Courts of the Fey Page 5
“I will come to him,” the king said. “As soon as may be.” And he opened the message from the dark northern queen.
His tears shone, between eyes and paper, and obscured his vision, and made it hard to read. Through them he could see no more than a few words, glittering at him in her slanted hand: powerless was one and already surrendered and all lost and our sin and will scarce remember.
He blinked. Hot tears ran down his face to his beard. And his sight became sharper and the words clear.
Albric, recall, it began without fear. how you left me, it must be now a good thousand years. Oh, it wasn’t our fault; we could not have lived forever together. Your magic and mine could never exist in the same palace, in the same people. Our brief, pleasing sin was loving the opposite. The day longs for night, but it should never meet. And night craves the day, with its light and its heat, but one destroys the other wherever they touch.
Remember you left me to save all of you. And you left me behind to mourn all I’d lost.
But you left behind two slivers of you, two sparks of the day growing in the night. A boy and a girl, neither light nor dark. They could not live here, and they could not live there. They were left at the door of a poor human hunter, as humans used to be, all fear and all silence. I thought them gone, I thought them lost. I thought no more of them, nor of you, nor of love. I enjoyed my hunt, I craved my pleasure.
But they lived, they grew, and they married humans, and their children, bright, had more children still, till now every human born of clay and blood and of iron and fire carries within a spark of our magic, a hint of our love, a bit of the day, a shadow of night, the fire and the ice that should never meet unless they die. And yet they live, and yet they grow.
And it is our love that gives them force, which feeds their power that makes them create, that tames the iron, that helps them plow, that gives them the courage to challenge us both.
I’ve already surrendered, I’ve already agreed, to come no nearer men than to touch their dreams.
Farewell, my beloved. From now on we’ll be like shadows that pass in the world of men, like fleeting illusions dancing on the wind. Our children will live, our children will grow, till they cover the world with their fire and their plow—a touch of night, a touch of day, a hint of enchantment and a taste for blood.
Ah, Albric, beloved, we’ve grown a fine brood.
GOODHOUSE KEEPING
Mary Robinette Kowal
The door to Grace’s home office was open, the computer screen glowing with welcome. Next to the keyboard, a cup of tea steamed. She looked out of the corners of her eyes hoping to spy her house brownie, but Thistlekin was as elusive as always. When she sat, her cat Mallory leaped into her lap and settled down to watch. Stroking his head absently, Grace cleared the papers off a cushion on the desk for her client.
The visiting brownie stood uncertainly next to the chair. His capped head came barely to her knees and his large ears drooped with exhaustion. From the hole in his brown knee britches to the stain on his vest, he looked as though he had traveled far.
“Brownie, you may sit here if you’d like.”
The wizened creature bowed and leaped up, flipping to land on the cushion. He sat with his legs crossed and his broom laid across his lap. She saw him eye the tea, but did not offer him any, lest he feel obligated to serve. She had too many houseless Folk in residence already. For many of them, she was the last place of refuge in the mortal world. One might say it was part of her job as the foster daughter of the Faerie Queen.
Grace picked up the cup and sipped it. Chamomile. She smiled; Brownie Thistlekin always knew when she needed soothing. She opened her database. “Now. We’ll start with your house name.”
“Briarwood House, Granny.”
Grace grimaced; as her fortieth birthday loomed, the honorary title had begun to sound unpleasantly old. She typed in the house name and pulled up the file. “That’s a very good house. Their family has kept the ways as long as they’ve had a hearth.” But like many houses, the current goodwife kept the ways out of a sense of tradition, not because she believed in the housefolk. “And how are you called?”
The brownie stood up and leaned close to her. He smelled of dry leaves and embers. She bent her head, so he could whisper, “Brownie Nutkin.”
“The Nutkins of Briarwood House.” Grace smiled at him. “I know your papa. How is he?”
Brownie Nutkin the Younger twisted the broom. “Dog got him.”
She drew in a breath and pulled back, as if recoiling would protect her from the news. “I’m so sorry.”
He bit his lip, and worried the straws in his broom. Brownies were born old, their faces full of fissures from the womb, but this brownie looked as if grief would split his face in two. She suddenly realized that Brownie Nutkin was far younger than she had first thought; she had placed his father at Briarwood House only nine years ago.
Brownie Nutkin the Younger was too young to begin courting, so why was he here? “You can’t be here for a placement.”
“You can find us a new hearth and home.”
“For your whole family?”
He shook his head, ears flapping. “All the Folk want to go. After the goodwife’s man came. His nasty dog hunts us.” He tipped his tiny head back and wailed. “It got Papa.”
Grace yearned to pick up Brownie Nutkin and cradle him like the hurt child he was, but brownies were wild things. Her foster mother had taught her that. She let him grieve and listened to the quiet rustling as the Folk in her house came to bear witness.
When he finished keening and wiped his long nose on his sleeve, Grace asked. “Is this why you want a new placement?”
He nodded.
A thought occurred to her—the Folk were very particular about titles. “Goodwife’s man ... They aren’t married? If he isn’t her Goodman, why hasn’t your family driven him out?”
“Papa tried.”
“Oh.”
“Unsanctified. Nasty man. Hits the goodwife.”
Grace clenched her teeth.
The brownie hesitated. “She leaves the cream out. We don’t touch it. Dog is waiting.”
Grace chewed on her lower lip. She did not like to think of Briarwood House becoming bare and barren. She scanned the file again. Three brownie families, a hobgoblin, and five sprites called Briarwood House their hearth and home. Where could she send them all?
“Does your mama know you’re here?”
Brownie Nutkin fidgeted on his cushion. “No.”
He could not be more than five years old. A movement in the corner caught her eye. Brownie Thistlekin winked at her and nodded once. She sighed. “The Folk of this house will shelter you tonight. I will send Robin Redbreast to tell your mama where you are.”
Brownie Nutkin stood, bowed to her, and jumped off the desk. Brownie Thistlekin took his hand and led him across the room.
And they were gone, into the byways and highways of the Folk.
Grace dumped Mallory off her lap and went to the window. Opening it, she let the October air cool her face with a brief illusion of peace. She whistled once, then waited. The moon silvered the grass and caught in the tree branches, turning them into filigree. A quick shape flew over the lawn and Robin Redbreast landed on her windowsill. His eye was dull with sleep and he gave one short peep to question her.
“I’m sorry, dear. I need you to go to Briarwood House and tell Mama Nutkin that her son is with me.”
He cocked his head to the side and listened as she told him about Brownie Nutkin’s visit. When she was finished, he bobbed his head and flipped his tail, then with a flutter of wings he flew away through the night.
Grace left the window open for his return.
She went to the computer and opened a Web browser. She first stopped at the forum she maintained, Granny’s Site of Faerie Folk. She hated the new-agey type of crowd it sometimes drew, but she had not found a better way to attract the right type of person. She scanned through the posts to see i
f anyone new had mentioned wanting to host Folk in their home.
Some people stumbled onto the Board and began following the old ways as a lark, then logged on to talk about the amazing “coincidences,” like washed dishes or folded laundry. Others knew the Folk were real and paid more than lip service to their deeds.
One new post was from a woman in New York City who wished she could have brownies or sprites in her apartment. That was barely large enough for one brownie family and not enough room for all the Folk of Briarwood House. Grace shook her head. There were too few homes. Most of the other Fair Folk had retreated, but housefolk needed homes. Too many of them were refugees in a world that had little room for magic. Still, she would ask the auntie in the NYC district to send her Robin Redbreast to investigate. Maybe she could place at least one of the families staying with her.
Her network of aunties had taken the place of the village wise women whose province the hearth and home had been for thousands of years. Most of them were successful career women, a few were stay-at-home-moms, but they had all proven their dedication to keeping the Folk safe in the world. They provided the contact point for the goodwives to make certain that each was maintaining a healthy habitat for the housefolk. Grace had taken the titles from folklore, because it gave the housefolk something they understood, but in truth the aunties’ and goodwives’ roles were more akin to a park warden watching the habitat of a spotted owl.
The Folk’s habitat had shrunken steadily since the industrial age began. Not for mystical reasons, but simply because housefolk were poisoned with the rats or run over in the street with squirrels. As humans made the houses air- and water-tight, the housefolk could not leave the homes they lived in, so families could not marry and dwindled, then died. The population had dropped precipitously over the last century. Though Grace’s efforts had slowed the number of senseless deaths, it seemed as if every other robin brought news of a housefolk killed simply by trying to live in the modern world.
A flurry of wings called her away from the computer. Robin Redbreast stood in the window, his body taut with anxiety. He trilled and danced from one leg to the next. Grace stiffened as he spoke of danger.
A bogeyman.
This was worse than the abusive man she had feared. She wanted to grab her scrying bowl and call the Faerie Queen, but that was a child’s fear speaking. Keeping the housefolk safe was her job.
She got a bowl of cream from the kitchen and carried it into the living room. Old clear grain fir paneling lined the walls. Her grandfather had built the house using wood from the property and the warmth of his touch was still visible in the details.
Mallory eyed the bowl of cream when she set it on the brick hearth, but he knew it was not for him. Grace stirred up the coals of the fire with a brass poker—she’d had to sell the iron tools her parents had kept by the fireplace. Iron and faeries didn’t mix.
The embers glowed red and sparked into the air. She opened a box on the mantel and pulled out four chestnuts.
Grace rolled the chestnuts between her palms and stared at the fire. “Brownie, hobgoblin, sprite, and gnome. Folk of Woodthrush House attend me.” She tossed the chestnuts into the flames.
She settled in one of the wingback chairs facing the fireplace and waited. A chestnut cracked and she heard the gentle rustling of autumn leaves. She did not turn her head, but saw the brownies of her house sidle into the room and sample the cream. Each nut-brown face, wrinkled as a dried apple, bobbed to her and she nodded back. Mama Seedkin had her nursing infant with her. She had come as a refugee to Woodthrush House a fortnight ago, heavy with pregnancy and the only brownie to escape the demolition of her family’s homestead. Grace had not seen her since she had given birth. The baby’s face was as wrinkled as his mother′s; he sputtered when she held the bowl of cream to his lips for a symbolic taste.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Brownie Thistlekin, the head of the family who truly belonged to Woodthrush House, slip in and take his place among the refugees. Brownie Nutkin clung to him like a burr. Granny Winesap, as irritable an old lady as faerie had ever produced, came close behind, fussing over the young brownie as if she were his real granny.
Another chestnut popped like a gunshot, and the sparks flew up the chimney. The embers stirred themselves, glowing red in the flames. Three twisted hawthorn figures, with eyes of glowing coal, stepped out of the fire, one after the other.
The cream hissed when the eldest of the three hobgoblins raised the bowl to his lips to taste. He passed it to the other two before settling on the hearth.
The next two chestnuts popped one after the other. In their echo, she heard a patter of feet and smelled new-cut grass. The sprites ran sideways down her walls and stood like gossamer spiderwebs defying gravity. The gnomes tumbled in through the open window, tracking dirt and clippings across the floor. Their round, plump faces were upturned with curiosity.
She waited for them to sample the cream.
“Blessings on you, my dear Folk.” It broke her heart to see so many crowded into one home, but she loved them all. “I have distressing news. Will you pay heed?”
They murmured assent, their voices no louder than crickets.
“Robin Redbreast has the tale.”
The company cleared a circle in their midst. The bird flew into the center and cocked his head, eyes bright with knowledge. He began to dance. His voice trilled and chirped, telling the tale. In the pattern of his wings and the flip of his tail, he painted Briarwood House.
Robin Redbreast seeks the Folk of Briarwood House. He seeks, he searches, he hop, hop, hops through the attic. In the nooks, in the crannies of the house, he looks. The Folk of Briarwood House are hiding in the nooks and the crannies of the house.
Why do they hide? They hide from the hound. The hound, terrible and fierce, hunts them. It hunts, it hunts. Hunting, it crushes them. The hound, terrible and fierce, hunts the Folk and they hide.
Who is the Hound’s master? The Folk of Briarwood House hide their faces. Terrible, terrible. The bogeyman rises. He sets snares for the Folk. They go still as stone. The bogeyman strikes the goodwife and sets snares for the Folk.
They hide. They hide. They hide from the darkness.
Robin Redbreast ended his dance and the Folk in Grace’s home shuddered and whispered to each other. It had been years since a bogeyman last came into the mortal world. The Faerie Queen had driven them out of her realm before Grace’s great-grandparents had been born, but some still lurked in the lands of the Unseelie Court. The rebel fae who made up the court kept the bogeymen as gruesome pets.
She let the Folk collect themselves. Their voices buzzed in conversation, the youngest demanding to know what a bogeyman was; the elders trying to comfort the ones old enough to understand.
A bogeyman meant death for the Folk. He would suck the light and life from hearth and home. He would hunt down each of the Folk in the home before killing the goodwife. Then he would slip into the skin of another unwary mortal man and seek a new hearth and home.
When Grace drew breath to speak, the Folk all hushed. “I need your help to aid Folk whose hearth and home are in jeopardy. Will you?”
Brownie Thistlekin stood and bowed. “Granny, you need not ask us. We are yours.”
“Wait now.” Granny Winesap thumped her broom on the floor. “I’d like as any for that spleeny flap-mouthed haggard to know what-for from us, but we ain’t any sort of match for a bogeyman.”
“I grant you that, Granny Winesap.” Grace leaned forward, feeling like the Faerie Queen on her throne. “The bogeyman is too massy for such as we to deal with. He needs hard steel to put him down and cold iron to lock him tight.” Neither of which her Folk could handle without life-threatening burns. “You are but new come to our home. We use the same things which drive you from hearth and home to drive bogeymen out—the dying beliefs, the mortal eyes which see only what they will, not that which is true.”
“How do we do that, Granny?” Brownie Nutkin asked.
“And what of the rest of us?” Granny Winesap asked.
“We put on a play. Mortals don’t hear a hobgoblin crack, they hear a gunshot. And when they hear a gunshot, what do mortals do?”
The Folk stared at her, rapt. The newer refugees glanced around to see if they could get a hint from the folk who had lived with her longest. The ways of mortals were strange to them.
But Grace knew what it meant to be mortal; that was why the Faerie Queen had taken her as an infant and raised her. Grace had only been returned to her parents so she could serve as a liaison between the mortal world and faerie. She knew the ways and means of the human courts now—the courts of law—and she used those to keep her Folk safe. “They call the police who will come with their hard steel and cold iron. They will put the bogeyman down for us.”
The dawn air had chilled Grace’s skin when she began her jog, but now her velour jogging suit seemed over-warm. She turned another corner in the subdivision, watching the trees as she went. She wore a small hip bag which banged against her with every step. Anxiety had been her companion since the meeting with the housefolk last night. She reached for the silent iPod she wore as part of the uniform of joggers. Grace had left it off so she could focus while she waited for the housefolk to move into place, but the idea of distraction tempted her.
Robin Redbreast flew in front of her and circled, chirping. The housefolk were in position. Grace sighed and turned her path toward Briarwood House.
The house stood behind its trees as if it were disdainful of the subdivision which had grown up around it. A long oak-lined drive separated Briarwood House from the street. Grace jogged down the sidewalk at the edge of the property. She could not set foot on the soil of Briarwood House without alerting the bogeyman of her presence. The time for that had not yet come.