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Prologue

Fantasy

Once upon a time, there lived a liar.

In the Kingdom of Autumn, she’d been crafted from the trees and had a nut-shaped heart. She was conceited. She was mean.

And yes, she told lies. A hell of a lot.

Why would this girl deserve a fairytale of her own?

Girls like her didn’t merit their own stories, much less earn happy endings. They neither reaped the glory, nor enticed the honest, noble knight. They weren’t meek enough, or gentle enough, to be rewarded.

To be desired. To be loved.

That’s what fairytales wanted the world to think. Because usually, fairytales were stupid.

But not this one. This tale was different.

As different as the girl herself. The timber girl made of trees.

It started like this:Beforethere lived a timber girl, there lived a woodland. Someplace special among the towering oaks, a poor animal got its limb stuck in a trap. It was a rare creature, valued for its tuft instead of its life.

But before a trapper could discover his catch, a poor lumberjack happened upon the animal. Hungry, the lumberjack could have sold it and put food on the table.

Instead, the logger set the creature free, mending its leg and then nursing it back to health, offering the last of some acorn rations.

The animal feasted on all but three nuts from the pile, then nuzzled its savior, grateful for having its life restored.

The stranger had been generous to nature, so nature did the same for the stranger. As a reward for this kindly deed, the almighty Season of Autumn blessed the trio of leftovers, turning them into treasures of the land. Each acorn would give life to whomever possessed it. And each in a distinct way.

The first one, a happy life.

The second one, a new life.

The third one, a restored life.

The first acorn was given to the animal’s rescuer. The other two were swept up by the wind, landing someplace unknown within the kingdom’s endless forests, fields, and orchards, waiting to be found by the next worthy souls.

People got sick and grew old. Couples yearned for children.

These rare acorns sounded like sweet deals. One would be able to recognize them from the unique groove marked on the shell: a fringe of lines, resembling the tassel of a plume. No one knew for sure what woodland dweller had been trapped, but the groove suggested it might have been a land bird.

Throughout the century, people hunted the woodlands, searching for the remaining acorns, but trudged home empty-handed. Eventually, they gave up looking.

Then a woodworker stumbled upon the second acorn while harvesting forest supplies for her craft. Realizing what she’d uncovered, the carpenter had an idea and brought the prize home for her latest creation: a puppet with a hollow in its chest.

That night, she used the acorn to fill in that hollow—the hole where the heart should have been. She attached it to this wooden figure, which she’d been carving for her own sake. Because she’d been lonely and wanted company...and oh, did she get it.

As the acorn snapped into place, the puppet’s eyes flipped open.

And that wooden body became flouncing curves. And those lips became a deceitful smirk. And that acorn became a hard pulse.

And that mind became a liar’s nest, not needing a sappy ending, not wanting a noble knight, and not bothering with the boring truth.

Not when I could have much more fun.

Not when I could do such brilliant damage.