in. The seven-year-old scampers across the floor and tries to grab a square of cornbread, barely ducking Aunt Violet’s swat. “He gives me twizzlers.”
“Cal’s a shithead,” Jane announces loudly, sauntering in beside him.
“You can’t say shithead,” Tanner informs Jane, his blond eyebrows scrunched sternly.
“You just said it,” Jane retorts. “Now go add a quarter to the swear jar, shithead.”
“Both of you shitheads need to pay up,” I order, conjuring priceless laughs from Tanner and Jane.
All of this is pretty pointless when money means nothing—but it’s tradition, after all.
“Enough,” Aunt Violet says. One gray-shot eyebrow lifts high above her forehead, the final warning rattle before she strikes. “Unless this house is a family full of heathens, I expect manners and clean language. Understood?”
Jane glares at her boots, but she nods along with Tanner.
“Good,” Aunt Violet continues. “Now go set the table.”
Every night without exception, Aunt Violet has everyone dress the cherrywood dining table with the gilded china from her walnut curio cabinet. Even when there’s nothing to eat but bullion flavored broth, we drink that out of the china tea set passed down from her mother-in-law.
Aunt Zinnia is the last to sit. She comes sweeping in with a vase full of sunflowers picked near the road, smiling ear to ear.
Gosh, I love that woman.
I drink everything in. The loud chatter as everyone talks over each other. The way Julia and Gabe, both five-year-olds rescued from Houston, fight over who set the table better (definitely Julia). The way Aunt Violet primly cuts her meat into tiny cubes, and Jane only eats half her meal before sharing with Julia, who’s given up her fork in favor of her fingers.
I’m going to miss this.
The thought hits me square in the gut. I don’t have the words to tell them this is my last dinner. I’ve already decided to write out the letters to both Aunts, plus one to Jane. I’m afraid she’ll try to come after me. To save me . . . or to avenge me, I can’t be sure.
The other children are young enough that they’ll soon forget I ever existed. That truth hurts more than I thought it would.
Perhaps my tormentor did exactly what he said: turned me into a girl of ice, to whittle down at his pleasure.
And when he’s done, there will be nothing left for anyone to remember.
7
A sudden panic quells my appetite. I swallow down the last bite of (admittedly dry) cornbread and quickly excuse myself, my mind on making my abrupt absence as seamless as possible for everyone. There’s so much that could go wrong with me gone, and I need to ensure they’ll be okay.
Julia and Gabe try to follow me. Usually I read them a story after dinner—or five—but Aunt Zinnia grabs them before they can follow.
She must sense something’s off with me. If only she knew the horrible truth.
My room is hot as the Summer Court, and I quickly open a window. As the oldest, I’m the only one with a private room, even if, technically, it’s the attic. Usually by morning I find Jane curled in a pile of quilts by the desk in the corner, and Julia and Gabe nestled at the foot of my brass-framed bed.
Tonight, I let in Chatty Cat, who’s been following me from a distance like he’s too cool, and then lock my door. The little ones could sleep through a four alarm fire, but Jane’s like me. A troubled sleeper.
I can’t take any chance that she’ll follow me into Everwilde.
While Chatty busies himself chasing the dust devils across my wooden floor, I slide into the red wooden chair at my desk and flip open my laptop. It’s nearly ten years old and takes forever to load our crappy internet, but I wait.
I need to know more about the place I’m going. I nearly looked it up earlier when I checked out the neverapples, but then I lost my nerve.
What if I discover the Fae torture us for kicks, or find human flesh a tasty snack? It’s not like I can choose not to go.
My homepage finally loads. Before I can stop myself, I scan the first article at the top. The headline reads: “She Lost Her Daughter Because of the Fae, Now She’s Forced to Live Next to One.”
I don’t bother reading the article; my stress level is high enough, and the last thing I need is to be reminded that the Fae destroyed half our world, trapped me here in this cesspool, then somehow talked