Walk Between Worlds

by Samara Breger

  Mama slowly lifted her face from between her folded arms. “Did you steal this?”

  “No, Mama. I worked. Do you know the butcher at the covered market with the blue handkerchief around his head? He—”

  “What did you do for him?” Her words pierced Patience’s skin like butcher’s knives. Beside her, Scratch noticed with horror, was Mama’s new dress, a gaping tear in it like an open mouth. “Why did he give you this money?”

  “I cut meat.” What else would she have done for him? “I cut it and wrapped it up for people who were buying it.”

  “Oh yes?” Mama snarled. “Do you know why grown men are nice to little girls like you?”

  “He said I have small hands, and that I’m good with a knife.”

  Mama’s coarse laugh scraped her skin. “Don’t go back to him. Men like that are never nice.”

  She remembered the butcher’s smile, his insistence that Patience deserved payment for a job well done. She wanted to defend him, to tell Mama that there were good men, good people, in the world. That not everyone would hurt a poor Lakes girl with no friends.

  “Okay, Mama,” she said instead.

  “Okay, Mama?” Mama’s nostrils flared, eyes blazing. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Um, yes, Mama?”

  And Patience folded into herself as Mama’s fists began to fly.

  Chapter Twenty

  Scratch jolted awake with no idea where she was or how she got there. Dawn was creeping overhead, cool blue and fresh. She spread her fingers, feeling blades of grass. A breeze zinged across her skin, slightly dew-damp and chilly, no blanket covering her. How had she fallen asleep like this?

  “Scratch?”

  Brella stared at her. She also lay in the grass, her bronze hair dimmed by moisture and plastered to the side of her head.

  “Where are we?” Scratch asked hoarsely. “How did we . . .”

  Then it came to her, the splash of a memory. Nana had handed the Shaes their packs and pushed them toward the door.

  “I’m separating you,” she had said, tongue darting out to lick her plump lips. “Are you afraid?”

  “Separating?” Vel shrieked. “You can’t do that. They’ll die!”

  “By pair, Vel.” She had rolled her eyes, her squared pupils tumbling like dice. “You’ll be with James, Umbrella with Scratch. I’ll take your fear. Your confusion. And if anything blooms, I’ll take that, too.”

  “Blooms?” Scratch asked. “What do you mean, blooms?”

  Nana grinned, wide and inscrutable. “You’re both two days from the gate. You’re welcome for that. You’ll meet each other there.”

  Scratch, realizing quickly that there was no negotiation, no time to think, reached for James’s hand. “You good?”

  “I suppose I have to be. But I’ll—”

  And then there was darkness.

  “Is your pack here?” Scratch felt around and sighed in relief when her hand hit familiar cloth. “Are you all right?”

  “I saw your dream,” Brella murmured, a bit green.

  Scratch’s stomach liquefied into icy slush. “You did?”

  Brella took in a ragged breath as she sat, brushing leaves from her face. “I guess it’s the blood bond. I didn’t mean to. I tried to wake up when I realized what I was seeing.”

  “It’s all right. Not your fault.” The memory was sharp-edged, razors of shame and anger poking through the threads of it. She had been weak then, at the mercy of a miserable woman. Had Brella seen the contempt in Purpose’s eyes when she glared at her daughter? Did Brella know how unlovable Scratch had been before she reworked herself into something worthwhile? Scratch had the urge to scream. That isn’t me anymore! I don’t even have the same name.

  Brella swallowed, a loud gulp in the quiet forest. “If I’d have known . . .”

  “It’s fine.” It was like a poking. Phantom fingertips on her most soft, secret places. She didn’t want to see Brella’s face, afraid of what she would find there. Pity, she imagined. Pity for her weakness, and maybe delicate words after. Coddling, horrific tenderness. And she’d take it, because, even though she hated the thought, she wanted it. A desperate, scraping bit of her needed it, and the needing was shameful. She’d betray herself, and her weakness would be discovered.

  Please, don’t pity me. Please, please.

  There was no pity on Brella’s face. It was flushed dark, her freckles disappearing into the rising color. Her eyes shone bright. Her mouth was a small, fierce knot, mirroring the tangle between her drawn eyebrows. She breathed shallowly and loud.

  “You’re angry,” Scratch mumbled, swallowing the mad urge to laugh.

  “Mm,” Brella grunted. “Mm.”

  “You’re angry at . . . my mother?”

  “Mm.” Her nostrils flared. Her jaw worked.

  “It was a long time ago, Brella.”

  “Still.” Her upper lip curled. “You bought her a house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mm.”

  “To get her off my back mostly. Obligation fulfilled.”

  “What obligation?” Brella spat. “She didn’t seem particularly obliged to care for you, Scratch.”

  “Oh, didn’t she? I hardly noticed.” She raised a hand to stroke Brella’s stiff arm. The muscles jumped. “She isn’t worth this. But, uh, I do appreciate it.”

  “Mm. I’d like to—” Brella clamped her lips together, startling a laugh out of Scratch.

  “What? Storm her house? Brella, she’s been through hells, too.”’

  “I know lots of people who have dealt with the worst sort of shit, and they don’t go around treating their kids like . . . like . . .”

  Scratch shook her head. “You can’t go back in time and teach her how to be a mother. Or, I don’t know, maybe you can. Maybe the Between will drop you off outside her old shack and you can bust through the door and shout the house down.”

  “Mm. I don’t want to teach her, Scratch.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to teach her how to be a good mother. I want to throw her through a window.”

  Scratch’s laugh erupted so suddenly it nearly frightened her. It was loud enough to bounce off the trees. “Charming. I appreciate it.” And she did. It was odd perhaps, that she might take Brella’s threat of doing bodily harm to Purpose Keyes as a kindness. And yet . . .

  Brella stared at her for a moment, eyes glowing bright. “Do you want to braid my hair?”

  The whiplash made her brain rattle. She giggled, laughter spilling out of her. “Braid your hair?”

  Brella nodded, pulling a few strips of leather from her apron. “I can do it myself, of course, but it’s better when Vel does it. I saw you doing Tempest’s hair, so I thought . . .”

  “Sure.”

  Brella’s hair was soft in her hands, and not as thick as she had imagined. The curls and waves had the illusion of density, but when Scratch squeezed, the hair gave way, thin and easy to separate into halves. Brella handed her a comb, and she drew a straight line in Brella’s scalp with it. Scratch had known a menial task would calm her. As she drew the strands through her fingers, she felt her shoulders loosen, and the nervous laughter subsided. The act seemed to have the same effect on Brella. Her stiff rage abated, her breathing growing deep.

  Purpose had done something like this with Scratch every so often, brushing the ropes out of her hair. Being touched by Purpose was a dangerous thing, and there was shame in the wanting of it. Most of her touches were slaps, but they came with a certain satisfaction. When Purpose raged, Scratch was the center of her mother’s world, if only for that brief moment.

  When Purpose combed Scratch’s hair, Scratch always complained. She was afraid that Purpose would stop if she knew how much her daughter liked it.

  Brackish, brackish, brackish, her mind sang like a taunt, are my lover’s tears for me.

  “I’ve always had a difficult relationship with my parents,” Brella murmured.

  Scratch froze ha
lfway down the first braid. “You don’t have to tell me this. Just because you saw—”

  “I want to. You didn’t choose to show me that, so I . . .” She breathed, her shoulders rising and falling. “Do you not want me to? I can stop.”

  “No.” Scratch swallowed thickly. “It’s fine.”

  “I’m the oldest girl of fourteen. They expected that I would do a lot of parenting for them. I’m not very good at that.”

  “Did you ever talk to them about it?” Scratch asked, though she wasn’t sure if that was the right question. Discussing families was like speaking a different language.

  “Eventually, yeah. It helped that Vel and Iris were better with kids.”

  “Do your parents know you’re out here?”

  Brella was quiet so long Scratch wasn’t sure whether she had heard the question. When she spoke, her voice was so low as to almost be a whisper.

  “My parents disappeared a year ago.”

  Scratch’s fingers felt numb as she tied off the last braid. “What happened?”

  “They went to the Between and they never came back.”

  Scratch cautiously lowered her hands onto Brella’s shoulders. Brella shivered.

  “Can we sit here for a bit?” Brella asked. Her voice was low and smooth as a river rock. “Just a few moments.”

  Scratch nodded, though Brella couldn’t see. It felt like enough.

  The forest smelled rich around them, warming in the waxing morning light like baking bread, rising gold.

  “Two days.” Brella peered into the light. “Nana said we were two days away from the gate, but we’re four at least. Unless—oh.” She slapped a hand to her head. “Of course she did this.”

  “What?”

  “We have to take Hatter’s Pass if we want to meet the lads in time.”

  “And Hatter’s Pass is . . .” Scratch prompted, though she already suspected the answer.

  Brella turned, grimacing apologetically. “More fair folk.”

  Something fluttered in Scratch’s stomach, a lightning bug composed of fear, irritation, and curiosity in equal measure.

  “Anyone dangerous?”

  Brella shook her head. “Just irritating. He doles out favors and then expects something big in return. It’s easy enough to say no.”

  Scratch somewhat doubted that she and Brella shared the same definition of “easy” but she decided not to make a fuss. James had been right. There were so many possibilities ahead, Scratch couldn’t possibly plan for all of them. Like it or not, she’d be surprised.

  The thought wasn’t as unnerving as it should have been, which, in itself, was unsettling. She ached for a steaming mug of coffee and the largest, cleanest parchment she could get her hands on.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Brella led Scratch out of the clearing, passing through trees coated in thick, damp moss. It was darker here, shaded and cool. The landscape had a sort of wild quality, like no one had left footprints in this mulchy earth in generations. The trees twisted, as horizontal as they were vertical, with trunks wrapped like adders around rocks, and bark knotted from root to branch.

  Brella ambled across the rough landscape at an alarming pace. She moved like an animal, seemingly without thought, swinging around tree branches and hopping between exposed roots. When Scratch had envisioned the fair folk before, she hadn’t pictured a jumbled grandmother of human-and-animal parts living in a cottage outside of time. She had pictured a creature like Brella, so at home in the wilderness, a gust of wind darting through the leaves. She was mesmerizing to watch, all confidence, not even pausing to make sure she was on the right track, not planning any step before she took it.

  Was it really possible that Brella’s only ulterior motive was installing Frances on the throne? Could every story of hers actually be true? That she impulsively agreed to follow an abducted princess, accompanied only by two confused guards and one of her many brothers? She had known, previous to their meeting, who Scratch was. She’d said as much back at Nana’s cottage. Did that necessarily mean she’d had a hand in Scratch’s imprisonment, or the princesses’s disappearance . . .

  Hope. It was hope, bright and eye-watering. Her stomach sank when she remembered where hope had led her before.

  She had nearly forgotten to expect a fae interruption when an oily voice slunk out from the treetops.

  “I told you not to come back,” the voice purred.

  Scratch shivered, reaching out to grab Brella’s arm on instinct. Brella carefully clasped her hand.

  “You did nothing of the sort, Hatter,” Brella replied tartly, squeezing Scratch’s fingers.

  “Not you, Parasol. Her.”

  A man appeared in front of them, very tall and rather skinny, but of entirely human proportions. His sandy blond hair flopped over dark, canny eyes, light curls skimming a dark blue tailcoat entirely free of forest debris. He had dressed his slender legs in white stockings with bows, his feet in buckled leather. With every immaculate stitch, every too-bright hue, Hatter looked like a poor man’s idea of a noble.

  “Me?” Scratch pointed at herself with her free hand. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “Oh, very droll, Purpose,” the fae trilled, his accent crisp and proper. “I told you in fairly certain terms that if you darkened my pass ever again, I would come to collect. Now then.” He held out a manicured palm. “My price.”

  She wasn’t sure whether she ought to feel relieved or frustrated. “I’m not Purpose.”

  “Oh, I’d recognize that dishwater hair anywhere, you old shipbuilder.” He curled his fingers meaningfully. “Give it here or pay.”

  “This isn’t Purpose, Hatter,” Brella told him, angling her body protectively between Scratch and the fae. It was sweet—too sweet—but laughably unnecessary. The fae was a twig: infinitely snappable. As he leered, Scratch considered what a pleasure that might be. “This is her daughter.”

  Hatter’s eyes widened. “Well, well. The fetus has emerged. How long did you gestate? A year? Two?”

  “Wait.” Scratch shook her head, thoughts snapping together with the jarring force of her comprehension. “Do you mean to tell me that my mother was pregnant when she came to see you?”

  “Well, that’s what she said.” Hatter shrugged, finally dropping his outstretched arm. “I assumed she had a rather large, fairly demanding parasite. Though I do suppose there was some truth to that.”

  Scratch pinched the bridge of her nose, stemming the first few shoots of a massive headache. “So not only did my mother never tell me about her many adventures in the forest, but she also failed to mention that I had been with her at the time?”

  “Well.” Hatter drummed his fingers together. “It depends on your definition of ‘with.’ And ‘her.’ And ‘time.’” He leaned against a tree, crossing his arms. His body was too stiff, and Scratch noticed that he wasn’t quite making contact with the bark, instead hovering a few centimeters away. “Doesn’t change the terms, though. If she won’t come, you’ll do just fine.”

  Brella scoffed, but didn’t retreat. “Oh, leave off, Hatter. Shaking down a child for a parent’s debts? That’s a little too human for you, don’t you think?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “As much as I detest your primitive race, Brella, they get it right every once in a while.”

  “What exactly is it that my mother owes you?” Because if she was going to argue with this irritating creature, it might as well be over something worthwhile.

  Hatter smiled, revealing a mouth with far too many teeth. The more Scratch looked at him, the more she could recognize his inhuman qualities. The way he moved his eyes was animal, darting and quick like a shrew. His body was more reptilian, sinuous and snakelike. And his neck articulation? That was all chicken.

  “Didn’t I say?” he pecked. “Purpose owes me . . .” A long, dramatic pause. “Her hair.”

  Scratch nodded, letting go of Brella’s hand so she could pull her hair from the leather strap she used to secure i
t. “How much of it? Is a few inches okay or do you want all of it? I don’t have a razor.”

  Brella muffled a snort behind her hand.

  “But.” Hatter knotted his brows, his confident smile fading. “Purpose was so reluctant.”

  “I told you I wasn’t my mother.” She reached for the warm, wooden hilt of her trusty kitchen knife. She’d grown fond of the thing. “You’re not going to do anything with it that’ll, I don’t know, curse me later, right?”

  “I-I was going to make rope.”

  “Fantastic.” She tugged her hair taut and held the knife at the nape of her neck. Her locks were tangled and matted from a few days without combing, but if Hatter wanted to make rope, there was no better condition for it. “Is this good enough?”

  Brella let loose a stream of giggles. “Let me do it for you, Scratch. It would be my honor to help repay your mother’s debt.”

  “Well.” Hatter smoothed down his jacket. “This is perfect. Ideal even.” He eked out a dimmed smile. “All settled.”

  Of course it was hair. Purpose had loved her hair, lank and thin though it was. And she had brushed Scratch’s—brackish, brackish, brackish . . .

  No. Scratch squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the swish and scrape of Brella sawing through her locks. It sounded oddly like an untuned fiddle. Dissonant, scratchy, and rhythmic—calming, in its way. “And now that we’ve done business . . .” She cursed the rasp in her voice. “You wouldn’t be able to tell me what my mother owed you for, would you?”

  Hatter’s grin spread. “If you want the information, I could make you a deal.”

  “No thanks.” With satisfaction, she watched his face fall. “I’m fine not knowing.”

  “O-of course.”

  “Here we are.” Brella held up a hank of Scratch’s hair, pale yellow and thick. “Is this what you were after?”

  Hatter hugged himself, shrugging petulantly. “I suppose.”

  Scratch shook her head around experimentally. “What do you think, Brella?” There was no response. “Brella?”

  Scratch turned to face her and—oh. Brella stared. Eyes bright but unfocused, mouth slack, dazed. She looked with hungry abandon. Scratch burned under it. Her heart raced, leaping near painfully, as she watched Brella draw her pink tongue over those large, barely-dappled lips. Scratch felt hot, so hot, and still shivery, her body alive and lightning-struck.