Page 8

WILLOW ESCORTED MIRIAM to the foyer and watched from the front door until she was fully and firmly out of the house. Then Willow closed the door and leaned against it, closing her eyes. Wrenna Bratton. My grandmother. A tiny streak of fae, a whiff of magic.

“She had the baby,” Miriam had said, speaking of Willow’s mother, born from rape. “She named her Lark.”

But Willow’s mother was named Mercy. Not Lark.

And Willow’s mother hadn’t been raised by Wrenna, who may or may not have hanged herself, but by Elizabeth Ann Whitmire, who had lived and died a devout Pentecostal Christian and who, by definition, had been anti-faerie all the way.

Willow had never met the woman, but she’d heard stories.

If anyone so much as mentioned faeries in her presence, Elizabeth Ann Whitmire would have fallen on her knees and begged for the Lord’s protection.

Get thee behind me, Satan! Willow imagined a curdled old woman saying.

Willow’s grandfather, also dead, would have taken it even further, spouting scripture in a trembling voice as bubbles of spit formed at the corners of his mouth.

When Willow had been younger, she’d occasionally asked her mother about her parents and why they never visited.

Other kids’ grandparents did. They showed up in droves for plays and Grandparents’ Day and other school functions.

They came in all shapes and sizes, these other grandparents, but they had one thing in common: the moment they spotted John or Julianne or whichever grandchild was theirs, their faces would light up and break into the biggest smiles ever.

“We’re not on speaking terms,” Willow’s mom had said, lowering her eyes. “They’re not... they don’t approve...”

“They don’t approve of anything except the Lord and their place at His table,” Willow’s father had once interjected, taking her mother’s elbow and leading her away. “Go to your room and leave your mother in peace.”

They sounded dreadful, Lemuel and Elizabeth Ann Whitmire. And to change a baby’s name after adopting her... wasn’t that kind of messed up?

Lark? What kind of name is Lark? Willow imagined her grandfather saying as a younger man. There are no Larks in the Bible, I can tell you that.

We’ll call her Mercy, her grandmother might have pronounced, with a self-righteous nod. Because we are merciful, and she is a child of sin.

Willow pictured Elizabeth Ann holding baby Mercy in her arms, with Lemuel standing stiffly behind them as congregants from their church filed by, paying their regards and praising the Whitmires for being such fine, upstanding Christians.

They would have seen raising Willow’s mother as a good deed—which it was.

But how awful to be a charity case rather than a child.

Willow shook her head, bringing herself back to the present.

In her parents’ fine house, the party droned on, a polite hum of privilege and practiced laughter.

Willow drew her thumb to her mouth, wondering if she should check on her mother.

Maybe bring her a cup of tea? Usually, when Willow’s mother had one of her spells, Willow’s primary reaction was annoyance.

The darkened room, the breathy whispers, the tremulous smile that invariably made Willow want to say, Good grief, Mom, give it a rest. Be a martyr, don’t be a martyr—I don’t care.

But stop pretending to be brave, because you’re not.

If you were, you’d open the curtains, take some aspirin, and get on with it!

Miriam’s story cast her mother’s upbringing in a new light, and Willow felt ashamed of the things she’d thought and felt. Maybe her mother was braver than Willow gave her credit for. Maybe she’d had to be just to survive her childhood.

Then again . . .

The familiar weight of impotent rage dropped over Willow, making her shoulders sag. When Willow had needed her mother the most, her mother had failed her.

No. She would not bring her mother tea.

She jumped when her father’s voice cut into her thoughts.

“Willow, come say hello to Judge Baylor,” he said, beckoning to her from several feet away. It wasn’t a request, and Willow knew it.

She stepped forward, plastering on a smile as she joined her father and Ash, who stood poised and perfect beside him.

“So,” Judge Baylor said, clapping a hand on Ash’s shoulder, “I hear Ash is planning on getting a PhD in biomedical engineering. Already has an internship lined up for the summer. That’s quite an accomplishment!”

“Thank you,” said Ash. “I try to stay on top of things. You know how it is.”

“I do indeed,” said the judge. He shifted his focus to Willow. “And you, young lady? What are your plans for the future?”

Oh no. Really? Even on a good day, Willow found it difficult to articulate what her goals were. Tonight, still reeling from her conversation with Miriam Candler, she found it difficult to remember how language worked. Words, sentences—what were they again?

The silence stretched out.

The judge shifted his weight from one foot to another.

Her father cleared his throat. “Willow... Well. We don’t quite know what her plans are. I’m not sure she does either.”

“Oh, she does,” Ash cut in. “Willow used to want to be a famous actress, but she gave up that idea for something more practical.” She smiled sideways at Willow. “Now she wants to be a fairy when she grows up. That’s why she wears bells on her skirt.”

Judge Baylor looked perplexed.

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Willow managed to say.

“No?” Ash pressed. “But not even an hour ago, you told me that—”

“Ash!” Willow cried. She fisted her hands, and her breath came hot and fast.

“Girls. Enough,” their father snapped.

“Perhaps some aptitude testing would help you focus,” the judge said to Willow, then turned back to Ash. “Have you thought about a specialty yet? Graduate school is a ways away, but as you said, it’s smart to plan ahead.”

“I want to do something that makes a difference in people’s lives,” Ash said.

“Something real. Something tangible. Cochlear implants, for example. The technology isn’t there yet, but surgeons anticipate being able to correct an infant’s hearing within the first month of life.

A baby born deaf would never know what deafness is, would never experience deafness at all. Isn’t that remarkable?”

“It certainly is,” said the judge. “Every day, science makes the impossible possible.”

“Well, there are limits,” Ash said. “Wings, for example.” She glanced at Willow and gave a light laugh. “I know how much you want them, but don’t cut slits in your shirts just yet.”

The atoms holding Willow together detached again, this time violently, and she heard her own voice before she realized she’d opened her mouth to speak. “Okay, Ash. I won’t. But do you know what?”

She stepped closer to her sister. The air between them hummed. “I’d rather be a fool who dreams of flying than the bitch who shoots them down.”

Shock swept through the room, swift and devastating. Conversations died. Faces turned their way. Willow’s father turned to stone, and Juniper froze where she stood, her tray at a precarious angle. Even Ash was speechless, blinking rapidly as twin spots of pink rose on her cheeks.

“Go upstairs, Willow,” her father said. His voice was cold and furious. “Now.”

Willow knew she’d gone too far, but it had been a long and awful night. A long and awful year , and she just... she couldn’t anymore. She just couldn’t.

What was it Miriam Candler had said? Leave now, before the shadows grow teeth ? Willow’s teeth came out fast and sharp, hungry for blood.

“Or what?” she said, planting her hand on a cocked-out hip. “Will you bend me over your knee and spank me? That’s what happens to bad little girls, isn’t it?”

Her father’s face turned a mottled shade of red.

Ash— Ash! —sidled close to Willow and tugged her arm. “Don’t,” she said viciously.

All right, then, Ash . Willow pulled free of her sister’s grasp, faced Ash head-on, and smiled. “Don’t what? Say the things that shouldn’t be said?”

“Not here. Not now ,” Ash said under her breath. She bugged her eyes at Willow, and in their depths, Willow saw something she’d never seen before: fear.

Ash, the good sister, was afraid of what Willow might do. Afraid of just how bad Willow might choose to be. Adrenaline coursed through Willow’s veins, and it was delicious.

“I’m confused,” she said, spooling the words out slowly. She spun around in a small circle, taking in all the eyes, everyone’s attention squarely on her. This was how she used to feel when she’d been up on stage. Electric. Powerful. The star of the show.

“I’m not supposed to be a dreamer.” She fake pouted. “No wings for me. No fairy tales, no happy endings. But, Ash—”

Her father unfroze, and with one swift step, he was at her side, gripping her arm.

She struggled, but he was stronger than Ash.

Mr. Chapman had been stronger than Ash, too.

Mr. Chapman, who’d told everyone that Willow was a very bad girl, despite having given Willow the opposite message for months.

“She was so talented,” he’d said! “A star!” In Mr. Chapman’s eyes, as Willow saw it, she’d been a good girl right up until that moment in the Pattersons’ hot tub when the night had stopped going his way.

Then Mr. Chapman had reversed his opinion so quickly it would have given Judge Baylor whiplash.

So maybe her father was right. Maybe it had been confusing—what had transpired between Willow and Braxton Academy’s esteemed and beloved drama teacher.

Confusing to her father. Confusing to the world. But not to Willow.

“Let go ,” she said to her father, twisting her arm and trying to slither free.

“You’re causing a scene,” he hissed. “Stop it.”

“I can’t be a dreamer,” she said loudly, twisting to face Ash as her father propelled her toward the staircase. “But I’m supposed to live in a world of make-believe? How can I do both at once?”