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  The Tales of Wonder and Grace only sparked more questions in Ash. At night when she sat beside her mother’s grave, wondering if this would be the night that someone—something—came to take her away, as Maire Solanya had warned, she watched the darkness gathering in the nearby trees with equal parts dread and anticipation. What lay beyond those trees? Would she ever dare to do what Thom had done? If the stories were true, as Maire Solanya had seemed to imply, then there might be a way to see her mother again.

  There were some common threads among the fairy tales she had read. Fairies were drawn to in-between times like Midsummer’s Eve, when the full weight of summer begins to tip toward the shorter days of autumn; or Souls Night, when the spirits of the newly departed walk the land. But fairies were never seen in common daylight, and they preferred the light of the full moon for their hunts and celebrations. So on the night of the next full moon, Ash rose from her bed at midnight, trembling with excitement. She pulled on her woolen cloak and tiptoed halfway down the upstairs corridor before her stepsister’s door cracked open. She heard Ana’s voice whispering, “Where are you going?” Ash froze, turning to look at her stepsister. Ana was peering out at her curiously, holding a lit candle stub beneath her face.

  “It’s none of your business,” Ash whispered. “Go back to bed.”

  Ana’s eyes narrowed and she stepped out into the corridor, pulling her door shut behind her. She observed, “You are dressed to go outside. Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I can go wherever I want,” Ash said curtly.

  She turned her back on her stepsister and began to walk toward the stairs, but stopped when Ana said, “I’ll tell. I’ll wake up your father and tell him you’re going out.”

  Anger rose inside her—she would not let this girl stop her—and she glared at Ana. “Do whatever you like,” Ash said dismissively. She did not wait for Ana’s reaction but went down the stairs quickly, her heart racing with fear and exhilaration.

  In the pantry, she lit the covered lantern before going to the back door. She put her hand on the doorknob and looked behind her. In the glow of the lantern the kitchen was comforting and ordinary. Ana had not followed her. Taking a deep breath, she turned the doorknob and plunged out into the night.

  As she went down toward the Wood, the full moon hung like a giant, pale eye above her, unwavering in its gaze. At the foot of the hill, she paused and looked up at the house, and the windows were dark, reflecting only the heavy moon. The lantern threw her shadow up the hill, a black ghost attached to her feet, and she shivered as the wind came rattling through the pine branches. Steeling herself, she turned toward the Wood and her mother’s grave, and just beyond it was the track she and her mother had sometimes taken to gather mushrooms or wild plants. They had never gone far enough to lose sight of the house, and Ash did not know how far the path went, but tonight she meant to find out.

  Entering the Wood was like entering a vast cavern: The sound of her footsteps was magnified by the branches arching above. Her lantern cast only a tiny glow in the immense black, for now she could no longer see the moon. As she went deeper into the trees, she heard the call of a night owl, and an animal bounded through the undergrowth—a rabbit?In the distance, the howl of a wolf raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She thought she could see eyes glowing on the trail ahead of her, but a moment later they had slid to the right, and she could not follow them as well as keep her eyes on the path. Her hands trembled and made the lantern bob, casting wild shadows on the ground, but she pressed on and tried to ignore the frightened voice in her head that told her to go back. Moving made her feel better: At least she could run.

  She came to a tangle of fallen branches that blocked her way, and in order to continue she had to leave the path to pick her away around them. The ground was uneven, with roots protruding from the forest floor, and when she reached out to steady herself on a nearby tree trunk she felt something move beneath her fingers. She gasped in fright and hastened forward, clinging to the lantern, suddenly afraid she would drop it and be left in the pitch-black night.

  She did not know how long she had been walking before she realized she had lost her way back to the path. She was standing among tall trunks of blue pine, their bark mottled gray and black in the lantern light, and this time when she turned to look around herself at the waiting dark, she was sure that she saw something glittering back at her: eyes, yellow and blinking. She heard her own breath, quick and frantic, like a hunted creature. And then the whispering began. It came on the wind, sweeping toward her in scratchy bursts, and then was borne away again before she could discern any words. She held out the lantern like a weapon, calling out, “Who is there?”

  There was the sound of laughter—thin, distant, like bells. Was this the sign she had been seeking? She turned toward the sound and stumbled forward, tripping over the undergrowth. As the laughter came more frequently, the whispering began to separate out into sentences spoken in a language she did not understand. It could only be the fairies, she thought, for who else would be deep in the Wood at midnight? The thought raised a cold sweat on her skin, for if they were real, then all the consequences in those tales must be real, too. But that was the last clear thought she had, because then she saw the lights in the distance. They did not waver; they were beacons in the night. She started to walk toward them, but they always seemed just out of reach. She began to feel a deep longing in the pit of her stomach: When would she get there? She feared she would wander in the dark Wood forever, until she was only a skeleton powered by sheer will.

  That was when the drumbeat of horses’ hooves came toward her, the ground rumbling with the force of their passage. She stood transfixed, and the wind rose, buffeting her in cold gusts. It became more difficult to see, as if there were a fog rising, and just when the horses seemed to be nearly upon her, her lantern went out, leaving her momentarily blind. But soon afterward the fog began to glow with an otherworldly light, and she shivered in its damp chill. When she saw the first horse, she felt her heart leap up into her throat. This moment would be fixed in her memory forever: the moment she saw with her own eyes the creatures she had heard about all her life. They were grand and beautiful and frightening—the horses’ heads shining white, their eyes burning like a blacksmith’s forge. The riders, too, were like nothing she had ever seen before: ethereal men and women with pale visages, their cheekbones so sharply sculpted that she could see their skulls through translucent skin. They surrounded her and looked at her with steely blue eyes, each gaze an arrow staking her to that spot, and she could not close her eyes though the sight of them made her eyes burn as if she were looking at the sun.

  They seemed to speak to each other, but she could not see their mouths moving, and she could only hear the strange, uneven whispering she had heard before. Suddenly the riders moved in unison, circling her, and she felt like she was being spun like a limp doll held by a willful child. When the motion stopped, the riders were streaming away from her in an elegant spiral, leaving her alone with one man who looked down at her from his tall white horse. He was more handsome than any man she had ever seen, but like the other riders, he was pale as a ghost. When he spoke, she was stunned that she could understand him, and he said, “You must go back.”

  She opened her mouth to say, “I came to find you.” It felt as though she hadn’t spoken in years.

  He looked deeply angry, and she cowered beneath his glare. He said: “Then you are a fool.”

  She sank to her knees and begged, “Please—listen to me—”

  He extended his arm, pointing back the way she had come. “Go now—the way is clear to you. And do not return.” She felt herself scramble to her feet as if he had picked her up, and behind her the path was clear through the Wood. At the end of it, in the far distance, a light in the kitchen window gleamed. She felt the force of the air behind her, propelling her to turn around, and her legs took her at breakneck speed down the path. It was wide open, free of pebbles or fallen branc
hes or even the thick padding of last year’s leaves. She could not slow down, and she could not look back, either. The ground was hard and cold beneath her feet, and when she burst through the border of the Wood and came upon the hawthorn tree, it was as if she had been slapped forward by the wind and forbidden to return. The lantern was dead in her hand, and the Wood was a stone wall behind her.

  Anya was standing at the top of the hill, calling her name, and when she saw Ash coming up the hill she ran down to meet her. “Where have you been?” she cried. “Ana said you ran away—are you all right?” She bent toward Ash and pulled her into an embrace. “Aisling,” she said in a ragged voice, “your father—he is not well.”

  “What do you mean?” Ash demanded, pushing her away. “What do you mean he’s not well?”

  “The greenwitch is here,” Anya said. “Maire Solanya is here. She has given him a draught to calm him, but he shouts in his fever.”

  Ash ran into the house and upstairs, down the hallway lit with flaming sconces and into her father’s room, where he lay in bed tossing and turning, the greenwitch chanting something unfamiliar yet unmistakably old. Lady Isobel sat in the window seat, turned away from them. Maire Solanya saw Ash and halted her chanting, coming toward her. “This is a sickroom, Ash,” she said. “You must stay away.” And she pushed Ash out of the room and closed the door.

  Standing in the hallway, Ash could hear her father shouting. It sounded like he was calling for her mother.

  Chapter IV

  The fever lasted for two days. But a week after it broke, Ash’s father had still not recovered, and Maire Solanya returned to speak with Lady Isobel. Hovering outside her father’s room, Ash heard their voices rise with emotion.

  “Nothing you have done has worked,” Lady Isobel said bitterly. “Why should I follow this new course of treatment? He has not improved.”

  “You are not understanding what has afflicted him,” Maire Solanya said. “He is only now coming out of the worst of it. He must continue to drink this.”

  “It has only made him feel worse,” Lady Isobel said. “I won’t allow it.”

  “With all due respect, madam, he is too ill to decide for himself, and you do not understand what I am trying to do. You must let me make the decisions in this matter.”

  “I understand that your old-fashioned ways are not working,” Lady Isobel said harshly, clearly frustrated. “I think it is best that I send for a physician.”

  “But they will bleed him,” Maire Solanya objected. “That will only make him weaker.”

  “You do not understand medicine,” Lady Isobel said derisively. “It will clear out the bad blood.”

  “You will kill him if you do that,” the greenwitch said, her tone low and hard. “Is that what you wish to do?”

  Suddenly the footsteps came toward the door, which was wrenched open. Lady Isobel stood on the other side, her hand on the doorknob, visibly shaking. “Get out of my house,” she snapped at Maire Solanya. “Get out!”

  Ash had not moved quickly enough; she stood in the corridor, gaping at the two women. Maire Solanya did not say another word, but only swept through the doorway. When she passed Ash, frozen in the hallway, she briefly touched her shoulder as if to reassure her. But then Lady Isobel saw Ash and demanded, “What are you doing there? Have you been eavesdropping? Go to your room!”

  “I want to see my father,” Ash said stubbornly.

  Her stepmother’s face darkened with anger and she pointed down the hall toward Ash’s chamber. “Go to your room. Now. Your father will send for you when he wishes to see you.” But she did not even wait to see if Ash had obeyed; instead she went back inside, closed the door, and, a moment later, slid the bolt in place.

  Ash had not slept well since her walk in the Wood. After Maire Solanya had shut her out of her father’s room, she had lain sleepless in her bed until the sun rose. Every night since then, she was haunted by the fear that she had somehow made things worse by seeking out the Fairy Hunt. When she closed her eyes she could see the eerie grace of the riders as if they were circling her bed at night.

  When she finally fell asleep, she slept deeply, and waking up was like dragging herself through mud. Sometimes she awoke gasping for air as if she had been in the midst of a nightmare, but she could not remember what she had dreamed. One morning she was pulled out of her uneasy, thick sleep by a steady pounding that sharpened into a knocking at her bedroom door. She blinked her eyes open, her gaze unfocused, and saw her stepsister, Ana, in the doorway. The morning light coming through the window was gray and watery, giving her skin an unhealthy pallor. She said, “Mother says we must hurry and pack up our things. Your father is not well and he must see a physician in the Royal City.”

  Ash was confused. “What—what do you mean?”

  “We’re going home,” Ana said. “Finally.”

  They packed the trunks that morning, first dragging them up from the cellar and then—loudly—back downstairs again. Lady Isobel said they would return in the spring, so Ash packed her two books of fairy tales and all her winter dresses. Anya was not going. Lady Isobel had her own manor house near the City and her own housekeeper there. Instead, Anya would stay behind to close up the house for the winter, and then she would go back to Rook Hill and stay with her daughter. All that day, Ash felt an underlying sense of surprise: She had never imagined the possibility that she might leave Rook Hill. And she was not ready to go.

  By noon the carriage had arrived, and the driver helped Anya load their trunks onto the rack. After a cold, hurried lunch eaten in silence, Ash stood on the front stoop, waiting, and felt like her entire world was being erased. Anya came out and put her arms around her and said, “Lady Isobel will take good care of you.”

  She hugged Anya close, with tears pricking her eyes. “I don’t want to go,” she whispered.

  “Hush,” Anya said, smoothing her hand over Ash’s hair. “It’s the best for your father.” She put her hands on Ash’s shoulders and looked down at her. “You be a good girl, Ash.” She kissed her on her forehead.

  Her father came outside, supported by Lady Isobel and the driver. Ash had not seen him in nearly two weeks, and he looked, in that noon light, like an old man; she was shocked by the change in him.

  They drove for a week, pausing only to rest the horses. Ash’s father slept for most of the journey, and when he awoke he was often disoriented. On the first day they left the Northern Mountains behind, heading south toward the King’s Highway. On the second day the land widened until all that Ash could see from one horizon to another was spreading golden fields ready for harvest. Then the broad fields gave way to softly rolling hills covered with orchards, and through the carriage windows Ash watched the fruit being plucked from the trees, red and round.

  They arrived at Quinn House in the village of West Riding well after dark, and as soon as the carriage pulled to a halt at the end of the long driveway, Lady Isobel leapt out, calling for assistance. A man came to help her bring Ash’s father inside, and Clara and Ana ran after them, excited to be home. A woman wearing an apron came toward the carriage holding a lantern and shone it at her, saying gruffly, “You must be the new girl. Come inside.” Ash climbed out of the carriage in a daze; she saw a large stone building before her, the front door yawning open. The woman took Ash upstairs, leading her down a dim corridor to a dark room. “This is your room,” she said, lighting a candle for her. “You may as well go to bed; it’s late.” She shut the door behind her.

  The room was plainly furnished with simple wooden furniture; in addition to the small bed there was a wardrobe beside the door, and beneath the casement window was a cushioned bench. She lay down on the bed, pulling her traveling cloak over herself. The blanket beneath her was rough and thin; the bed was hard and creaked when she moved. Conscious of the long days they had traveled, she felt very far from Rook Hill. The distance awoke a longing in her like a cord pulled suddenly taut: She wanted so much to go back.

  She leaned over and b
lew out the candle, but sleep did not come quickly enough.

  The first thing she saw when she woke up was her trunk: It had been delivered while she was asleep, and it sat locked and still beside the wardrobe. She got out of bed and went to the window, pushing open the dark brown draperies. To her surprise, outside the window she saw a forest—the southern end of the Wood. There was no sloping hillside as there had been in Rook Hill; here the land was flat, and between the house and the trees was a meadow, the grasses golden and knee-high. She saw a kitchen garden below, planted in neat squares marked off in red brick; a profusion of herbs staked out territory directly below her window. Ash twisted the window lock and pushed open the diamond-paned glass, leaning out into the morning. It was cool outside, and the scent of the air was new to her—meadow grass mingled with herbs from the garden. She took a deep breath and hoped that her father would regain his health here.

  The physicians, however, were not as hopeful. They were already in the house that morning; Ash could hear the murmur of their voices coming from down the hall when she came out of her room. They drew her father’s blood and gave him a noxious-smelling tea to drink, and she could hear him coughing. She heard the physicians say that the journey must have tired him out, but her father did not regain his strength. They let her in to see him, and he did not recognize her; his eyes were milky and distant.

  He died almost two weeks later. Ash woke up that morning with her heart pounding, and she knew that something was wrong because the house was full of noise. She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed, running down the hallway toward her father’s room. A black-robed physician with a long, moody face was opening his door, and when he saw her approaching he said, “This is not the place for you.”