Page 25 of How To Survive This Fairytale

The world goes syrup-slow around you.Molasses plugs your ears.He’s a tall, lithe fellow, with a wing like a swan’s where his left arm should be.His legs are a man’s, his torso is a man’s, and he has lips, not a beak, and his eyes are human eyes, not the black beads of a swan’s.It’s just the one, singular wing.How do you know him?You don’t.You’ve never seen him before.And yet you trust him.You’d trust him with your life.You’d trust him with your heart.With your entire rotten, broken, beaten?—

A little girl barrels into your hip.The syrup drains from your world.The cacophony of the animal trio returns; the marketplace is the marketplace again, and not a place where star-crossed strangers meet.The little girl squeals, then keeps running, right up to the one-winged man.

“Swan Prince, Swan Prince!”The little girl’s voice is so loud it carries through the square.She runs into him too, and grasps his feathers in fistfuls to make sure she has his whole attention.“Is it true you’recursed?Is it true a witch put a spell on you?Is it true you’ll be this wayforever?”

The girl’s harried, far less sprightly mother limps after her.

“I’m so sorry,” the mother says to you.She claps a hand on your shoulder.“She didn’t hurt you, did she?”

“What about True Love’s kiss, surely True Love’s kiss will make you a man again,” says the girl, in high-pitched desperation.

“My sisterdidmake me a man again,” says the one-winged man.The Swan Prince.“And she workedveryhard to make that happen.”

“But she didn’t do it right!”

“For heaven’s sake, child!”snaps the mother, before you can respond.When she lets you go, the warm squeeze of her palm lingers behind.“That’s thequeenyou’re talking about, have some respect!”

Your throat goes dry.

“It’s no worry, ma’am,” says the Swan Prince.He holds up his human hand and smiles down at the little girl, whose expression is caught between excitement and shame.“She did everything she could to make me and my brothers human again.She didn’t talk forsix years.She sewed shirts out ofthorns.That’s True Love, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” says the little girl, “but then why isn’t your wing an arm again?”

“That’s enough, child,” says the mother.“Forgive us both, Your Grace.”

The mother takes her daughter’s hand and yanks her away.The Swan Prince begins to walk in the opposite direction, away from you.He never saw you at all.

“Wait,” you say, the word scraping quietly out of your throat on a wisp of air.

There’s barely any breath in your lungs.It’s as if he took that massive wing, slammed it into your diaphragm, and knocked the wind out of you.

“Wait—Favorite—wait.”

The crowd swallows him.You try to follow, but your knees wobble.The thing you’ve wanted most—the thing you haven’t let yourself want—the thing you’ve dreaded, because what would you do if you got it?—has happened, and you can’t move toward it, can’t move away from it, can’t move at all.How long do you stand there, heart thrashing against your ribs, before Friend licks your palm?

You stare down at her.Her eyes are full of yearning.

“Ready to leave?”you ask.

She whines.

The performance is ongoing.The noise rattles your teeth.If you could get past it, you might see how much this means to her.You might even start to see her story’s inception.

Friend takes you by the shirtsleeve and makes you stand at the very front with her.And it’s too much.This crowd, these people, this endless caterwauling—You did it, Gertrude, you realize, tears brimming in your eyes,You did it, you did it, you did it.

* * *

At the inn, while Friend devours the steak you promised, you ask the serving girl if she knows anything about this Swan Prince.

“Oh, everyone knows him,” she says.She places a bowl of stew on the table in front of you, a bowl your potion ensures you can’t taste.Supply’s waning, though.I have to find a new apothecary.“The queen’s youngest brother.He’s the only one who didn’t run off the minute he was human again.”

“The others ran off?”you ask.

“You don’t know this story?Everyone here knows this story.”

“Ah, well,” you say, shrugging one shoulder, trying to seem friendly—aware you seem grizzled, sharp-edged—“I’m not from here.”

The serving girl eyes you, head to toe.“You really don’t know what happened?”