Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the rooftop where smoke tendrils kiss the sky, between the tiles and the heavens, is where you’ll find me always. The world falls away at my feet, an endless labyrinth of chimneys and gables that have no end in sight. 

What I’d give to be able to taste the clouds.

 Birds have no idea how lucky they are–everybody pauses to listen when they sing– they can go where they please and eat as much sugar as they want–they have perfect faith in what they are.  I once had a dream in which I hatched and flew away with the birds, and never looked back.   

I watch enviously as a blackbird leaps and spins through clouds – the wind carrying him farther away from the gardens and toward the wasteland known as Lac Fen. It’s a silvery marshland that glimmers like a shattered mirror. 

The silhouette of the Sacred Hollow is a blister on the land–– her gnarly limbs clawing out of the frozen ground. On a clear day, if you’re lucky, you’ll see the pixies do the dance of the Serpentine over its murky waters. Most days, the marshland is dead, the wee folk too scared to come out and play. 

Beyond Lac Fen, situated at the center of the barren wasteland, is the Arondight Estate –the reason for the wee folks' terror. Lord Du Lac – better known as Lord Clotpole– snuffs out any spark of joy they might have. By now, he would be overseeing the second watch of the day, weapons at the ready. It would be a death sentence for any creature to cross into our borders.

No. His borders. 

I will never be like him.           

 High above the world is where I belong. There are no shackles holding me down. I don’t have to answer to anyone. Surely no Clotpoles up here. My neck prickles with unease, and I cling tighter to the round finial shaped like an owl. Unforgiving cold talons bite through my gloved hand. 

I’m not the only one in the family fond of haunting rooftops. She could be up here with me, and I won’t be the wiser. She was scaling walls long before I was born. I take comfort in knowing it’s a brisk morning, and her ancient bones couldn’t stomach the cold.       

Mist rolls in from the East, carrying the promise of snow and possibility. I breathe it in, loath to leave my perch on the dome. But there is work to be done. I loop the rope around the ornate owl and give a hard tug to make sure it's fastened tightly. Snug as a bug in a rug. I salute the bronze bird and slide down the dome, clutching the rope with both hands. The wind whistles through my teeth, peeling laughter out of my chapped lips. This is more fun than sledding. 

Briefly, I soar like a bird, giving an elated crow as I swing down. Then my heels hit the ridge of a windowpane. I start to release the rope, and the shutters slam open, walloping me in the face. 

The maid screams. 

I scream. 

The rope slips through my fingers, and I fall. I kick, trying to find purchase, and meet empty air. The wind tears through my cheeks as the pavement soars closer. The pastel cabbageheads are enlarging as I near the ground. A splash of gold flies across my vision as the end nears. I swallow another scream and close my eyes. 

It can’t end like this. Astrid will have a conniption. Mother will die of a broken heart. 

My tombstone would read: 

Here lies David P.L. Du Lac: 

The World’s Greatest Nincompoop 

A summer breeze blows through me, warmth seeping into my bones. The pain in my rope-scored palms is gone; the soreness in my legs has evaporated as if it were never there. If this is death, it’s quite pleasant. Slowly, I open my eyes, expecting to see a wall of hellfire. I have no delusions about myself. Wicked boys don’t go to the good place.   

Instead, I glance up at the blank, gray sky, black smoke drifting midair like liquified shadows. Gold stars dance across my vision. My hand flies to my belt, where I keep the iron blade. It is long past dawn; the stars shouldn’t be visible. Stars invading daylight are a sign that fae are afoot. They love to play tricks on unsuspecting humans. I hold my breath and slowly stand, careful not to make any sudden movements.

I landed on a balcony and miraculously have no broken bones. Logic would say I should be dead. I crane my neck to glance up at the open window and am met with a row of gargoyles standing guard on the second storey. I frown. I’m no longer on the same building. I find the open window I fell from at the neighboring house. It’s on the fourth storey. If I were a leaf, I would guess a gust of wind blew me next door.    

There’s an unseemly screech, and the door flies open next door, the maid running out. “Somebody fetch the constable!” she wails. “A boy has just fell to his death!” she wrings her hands through her white hair. “Accident I tell ye,” she laments.
“Was opening the attic window to let in some fresh air.” 

The morning strollers congregate around the hysterical old woman. “I swear to ye, there was a boy outside me window.”

I duck behind a tarped flower pot on the balcony, hiding from the simpering cabbageheads. I quietly laugh to myself.  

A whimpering meow cuts through the womens’ jabber. Sparrow’s call. It’s not long before I see the tip of his brown hat pop out of one of the bushes below me. Sparrow cranes his neck to study the towering houses and then faces the cabbageheads. From my perch above, he seems so small and scared.  

 I sigh, wait till the ladies' backs are turned, and make my way into the tree below the balcony. 

I crawl across the chilled branches, acutely aware of the stars buzzing in my peripheral vision. There’s the tell-tale sound of Christmas bells, tolling loudly in my ears, but try as I do, I can’t nail the beastie. The dagger slams against my hips as I move through the branches.

 Father would have already unsheathed the blade and run the bugger through. It doesn’t seem to be doing any harm. If my suspicions are correct, I owe my life to it. 

 The only good fae is a dead one.  

Father’s voice thunders through my head. 

What he doesn’t know won’t kill him. 

I drop lightly to my feet beside Sparrow and grin. “Did you miss me?” 

 Sparrow gives a start of surprise and punches me in the arm. Then proceeds to hug me tightly. I falter, unsure what to do. He smells like mud and sweat. “I thought we lost you!” Sparrow screams. 

One. Two. Three . . . now this is getting uncomfortable. “Good lord, I should fall to my death more often,” I say, giving his shoulder an awkward tap. 

Sparrow releases me and jumps away, face turning an ugly plum color. “Don’t expect me to go to your funeral, Fox.” 

“Not even if there’s ice cream?” I challenge. 

“Especially not then!” He retorts.

It’s been an age since I tasted the rare delicacy. The frozen custard, sweet as sin, is the stuff dreams are made on– the dessert was the only joy provided on my birthday. But like all good things, that came to an end too. Each year, my birthday marked another year closer to Purgatory. This year will be no different. Soon I shall be a man. Expected to carry on the Du Lac legacy . . . wake up and find one morning I’m hunched and walking with three legs.

“Fox!” 

Sparrow elbows me in the side. “You haven’t heard a word I said.” 

“It’s a brilliant idea,” I agree heartily, not willing to let on he’s right. “Best plan yet.” 

“You had one simple job,” he hisses, wagging a ratty finger at me. “One job.” 

 I wince. Right. The key to Driscoll’s Antiques. It slipped my mind.    

“We can’t return to the Baron empty-handed.”

“And we shan’t,” I grin. “Look around you, mate.” I give a flourishing wave, indicating the fashionably dressed ladies strolling in Kensington Village. “It’s a treasure trove waiting to be found.” 

“That’s not good enah—” 

I’m already gone, crawling beneath the undergrowth. The cabbageheads were kind enough to dress in their finest winter frocks and enough jewels to draw the attention of a leprechaun. Their skirts whistle as they glide past, too immersed in small talk to notice me. I relieve the nearest girl of the gold bangle bracelet and pocket it in the satchel. I move on to the next lady, sliding off a sapphire necklace. 

 Who needs Driscoll’s Antiques when we’ve got such easy pickings? 

“I suppose some prefer the company of a wild bear,” the cabbagehead pauses, a breath away from me, her foul perfume tickling my nose. I reach through the hedge and unclasp her pearls with practiced ease. It helps having a sister to play tricks on.    

“Mr. Lichtenstein shall set his sights higher,” a woman with exquisite diamond earrings says. “The Du Lacs will soon be as dead as the dodo.” 

I falter at the sound of my family’s name, hand inches away from her diamond earring. She turns away, and I lose my window of opportunity. I hold my breath and lean back against the frozen ground. Twigs and leaves press into my torso. 

“Such a terrible thing to say,” her companion says. She’s so close that the tip of my boot grazes the hem of her lacey petticoat. I squeeze further under the hedge, wiggling my legs close to my chest. “The Du Lacs are odd to be sure, but they are a credit to society.”

“I cannot imagine Hyde Park without them,” says another woman with a boisterous voice. I’m embarrassed I recognize her. She’s the dame Father tried to rope me into marrying — some nonsensical botanical name like Daisy or Petunia.   

“You mean you cannot imagine Hyde Park without Lord David,” Flora’s proud friend retorts. She’s not even saying the name right. It’s Dah-Veed, not boring David. “I do wish you would give up this foolish dream, Rosetta,” she says. “Your obsession with beasts is unbecoming for a lady of your station.” 

Rosetta! Ah, yes, the flower that smells funny. 

“The beast, as you so eloquently put it, dear sister, is a lord,” Rosetta says. 

“Only in name,” she replies. “He will bring disgrace to his . . . my heavens!” she screeches. “My pearls, they’re gone!”

That’s my cue. I roll over onto my stomach and crawl away from the frantic women, staying in the shadows beneath the hedge. I wait a beat for their voices to fade and scale up a tree, perching on a top branch. From above, I have a perfect view of the cabbageheads bobbing about and squawking as they hunt for their missing jewels. 

“What seems to be the problem, madams?” Noodler approaches the distressed ladies, carrying himself loftily.    

 I can’t take him seriously in that atrocious outfit. I cough to hide my laughter. The gentleman’s coat is a size too big on Noodler, and he is willingly wearing the noose around his neck. I’m impressed he tied the ascot correctly. It usually takes four servants to wrangle me into one – a servant to hold me down while the second servant ties the noose. The third and fourth block any escape route. 

“I believe we’ve been robbed,” Rosetta laments. “Would you be so kind as to fetch the Constable?” 

“It would be my deepest honor,” he bends low, kissing her hand, and discreetly sliding the bejeweled ring off her finger.      

This close to Kensington Palace, the women are always eager to flaunt their wealth in the hope of catching the eye of a rich lord. Noodler tells them he’s Nathaniel Churchill the Third, and the lovesick fools believe him. They always travel in packs of twos or fours — the February weather dulling their senses. Noodler engages the women in fine conversation and guides them in the opposite direction. 

 “Truly, you have such a gift for capturing the natural world.” 

My heart jumps in my throat. Surely not. Even this high, I’d know that stifled voice anywhere. I swing to the lowest branch, praying I’m wrong. 

But no, there my sister sits in the shadow of a big man. Mercy’s sake! What is Astrid wearing? She looks like a strawberry custard puff. And what is she doing keeping company with that curmudgeon?  Her gloved hand brushes against the man’s arm, and I almost fall out of the tree.  

Astrid smiles at him the way she once smiled at Tommy. I always thought... well, everybody expected the Asters and Du Lacs to merge their bloodline. The Asters were almost as old as our family and no stranger to the dark underbelly of the world. The aspects nobody wanted to discuss and refused to acknowledge. 

“You are too kind, Lady Diana,” he grumbles, shutting the leather journal in his lap. “I am no Caravaggio.” 

Who was this weakling sitting so close to my sister? The woods would gobble him up and spit his bones out.

Astrid places a hand over the closed journal. “I do not jest when I say your paintings are much more enchanting than Caravaggio’s,” Astrid proclaims. “His paintings were always so sinister and depressing.” 

“He was a master of shadows and light,” the strange man argues. 

“And you are a master of the heart.”           

A soft giggle draws my attention away from them. Seated on a boulder near Astrid is Aretousa, trying to hide her amusement behind a thick book. Red Claw is nearly unrecognizable in her elaborate gown. Aretousa’s dark eyes sparkle with the same mischief she had when tossing me into a pigsty.  

“I’m afraid, I’m quite ignorant in the ways of the heart,” he says. “It remains a mystery to me.”     

Two hands pop out of the bush and make my sister’s locket disappear. For a moment, my heart clenches, an unfamiliar emotion taking root. Is that guilt? I shake it off. Fox doesn’t have to worry about dumb sisters. He’s a free boy with no noose hanging around his neck. I stay hidden and hold my peace. The locket is the only thing Astrid has to remember Robin by. 

What of it? It will fetch a high price with The Baron. Gold is not easy to come by.   

My knuckles whiten on the branch. I could dart forward, snatch the locket back, pretend it fell… or… I could stay here and let Sparrow carry it away. Gold is gold. Sentiment doesn’t fill a starving belly. Lord knows Sparrow needs the gold more than Lady Astrid-Vivien Diana Du Lac. 

“Not your responsibility,” I tell myself. But I’d never hear the end of her whining if  I don’t help. 

I am doing something. 

Nothing. 

I climb to the highest point in the tree as fast as my throbbing limbs can carry me, out of sight and out of mind. I continue to climb and find a sturdy branch that twists over a roof. I  don’t dare slow down till I’m secure in the shadow of a chimney, away from the family.  I won’t let Astrid drag me back to the gallows.  

David Du Lac is not here.

 Fox the orphan is. If I don’t return to Arondight Hall, I’ll be spared from seeing her cry and dodge Mother’s cursed wooden spoon. A low whine pierces the air. I answer Sparrow’s cry with a crow of my own, signaling to him where I’m at. I skid down the slope, the wind peeling my tattered cloak back. 

Mother’s cloak. 

The one she’s too grown-up to wear anymore. People say I have her wild spirit. People know nothing worth a fart. If she saw her son now flying through rooftops and trees, she’d wallop me from here to Kensington Palace. She’s such a hypocrite. 

I brace my boots against an ornate marble statue and untangle the spare rope from my satchel. I loop the rope around a crooked gutter bracket, give it a good tug to test the hold, and toss the length down. Sparrow grabs on, and I haul him up. Not all boys have my training. 

I dig my heels into the slats, bracing against an ornate marble angel. The rope bites into my palms, but I don’t dare let go. Sparrow swings up and rolls onto the roof, huffing and puffing like a dog, snow-caked throughout his muddy-brown hair. 

“Best to lay off the sweets for a while, mate.”  I wince, rubbing at my sore arms. “You’re as heavy as a cow.”

“I’m not fat!” Sparrow kicks the legs out from beneath me. My head spins as I fall on my back, laughing. I catch myself on the ledge before I slide off the roof. 

I leap to my feet, unable to stop laughing. “What was that?” I ask. “I know girls who kick better than you.” 

Sparrow stands, gaze darkening. “I know toads with better manners than you!” 

I give a flourishing bow. “That is the nicest compliment anyone has given me.” 

He scoffs and elbows me in the side. I return the favor and hit him harder, nearly knocking Sparrow off the roof. He squeals and dives to catch his satchel. “Careful!” he screams. “You know how long it took me to collect these!”

“Careful isn’t in my vocabulary,” I say, keeping a wary eye on the ladies beneath us. Astrid wants so badly to be grown-up that her wild mane twists into a gaudy knot On top of her head. It looks like she’s balancing an antique vase on her head. 

We’re low enough, I hear my sister’s laughter.  

“My gown! It’s utterly ruined!” Sparrow says in an exaggeratedly high-pitched voice. “I shall never be able to show my face at court again.” He drapes an arm over his head and leans against me, pretending to faint. 

I snort and join in on the fun. “As a matter of fact,” I straighten, mimicking Astrid’s voice. “You are an embarrassment to the family. We shall have to leave the country!”

Sparrow shudders. “It’s so eerie when you do that.”  

“Do what?” I smile innocently. “Think you’re being funny, boy?” I cuff him behind the ear, channeling The Baron’s anger. Sparrow’s eyes widen. “I’d throw you back in the gutter where you belong!” 

“Fox!” Sparrow chides. “What if he hears you!” 

“Let him hear,” I say, using my normal voice. “That old sod doesn’t scare me.” 

I return my attention to Astrid and almost fall off the roof. The strange man has gotten closer to my sister. For mercy’s sake! His hand just grazed against her arm. And she didn't brush him aside. I can’t see Astrid’s face through the branches, but she is entirely too close to this clotpole. 

No, this won’t do. This won’t do at all. Sparrow calls my name, but I’m not listening.  I creep down the building and drop into the tree above the hideous couple. At this angle, the white feather on his tricorn hat is visible. It’s too easy. His attention is solely on Astrid. I dangle upside down from the branch and use the dagger to slice off the feather. I lose my balance and topple into my sister’s lap. 

Her cheeks flush like the time I used her corset for makeshift sails and Tom Aster saw her undergarments. 

“Pleasant morning, love,” I grin. 

 Her mouth parts in surprise, brown eyes widening humorously. Well, I’ve made a proper pickle of things. David Du Lac is supposed to be at Westminster Academy. “You rotten . . .” She swallows visibly. “I am going to get the Constable!” 

Ugh-uh we can’t have that. Father always ruins my fun. 

“No need for such theatrics,” I leap to my feet and fling the hood off, standing up straighter. “Lady Di, you grow more beautiful each time I see you.” I try not to choke on the words. It’s a sticky situation. Technically, I’m not supposed to be here. 

 I grab her hand and kiss it like I saw Prince Boring do. Her fingers tremble in my grip, fighting to break free. “I couldn’t help falling at your feet.”   

Astrid makes an unladylike noise between a scream and a cough. Seeing her composure shatter makes up for all the awkwardness. The gentleman looks as if he swallowed rotten eggs. “You know this ruffian?” 

“Aye,” I say. 

“No,” Astrid says at the same time. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Thick as thieves we are,” I drape an arm over her shoulders, and tense. Either Astrid has shrunk or – Lord save me—I’ve grown taller since the last time I saw her. “She has a birthmark on her left shoulder.” 

Astrid elbows me in the ribs, and I chuckle, jumping away from her. Her face turns red from the effort of holding back her screams. 

Prince Boring looks between the two of us, bushy eyebrows knit together. “Your face,” he frowns. “Have we met before?” 

I stiffen. “I make a point of avoiding familiarity with royalty.”  I pointedly look at the man’s antiquated doublet and study his pale face. It would be rude of me to assume he’s one of the Turned. He certainly dresses like one, though.  

“Mr. Alexander Lichtenstein of Lenore Hall,” he murmurs, adjusting a gold button with visible embarrassment. “My sister had me dressed — that is, my usual garments are quite ruined.”

“Pray tell, what monstrous beast did you slay?” I ask, trying to keep myself from laughing.  

 Aretousa snorts indelicately at my sister’s side, hiding behind a curtain of black ringlets.   

“He is an artist,” Astrid says cooly. “Mr. Lichtenstein is under no obligation to justify his taste to the likes of you. It is beyond your comprehension, boy.” 

“You’re right, milady,” I match her tone. “I don’t understand,” I say, surveying the man’s finely combed mustache. I brush a finger across my upper lip. “You’re not honestly going to keep that?” I ask. “He looks positively ancient,” I whisper to my sister.   

“The Constable is near. I would hate for such a young boy to face the hangman’s noose,”  she smooths down her fur cloak importantly. 

I lift the hood and whisper in her ear.“Better than bedding Prince Boring.”  

Astrid slaps me across the face so hard she knocks some teeth loose. She gasps, horror-struck, and hugs her shaking arm. It is too easy to rattle her. 

“You’re the Wild Man of Kensington.” Lichtenstein’s eyes widen. “I have seen you haunt the palace grounds.”  

“I am not a man,” I hiss, repulsed. “I am so much more.” 

 Astrid looks physically ill at the prospect of her brother being so infamous. 

He faces Astrid. “Strange company you keep, milady.” 

“She belongs to no man,” I hiss. “Run along and go play with your sword . . . assuming you have a real one.” 

Aretousa sidles toward me and gives my arm a warning squeeze, shaking her head. “ Arhontopoulaki –se parakalo, iremia na eisai,” she whispers in my ear. I don’t understand Greek, but I know enough to know she’s giving me an order. She should know by now that I never listen. 

“Careful how you speak, boy,”  he says in a deceptively calm voice. “I don’t want any trouble but . . . ” 

“You’re nothing but an overgrown codfish,” I laugh in his face. I  blow my sister a kiss. She reddens furiously and looks like she’s about to slap me again. Aretousa stills her with a single look. “Bet he tastes scrumptious,” I tease Astrid.  

“I’d dare say, we Lichtensteins taste a deal finer than your gutter offals,” Mr. Lichtenstein smiles, pleased with himself.

 I feel Astrid stiffen beside me, her shoulders trembling with silent mirth. I’m not as dimwitted as she thinks. I know the clotpole just called me boring.

“I’d dare say,” I mirror his calm tone. “One bite out of you and the giant will keel over dead.” I squeeze my sister’s arm, showing her this is no game. “You can take your poisonous hide and be gone,” I unsheath my dagger and aim the blade at the interloper. 

“Lord David!” Aretousa hisses in my ear, knowing full well how much I hate that name. My lunatic parents gave each of the Du Lac siblings three names to confuse the fae. I much prefer Fox or Peter.  

Astrid tugs on my arm. “Peter... please,” she begs in a low whisper. “Must you always ruin everything!” 

“I am a gentleman, so I am anything if not fair, ” I say seriously, letting David Du Lac out to play. I offer Aretousa a grin. She looks on with disappointment.  “I would give you a choice, Sir Clotpole,” I twirl the dagger through the air with expert ease, balancing it on my fingertips. “Which would you prefer to keep, your hands or your eyes?”

The lordling looks like he’s about to wet himself. He glances between Astrid and me, torn. Oh, dearie, it’s as I feared. The weakling has never been in a fight in his life. He’s all words and no breeches. 

He tilts his head to Astrid, silently pleading with her for forgiveness. “Another time, perhaps,” he faces me, gaze shifty like a stag who knows he’s dead. “I find my schedule quite full today,” he tips his hat to me and then to Astrid. “Lady Diana, a pleasure as always.”    

Chapter Text

I wake with my throat raw and tingly. I don’t remember falling asleep.

Hell, I don’t know how I got here. Where exactly is here? 

I sit upright and catch a whiff of piss and damp earth. “Blimey,” I pull my neckcloth over my nose, but it doesn’t help with the stink or the oppressive air. The stench of blood and decaying flesh clings to the walls.

 I don’t fit any way I turn. The walls press in on me. With each second that ticks by, the harder it becomes to breathe. I rake my fingers through my hair and try not to think of the impenetrable walls dragging me down.  My hands won’t stop shaking. The air’s too thick, too wet—it’s like breathing through burning tar. 

Rivers. 

Rivers are good. Rivers don’t let anything or anyone hold them down. Rivers are free to ramble all day.  

I’d be lucky if I survive a tumble in the waves. Water fills my lungs. I gasp, struggling to breathe. The clear sky slips through my fingers. Gray stone cages me in. There’s no room to breathe or move. My legs turn to lead, and I become just another part of the prison.     

I take a shuddering breath, surprised when my lungs don’t burn. Everything is so heavy. If I remain here a second longer, I shall die. I belong where I can roam free. These walls must be destroyed. It’s the only way.  

My hands move before I can process what I’m doing. I slam my fists against the stone—once, twice. Pain shoots up my arms. The sound of my knuckles cracking against the wall echoes through the air. too loud, too close. My knuckles sting, but I don’t let up. If I hit the wall enough times, it’d break. 

“Let me out!” I wail, half-breath, half-scream. The walls don’t listen. Nobody ever listens to me. I’m the joke of the family. Good for a laugh, and nothing much else. Even the walls mock me. I hit the wall again and again, blocking out the pain. There’s nothing more important than escaping this cage.  

“Dastard hand!” 

Father is suddenly there. I stagger back, chest heaving. The cell is too small for both of us. “Go away!” I hug my knees to my chest. “No pirates allowed!” 

He doesn’t listen. Nobody ever does. An iron grip fastens on my arm, nails digging through the sleeve. Father seems impossibly large, a black-cloaked monster robbing all the light in the world. The tricorne hat looks like the head of a python. 

“What the devil is wrong with you, boy?” he thunders. “You want to lose the use of your hand?”  

I flinch and avoid meeting those steely eyes. Eyes that have a way of bringing all the muck to the surface. He never sees me. Not truly. I’m just a weapon for him to use as he pleases. 

No more. 

I write my own destiny. 

I rip my arm away from him and dash away. The old lug left the door open. I tear through the dank hallway, tripping over dust and hay. Father swears like a pirate and makes chase. He rounds the corner at my heels and reaches for me. He nearly has me, but the fae blood pumping in my veins gives me an advantage over him. I leave him, grabbing empty air. 

My heart beats fiercely against my ribcage, a bird fighting to break free. It’s no use, the wing is broken. Hope has gone on holiday. There’s no escape from the chains pulling me down. Wall after wall. Panic rises – no matter what direction I take, it’s a dead end. Where are the blasted windows? 

“Fox!” 

 Father’s thunderous footsteps bounce off the walls. His shadow stretches over the gray floor, the torchlight making him seem bigger than life. He rounds the tight corner, wielding a torch. Firelight dances across his glacial features. For a second, the light tricks me into seeing myself. Lies. I’m nothing like him – never will be.  

He raises his free hand. I flinch away, pressing myself against the wall. His true intent is in his eyes. He means to trap me and haul me back to Eton. Not if I can help it. 

“I won’t let you!” I scream. I scan the tiny room for a route of escape, but there’s only one way — through him. His body is squared off, prepared to herd me like a rogue goat. His legs are parted, giving me the perfect window of escape. I dive to the ground, squeezing my body tight, and roll through the gap between his legs. 

THUD

My chest slams into his thigh. I tumble back awkwardly, hitting my shoulder on the hard floor. Pain flares in my ribs, but I hardly notice. My strategy should have worked — it always did before. I frown up at Father. The old man must have put on a few pounds. He staggers like a drunk, torch tilting as he goes. Wax drips onto me, and I whimper, scrambling out of the way. My traitorous legs catch on his, and he stumbles, nearly losing his balance. I seize the moment and jump up, heart hammering. 

Father wobbles uncertainly, but he’s fast and surefooted for an old man and grabs ahold of me, jaw tight with anger. He grips me hard, and I can see it coming—the lecture, the same blasted line he always throws when I fight back.

“Oh, dastard hand!” I mimic before he can say it.

I match his stone-cold glare.

He growls. “Think you’re being funny, boy?” His hold on me tightens painfully. 

“I’m hilarious.” 

He throws me against the wall and boxes me in, chest pressing into mine. Fire flickers in his steel gray eyes. My stomach tightens, every instinct screaming to run, but there is nowhere to go. 

“Enough,” Father says in a tone that cuts through bone. I swallow hard, fear sealing my lips.  One wrong word, one ill-advised step, and it's the gallows for me. It won’t matter that I’m his son. The constable has an image to uphold. An image that his disappointment of a son is ruining. 

But I also have an image to uphold. 

“Enough what?” I jeer. “You’re going to have to be more specific – I am just a dumb boy.” 

“You are not a boy anymore,” Father says in resignation. “And you are certainly not dumb.” 

His words tighten around my throat like a noose. I feel the beginning of tears sting my throat. Crying is not allowed; it’s a sign of weakness. So instead,  I slam my fists into Father’s chest. Again. And again.  It’s like hitting a glacier. It hurts me more than him. But I won’t stop.  I can’t. To be still is the same as being dead. 

Eventually, Father would get tired and give up on me. The other grownups already have. No amount of beatings or dunce caps will change the fact that I can’t read. A pig is smarter than me. I’m a slow-witted dullard with straws for brains. A drudge on society, destined for nothing more than mucking out stables. I was born a mistake and will die a mistake. That’s what all the professors say. 

Father grabs my wrist, holding me fast. I suck in a breath, bracing myself for the strike. His hand trembles, slick with sweat and my blood. He drags me toward him, not quite a hug, but close as I’m going to get.  

“Let’s get you cleaned up, son,” he says with quiet calm.

 The words aren’t kind, but ring with controlled practicality. From Father, that’s almost the same as Mother tucking me in for a bedtime story. I sway against him, my legs half-dead from panic. The fight bleeds out of me, and I let him drag me down the corridor.  His coat smells of smoke and salt. The hard line of his shoulder digs into me as he keeps me from falling.

We move slowly, one uneven step at a time. His hand remains firm at my back, silently guiding me like he once did when teaching me how to notch an arrow for the first time. The torchlight throws our shadows against the wall. It sickens me how indistinguishable our shadows are from each other. Same wind tossed curls. Same long limbs, built for worse things than climbing. I easily am level with his chin, where there is a whisper of whiskers. I feel my face, relieved it’s still smooth. For now. Soon I’ll be as tall as Father. I look more like him every day, and that scares me. 

Father unlocks the three locks on his door and deposits me on the throne behind his desk. My entire body itches with the wrongness of it. I don’t belong in Father’s chair. Father meticulously locks the door behind us and reapplies a row of salt at the foot of the door. I roll my eyes– the paranoid old git. The door is already laced with iron. What more protection could he possibly need? The beasties are more scared of Drystan Du Lac than he is of them.    

Father’s desk is littered with paperwork I can’t make heads or tail of. I survey the nearest parchment: Repots indkite authur clid has vanesd near the wodos eundr mistytrieous curcimstances.

The one sentence alone is giving me a headache. Why would Arthur Clide want to pot a kite? Kites are meant for flying. I read it again and this time find the word ‘child.’ Still seems silly to me. Children don’t fly kites in midwinter. Though that sounds extremely fun. Think of the ice there to skate on, and if the wind was strong enough and the kite big enough. It would be just like flying! 

“Whatever it is that you’re grinning about, cease at once, son,” Father says. “I can already tell you it’s a bad idea.”  He crouches beside me and wrestles my scraped hand out of my pocket. 

I force the smile off my face. “How would you know?” I challenge. “You’ve never ridden a kite before.” 

“Ride a kite? What utter nonsense,” he grumbles. 

“You’re utter nonsense!” 

Father pours rum over my knuckle. The spirits burn through the cuts and swollen flesh. “You monster!” I scream, vision blurring. “You’re wasting a perfectly good bottle of rum!” 

“No, that would be you, son,” he grumbles, taking my other hand and wasting more rum. I clench my eyes shut so I won’t have to see the sizzling flesh. “We could be drinking and celebrating your return,” he says. “But instead, my reckless boy just had to pick a fight with a wall.” 

“He was asking for it,” I grumble, breathing hard as Father grasps my hand. His hand is infinitely smaller than I remember. Either that or mine has caught up to his now. 

“Oh, was he?” Father unearths clean linen from a desk drawer. Figures. He’s always prepared for any eventuality. The predictable old sod. “And Mr. Churchill, did he deserve a beating?” 

I frown, cause I wasn’t aware the Duke of Marlborough was visiting. I’m sure I had my reasons for beating up an old sod.  I try to garner an ounce of truth from him. Father is stoic as Bluebeard, and doubly scary. There’s a glint in his eyes I know well. He’s withholding vital information from me, vital information that has to do with me. 

“Well, don’t hold back,” I demand. “I can’t wait to hear your dissertation on how Peter-Lah—” 

Father slams my head on the desk. 

“Bloody Hell!” I scream. 

“Hell is exactly what waits for you if you’re not careful, Fox,”  he emphasizes the alias I use to hide from the fae. But I’m not sure I want to hide anymore. Fae have not harmed me. If anything, it’s humans who are the real monsters. It wasn’t a faerie who walloped me with a cane in front of all my classmates. A faerie isn’t the one cruelly pinning me to the desk. How hard is it to say, ‘Names hold power.’ 

Granted, I rarely listen when Father speaks. Sometimes he has no choice but to speak with his hands.  

Father releases me, gaze weary and turbulent. His hands shake as he knots linen around my scraped palms. So much so that he tears the cloth and has to start over. “You have no memory of the past twenty-four hours,” he states candidly. I avoid meeting his eyes. “Look at me and tell me I’m wrong.”  

It’s worse than that. The last I remember is stowing away in a widow’s carriage, slipping away from Eton under the cover of night. It’s unlike me to get caught so fast. I touch the ridge along my throat. The skin is smooth as glass in some places, and raised and crusted in others, as though the wound tried to heal too quickly. The skin is somewhat dusty and waxy—like dust trapped beneath the skin. The truth slowly settles, and I can’t find it within me to be anything but grateful to the pixie who saved my life. But the hate pouring out of Father’s eyes tells me that’s the wrong response. 

“It’s as I feared,” Father says. “Your sister is right. A pixie has your scent.” 

“Astrid is rarely right about anything.” 

“David!” Father admonishes. Lord, I hate the sound of my own name. And I hate how paranoid Father is.  

“Apologies,” I roll my eyes. “Diana is rarely right about anything,” I groan, slumping against the throne and crossing my arms. I wince as I hit a tender knuckle and rethink crossing my arms. 

These naming traditions are utter nonsense. I’m never having kids. And if I do, I’d stick with one simple name like William or Joan. And if my kids happen to be taken by faeries — well, they’re probably better off with the faerie than me. I have no business raising kids. I still am a kid. 

There’s a thunderous knock at the door, and I jump. The door shakes. “Eddie, open up at once!” Mother’s frantic voice sounds on the other side. “We have an emergency!” 

Father groans, sounding eerily like me. I smirk. “Good luck protecting yourself from an angry faewoman,” I say. 

“Your mother is human,” Father argues. “We’ve been through this . . .” 

“If you don’t open this door right now, I will kick it down,” Mother roars. “You know I can.”  

“Care to put that theory to the test?” I sneer. 

Father marches to the door and unlocks the three locks. Mother barrels through, breaking the salt line in her haste. Her wild mane makes her look more like a lion about to pounce. She aims her cursed wooden spoon at Father. I sink deeper into the chair and try to make myself invisible. 

“Always a pleasure, wife,” Father says coldly. “Whatever the problem is, it’s going to have to wait. I’m in the middle of —” 

“Your stupid paperwork is just going to have to wait,” Mother seethes. “Your son is heading to his death!” 

“My son is safe and sound, right there,” Father waves in my general direction. 

My ears redden. “Hello, Mother,” I sit up straighter. But my mind is reeling. James is just a baby. Granted, a deadly, violent baby with the attitude of a charging rhino. But he’s still my brother. I don’t want to see him hurt. 

“Peter,” Mother gasps, the anger slowly evaporating from her face. Father clenches his jaw tightly, visibly uncomfortable with her using the family name in public. She dashes toward me and gathers me in her arms. “Are you alright, darling?” She brushes hair out of my face and examines me fully. “What did you do to our son?” She whirls on Father, the venom leaking back in her voice. 

“Don’t be angry at Father, Mother,” I hug her back. “He didn’t hurt me. I did this to myself.” 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Mother says, embracing me tighter as if to protect me from Father. She glowers at him. “You know he hates being caged!” she snaps. “You as good as broke his hands yourself.” 

“Asta, it was for his own good,” Father says. “A pixie has his scent. I can’t have him running a–” 

“And? That gives you the right to lock my boy up like a criminal? I don’t think so!” 

“Your boy was involved in a duel in public and, from what I can discern, robbed at least five women of their jewels. Our son is, in fact, a criminal.” 

“Anything worth keeping?” Mother asks me, sharing a conspicuous smile with me. Pride gleams in her eyes.  

I don’t dare risk answering that with Father in the room. Not that I could. I wish I could remember even a lick of what Father is talking about. My throat throbs in memory. I see a spritely Goldilocks in my mind, but beyond that, nothing. That’s the price you pay for using pixie dust to heal. It must have been a rather severe wound if I’m missing chunks of time. I could be missing days or months for all I know. 

“My sister was right,” Father grits his teeth. “It was a mistake marrying you.” 

“I feel the same way,” Mother says. “You’ve given me nothing but headaches for the last twenty years.” 

“Twenty-five years,” Father corrects. 

“Congratulations, you know how to count,” Mother spits out. “There’s not much else you’re good at.” 

“That’s not true,” I say. “Father gave you me, and Astrid,” I say, not daring to speak my older sister’s name. 

There’s already enough tension to light a pyre. There was a time they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Everything changed after Robyn got entangled with the fae. Father says they took her from us. That is far from the truth. She chose to stay. And honestly, that option seems more enticing each day. This family is beyond saving.  

“Of course, darling,” Mother massages my arms affectionately. She drops a kiss on my head. “You are so right. I can’t imagine my life without you.”  

“Our son is lucky to be alive,” Father cuts in. 

I don’t doubt the truth in his words. All thanks to a pixie woman. But why? What does she want with me?      

“Then set him free,” Mother implores. “He’s not a bad boy.” 

“He’s hardly a boy anymore,” Father says crisply. “It’s time he learned his actions have consequences.” 

“There is a more humane way to . . .” 

“This is not up for discussion, Asta,” Father says. “The holding cell is the safest place for him. I would not lose another child to them.” 

“A pixie is the least of our worries!” 

 “I’m keeping Fox here for observation till I’m positive the pixie hasn’t done any permanent damage. And that . . .”  

“Shut up, would you?” Mother whacks the table with her spoon. I flinch back. “James ran away.” 

Good. He’s finally doing something for himself and can wash his hands of this madness. The Du Lacs don’t deserve Jas. Hell, I might just join him. As soon as I can figure out a way out of here. 

Father calmly leans against the meager bookshelf. “I fail to see how that is my problem.” 

“You bastard!” Mother screams. 

“SMEE!” Father screams in a commanding tone that would carry all the way to Tyburn. 

“No, not Smee, he’s an idiot,” I groan. 

There is the unmistakable sound of an elephant stomping through the corridor. The blacksmith trips over the step at the door and tumbles right through, landing on his fat bottom. He pushes his round spectacles up his big nose. 

“You called, sire?” He lumbers to his feet. 

“Escort Lord David back to his cell and see to it that he is well secured,” he says. “Come morning, he will be heading back to Eton.”  

“Father, please don’t send me back there!” I don’t care that I sound like a whining child. “You’re going to kill me.” 

“You get your dramatic flair entirely from your Mother.” 

“Oi!” Mother protests. “That’s rich coming from a man who dresses like a wolf!” 

“David,” Father’s tone softens. “Try to understand, I’m only doing what’s best for you.”  

“I don’t want to waste away behind a desk and learn solemn things!” I plead with him. “Save your money for a son who gives a damn.” 

“And what of your family, boy?” He says. “Do you give a damn about them?” 

“Only some of the time,” I say. Mother shakes her head in disappointment and purses her lips. 

“I’m not going to be around forever,” Father pinches the bridge of his nose. “Soon — possibly, very soon, you will be the head of this household. It would fall to you to provide and protect your family.” 

“Whatever is left of it,” Mother mutters. 

I laugh sardonically. “For that to happen, Achilles will have to die first,” I meet Father’s eyes. “You’re fighting fit, old man.” 

 “Achilles dies. All heroes die- it’s the nature of the world,” he says. “How lucky I am to have a son to carry on my legacy.” 

“Sir, about your other son?” Smee stutters. “He’s ah, well, I tried to stop him, but he’s quite . . .” 

“Smee, I do not pay you for commentary,” Father says. “Now, I believe I gave you a directive.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Smee timidly grabs my arm. “Not to worry, I won’t let anything happen to you, Master David,” he steers me out of Father’s study. 

Before the door closes, I hear Father say, “He’s no son of mine, why should I care?” 

My stomach sinks. I’m glad James isn’t here to hear this.