too big to fit into the crevice but stuck his head in beside the reindeer and dropped a mouthful of bark and winter berries at the princess’s feet. ‘For your pony,’ he said. ‘If you stop the war, remember what I have done for you.’
“So the princess fed her pony, but her own belly was still hollow. Together, she and the animals waited and waited for the hare to return. The reindeer and the bear began to grumble. The hare has always been useless, they said. He speaks so much and means so little. Maybe he’ll never return.
“Many hours passed before the hare returned. Carrying nothing.
‘I’m so sorry, princess,’ he whispered, bowing his head so low that his long ears brushed the ground. ‘I looked everywhere for food. I found no fish, no mice, no birds. I even checked the hunters’ traps. They were all bare. I have nothing to give you. But you must live, princess. You must stop the war. You must.’
“And he threw himself into the fire.
“The princess screamed and tried to save him, but it was too late. The hare burned. His flesh became meat. Horrified and ashamed of what they had witnessed, the bear and the reindeer ran away into the swirling snow and were never seen again.
“Even though the idea made her sick, the princess ate the hare. With every bite, she thanked him for his sacrifice. More glittering tears fell and froze on her cheeks. When the storm finally ended and she emerged from her shelter the next morning, she was never the same. Some people said it was as if her heart had wept and frozen over.”
The water, and Ayla, had gone perfectly still, and Crier could almost feel the weight of her listening. As if her silence had a shape and pulse of its own.
After a long pause, Ayla turned to her and said, “Wait. That’s it? That can’t be the end. That’s a terrible ending! The whole point of stories is that they’re different from real life! The hare is dead and the princess is dead inside? What about the war? Stars and skies, what about the princess? Did the peace treaty work? Or did the hare die for nothing?”
“I don’t know,” said Crier. “Did he?”
Ayla spluttered. “That’s not an answer! Come on, how does the story end? You read the book, you should know.” Her face in the moonlight was almost furious. Her eyes were sparks, her compact body drawn up like a soldier preparing for battle.
For some reason, Ayla’s outrage—over a story, over her words, over, maybe her—made Crier smile. A thought came to her: a story of its own, one that had only just begun writing itself in her mind: a story of two women, one human, one Made, who told ancient faerie stories to each other. Who splashed each other at the edge of the water. Who whispered the beauty of snow and the fear of death into the darkness of a late autumn evening.
And with that thought, with that bud of a story blooming inside her, Crier let her body slide into the deep tide pool.
She waded in up to her shoulders, the cold so bracing it left her light-headed. Her dress became ten times heavier in the water, wrapping hard against her skin.
“Crier!” Ayla hissed behind her. “What are you doing? I still want that ending!”
Crier.
Just Crier, no Lady.
This was a new feeling.
She turned back to face Ayla. “You’ll have to join me to find out what happens next.” To find out the ending to both stories. The princess’s, and hers.
She heard Ayla huff, but couldn’t interpret whether it was a sigh of annoyance or something else. And then:
Ayla splashed into the water. She didn’t glide in gently as Crier had done, but plunged in, creating waves, charging right toward Crier. She arrived, face-to-face with Crier in the pool, both of them standing and shivering, though Ayla much harder. Crier’s body could handle temperatures far more extreme.
A drop of water gleamed on Ayla’s lower lip. Strangely, it made Crier want to—drink.
“So?” Ayla whispered. Her body gave an involuntary shudder.
Crier paused. Ayla had come to her. She had come through the cold of the water, for her, for her story.
Ayla stepped even closer. They were mere inches apart. “How does it end?” she asked, and her words made Crier feel hot instead of cold.
But then Crier remembered the story she was telling. The war. The hare. The princess. The cruel king. “It ends happily,” she