still. It never changes, though the mists rise and fall, the fog rolls in across the shores and sea. But the moonlight never ebbs, the ice never melts, the sun never shines. It’s a nocturnal place, a place crafted from thoughts and dreams, hope and desire. It is lit by the silver of an unwavering moon, unfettered by clouds, illuminating everything but the shadows. It’s an autumnal place, but with a winter chill and hue. Imagine a forest that reaches between now and forever, with ancient trunks stretching to the marbled sky and an infinite network of roots reaching out to the edge of eternity.
The entrance to this place is guarded by gates, perfectly ordinary if usually ornate gates, that now and then—on that certain day, at that certain hour—transform into something extraordinary. And, if you’ve got a little Grimm blood in you, you might be able to see the shift.
Stepping through a gate, you’ll first be met by trees. They’ll greet you with white leaves falling like rain, dusting a crisp confetti across your path that crunches under your feet as you begin to find your way. Step carefully over the slick stones, or you may slip. Reach out to steady yourself, palm pressed to the bleached moss that blankets every trunk and branch. Soon you’ll hear the rush of water, a vein of the endless river that runs on and on, twisting through the trees, turning with the paths but never meeting the seas.
It’s a while before you notice that everything around you is alive. You’ll feel the hum of the earth beneath your feet, the breath of the trees in the rustle of their leaves, the murmur of the birds in flight. As your eyes adjust to the light you’ll see the marks on rocks, crushed patches of leaves, slips in the mud.
Footprints.
Others have been here before, and you’re following in their footsteps. You wonder how many have preceded you, which paths they took, where they went, and what they found. And so you walk on . . .
As you walk be careful to avoid the shadows, steer clear of the creatures that lurk within. Don’t listen to their voices, the persistent whispers that will linger in your mind. Instead, stick to the path. Follow your heart and let it lead you to the others, as they will be led to you.
Goldie
I wanted to be different, special, exceptional. No doubt everyone felt the same, excepting the seven people on this planet happy exactly as they are. I wasn’t. I’d wanted to be extraordinary ever since I was old enough to know I was not. I suppose that’s why I liked sleeping so much, because in my dreams I was spectacular. I flew, breathed fire, became invisible. I moved objects with my mind, heard people’s thoughts, transported myself from place to place in a blink.
I looked unusual. Not beautiful. At least, no one ever said so. I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I wasn’t pretty like Juliet du Plessi, who sat at my reading table though she never bothered with the books. I didn’t need pretty, I had my mind. My thoughts. I could always hide away in my own head. A bit like J.J., who always knew answers to questions even our teachers didn’t know. I usually did too, though, unlike J.J., I never raised my hand.
In my dreams I sometimes used my magic powers for good, sometimes for evil. It didn’t matter, since no one was ever hurt in dreams. Which was sometimes a relief, sometimes a shame. At night, I maimed my stepfather in elaborately inventive ways. Every morning, he remained disappointingly unbruised. Another reason falling asleep was my favourite moment, waking up my worst.
Scarlet
It was a moment before Scarlet noticed she was being watched, her mother regarding her with a curious, sideways gaze. Scarlet glanced down to see that her fingertips were scorched, as if burned by the sun. But it was a muted English day, warm enough to sit on the grass and string daisy chains, too cool to discard layers of clothing. Scarlet still wore a cotton vest under her dress, yet the petals of the daisy she held were singed.
“What did you do?”
Scarlet didn’t meet her mother’s eye. “Nothing.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“It just happened,” Scarlet protested, sensing that her mother’s anger, always quick to ignite, was starting to spark. “I—I didn’t do anything.”
Ruby Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “Just like you didn’t flood the bathroom. Or burn my favourite, my