and resettle like everyone else.”
Janus shakes his head. “Careful now, Penny. You really don’t want to end up like Aunt Cassie—”
“I’m only saying that it would be neat if it did exist.”
“Would absolve Aunt Cassie from all the crimes, wouldn’t it?”
“Would absolve us all, I reckon … I’m not saying that Dr. Martin was right about everything, but Uncle Ferdinand snapping like that … Maybe there was something to what the old man wrote?”
“Never let Mom hear you speak like that.”
“Mom is old and biased. Maybe we should be open to new perspectives.”
“Like the ones Aunt Cassie proposes? Fairy magic and angry dead daughters?”
“Maybe, maybe not … but we may at least be open to the possibility that something was rotten in Grandmother and Grandfather’s house.”
“It always looked normal to me, if a little stiff.”
“Yes, they weren’t the kindest of people.”
“Didn’t make them child molesters, though.”
“It just seems a little too easy to blame it all on Aunt Cassie. How much damage can one person wreak, even a slightly insane one?”
“Quite a lot. Look at Hitler.” Janus thinks himself very clever.
“It had to have come from somewhere, though. All those ideas she had—they had to come from somewhere.”
“Or not. The mind is a curious thing, and she has a shelf full of books to prove that she was capable of making things up.”
“Let’s pretend for a moment that she was right—that she really paired up with Pepper-Man and that everything she wrote is true. Where would Aunt Cassie be now?” Penelope just can’t let go.
“Hibernating in the mound, I guess, waiting to be reborn as a fairy.”
“And Mara? Do you think she’s still around? Do you think she visits this house?”
“No. She isn’t real so she isn’t here, or anywhere else for that matter.”
“It’s a cruel and horrible story,” Penelope shudders. “It must have been terrible living with a truth like that, even if it wasn’t true.”
Janus collects the sheets of paper littering the desk. “Be that as it may, it’s not really up to us to judge, we have done what she asked and now it’s time to collect.”
“You really think that’s enough? To step into the solicitor’s office and say the word?”
“That is what it says.” His knuckles hit the stack of paper.
Penelope looks a little confused. “It seems so easy. After all this—just too easy.”
And right she is.
I am pleased that you have read this far, even if you have discovered the password. You could have been on your merry way right now, manuscript in the trash, password dancing at the tip of your tongues, ready to be spit out and used. There is a catch, of course there is—it would be too easy if there weren’t. I can see what you are thinking now, but don’t you worry, hatchlings, I won’t have you swearing off your mother or make you clear my name or any such nonsense. The catch has to do with the money itself.
It is faerie money.
Every last penny in my account is earned from the gifts they gave me, and as I told you before, it comes with a price. Every gift of Faerie does, even by extension.
The money is, quite literally, cursed.
If you choose to believe I am mad as a dog, and that every word I say is the raving of a lunatic—then by all means, be my guest. Take the money and be on your way.
If you believe I told you the truth, though—even if just a part of you does—you better think twice about this gift. It certainly comes with baggage.
The money won’t turn to leaves and stones like in the faerie stories of old. It isn’t that kind of faerie coins. Instead, it comes with faeries—how is that for passing on my legacy?
Everyone who keeps or spends from my funds will draw faeries to their home like a magnet. It’s an invitation, that money of yours, a path of breadcrumbs straight to your doors.
Penelope, when you come home tomorrow, after a taxing day at the bank depositing all that money, a red-eyed man with wings like a bat will sit perched outside your window looking in. He’ll see you, your red lips, your high heels, and he’ll want to own every part of you, wrap you up tight in his leather embrace, taste your dark blood and swallow your soul.
Janus, when you enter the shower after kissing your children goodnight, a water girl will be in there with you, ready to soap up your back. She’ll whisper stories in a tinkling voice like sunlight dancing on a brook, tell you what you taste like: blood and bone and marrow. She’ll cradle your daughters and sing them to sleep, tell them about how nice it is, dwelling in that cold, dark stream, and there won’t be anything you can do to stop her.
And that, my friends, is just the beginning. Soon there will be wizened leaves in your coffee, twigs in your pancakes, and mushrooms in your beds. The money comes with faeries, or it doesn’t come at all.
It is your choice, really. Your choice to make.
Believe and be safe. Don’t and be damned.
Maybe.