by Cutter, Leah
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 fo
r 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.
Chapter Six
Francine waited, as directed by Pierre, bow poised above her fiddle and toe tapping, until Pierre reached the point where she joined in. They played in a cozy meadow covered with brown winter grass. Twisted, leafless tree branches reached down to form a canopy over their heads, twigs clacking in time with the music. Tart breezes tugged at Francine’s shirt, sending unexpected shivers down her back.
The weeks had flown by, time in the Féerie realm more fluid, harder to count and hold onto. They’d been practicing almost every day, and Francine ached with holding herself in all the time, afraid she’d burst at just the wrong time. At least she had her house, and her backyard, where she could play how she longed to.
When Pierre nodded, Francine picked up the melody, keeping it light and airy as any dancing lady. She wanted to skip ahead, to move the tune faster, but she didn’t. She kept the original beat, following Pierre’s lead. She was used to doing it in school, with the band. There, it felt normal. Here, it felt like she was always playing at half speed.
When they reached the chorus, Francine took the lead for a bit. She played with the melody, sliding it up half an octave.
Pierre frowned at her.
She knew it wasn’t one of the classical forms, but he needed to trust her. She knew what she was doing.
When Francine slid back down into the traditional melody at the appropriate place, Pierre picked back up the lead. Francine followed, but she pushed at him now, trying to get him to speed up.
Pierre finished without any type of flair, bringing the tune to an abrupt end.
“You have to learn the proper forms,” he fumed, glaring at Francine.
Glaring right back, Francine said, “I know most of those. When are you going to learn about loosening up?” She knew they’d gelled well, playing together on the crossroads. What had happened, that he played so differently here? Had that all been a dream of magic and moonlight?
“Really?” Pierre challenged. “Follow this, then.”
He started a piece by Paganini, playing it at a brutal pace. It was the first time Francine had heard him play something classical. She joined in the counterpoint. Fortunately, she’d learned this piece at her school; otherwise she would have been lost.
Pierre didn’t glare when they finished this time. Instead, he replayed a couple of bars, making Francine repeat them, showing her a new bowing technique. Then they played the piece together again. They seemed to gel for the first time since that night on the crossroads, tossing the melody back and forth, smiling at each other. Magic glittered all around them, and even the winter trees started bobbing their branches in time.
When the music died, Pierre seemed to remember himself again.
“Back to the other piece.”
Francine swallowed her sigh. She knew she had to learn the court music. It just didn’t suit her. Still, she nodded. She waited while Pierre played, until he came to the place where she could come in again, banking her fire, promising herself a real kick-up later.
* * *
Francine followed Pierre through the woods, along the winding path back to her house. Her fingers hurt after hours of playing and her back and knees ached from having to stand still, not moving to the music. The evening wind carried the sweet scent of rain. Francine was looking forward to sitting in the peace of her backyard, listening to the trees.
“Tomorrow we won’t have practice.”
It took Francine a few moments to process Pierre’s statement.
“Okay,” she said when she realized she had a day to goof off. Though she couldn’t count the days she’d been here, it felt as though it had been a while since she’d had a good lazy day.
“Though you’ll still have to go to Lady Melisandra’s party.”
“What?” Francine said. “When? Why?”
“She’s having a tea party, and you must go.”
Pierre stopped and looked back at Francine.
Francine realized they were in front of her house; she could hear the trees in the back calling for her. She itched t
o escape to there.
“One of her tea parties?” she asked, scowling. At Pierre’s nod, she continued.
“You’ve said it won’t be any fun. You won’t go because you’d be bored stiff. Why do I have to go?”
Pierre sighed.
“It’s Lady Melisandra. She knows everyone. She’ll introduce you to the ladies of the court at the right level.”
“I thought that’s what you did the first night.”
Pierre shook his head.
“Not as well as Lady Melisandra will. Her tea parties are legend. Some people would do just about anything to be invited.”
“But—”
“You need to go. To prove to the queen and everyone that you can be a member of this court.”
“Fine.”
Francine would go, then she’d leave as soon as she could. She started up the path to her house.
“You did well, today.”
Pierre’s halting words made Francine pause. When Pierre said nothing more, she said, “Thanks.” Then she escaped up the ladder, running across the hilltop and throwing aside the living curtain of flowers. She didn’t know what had happened to Pierre, why he changed so from minute to minute.
Why couldn’t they find that magic together again?
Francine knew she that while she respected him, she never wanted to be like him. She’d been bullied in school, but she’d never given up like he had: living with one eye over his shoulder, always awaiting an attack, while a vise held him still.
* * *
Francine woke to soft winds sliding through the branches, inviting her to come outside. She took a sip of moon wine and went into the backyard, fiddle already in hand. She spent the morning playing her own music, tunes that were a mixture of the court music she’d been learning and the zydeco she loved. The fountain bubbled sparkling water higher during the fast bits, the flowers decorating the base of the walls opened wider, and the trees bent in closer, as if saying hello.
That afternoon, Francine got ready to go to Lady Melisandra’s tea party. She put on her new clothes, savoring the hunter green, knee-length leather coat, the white silk shirt, and the black leggings. She stubbornly stuck to her human boots, though they weren’t as rich or fine as her other clothes. The fairy ones just never felt right.