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I let the wind carry me away, knowing it’ll eventually deposit me where I need to go.

Every so often pixies flitter by me, chittering wildly. Less often, I see two sets of wings, lovers meeting high up in the night sky under the cloak of darkness.

Once I might’ve felt something at the sight of them—wistfulness perhaps—but now I feel nothing.

My husband stamped that notion out.

Now, as I float on the soft wind, I’m more concerned with the single sets of wings I see every now and then. Soldiers looking for me?

I knew long before I drank the vial that I’d be leaving breadcrumbs behind—my nightclothes, the glass container itself. One whiff of it and any curious fairy would know exactly what I drank, and thus, exactly what I did.

My sick, ardent husband will do something about it. He’ll have to. His pride will demand it.

I float high in the sky for what must be hours, but, at some point, I begin to drift down. I catch sight of my arm shimmering back into existence. Seconds later it solidifies, along with the rest of my body, and the drifting becomes tumbling, then falling.

An instinctive bolt of fear shoots through me. No sooner do I feel it than my wings manifest. Paper-thin, they shimmer the palest of purples. They catch the wind, slowing my descent. I continue to drop from the sky, my body seeking lower elevations where the air is thicker.

Only once I’ve reached a reasonable elevation do I pause.

The night air bites into my bare skin. I’m as naked as the day I was born, my waist-length hair my only covering. The ebony locks slide over my torso, swaying in the wind.

I need clothes and shelter, and I need to not be seen.

Capture at this point means certain death. Certain,slowdeath. My husband isn’t known for his kindness.

My hand drifts to my stomach.

He would give me death either way.

I take a steadying breath and my eyes move to the horizon. Somewhere beyond it is Barbos, the City of Thieves. And beyond that—

Home.

Part I

In the Beginning, There was Darkness

Chapter 1

Misbegotten

257 years ago

Bastard.

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

It’s an ugly word, one I’ve come to hate a great deal, mostly because I can’t escape it.

I hear it whispered beneath people’s breath as I pass. I see it in their eyes when they look at me. I smell it in the sour breath of the town kids who like to push me around for it. My knuckles are scabbed over from the number of times I’ve had to fight for my honor.

But the worst is when people use it idly.

“That Flynn boy came at my son again.”

“Who?”

“You know, the scrawny bastard.”