Three
I STILL had no idea when the prince might arrive, and with my aunt in town making a house call, the responsibility of emptying our kitchen of goat children fell to me. Easier said than done.
“He called our names weird!” May shrieked, while March sobbed silently next to the stove. Never had I loathed the baker’s boy more, though truth be told he was quite nice, and he did have a point.
I squatted down and took them both by the shoulders. “Well, when Aunt Emma and I named you,” I said reasonably, “you were goats. You were already familiar with March and May by then, and we weren’t certain whether the enchantment would last, so we decided not to make changes.”
March gave a strangled sob. I needed a different tactic. “Listen, I have an important question. What are your favorite things?”
“Scaring people,” said May, after a moment of thought.
March opened her mouth and pointed into it.
Oh, god. “Those things are weird, aren’t they?”
May eyed me warily. “Maybe . . .”
“Yes, they’re definitely weird,” I said in a firm voice. “So weird isn’t really bad, is it? It’s good, like scaring people or eating salamanders. Harold was paying you a compliment.”
“Hmmm,” May said. She didn’t look convinced. But at least March had stopped crying, so for my sanity’s sake I declared this round a partial victory.
“Now, come on. The two of you need to play outside until our guest leaves. Remember, don’t go past the edge of the wheat field.” As I pushed them toward the door a slimy coil of unease stirred in my stomach. If another fairy beast emerged from the forest . . .
Such events were extraordinarily rare, and I couldn’t forget how easily the prince had dispatched the monster yesterday. Surely we were safe with him visiting. But the uneasiness wouldn’t pass, and I added: “If you hear the grasshoppers go quiet, come back to the house right away.”
May peered up at me with her eyebrows bunched in suspicion. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Why can’t we just play in the house?”
I propelled them down the stoop while our rickety kitchen door banged shut behind us. I noted with relief that it looked perfectly normal outside. The chickens muttered to themselves as they stalked across the yard, the trees rippled in a lively breeze, and shadows raced over the rolling hills. Yet May kept staring at me. I realized my stomach was still clenched tight as a fist and it must show on my face.
“You already know the reason,” I said briskly, stomping down my guilt.
Honestly, there were multiple reasons. May had knocked over my easels on more than one occasion. March exhibited an insatiable appetite for Prussian blue. But most of all, fair folk didn’t like having them around. My theory was that the twins embarrassed them, being visible proof of one of their mistakes, and unintentionally powerful proof to boot. I knew for a fact they couldn’t be ensorcelled: March and May were their true names. If the fair folk could use that knowledge against them, they would have done so by now.
March gave a delighted bleat and went capering over to the woodpile, but May didn’t look away. “Don’t worry, we won’t get hurt,” she said finally, soberly, and patted my knee. Then she tore off after her sister.
My eyes stung. Busily, I straightened my skirts and shoved a few stray hairs behind my ears. I didn’t want them to see I was affected, and I didn’t want to admit it to myself, either. When I focused on keeping everything in order, I didn’t have to think about what had happened to my parents, or why the event still gripped me with panic twelve years later when I hadn’t even been there, seen or heard a single part of it. Yet obviously, I didn’t hide my fear well enough. Even May could see it.
A raven’s hoarse croak sounded from the tree shading the yard.
“Shoo!” I said, hardly looking up. Ravens scared away the songbirds that nested in our bushes, and Emma and I made every effort to return the favor.
My unease faded in the warm sun and the sight of March and May scrambling on top of the logs. From a distance, the only way to tell them apart was the pattern of white splotches on their otherwise pink skin; May had one that went over her left cheek and half her nose. Their curly black hair was identical, as was the gap between their front teeth, and their startlingly fiendish eyebrows. They looked like a pair of cupids who had decided they liked shooting people with real arrows better. They were horrible. I loved them so much.
But I couldn’t forget that the prince was coming, and apprehension lapped restlessly at the dark shores of my subconscious.