowed down the bile in her throat and stopped herself from frowning.
She couldn’t make herself smile.
She could make herself play. She lifted her fiddle to her chin, counted the beat of three, then started to play a song of spring that Pierre had taught her.
The pale tree above Francine swayed.
She wanted to believe he was happy, or that maybe he was dancing to the music, but she knew he wasn’t.
* * *
Much, much later, after the stars had gone to bed and the sun was almost rising, Francine finally escaped back to her sanctuary. Exhausted as she was, she didn’t rest. She walked directly into the backyard then stopped, looking up. The trees crowded close to her, dropping their limbs so she could reach up and touch their branches.
“How many of you were people?” Francine asked softly, stroking leaves and bark. “How many of you want to move again?”
The trees didn’t reply, just sighed and whispered.
Francine could learn to live with the politics and games of the court. She’d been able to ignore the queen, her pettiness, and her mean games. But the queen had just torn the heart out of Francine’s home, disturbed her peace, given her more doubts than even Francine could walk away from.
With regret, Francine petted as many of the tree limbs that she could reach before she left the backyard and walked into the kitchen.
On the table, the red glass flower waited. It was one path of escape. She remembered the golden laughing Brooks, the lost afternoon with him and Jacque, the sweet berries and strangely thin trees.
Francine picked the flower up. The intense color belied the cool weight resting against her palm. She wanted to throw it. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear apart all the branches of her cozy nest so it looked as destroyed as she felt.
Instead, Francine changed back into all human clothes, wrapped up her small scarf of things, wrapped herself in a cloak, picked up the flower and her fiddle, and walked out the door for the last time.
* * *
“I was expecting you,” Lady Melisandra said. She sat on a moss-covered stump on her front porch, sipping a flute of moon wine. The early morning birds were just waking up, calling softly to each other.
Francine was suddenly glad that the trees had grown silent; she’d been afraid she’d hear Pierre’s screams in their shuffling branches.
“You upset the queen by wearing an unknown person’s favor.”
Francine frowned.
“I thought she approved of my outfit.”
Lady Melisandra shrugged.
“She liked the dress. She didn’t like not knowing who it was from.”
“How did the queen know that I didn’t know who’d given it to me?”
Lady Melisandra blinked. “Not that you didn’t know. That no one knew. I thought you knew.”
Francine shook her head.
“It came from me, my dear,” Lady Melisandra said, standing.
“Why would you give me something that you knew would upset the queen?”
Lady Melisandra shrugged.
“I was only thinking of currying your favor. Not of what effect it would have on her.” At Francine’s puzzled look, she continued. “I wanted to become your patron. Steal you away from the queen and the court. Have you attend only me. It was the only way I could think of to protect you.”
The tears that Francine had been expecting all night suddenly welled in her eyes.
“You were trying to save me, to keep me here,” she whispered.
“And a mess I’ve made of that. Come.” Lady Melisandra led the way into her home.
Francine took one last look at the lands of the fairy court—the beautiful trees, the graceful paths, and the cruel shrubs with their palm-length thorns.
The front half of Lady Melisandra’s home was decorated in rich reds and browns, giving it a homey feel. Shelves covered the walls, covered with beautiful leaves, unusually curved branches, and odd-shaped stones. A round mantel stood on one side, and for the first time, a cheery fire burned in the hearth. It startled Francine—she hadn’t seen a fire the entire time she’d been there, she realized. She drew closer to examine it, then leaned back, disappointed. The fire was magic: It burned with a blue hue, but gave out no smoke, no heat, and was strangely silent.
Lady Melisandra waited for Francine in the kitchen.
This felt more fey to Francine.
Gauze streamers of blue and red hung from the ceiling, hiding the solid walls they were tacked to. The colors changed as the fabric slid across itself, making the room fluid and airy, the boundaries unknowable.
Lady Melisandra turned ancient eyes to Francine, eyes that had seen plagues kill babies and long winters madden strong men. Her eyes didn’t remind Francine of an animal, plant, or even stone. She was just other.
“Ask what you want of me,” Lady Melisandra intoned.
“Send me to the wilds of Féerie,” Francine asked formally.
“What have you brought to ease the passage?”
From under her cloak, Francine produced the glass flower.
“Clever, very clever,” Lady Melisandra crooned. Her hair had turned white and her back had bent, as if her age could no longer be denied.
“This would have made you obligated to them, if you had used it.”
Francine nodded. She hadn’t known; however, she wasn’t surprised to learn the truth.
Lady Melisandra curled over the flower, her head bending farther down until it was even with Francine’s waist. She held the brilliant glass in one hand while she bobbed her other hand over it, fingers drooping, as if dripping unseen magic onto it. She spoke in a language Francine didn’t know but still felt in her bones. It stripped skin and moved blood, saying only the truth of things.
The obscene red of the flower dripped out between Lady Melisandra’s now-wrinkled fingers, leaving the petals a hazy purple—the color of smoke in bars.
“That’s more like it,” Lady Melisandra rasped. She grinned at Francine with a toothless mouth, her skin all wrinkled and covered in age spots.
“This is what you need.”
When Lady Melisandra placed the flower in Francine’s hand it had a pulse, like a triple-time waltz. Her heart speeded up to match the beat, and she couldn’t stop her head from nodding in time to it.
Lady Melisandra chuckled.
“Exactly what you need.”
Francine expected to be able to say goodbye, or at least thank you. But Lady Melisandra grasped Francine’s wrist, turned her hand quickly, and smashed the flower against the table. Glass shards pierced Francine’s skin, making her cry out.
“Blood given for blood received,” Lady Melisandra crooned.
Smoke rose up from Francine’s hurt hand, mingling with the gauzy streamers. Francine blinked surprised tears away, drawing her hand up and cradling it against her chest, examining it carefully. The glass shards sank under her skin, drawing the blood with them. She shivered and felt nauseated.
What had Lady Melisandra done to her?
When Francine looked up, she stood in a very different woods with her knotted scarf and the white fiddle at her feet.
Her human fiddle was gone.
* * *
The trees—leaner, darker, more sinister here than in the fairy court—swayed with the syncopated beat Francine generated from snapping her fingers and stomping her boots as she danced across the winter meadow. At the edge she swayed as well, bending almost in two, dancing like the trees around her did, before picking up the white fiddle and carrying on with the tune.
Golden drops of honeyed liquor bobbed in the air, clustered together like a small cloud. Without missing a note Francine leapt up and sucked one into her mouth. It exploded against her tongue: sweet with a dark warmth, spiced with nutmeg and chicory. Francine laughed and twirled, hazy ropes of smoke spiraling out from her fiddle.
If any of her cousins saw Francine like this, human or otherwise, they’d think she was insane, dancing like a wild woman with no one around.
She stubbornly didn’t care what they thought, what anyone thought.
She was finally able to make the music she wanted, the music she loved. She felt more complete than ever before.
Francine lived off the music, the trees, and the meadow. She coaxed sweet dew from the grass to quench her thirst and cool her off when she got too sweaty. Branches easily formed into a nest for her, rocking her gently to sleep. Honeysuckle, moon wine, and sweet berries fell into her hand when she wanted to eat.
Time seemed irrelevant to Francine. She ate when she was hungry, slept when she was tired, and danced and played music the rest of the time. Though the fairy court had felt right, it had only fit one side of her. Here, she could be gentle and harsh, fast and slow, ride the delight she felt up into clouds of ecstasy or slide down into the depths of mourning. She’d never given such free rein to her emotions before, though she’d always felt deeply.
The trees challenged Francine sometimes, acting indifferent to her music. Then she’d whip them into a frenzy, causing rain to lash down while thunder and lightning tore the sky apart. She suspected it was what they wanted, why they’d ignore her, to get her riled up.
Today, Francine played with rhythm as opposed to notes, knocking with her knuckles on her fiddle, finding new patterns. She’d play a melody off and on, incorporating all the parts of the song together, then focusing on just one bit or another.
When Francine reached the end and turned, she saw a figure step out from under the trees on the far side.
Francine didn’t stop playing. It was her best protection.
The figure approached slowly, using a dancing step, then paused and looked around before coming forward again. It seemed as if he was the one who might spook and run away, not Francine.
She did but didn’t care if he made it all the way across the meadow. She’d missed her cousins sometimes, and mourned the loss of her parents, but the trees and the wilds made up for so much.
Only when the figure drew closer did Francine realize he was a faun. From his waist down, he had the furry legs of a goat. His cloven hooves shone black against the brown winter grass. Perched on his forehead rose two small horns, starkly white against his thick curls. His eyes had that same golden gator glint that Queen Yvette’s had, making Francine wary. She played to the trees, waking them to the possible threat, knowing they’d protect her if she couldn’t defend herself with her music.
The faun nodded to Francine, then started to dance nimbly, bolder now that he was closer.
Trees whispered at Francine, urging her to challenge him.
Francine picked up the pace, changing the tune. The wind swirled around her, making little dust demons of fallen leaves dance with her.
The faun grinned and kicked up his heels, happy to move to her beat.
So Francine added more. A storm brewed up fast, reflecting Francine’s emotions.
Why hadn’t the other court accepted her like this stranger appeared to? Why hadn’t they liked the music of her heart? Why hadn’t her papa?
Thunder rolled across the land.
Francine howled as she played, stomping down the grass with her heavy human boots, throwing not just smoke but blue fairy fire from her fiddle. Sparks cascaded around her, falling silently to the ground.
Without hesitation, the faun kept up, losing himself in Francine’s power and song. He sweated freely, drops thrown from his body to the ground by the fierceness of his dance. He gladly went where she directed, laughing as his legs and arms moved faster, his body contorting in its attempt to manifest the music. He clapped his hands and seemed to feed the energy Francine spewed back to her, like an appreciative audience did, though he was a single person.
Francine could have gone on for days, fed by the trees and the dancer, but her curiosity eventually got the better of her. She rounded up the chorus, playing a frenzied closing before halting with three grand, drawn-out notes.
“Whew!” the faun said. He bent over, placing his hands on his knees and breathing heavily.
“That was sure something. Mmm mmm.”
“It was,” Francine said, finding herself grinning. She felt good and loose, like all her stored-up tension had just been flung into the creek. The storm clouds started peeling away, leaving gray skies of indecision behind.
“I’m Erastus,” the faun said, extending his hand.
“You can call me Francine,” she replied, taking it.
His hand was surprisingly dry given how much the rest of him was sweating. It was also smooth and overly warm, like Lady Melisandra’s had been the first time she’d touched it.
Erastus brought the back of Francine’s hand to his mouth for a kiss.
It wasn’t like when Pierre had kissed her hand—this kiss chased fire into her blood, quickly spreading up her arm.
Flustered, Francine drew back. She raised her fiddle again, ready to drive this strange being away.
“Aw, sweet girl, didn’t mean nothing,” Erastus said, ducking his head.
“Can’t help it. Just in my being.”
Francine viewed the faun suspiciously but lowered her instrument.
“What do you want?” she asked, deliberately being rude and not asking if he was hungry.
Her mama would be ashamed of her, but Francine didn’t trust this stranger.
“Come play for me. At my court.”
Francine’s spine stiffened at the mention of a court. She took another step backwards.
The faun chuckled.
“I see you’ve had dealings with Yvette.”
Then his eyes narrowed.
“No one told you there was a second court, did they?”
“No,” Francine said, anger spiking through her. Of course they hadn’t.
“They think they’re the most special fairies of all,” Erastus said, shaking his head and grimacing.
“Please, darling. Let me show you a real court. One that isn’t all tied up in tea parties and fancy dresses. You can play whatever you like for us.”
The offer tempted Francine.
Fairies who let her play her own music? Dancers that moved like the faun had, letting Francine direct them however she chose?
“I give you my solemn word that you can leave and come back here anytime. No tricks.” Erastus stood with his hand over his heart.
Francine brought her fiddle up and played a quick tune, weaving the three notes of Erastus’ name into a melody, then breaking them apart.
Erastus cringed, his back bowing as if he’d been hit.
“If you break your vow, I’ll hurt you,” Francine promised.
“That you will,” Erastus said, straightening slowly.
Francine turned her back on the faun and walked over to the closest trees. They shifted branches down for her to take and hold.
“I’ll come back,” she promised.
She’d never leave these trees forever.
* * *
Erastus made a doorway that Francine easily stepped through. She almost stepped through sideways, still wanting the myth of lost time to stay true. Instead, she walked through head-on, willing to face whatever was ahead of her.
The trees on the far side were darker than even the trees that Francine had left behind. Their bare limbs didn’t sway to meet her as much as try to scratch her. One large oak reached down with a branch and tried to push her into the thorny underbrush. She saw faces in their bark: mean, scarred fairies who hadn’t become trees for punishment, but because they would always be around to pick on others.
Francine wasn’t scared of bullies.
She brought up her fiddle and played a stilling song, the one she’d used to turn the water in the fountain in her backyard into glass, the one that she often played to settle her own trees before going to sleep.
The trees here mocked Francine, their branches shaking with laughter as they continued to try to knock her around. They started shifting their roots under the path, trying to unsettle her feet.
Glaring, Francine changed her melody to a whirling song. This caught the trees’ attention. First one, then another, stopped trying to push Francine or pull her hair. Their boughs raised and they swayed together, then apart, knocking into each other in a rough dance. The wind hooted around them, loud and obnoxious. Even the underbrush drew back in on itself, the bushes crackling and rustling in a syncopated beat.
“I knew you were something,” Erastus said from behind her.
The woods settled down at the sound of his voice.
Francine finished off the tune quickly, lowering her fiddle but keeping it in her hand.
“Was that a test?” she asked, still angry.
“Good heavens, girl, no. That was just me taking my sweet, idiot time. I’m sorry I left you alone with these hoodlums.”
Francine shrugged.
“I took care of them.”
She reached out and stroked the rough bark of the nearest tree, unsurprised when it pricked her finger.
“They just want a taste, to get to know you,” Erastus assured her.
It was more than that, Francine knew. They’d been testing her, wanting to see if she was easily cowed. She knew they’d try again. They would tease her, and try to trip her still, but they also now respected her enough to let her be when she asked.
The dirt path smoothed out under Erastus’ cloven hooves until it reminded Francine of the trails in the other court. She ran her hands over the top of the encroaching branches, fingering the dead leaves, wondering what they’d look like come spring. Fog circled the bases of the trees, hiding their roots. The scent of dried winter grass filled the air, spiced with juniper, crisp and clean.
Francine was surprised when they passed what she had called the fern house. Here it was smaller, more rundown, the moss grown black and the bushes twisted.
Like in the land of the other fairy court, they climbed a ridge, then paused to look down.
Kudzu also covered this grand hall, a long raised rectangle where many were gathered. But the rough trees didn’t merely stand at the sidelines: Twisted limbs reached right into the center, dancing with those gathered there. These fairies wore jeans and boots, not gowns or finery. The musicians played on a stage to the right, casting out music with a driving beat.
Francine grinned at Erastus. The lights shone with a neon glow, strange and familiar at the same time, casting double shadows on the fairies gathered there, as if they were dancing, too.
This looked like her kind of party.
Erastus skipped ahead, as if he were unable to hold himself back, joining a group of dancers at the center.
Francine made her way to the musicians. She caught the eye of the stork-like man playing the guitar, then held up her fiddle, questioning if she could join them.
He nodded at her.
Francine listened to the other musicians for a few minutes, finding her place in the tune before stepping in, adding a frenzied descant above the main melody. The other musicians followed quickly, as did the dancers. Their hoots and hollers rang loudly through the trees, echoed back by the night creatures drawn to their light. The band gelled quickly, each anticipating the other’s rhythm and tune, supporting and showcasing one after another.
When it was Francine’s turn, she stepped forward and played her heart out. The entire court moved to her music. She gave them everything she had and they gave it back, loud and distorted, better than any rock band concert. She felt as though she could dance on air, the energy a solid force all around her.
Francine knew she could get used to this.