Page 84 of The Forsaken

“Lass, being away from the land has turned your brain to curds,” Aunt Beatrix said.

Somewhat less patiently—annoyed at how English Andromena was becoming, and blaming both her brother and his wife—Aunt Beatrix in turn explained the magic and mystery of the fog. She told how the wind pushed wet air from rivers or the sea across the land and shared the waters with the fairies, and how the benevolent Féth Fíada bestowed a mythical veil, gently wrapping a protective mist around travelers. As long as the fog was near, no harm could befall her.

Wide-eyed—and silent for once—Andromena hung on every word. When Aunt Beatrix finished, and everything she’d said made complete sense, Andromena apologized to the mist—and Féth Fíada. From that day forward, Andromena neither hated nor feared the fog again. She played amidst it and waved farewell as it left the land to the sun.

But this was no cheerful summer morning, nor was she a young lass. Aunt Beatrix and Oleander were gone. Grooms no longer filled the stables, and the cook’s stoves had grown cold. The two maids no longer giggled around the whitewashed cottage.

Andromena rode as the animal walked with a slow, swaying roll. Each step shifted her weight in a steady, rocking motion, its heavy shoulders moving smoothly beneath the saddle with every quiet hoofbeat. The crunch of grass, usually soothing, now cut sharply through the silence. Even the soft hum of lightning bugs and moths was quiet.

Her hand on the reins brought Charlie to a halt. She scanned the overgrown rows. The roses were dead. Pale petals of pink, white, and red hung limp and brown on thorny vines. A cold shiver ran down her back.

A soft whinny split the thick night air.

“…Lass, being away from the land has turned your brain to curds…”

“I’m sorry. I have scared you,” she said softly, for the silken mare; for her—the sound of her own voice made her feel less alone.

Andromena dismounted in her ballgown, her heavy skirts sailing smoothly into place as her boots touched the ground. She petted the beautiful animal, whispering praise. After she walked her until her breathing eased, she guided her to the stables.

The creak of the stable doors sounded eerie, sending a fresh chill along her spine. Andromena peered back at the back of the beloved cottage. Except, the garden was overgrown; a tangle of weeds and buds drowning within the weight of former blooms that hadn’t been pruned or fallen. There was an ominousness.

Exhaling loudly through her nose, Charlie pawed the ground.

“There I go,” she crooned. “Scaring you again.”

Her mount snorted.

“Let us see if there’s anything to reward you for your work well-done this night.” Andromena led Charlie inside the stable.

She blinked to adjust her eyes and looked around. The protection these familiar walls offered did not calm her. The stables were like a frozen moment in time. The kick doors showed only the faintest signs of new warping. The slates, but for a handful of cracked ones, were perfectly in place. The tack room…

Charlie released another high-pitched whinny; Andromena ran inside.

Remember the magic in the mist…

She let Charlie’s reins go and forced herself to move; craning her head as she went, inspecting the shadows that had once been filled with signs of life—

Andromena went motionless.

The strong scent of lime-washed walls filled her nose. A single iron lantern hung with a dampened, half-used candle, the wax looking fresh.

Andromena reached the storage bin and lifted the lid. Feed filled the old oak chest.

“Well, it is good for you, Charlie,” she crooned.

The mount nickered her pleasure.

Reaching inside her cloak, she removed the muff pistol she’d brought—Edgar had taught her well after the Rookeries—and she, with greater confidence, moved through the stables, checking every corner and crevice until she confirmed her own safety. After she untacked and poured grain for Charlie, she stood in the middle of the stable, and with her hands on her hips, marveled at what she had done, on her own. All the years she chased her elder brothers. They saw her as nothing more than the underfoot babe of the family, but when she followed them into the stables, she observed…and learned. They all underestimated her.

Not everyone.

Not Edgar.

When her family didn’t even cast a cursory glance at her sketches or made jokes about her intelligence, Edgar praised her without hesitation—not because he felt he ought to, but because he was genuinely frustrated that she could not see what he saw.

“…Your family wouldn’t have the sense to see or employ your talents…”

Edgar saw her.