DEDICATION
For Tommy and Anna,
because you both are heroes to me
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’VE HAD TO THINK A long time about what I should say about Wynn’s character. I feel like I’m putting her in a box with very rigid walls if I try to explain her, and I’m not certain that is my role as an author. I set out to create a character readers could love, and I hope she earns that love.
But then I feel I would be doing a disservice to those who are like Wynn if I didn’t say something more specific about her. Wynn was born with Rubinstein-Taybi syndrome, a genetic condition that occurs in one of every 125,000 births. Rubinstein-Taybi syndrome is a complicated medical condition that affects those born with it in many different and varying ways. Each person with Rubinstein-Taybi syndrome is an individual with his or her own strengths and weaknesses. In the end, Wynn can be a reflection only of a small part of the broad depth and complexity of this genetic condition.
It can be very difficult to have a condition that is rare. One of the challenging elements of having a rare condition is that few people will have ever heard of it, even doctors. I hope that this story can bring some recognition to rare genetic conditions like Rubinstein-Taybi syndrome. I also hope everyone can see a part of themselves in Wynn. Most of all, I hope you enjoy her adventures.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter One: Elric
Chapter Two: Wynn
Chapter Three: Elric
Chapter Four: Elric
Chapter Five: Elric
Chapter Six: Elric
Chapter Seven: Elric
Chapter Eight: Elric
Chapter Nine: Wynn
Chapter Ten: Elric
Chapter Eleven: Wynn
Chapter Twelve: Elric
Chapter Thirteen: Elric
Chapter Fourteen: Elric
Chapter Fifteen: Wynn
Chapter Sixteen: Elric
Chapter Seventeen: Elric
Chapter Eighteen: Elric
Chapter Nineteen: Elric
Chapter Twenty: Wynn
Chapter Twenty-One: Elric
Chapter Twenty-Two: Elric
Chapter Twenty-Three: Wynn
Chapter Twenty-Four: Elric
Chapter Twenty-Five: Wynn
Chapter Twenty-Six: Elric
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Elric
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Wynn
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Elric
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Kristin Bailey
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
Elric
THE RAIN FELL IN HEAVY sheets, lashing Elric’s back like the blow of a whip. As he ran, splashes of foul-smelling muck drenched his ankles and soaked through the thin material of his leggings. The mud sucked at his worn shoes and nearly pulled them off.
A light glowed in the distance for only a moment. Elric ran toward it, keeping to the side of the road where the long grasses were slick and beaten down by the storm. If he wasn’t careful, he’d slip into the swollen ditch filled with thick black dreck.
Elric pushed forward, keeping an eye on the treacherous ground. The wind picked up, reaching through his worn clothing and chilling his skin. Elric could swear he heard a distant howl in the wind, the triumphant song of a beast intent on harm. The storm had come from nowhere. It had been pleasant all day, but now the wind from the north came in with fury, biting with the harsh cold of the lingering winter.
This was the type of storm that could kill.
He reached the shelter, a crumbling stone church in the center of the village. Really it was nothing more than a pile of rocks with a roof, but it was large and sturdy, and unlikely to blow down in the storm. He knocked, though he could barely hear the sound over the roaring wind. The door opened a crack and Elric hauled the creaking wood with all his strength against the force of the wind, then slipped inside. The door boomed shut behind him.
The hooded man who had opened the door nodded to him, then hunched away toward the front of the church. Half the village huddled around a pitiful fire near the altar while the wind pulled at the thatching on the roof.
“Elric, you survived!” Hereward, the pig-keeper, greeted him with a crooked-toothed smile. He shook out his shaggy hair and droplets of water flew through the air in all directions. “I didn’t think you would make it in from the fields. Did you manage to bring the flocks in to safety?”
“No,” Elric grumbled. “The storm came on too suddenly and they scattered.”
Hereward leaned up against the wall and dug his finger into his ear. He pulled out some wax and looked at it. “Well, that is unlucky. I swear, this is a curse. No village could be this unfortunate. We’ll lose half the crop, at least. The newly sown seeds will wash out of the furrows, and your ewes are about to have their lambs.” He brushed the wax on the stone wall.
“It’s not a curse, it’s just rain,” Elric grumbled as shook his head to get rid of the water dripping down his neck. “Are the pigs safe?” Hereward was tasked with caring for them, while Elric tended the village’s sheep.
Hereward shrugged. “They like mud. They’ll survive. That is, if they don’t drown.” He shivered. “Or freeze.”
Elric crossed his arms and rubbed. Now that he was out of the rain, the chill of it sank into his skin, and the smell of damp wool and putrid mud hung on him. “Always one for sunny thoughts, aren’t you?”
Hereward stared at Elric as if he had grown another head. “We are serfs. How could our lives possibly get any worse? We spend all our days and effort tending long strips of fields that don’t belong to us. All the fruit of that labor is taken by our lord and master. I tend pigs that I can’t eat, and you tend sheep whose wool will never warm us. After our master takes his due, we get to live off of whatever is left. Oh, I forgot. We owe the church a tenth of that. Only then do we eat.”
Elric’s stomach growled. “I hate this place.”
“Careful,” Hereward whispered, nodding toward a withered old man in the corner. “Cuthbert is looking sour. Don’t give him a reason to spite you.”
Old Cuthbert peered over at them, and Elric fidgeted under the man’s gaze. He had a sunken socket where his right eye should have been, and a scowl darkened his scarred face. The wound had been punishment for attempting to escape this place. No one from the village ever tried to leave again—especially not with Cuthbert always watching. His failed attempt at a better life made him determined to keep everyone else as miserable as possible. He was all too eager to report any sort of rumblings of dissent to the priest or their lord.
The single-eyed focus on him made Elric feel hot in his face in spite of the cold, so he tucked his chin and wrapped his arms around his legs. He shivered as drops from a leak in the roof hit the floor with a soft and rhythmic tap, tap, tap.
“You know,” Hereward mumbled, “if we all decided to leave at once, what could Cuthbert do? The lord would finally learn what it takes to plow a field.”
“No, our lord will send his soldiers from the garrison to find us all and bring us back. The land has value only if we are here to work on it. They know that. At least they protect us from roaming robbers and thieves.” Elric picked a clump of mud off his leggings.
“The soldiers are worse than any thieves in the woods,” Hereward grumbled. “The only one with a fouler temper than that lot is the lord himself, but it could be worse. We could work as a slave in the castle and be beaten every day.” Hereward mimed being repeatedly struck over the head. “Do you remember poor old Mild? She was sent to work in the kitchens. I saw her at market the other day. She has
no teeth left. They’ve all been knocked out of her head.”
Elric didn’t know what to say, but ran his tongue over his own teeth, just to be sure they were still there.
Somewhere in the church, a baby cried.
Elric leaned his head back and rolled his eyes. Get used to it, little one. He’d survived thirteen years of this misery, and it wasn’t over yet.
The wail of the wretched child filled the church, along with the muffled hushes of its mother.
“Perfect—as if this night couldn’t get worse,” Hereward groused as the baby continued to screech like a cat caught in a bag. As its cries wore on and on, Elric could see the tension like a rope being pulled tight in the hearts of the others. Something dark seemed to pass over them all. The fires died down, and the shadows grew deeper and more sinister in the corners of the church.
A sour-faced man in a dusty cap winced. A woman with a bulbous nose narrowed her eyes. Their irritated glances met and shared a subtle rage. Finally someone in the church snapped.
“Enough! Quiet that child.” Elric couldn’t determine who the voice belonged to, but it sounded like a growl. Elric pushed himself up and walked behind the rough wooden benches to get a better view.
A woman and child huddled near the corner by the altar. The baby’s face had turned the color of a ripe beet. Elric recognized the mother. Her name was Ailith. She often helped with shearing and carding the wool from the village flock.
“I’m trying!” she said to the wrinkled old man next to her. Elric slipped along the wall until he could see what was happening. Ailith huddled in the corner as if the stone could protect her and her child.
“What sort of mother are you?” grumbled Aebbe, the old woman who lived near the far fields, as she pushed a blanket higher on her shoulders. It made her look like a wrinkled old turtle.
“He’s cold and he’s hungry, it’s natural for him to cry,” Ailith said, her limp hair hanging in her face.
“Nonsense,” Aebbe said too loudly. The old woman half shouted everything she said, because her hearing had gone. “All God-fearing babes know to be silent in a house of the Lord. Something is not right about this creature. It might be a changeling.”
At these words the whole of the church stilled. Other villagers who had been absorbed in their own conversations turned toward the group in the corner. Men and women in the back slowly stood, their necks craning as they peered at the trapped mother and her baby. Slowly people began to press forward.
“Get rid of it before we are all cursed!” a thin man with a sallow face called from the heart of the crowd.
Elric froze. A deeply rooted fear took hold of his gut and twisted like a knife. He crept forward along the wall, feeling the scrape of stone on his shoulder. His tunic caught on an edge of a stone that had been sloppily stacked in the wall. The mortar crumbled and a piece of rock fell loose. It landed at his feet with a quiet click.
“He’s not a changeling,” Ailith snapped, lifting her son so she could press his little head near the crook of her neck. He continued to fight her, using his tiny fists to push her away. “My baby is not a monster.”
Cuthbert had noticed the commotion and stalked across the room. “It does not recognize you as its mother.” He pushed past two of the women in the front of the crowd. Elric watched him the way he watched foxes lingering near the edges of his flock. Not even an innocent babe could escape his malice. “Your child was stolen by the fairy folk and they left this wretched thing in its place. It is not human. Look at its twisted face and blotted skin. The only way to force the fairies to bring the true child back is to throw this one in the fire.”
“No!” Ailith wrapped her arms tightly around her son, twisting her body as if trying to shield her baby with her own flesh. “My child was not stolen. I have looked over him every moment!” Her voice cracked.
“You took the babe into the woods. I saw you there only yesterday. You left him sleeping in the grass,” Cuthbert sneered.
“I was gathering wood.” Tears streaked down Ailith’s face.
“It only takes a moment for the fairy folk to steal a child. This storm is your fault. God is punishing us because you are keeping a changeling,” Cuthbert said. The heavy stillness had returned, like the moment a wolf went still just before it struck. Cuthbert’s words hung in the air around them.
Elric felt sick and trapped all at once. He had to do something.
Cuthbert grabbed for the babe.
The mother screamed a high and panicked sound that drowned out the cry of her son.
Without thinking, Elric bent and grabbed the piece of stone that had fallen at his feet. He whipped his wrist and sent the sharp stone flying straight for Cuthbert’s thick skull, thankful for the thousands of times he had practiced throwing stones at foxes and wild dogs. It smacked the old troll right on the back of the head.
Cuthbert fell sideways, and it was enough for Ailith to wrench her son from his grip and run straight toward Elric along the wall. Others reached for her, but Elric threw himself into the push of the crowd and away from the wall, giving the mother a narrow gap to run through.
Elbows and shoulders jostled into him as the door of the church opened and slammed shut again. Some of the crowd righted and made for the door, but a clap of thunder stopped their momentum, and the villagers looked to one another as if wondering what they should do now.
Elric watched Cuthbert pick himself up off the ground and touch the back of his head. His palm came away red with blood. “Who threw that rock?” he shouted, a hand pressed to the wound in his greasy hair.
Elric faded into the crowd. He slipped to the far side of the church with his heart pounding in his throat.
“Who cares?” someone grumbled. “Your thick skull can take it, and the crying has stopped.”
“What about the changeling?” he demanded. “Fairy children bring ill fortune. Someone has been harboring a wicked creature for years. All the signs have pointed to it. We’ve found fairy rings amid the crops, and the weather turns without warning. Mark my words. . . .” He pointed his bony finger at the man who had insulted him. “Evil is in our midst. If we don’t find it and drive it far from here, it will mean the end of us.”
Elric cringed. He refused to believe they were all cursed.
Because if the village was cursed, he knew the reason why.
The men settled around the fire again, muttering about their discomfort.
Hereward pushed through the crowd just as Elric sat on the floor and leaned against the herringbone wall. He took a deep breath and tried to settle his heart. The skin on the back of his neck tingled, and he couldn’t fight the urge to twitch his foot.
“You can never leave well enough alone, can you? Nice toss, though,” he whispered, settling on the floor cross-legged in front of Elric. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years. Someone should throw Cuthbert in the fire. If anyone is a curse upon this village, it is him. His face can curdle milk.”
Elric gave him a halfhearted chuckle. There was no easy place in this world. He thought about the mother and babe out in the storm, and hoped they could find shelter.
Another wave of thunder rattled and shook the church.
Hereward’s younger brother, Osgar, approached, a gangly nine-year-old boy who had too much energy and not enough sense. He reminded Elric of a puppy that couldn’t stop wagging its tail. “Do you think God is trying to smite us?” he asked in a gleeful tone, flopping down on the ground beside his brother. “Or perhaps this is the work of the wicked Fairy Queen. I hear she has black wings and sharp teeth, and lightning shoots from her eyes. She must be out there right now.”
Elric shook his head in pity. He rubbed his arms, but the goose bumps on his skin didn’t go away.
Hereward gave his brother a disgusted look. “What are you, a half-wit?” he asked, then smacked Osgar on the back of the head.
“Don’t call him that,” Elric said. The muscles in his neck tensed. He hated that term. Nothing made his blo
od boil faster.
Hereward’s thin face twisted in confusion. “Yesterday you called him a fool.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
Osgar looked back and forth between them with wide eyes, as if he wasn’t sure what was happening, or if he should feel offended.
Hereward laughed, showing his crooked and rabbity front teeth. “Half-wit, fool, what does it matter? You don’t have a reason to be offended. Even Osgar isn’t upset.”
Osgar nodded and shrugged. “He calls me a half-wit all the time.”
“And he shouldn’t,” Elric insisted.
“Why not?” Hereward shook out his shaggy hair and pushed it back with his muddy palm.
“Because it’s an insult to half-wits,” Elric answered. A fool was one thing. A perfectly clever person could choose to act like a fool. Half-wits couldn’t help how they were, and it wasn’t fair that they were used as the example of a person worthy of scorn. They didn’t deserve to be the standard to insult people with no problems at all.
Hereward laughed, his voice ringing against the walls of the church. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever—”
Elric shoved him hard.
“What did you do that for?”
“Shut it.”
“Do you have a thing for half-wits or something?” Hereward teased with a toothy grin. “Someone would have to be a half-wit to like you.”
Elric’s fist met Hereward’s nose.
And the fight was on. Hereward threw himself forward, tackling Elric and knocking him back against the floor. Elric’s head hit the stone, making his ears ring. The grit of the dirty floor slid under his shoulder as he tried to push himself out from beneath the other boy.
Suddenly the church erupted in shouting. Elric gripped Hereward’s forearms to keep him from striking. Hereward twisted his arm so he could scratch Elric’s face, then yank his hair. Each rip at his skin burned like fire, but he held tight until his hands ached with it. He scrambled his feet against the floor, but the reeds and straw covering the stone slipped out from beneath them. He couldn’t get enough traction to push himself free and barely pulled his shoulder out of the way before Hereward bit it.
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