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Liar, Liar,her insides sang,trapped in briar, sliced by thorns and tossed in the fire.

Cursing, Atta stomped to the atrium to retrieve a few more items she needed and two plants she’d planned to research, taking them back to the safety of Sonder’s study. She lit a fire and went to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea and a sandwich.

Retrieving the sandwich-making supplies, she pondered how peculiar it is that something transcendent, something unparalleled, can take place and yet humans still walk, breathe, move, live the same. Things like hunger and exhaustion should cease to exist in the face of the sublime, the tragic. And yet, there they are. It felt blasphemous.

Atta stilled, a slice of deli meat in mid-air on its way to the bread. “There’s afucking faeriein the cellar.”

She dropped her sandwich paraphernalia to the plate and made for the cellar door.

Her hand rested on the handle for a moment as she contemplated if she was about to make a grave error. On second thought, she decided to arm herself first. Just in case.

Returning to the cellar door armed with black salt, mugwort, and palo santo, Atta fingered the Tears of the Grieved bottle around her neck and flicked on the light switch, venturing down the stairs. To her dismay, only one dim bulb flickered on, the manor so old and outdated. At the bottom of the stairs, however, she saw a shelf of kerosene lamps.The Murdochs and their lamps.

She lit one with a match and held it aloft to take in the space. It was dank and musty, almost entirely made up of shelving holding countless bottles of wine, whiskey, Scotch, you name it. She guessed she was looking at more money than her parents made in five years down there. More than she would have made in ten working at Gallaghers’. At present, Atta doubted she still had a job at all after not showing up for two shifts with no explanation. Alas, she had more important things to worry about than that.

And there it was. A flitting faerie, a trooping creature of the Fae, sitting in the middle of an alcohol shelf next to a bottle of Absinthe—The Green Faerie. It was comical, really, Sonder’s odd sense of humour. The bottle he’d placed the creature next to was ornately described asLa Fée Verte, a naked, green-haired pixie on the vintage label.

Atta moved her lamp to the cage holding a real, true faerie. She bent down to peer at it, looking at it intently for the first time. She should have brought her notebook to sketch it, all the sinewy bone, the flitting, crêpe-paper wings. Part of her wanted to go up and retrieve a journal, then come back down. But the little creature tipped its head to one side, and Atta mirrored its movement. Time suspended, just for a second, two beings eyeing one another. And then it flew forward faster than she could see, slamming itself against the thick glass of its lantern cage.

Atta startled back, dropping the lamp. It smashed to the floor in a thousand pieces, the light guttering out. Regaining her composure, she slowly approached the cage, pulling a handful of black salt from the pouch she’d brought. It was harder to see in the dim glow of the overhead bulb, but she managed to examine the latch. It was held fast, but they needed something air-tight next time. They hadn’t known the bastards could dissipate unbodily, though she supposed it made sense. How else would they inhabit humans without anyone knowing?

That was when she saw it. One of the Celtic binding knots had come undone. Slipped free.

Atta swore she heard a laugh, dark and sinister before smoke began rising from the grates at the top of the lantern. No. She stepped back. Not smoke.Vapour.

The faerie was escaping.

Atta wildly threw black salt at the vapour, reciting broken bits of her prayer, her spell, her enchantment—whatever the hell it was. Sparks flew from the vapour where the salt hit, like the dancing embers above a blaze, but it wasn’t stopping it. She didn’t have the smudge sticks or palo santo lit. No black candles. No binding knot.

A hiss came at her ear and she screamed, a blinding, excruciating pain burying her skull in agony. Atta bent over, the vision so strong it took her breath away.

The Hawthorn Grove.

Faeries as far as the eye could see, wings flitting against fog, sharp teeth bloody, bits of flesh and flora in their gaps.

Atta hit the cold floor of the cellar, a strange tinkling meeting her ears before she felt the bite of a cut, and everything went black.

Sonder

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“But, sir. . .” The Head of New Days Rehabilitation gaped at Sonder with a look somewhere between disbelief and sheer confusion. “Sir, it’s an astronomical sum, and I was under the impression you don’t even know the patient.”

“Dr Reyes, I’m trying to cover, in its entirety, a full-length rehabilitation for a patient who willingly checked herself in today. The wise thing to do would be to take the money and begin treatment.”

Eyebrows still halfway to his hairline, Reyes finally agreed and accepted Sonder’s money. He was back in his Capri without having to speak to Ms McDonough or her son again. As it turned out, Ms McDonough hadn’t taken all that much convincing to check herself into New Days. She was beside herself with gratitude for having survived such a traumatic experience and wanted to turn a new leaf.

Sonder had been worried she’d somehow remember his face, though she’d never opened her eyes while he and Atta were there, but she’d said nothing of the sort, only gone on and on about her guardian angels.Thatwas why he slipped out without saying goodbye.

The sky was a slate grey when he returned to the manor, promising a heavy downpour. The house was quiet and he called out for Atta, wondering where he’d find her this time. Hopefully, he would find her curled up asleep after such a wild morning. With that as his hope, he checked her room first, but the bed was in an empty disarray. His study was also empty, so he ventured down to the kitchen to check there before heading out to the atrium. Chuckling at her recurring disappearing act, he noticed the cellar door was ajar. And the half-made sandwich on the butcher block.

Dread coated his gut.

Flinging open the cellar door, he bellowed her name, rushing down the stairs. He saw her in the dim light of the overhead bulb before he’d even made it all the way down. She was crumpled on the ground, a wet pool of something next to her.

“No, no no no.” He knelt beside her, trying to understand what happened. He touched the liquid, bringing it to his nose. “Oh thank fuck,” he exhaled when it was only lamp oil.

With two fingers on her neck, he felt for a pulse, relieved to find it was steady. He pulled her shoulders and head onto his lap, bending to quietly say her name in her ear, not wanting to startle her. Had she just fallen down the stairs? Tripped and hit her head? She didn’t stir, and he searched the shelf for the faerie lantern. It was there, intact, the door closed.