Page 4 of The Wind and the Wild (The Keepers of Faerie #1)

I have known her to be that distracted, but I might as well explain.

She and Niall are already sworn to secrecy about the kittens, which means they’ll gossip to each other and no one else.

She has never shared a secret of mine, and I never one of hers, and I doubt she will be the one to break the safe walls of trust the three of us have built around one another.

I lean my head against the top of hers as we walk, careful not to crush the eggs by bumping my pockets into her legs.

“ I’m going to try to find that library Emma told me about—”

“ I knew it .”

“— just on the border, where I normally go. I’ve sort of half figured out how to pick landmarks. Find a tree you can remember, close your eyes, and run a dozen steps ahead. It will pretty much put you out at the same place every time.”

“ Pretty much?”

I shrug. “ Every time I’ve ever tried. Within a few steps.”

“ Be honest. Have you ever plowed into a tree doing that?”

“ Well, I pick a clear path.”

“ That is not what I asked.”

I sigh as I open my cottage door, holding it open for her. “ Perhaps... once.”

With a giggle, she skips in, heading to my room. I deposit the eggs on the counter save for one and take a tea saucer, scrambling after her.

“ When are you going?” she asks, already with the kittens spread out on my bedquilt and attempting to pet all nine of them at once.

For all her fear of Faerie, she certainly overcame any hesitation with these little ones rather quickly.

Not too difficult when they’re helpless as the kittens my mind insists upon calling them.

I move aside the curtains and the dried bee balm and foxgloves hanging in strings from the window, shedding more light onto the little creatures.

“ This afternoon, I think. I don’t want to frighten anyone about going in. I don’t go in the dark, so don’t fret.”

“ I don’t fret,” she says, which is another lie, and watches me crack the egg into the saucer and try it on the kittens. Their rough little tongues scratch a little bit of yolk off my finger, but not nearly enough. “ Niamh? ”

“ Hmm? ”

“ Please don’t go in when it’s dark. They come out in the dark.”

Hounds. I force myself not to shiver. “ I know, silly. I never do.”

Late afternoon? Sometimes. Night? Never.

When she’s quiet, I take her hand. I cannot tell her not to fuss. She has been worried over my uninvited trips to Faerie for years, and my reassurances are not going to wipe such things aside.

Finally, she smiles and tells me, “ You can take Niall.”

I give her a look portraying how we both know he wants to go in as little as she does. “ This is nothing different than usual.”

“ Niamh . . .”

“ Una. ”

She shoves her shoulder to mine, which sends us both onto the smooth wooden floor. I grab the pillow from the top of the bed to enact my vengeance.

In the end, it isn’t nearly so difficult to find the library as I anticipated.

In a thinner dress against the afternoon spring heat and sturdier boots so I don’t twist an ankle on all the fallen branches, I stand at the edge of the trees.

I haven’t ventured here since three days back, and my skin itches beneath the weight of the trees’ watchful eyes.

Briars attempt once more to poke at my now-protected ankles.

I pass by the place where I found the kittens and discover the bloody leaves washed clean by morning mist. I run my fingers across the hawthorn and pick a different spot.

A few dozen steps down, I find a tree I haven’t marked.

Every time I find a good berry patch on the other side, I scrape a little line into the bark of the tree I used to jump in.

It looks like nothing, just a scratch from an animal or a natural flaw in the tree’s flesh.

It is a mark I recognize and needs be nothing else.

I pick an unmarked tree, face myself down a path where I won’t smack into the rough bark of another oak, close my eyes, and run a half dozen steps.

Before I open my eyes, the air warms. A thick, hot summer day after a thunderstorm, moss and berries fat with juice and growing honeysuckle. I crack an eye and find myself in a section of the Faerie wood.

Otherwise empty.

I wander a half dozen yards in, but it is easy to see in all directions, even in the afternoon light. Nothing.

Turning on the spot, I close my eyes and run back until the air chills slightly, catching myself on the familiar oak tree on the mortal side of the border.

Another handful of spots turn up fruitless—besides the new blackberry bushes I discover. Constantly, I find myself glancing at the hawthorn. Late-day sun is beginning to cast long shadows against the leaves. A few beetles take to the sky. A gentle breeze swirls against the heat of afternoon.

I stop my search for another unmarked tree and return to the hawthorn.

Its trunk is wide and old, soft in the bark. It has grown short and gnarled, and such is the way of faerie trees cursed to live in the mortal lands. I put my fingers to it, avoiding the nearby bush once splattered with blood. Carefully, stepping over briars, I turn and face the very human wood.

Pick up your feet, Niamh , I tell myself, then close my eyes and run until the air turns soupy and sweet.

My shoulders tense, and I take a breath before daring to crack open my eyes, prepared to turn and run if anything resembling a monster or other creature I have never seen makes itself known.

No monsters.

Instead, there is an overgrown hedge of honeysuckle.

It would not be blooming this early on our side of the world, and I find a smile tugging at my lips.

Taking one of the flowers, I lick the sugar off the stem, mouth momentarily hurting with how overwhelmingly sweet it is.

But a beautiful hedge of honeysuckle does not make for much of a clear view, so I pick up my steps, now on slightly evener ground of moss and fallen maple leaves.

Moths flutter dusty-blue wings, tongues finding the insides of flowers.

My boots crunch crispy leaves, a subtle disturbance of the ever-present stillness.

My breath comes in a misty puff as if it is not a hot summer afternoon this side of the trees.

Only three dozen steps in, the honeysuckle spreads, giving way to a straight line, and I realize it is growing along walls to either side of me that deteriorate into nothing a ways down, where the vines cling instead to bushes and trees.

Tall maple trees hang in the ensuing woods, leaves fluttering in the stillness, pale trunks like watching figures. A chill of sweat drips down the back of my dress, tickling my spine.

Sitting among the pale bodies of trees is a building strangely gentle for its massive appearance.

It is not as otherworldly as I expected a building of Faerie to be—at least not in the individual parts.

Largely wooden, it hangs with shingles of the same material, a base of stone supporting it.

Pillars of marble—no, pale ash wood—ring the entrance.

A small set of steps leads up, but the front door has been blocked by such an overgrowth of honeysuckle that I don’t believe I’d be able to break through even had I brought Da’s sheep shears or a kitchen knife.

Yes, it is mostly stone and old wood standing the test of time, with a sharply sloped set of roofs and several chimneys, but something about it makes me off-balance. I step sideways as if I’m about to tip over onto the flat forest carpet.

No trees have fallen in the area, none at all, and the uncanniness of the fact nearly has me turning on my heel.

But there are no other signs of life, just the trees and the honeysuckle and the moths.

No monsters, and certainly no fae in this fallen building.

If a single thing about the stories of the fair folk is true, it is that they are vain beasts, pretty monsters, and I cannot imagine one would dwell in a half-fallen library.

It should not be much to one of them, but it is the largest building I’ve ever seen outside the few visits to the city. In the mist and silent watchmen of trees, it seems to stretch forever, though I can see all its edges.

The border is very near still, and there is plenty of light. Farther in I have traveled merely to gather berries. This is not much of anything at all. There is nothing I need fear. When I glance back, the honeysuckle is the same. Everything is the same. There is nothing different here.

I can always turn and run, put my fingers into my ears and shout over the music. I have found Faerie, so Faerie cannot find me.

For now, I can walk forward.