Page 3

The squire thrust but missed the puppet’s heart. In that moment, relief—mysterious relief—coursed through my veins, the shame of it heating my skin, stinging like the slap of a traitor. I cupped the lad’s elbow and urged him to the side, silencing the hoots around us.

My sword hissed from its sheath once more. My body rotated, piercing the wooden neck with a clean backhanded force that beheaded the figure.

“Like that,” I instructed.

Applause followed. Our group burned the pieces, my gaze averted as I slid my hands—slid my ringed finger—into leather gloves. Smoke trailed through the morning air, the puppet crumbling to ash.

We rewarded ourselves with pints while sitting around a fire, sharing brew and stories of the week, the month, the year. These were real narratives of real people, accounts of comely admirers and daily politics, debates about foolishness and madness, comparisons of weaponry craftsmanship, arguments about which mill produced the finest grain and which tavern served the finest froth, and which had the finest looking barmaids or barmen. This was knights’ talk, sealed with lessons, lectures, and laughter.

The Royals would summon me for a conference soon. The castle, of walnut-painted masonry and windows framed in shutters of a deep beet red, presided peacefully behind us. A female soldier jostled another, and everything was normal.

Everything should have been well, except the early light shifted, blasting through the lawn. A breeze woke the treetops of Autumn’s distant woodlands, the copper and crimson leaves clapping not in praise, but in premonition. They sounded like the flapping pages of a manuscript.

The other soldiers often ribbed the Seasons out of me, accusing me of clairvoyance and of having a seer’s mind, though such beings did not exist. Be that as it may, I sensed a twist, an unexpected lurch in the air, borne of anticipation and change.

In the land of falling leaves, there lived a knight...

I surged to my feet, signaling the end of our rest. My chainmail glittered like water, dragging my shoulders down as we strode back to the stronghold, heading to the armory.

The reek of burnt lumber trailed after me. Unable to help myself, I craned my head over my shoulder one more time, peering at the training yard, at the pit’s cindered remains. No, the body on strings had not been real. No, I did not believe it ever had been. Maidens made of wood did not come to life, nor smirk, nor enchant. Certainly, puppets did not deceive.

Indeed, only a real person could do so.

Even then, only a wicked soul would toy with a noble one.

Only a liar would do something like that.

2

Fantasy

“Of course, it’s not dangerous,” I promised.

Sugar and spice coated those words, a teaspoon of sincerity, a tablespoon of amusement. A dishonest taste. One that pinched the fucking tongue.

Standing outside the citadel walls, the stonemason’s son hesitated. “Are you sure?”

I narrowed my eyes and flicked a stray leaf from my charcoal gray pocket skirt, the bolts of my knuckles knocking together. “Am I hearing things, or does it sound like you’re doubting my word?”

“No,” the boy hastened. “No, I mean—”

“It sounds like he doubts me.” I tilted my head, rallying the faces to my left, then the ones to my right.

A half dozen boys and girls agreed, nodding and murmuring, their arms loosely crossed. Served the buck right for having the nerve to question me.

“Or maybe you’ve changed your mind. Maybe you don’t want to be part of my circle. Maybe you’ve found a better one to join.” I cocked my head, making sure the Autumn sun struck my cheekbones, carved to perfection. “Or you’re a coward.”

“I’m no such thing,” the boy protested.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

The stonemason’s son obeyed. “Nobody calls me a coward. If you do, it’s a lie.”

Actually, no. I knew the difference between lies and mere observations. For eighteen years, I’d learned the difference between lies and everything but.

In fact, my nose had taught me that difference; the appendage tended to shift in size because of the distinction. But I knew how to control that.

Leaning forward, I whispered, “It’s fine to admit you’re afraid.”