I remember, a long, long time ago, when I first told Pepper-Man about seeing Dr. Martin. We were lying in our meadow at the edge of the woods; it was a warm night, but twilight was settling. It was our favorite time of the day, that silent hour before night arrived. Our chosen spot was so peaceful, no strollers or dog walkers ever went there. I suppose that was due to Pepper-Man; his presence felt unsettling to most people. When I lay on my back and looked up, I could see the treetops swaying, the birds rushing across the sky. He held my hand. It had changed over the years. Where he used to look gnarled, he was smooth. Where he used to be pale, he held a soft, pink pallor. His warts were gone; his lips were red. His white, white hair had turned to silk. It was my doing, I know that now, it was due to my blood, which sustained him.
He was becoming more like me.
“What if the doctor thinks I’m mad?” I squeezed his fingers. “What if he locks me up somewhere?”
“I would find you.” Pepper-Man squeezed my fingers in return. His eyes didn’t look so murky anymore, but had become a deep and warm forest green.
“Would you break me out of the asylum?” I was only half joking.
“I would break you out no matter where you were kept. Do you recall the night of the first feast? I came for you then.”
“That is true,” I admitted.
“Nothing they can do to you is important. All that is important is here, between us.”
“Mother would disagree.”
“Mother does not know you.”
“But you do?”
“I do.” He turned over so he lay on his side, looking down at me, head resting in his hand. His tattered rags were gone by then, replaced by clothes of charcoal gray. “Here.” He handed me a mason jar that I recognized from our pantry. The orange spread it used to contain was gone; instead there was a sprig with two black berries, a dead white butterfly, and four dry pine needles inside.
“What is this?” I looked at the curious contents.
“What you wished for, my Cassandra. It is a story for you to tell people—something they will believe.”
He was right, I had said that. I shook the jar gently. “A story, huh?”
“Indeed. You might enjoy that more than crowns now, maybe.”
“You mean I have outgrown your necklaces and rings?”
“A little.” Pepper-Man smiled. Despite his new beauty, the smile still looked cruel; his teeth were too sharp and his lips too red.
“How do I get it out?” I turned the jar over.
“Boil it in water and drink it as tea, or you could eat it as it is, from the jar.”
“Water it is, then.”
Pepper-Man sat up on his knees and lifted my skirt away from my thighs, searched with his finger for an unmarked patch of flesh.
“Do not fret about the doctor,” he said before his head dipped down to feed. “Nothing they can do can ever hurt you.”
Faerie gifts can be many things. Sometimes they come as inspiration. Trinkets and baubles and crowns I can go without, but I find myself addicted to the faerie tea; liquid stories delivered in jars. There is nothing like the feeling of its power unfurling inside, petal by petal—a fresh story. Faerie magic is the purest kind of magic, blending nature skillfully. Faeries know everything that lives around them, are drawn to life—and death—itself. They feel the essence of every bone and every tree. In my jars, an angry spruce and a melancholy willow meet a burst of happy buttercups, or the bitter decay of a dead wasp. No one knows quite how the stories will turn out, not even the faerie who makes them. That’s a part of their alchemy—to never quite know the outcome. It makes it as interesting for them as for me, to see how a particular blend will turn out. Faerie magic is fickle magic: there are no guarantees.
He knew what he did, Pepper-Man, on that late and lazy summer’s day, he bound me with powerful shackles. He was always good at that, my friend, finding new ways to please me. New gifts to dazzle me with, new chains to bind me. Was in me, always, tooth and claw.
There is no escape from Faerie.
Those faerie gifts did save me; they made my miserable life feel worthwhile. Though I loathed my mother’s house and the walls of the white room, at least I had an escape. Between the enchanted stories and my Pepper-Man, I felt like I could breathe. For years, it was all I had: Pepper-Man, those jars—and Dr. Martin.
That idea of escape—that desperation—is why I threw all my caution overboard, I think, when Tommy Tipp came along. Golden of hair, blue of eyes. I so desperately wanted to be saved then, for someone to show me the way out.
I wasn’t so much enticed by the idea of love as such; even back then it never rang true to me.
“True love.” “Meant to be.”
None of that meant anything to me. Smelled like a lie—it still does. It’s just another one of those things you ought to have in order to build your life right. It’s a screen to hide behind.
If you have a husband, you cannot truly be that bad.
If your husband is handsome and capable too, more glitter falls on you. If you don’t have it, you are deemed unworthy, different and possibly wrong. Without the love of a good man—any man—you are spoiled fruit, lacking an essential stamp of approval. Never mind if you are ill suited for it and would’ve been much better off alone. Never mind if your inclinations are such that living with another human being is difficult and even harmful. Live with another you must, or face eternal shame and disgrace. Forever be second-class. No stamp of approval for you.
I didn’t think much about such things when I met Tommy Tipp though, and started sleeping with him in the woods. I figured we would move in together when autumn arrived and the forest floor became cold and wet. It was best suited for summer nights; soft moss and scented air.
The faeries gathered all around us; laughing, pointing, and whispering.
I didn’t care if they saw. My heart was a mess. I was unaccustomed to that as well; that flutter and that ache, the honey that poured forth whenever he was near, sticky and golden, coating everything in sweetness.
Pepper-Man said that I even tasted like honey, spicy and warm, in those early Tommy-days.