ALSO BY A. G. HOWARD

Shades of Rust and Ruin

“For there is no friend like a sister . . .”

—Christina Rossetti

prologue

Nineteen Years Earlier, February 14

“Once you remember yourself, you’ll remember me and be drawn to the location of the veil. Wait there on Halloween, and I’ll find my way to you.” As Imogen slid the ring onto Owen’s finger, her whisper lingered in the air between them, an unseeable bridge as intimate and potent as a shared breath. She paused. “You’re sure you want to remember?” Tears filled the corners of her eyes.

“Yes,” Owen answered without hesitation, although he knew to forget would be easier. His insides quaked with emotion—a gut-wrenching dread of being away from her for the next seven and a half months: watchful for the end of October, wondering how she was, unable to offer any aid. It would feel like an eternity.

Even now, their surroundings—an underground tunnel Imogen had woven to shelter them during this consecrated ceremony—felt as much like a sepulcher as a sanctuary, scented with flowers, melting wax, and blood. It symbolized both the death of their time together here and the birth of a hopeful future held in suspension elsewhere. From between the roots strung above and the pebbles stubbled below, orange threads of dirt sparkled, like a pumpkin’s guts fused with a geode’s innards. Imogen’s enchantments always looked this way when first crafted, until they solidified with the Goblin King’s touch and became a permanent part of the terrain. This latest weave was even more breathtaking than usual due to reflections of the candles lit upon the ground.

She lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss on the ring she’d braided for him. The red threads scalded as they melted to liquid, shiny crimson beads blooming against his milky-white finger like a seeping wound. His skin sipped at the elixir, thirsty as a dying plant, until the color vanished. The strands became part of his flesh; only the shape remained at the base of his knuckle, barely visible as a pale, thick scar. Nothing that would raise suspicion in their eldritch captors’ minds. Nothing that appeared to be anything more than a part of him. Just as she was a part of him.

She’d always blamed herself for bringing him here, but truth be known, they’d both been innocents when they met face-to-face: she, only three months younger than his seventeen and a half years. Once he got past his resentment, he’d come to accept that these were the cards they’d been dealt, and together, they would win the final hand—for all the other innocents who’d fallen into this trap long before they had, tempted by goblin fruits and a wicked king’s machinations.

Owen cupped Imogen’s chin and held her gaze up to his, in awe of her magical craft, of her shrewdness, of the hoax she’d designed to keep this ring hidden from the goblin court and the faerie populace. All to ensure that when they took him away, when they scrubbed his mind clean and tossed him back out of Mystiquiel—stripped of everything, including his own past, his very identity—the memories would be left intact and dormant. They would sleep upon his finger like a coiled snake, ready to strike and shock his blood with insight once he was out of danger’s reach.

He prayed a silent prayer that it would work, then tried to imprint Imogen’s expressive eyes—their chestnut brown warming with resolve in the candlelight—upon his heart.

A frown tugged at his lips. He hoped that the stubbornness and quiet strength he’d come to admire would keep her safe in his absence, carry her back to him across the threshold into the mortal world. He hoped he’d remember this moment and the treasures she held cocooned inside her body, rarer and more transformative than all the magic he’d seen performed—even performed himself—in this fairyland over the past five months.

He stroked her abdomen protectively, aching to know the lives inside. Earlier this morning, King Talon, ruler over Mystiquiel and the Goblin Court, had his queenly wife, Lady Glacia, use her elfin telepathy to test Imogen. She’d verified that Imogen was indeed pregnant, and surprised them with the news that she carried twin girls. What else but magic could delineate such details barely one week into conception? Upon hearing the queen’s revelations, the king ordered an ancient enchantment to mark the chosen Architect in the womb, so his court would know which baby to keep, and which to abandon as an orphan in the human realm post-birth.

Owen hated how they held him back during the ritual, forcing him to look on in impotent fury as they stripped Imogen naked and the glow invaded her skin and veins, winding knots inside her abdomen. Time had felt endless while he waited for her to be released so he could hold her again—only to be told they had one hour left together in which to say their goodbyes.

The entire Goblin Court—dryads, elves, trolls, gnomes, piskies, sprites, wights, sprigs, and goblins alike—had cheered Talon’s generous gesture, giving Owen and Imogen their one and only Valentine’s Day together, despite its being “senseless human melodrama.” Such a magnanimous gift to bestow in exchange for Owen’s seed, for the daughters he would never meet once he was cast out and his mind erased. They wouldn’t even allow him a memory of the infant they planned to discard as an orphan, so he might someday locate her.

Swine and snakes . . . each and every one of them.

Now, pressing his lips tight, Owen watched Imogen’s face grow somber as his hand curved around her still flat belly. She stood before him as she had before the Goblin Court, so brave and fierce, little more than a girl, barely a woman.

His frown deepened, and he fought a hot tug behind his eyes. Imogen often told him his gaze burned like ice because of the color of his irises—translucent gray like the sheen over a winter lake, shadowed reflections of his frost-white hair. In this moment, though, the thought of her facing this challenge without him spurred angry tears to sting, melting the ice to an impending flood.

Her dark eyebrows furrowed; she traced his downturned lips with a graceful thumb. “I know it’s hard . . . but try to have faith. This will work.”

“I believe in you,” he answered. “But I can’t rest until the four of us are together and safe, far away from here. Away from everything Talon has planned for them.” Owen knelt and pressed a kiss on her stomach —an apology to his unborn girls for how his voice boomed and shook the sapling roots overhead.

Triggered by the trembling, dirt crumbled and fell from the roof. Minuscule particles of glittery orange-brown coated Imogen’s olive skin, burnished to gold by the flickering flames; the dust jeweled her dark hair and shimmered along her lashes, making her appear incandescent and wild—more like a feral elfin princess than the courageous and gentle human she truly was. She’d lived her whole life here, raised as their Architect—their plaything—yet she was nothing like these tricksters. Their maliciousness, their deceit and ingratitude . . . Nothing would give him more pleasure than to know that he and Imogen would one day break their hold over her . . . and end the Goblin King’s power over humankind in the process.

Suppressing a wave of rage, Owen stood and positioned another ring—made of forget-me-nots and baby’s breath—at Imogen’s fingertip, prepared to bind them forever as one. The symbolism of the flowers didn’t escape him. Nor did the ghostly threads scarring his own finger, the remembrances embedded there discernible only through the weight and tug of invisible cords. Smoke clung to his nostrils, the residue of the lit wicks burning down to embers, searing this final experience into the braided twine—a brand that reached all the way into his soul.

He slid her ring into place, and the moment the forget-me-nots came to nestle against her knuckle, pebbles rained from overhead. Simultaneously, Imogen and Owen looked up. Creaturely footsteps shook their tunnel’s fragile roof. Gruff shouts, beastly growls, and loud snuffs joined the thump of digging paws and stomping unicorn hooves.

The Goblin King’s royal regiment had come for them.

Heavy clods of dirt began to fall: a miniature avalanche glistening like shards of brown citrine.

Owen linked his fingers with Imogen’s, and she spoke a final vow defined by magic and delineated by love. “Flesh to flesh . . . flame to flame. In the moment the braid bleeds anew, you will remember your life, along with my name.”

Drawing her close, he kissed her, desperate and unwavering, fingers clutched tight to a velvety gown as supple as her curves. Then the plants and dirt opened to a gaping hole and the sight of vicious gnashing teeth, and razor-sharp black claws bore down upon him, ripping him away from the girl who’d lost him his freedom—yet had somehow won his heart.

1

jack-o’-lantern smiles

Present Day

Lark

It’s 2:45 a.m. when I peer through the front window of Uncle Thatch’s beloved bakery, watching flames lap at the back walls. Positioned safely outside, I’m slammed by three harsh realities: one, the irony that this is the first time I’m viewing this place with my own eyes instead of through my sister Nix’s dreams; two, the next time she sees it through mine, nothing will be left but embers and ash; and three, how I wish I could be sorry for the helplessness she’ll feel.

Sinking into the pitch-black shadows provided by the awning overhead, I exhale and watch my breath catch on a gust that’s unexpectedly frigid for the second day of November. The cloud of condensation abandons my lips and marries the smoky fingers seeping from the doorframe and eaves—an unholy alliance of gray and white, of fire and ice.

As the smoke spins upward, a sooty residue smudges the prismatic paint and neon lights that have for three years, in my absence, set this store apart as an enchanting and unique local eatery. I can’t help but wonder, when all this is done, if the lights will still work once the switch is flipped. Or will they pop and crackle, fizzing out puffs of sulfur, like rotten eggs polluting the air? It would be a fitting end, considering how all the bakery’s patrons walked blindly through these doors with no idea of the spells being cast on them by the tainted fruits stirred into the pastries . . . of the eldritch poison that was drawing on their emotions, siphoning their humanness into candlewicks and wax—to be feasted upon by faeries and goblins in a hidden realm few people know exist.

Inside, sparks catch on the wooden tables and chairs before spreading to the display cases. Several loud swooshes follow as rafters and beams crack and fall. Within minutes, the icing piled on cupcakes and sandwiched between macarons burbles then smudges and liquifies like marshmallows held too long over a bonfire. The colorful cakes and cookies are next, simmering to a black crispation of almond flour and roasted paper-liners. Before I can even imagine the fallout taking place in the back rooms—both the storeroom and the kitchen, where the fire began—the view is lost to me. Every accursed color of the goblin-fruit rainbow—that brazen spectacle of decor and tempting confectioneries both corrupted and purified by a Goblin King’s blood, fades—outshone by flames of orange, yellow, and black.

The nauseating stench of burnt sugar, broiling fruit peels, charred wood, melting plastic, and blistered paint singes my nostrils. Pulling my scarf over my lips and nose, I glance down at the phone in my gloved hand and autodial 911; when the operator answers, I hurriedly relay the information needed to dispatch the firefighters.

I wait in the shadows, listening for sirens, refusing to leave until they’re here to stop the sparks from igniting Wisteria Rising. Those beautiful flowers and plants don’t deserve to suffocate and suffer. Bad enough Clarey was dragged into our family’s disastrous history with All Hallows’ Eve. I won’t allow his aunt to be pulled into this final chapter through her flower boutique.

As of now, the fire’s beginning to catch on the building between Uncle’s corner bakery and Clarey’s aunt’s place. No big loss since the donut shop that was once there has already gone out of business. The deserted building provides the perfect cushion without endangering any innocent shop owners.

Sirens sound in the distance. Another icy gust licks my face, and I realize my cheeks are wet. I swipe away the tears. They’re not for me or for Nix. They’re for Uncle and all his creations going up in a blaze of gory-glory . . . and for the fact that my twin and I are once again the cause of his despair.

At least now, my sister’s role has been rectified.

Just desserts.

The pun feels obscene from my current perspective, standing here outside the blazing ruins of pastries and dreams and otherworldly schemes.

Smoke and heat swirl around me, blurring my eyes as the sirens keen closer and closer. I wait until the trucks are a couple of blocks away, then, with one last glance at Wisteria Rising, I duck into the alley at the far end of the block. Refusing to look again at Eveningside Enchanted Delights, I toss the burner phone into the closest dumpster. Although I’m wearing gloves, I took care to wipe away any possible prints . . . to delete the app used to disguise my voice on the call.

I hop onto Nix’s bike and coast down the alley, maneuvering through a narrow opening between two buildings, taking the opposite direction from where the fire trucks start to pour into Eveningside Street. Turning the corner, I slip away moments before the blaring sirens and brakes screech to a halt in front of the bakery.

Shouts and clunks of metal accompany the powerful force of water unleashed. The sounds fracture the silence of the cold, clear night. Pedaling from street to street, I avoid the post-Halloween decor along sidewalks and curbs: decomposing pumpkins with crumpled jack-o’-lantern smiles, shredded cheesecloth ghosts, and toppled haunted house signs. I count myself lucky not to see any discarded masks; I’ve had enough of those and all they represent to last a lifetime.

The shadowy hush that blankets Astoria—until dawn arrives and shops open their doors—presents a serene backdrop to the chaos at the bakery, an idyllic bubble in which to reacquaint myself with my hometown.

I haven’t felt this relaxed in what feels like an eternity. I choose the long route to our house to absorb it all, and a wave of wonder and affection washes over me. I’m back home in Oregon, and I’m never leaving again. When an unwanted pang of disappointment follows that thought, I shove it down. I refuse to think about the hole that Mystiquiel gouged into my heart. Things I lost that were never meant to be mine. Instead, I revel in what I’m reclaiming: the only two relationships left that matter now. I just have to make sure Uncle and Clarey never realize what I’ve done.

Right now, they’re both asleep, believing I’m in my own bed, drowsy with pain meds I spit out when Uncle wasn’t looking. They think I’m enfeebled after being physically connected to Mystiquiel for so long. They think my muscles are too atrophied for me to walk without aid yet, much less ride a bike.

I managed to convince our family doctor of the same during her house call yesterday—my first full day back from Mystiquiel. Her diagnosis? Even with extensive physical therapy, it will be Christmas before I’m back to full capacity again. Uncle has rented me a wheelchair to use temporarily, until I regain strength. Upon hearing Uncle’s tall tale of my near drowning at Cannon Beach, the doctor said it was a miracle I survived. She said most people would be paralyzed had they done as I did, diving in at a shallow point and slamming my head on a sandbar.

Since Uncle can continue to spin his lies, I can, too. I haven’t let on that when Nix took my place in Mystiquiel, when she held me in her arms, she healed me completely. Better no one should know, in case the firefighters discover someone altered the wiring in the commercial refrigerators so they’d spark a flame. My physical limitations are the best alibi against arson.

Clarey’s and Uncle’s plan to go back and rescue Nix—by using the remainder of the Goblin King’s blood bottled up in vials disguised as squid ink and kept under lock and key in the bakery’s storeroom—was too risky. The gateway to Mystiquiel has to remain closed now that the contract has been fulfilled and my twin is at the Goblin King’s right hand.

I chew my inner cheek at the thought of Perish . . . how I last saw him becoming flesh before my eyes, looking even more beautiful and enchanting than he did when he was first crowned after my arrival in Mystiquiel, when he grew from an adolescent to a man in what seemed a split second. Even once my metal and mechanisms began to rot his kingdom, he was no less appealing and captivating. I tried so hard to be what his world needed. But my gifts weren’t enough. It was Nix he wanted from the beginning, and she let me be snatched away in the night. She allowed me to lose myself to another world, and in my absence, staked claim on everything that belonged to me here. Isn’t it only fair I do the same to her?

Unfortunately, so far, the payback’s been anything but satisfying.

I bite my lip, still sore from the fresh labret that matches the piercings on my eyebrow and nostril. My scalp itches under my helmet where my long black waves have been shorn to mirror Nix’s hairstyle, although we left my bangs long enough to cover my lack of a widow’s peak. Since the mortal world believes Lark Loring died in her sleep at the age of fourteen, I’m now forced to pretend I’m my twin, to take the name Phoenix Loring—just to be accepted. Which means my true identity will never be fully within my grasp again.

That’s the rub; even though I found my way back into this world—after Perish’s elaborate scheme to lure Nix into Mystiquiel worked—I didn’t win my life. I won hers. A bittersweet victory.

My tongue traces the gap between my incisors. I told Uncle Thatch I won’t change my smile permanently. The shape of my front teeth was self-induced, just like my lack of a widow’s peak. I’m the one who tried to shave off the point centered at the top of my forehead when I was nine, to straighten it out. After the razor sliced my hairline, scar tissue grew in the peak’s place, and though mostly invisible to the eye, it disrupted the follicles so the triangle of hair never returned. In the case of my teeth, I sucked my thumb until I was six. I’ve always embraced these differences because without them, Nix and I would’ve been cookie-cutter twins, with no discernible way to tell us apart. It’s why I never wanted braces.

To help me maintain at least that small aspect of individuality, Clarey is crafting an SFX equivalent—using thermoplastic beads that he’ll heat and mold to fit my existing teeth and hide the space for day-to-day. At least at night, or when I’m tucked away at home, I can take the veneers out and have one part of myself preserved.

Although if Clarey ever learns the truth, he won’t like any piece of me, much less want to preserve it.

Growling, I smother unwelcome sparks of remorse, allowing the wounded pride and righteous indignation I’ve stoked for three years to fully ignite into a searing blaze so ungovernable a city block filled with firefighters using the entire ocean could never snuff it out. I glance back one last time at the orange glow several streets away, tinging the sky like a premature dawn. Then I snap my attention forward and head home to sneak into bed before Uncle finds me missing.

My part is done. There’s no way back. And it’s my secret alone to bear: that the girl who returned from Mystiquiel—Uncle’s sweet songbird and Clarey’s little gearhead—is every bit as monstrous as the creatures from which she escaped.

That in fact, I’ve always been.

2

princess of urban decay

Nix

A blazing inferno stretches endlessly before me. The objects in its path, lit with fire and bending like the long, withered stamens of giant azaleas, look familiar somehow. I can’t quite make them out. My eyes sting from the blaze. Scorched sweetness and burnt-plastic fumes sizzle along my olfactory nerves. Smoke saturates my lungs and I gasp for breath.

As the curling embers spindle down in a rain of light, a dark shadow prowls at the edges. It’s like I’m looking through someone else’s eyes, someone who’s angry and vengeful.

Where am I? I almost have it, I almost know—

“Come, Phoenix. It’s time you rise from the flames.” The Goblin King’s voice breaks through, and my surroundings fade and change. The blaze gradually disappears, until the glassy walls and floor shimmer around me like black mirrors.

My eyes fully adjusted, I find Perish standing over my wrought iron bed. He’s just as I saw him when he came by earlier to check on me, still wearing a half-buttoned shirt in a sleek brown fabric tucked into fitted black trousers that graze his bared humanoid feet. His graceful toes wriggle as I study them; they’re the one unthreatening part of him, making him seem almost approachable . . . unguarded.

But it’s a lie. He’s devious, sly, and selfish. Keeping me locked in this sterile chamber within his tungsten castle, holding me captive at the cost of my human identity, is proof of that.

Bringing satiny covers to my chin, I frown. The chill permeating my bones confirms I was only dreaming of a fire.

“How did you know?” I ask Perish, my voice raspy and raw as if the figmental smoke layered soot across my vocal cords. Another glance around reveals my reality. Vines pierce through the mirrored floors, flowers and greenery tumble over the bed frame, and moss drifts in dusty green clouds across the slick, silver fabric of my sheets.

These living chains of Mystiquiel have been with me since I swallowed a vial of Perish’s blood and a handful of goblin fruit seeds to free Lark, since that fated moment my uncle, my twin sister, Clarey, and Flannie were forced to step through the veil and leave me behind.

Pressure crushes my chest at the thought of them, igniting a cherished memory of working side by side with Uncle in his bakery—using a mortar and pestle to crumble nuts and grind spices into powder for a spice cake on my last birthday, which I mistakenly thought was in August due to falsified birth certificates. I never could’ve imagined that a year later, I’d actually turn eighteen on Halloween, the same day I stepped through the veil and ended up in a rusting fairyland. All those fake birthdays with Uncle as my guardian, and now I may never see him again, just like I won’t see Lark or Clarey. Another squeezing pain behind my sternum convinces me to stop thinking of them; here, nostalgia is the pestle that pulverizes my heart and all the hopes, aspirations, and certainties it once held safe.

“How do I know what?” Perish’s rumbling voice repeats my drowsing question and shakes me from my pity party. His pointed ears and antlers imprint a blurred shadow across the shimmery moss-and-vine-coated sheets, reminiscent of a stag lurking in a moonlit meadow. The image looks like it could belong in my Goblin Market picture book, which has fallen to Lark’s keeping back home, or to the stag who caused my father’s fatal accident. The stag who was in fact another Goblin King—King Talon, Perish’s own father—enforcing an otherworldly contract that’s imprisoned the girls and orphaned countless boys in my family for over a century.

“How did you know what I was dreaming about?” I answer against the prick behind my sternum, folding down the sheets to snuff out reminders that bring nothing but anguish. I sit up—spine straight and legs strung over the mattress—to appear less vulnerable. Although it’s futile; I watch Perish savoring every raw emotion that crosses my face, and I’m helpless to stop him.

He drags a metal chair to my bedside and perches his powerful body at the edge, propping his elbows on his knees so we’re at eye level. He studies me from under glistening gold lashes, white double-pupils dancing across burgundy irises as he gorges on the grief-flavored appetizer I’m offering.

His thick eyebrows—a frosty shade that matches the white strands woven into the deep wine stain of his long ombre hair—rise to an inquisitive slant. “Me, trekking through your dreamscapes. Wouldn’t that be a marvelous power to wield?”

I suppress an urge to claw the pleased expression off his face. “I was dreaming of fire. You told me to rise above the flames. How else would you have known? You already glut on my emotions. Now you get to see inside my head? Nothing I have is private here!”

He brightens at my outburst and his fanged smile appears, somehow captivating despite the injury it could unleash with just a snap. Those full sangria-dark lips look like velvet against teeth that are no longer steel-tipped, but white, calcified points. My hatred felt more convincing when he was marred with metal and dependent on candle wax. It’s harder to despise him when he’s robust and perfect. When he’s exactly the way I would’ve drawn him without Lark’s influence.

The moment I took my sister’s place, with nothing more than smears of color streaming from my fingertips, I corrected all of the toxic flaws she’d given Perish—removed the machinery and electrical pulses poisoning his flesh. I even changed his complexion to what I wanted it to be; whereas it once resembled a seashell’s pearlescent lining, it’s warmed to a gold as shimmery as the jagged crown upon his head. He’s pure luster without the metal scabs and scars marring him.

I can’t deny the surge of pride that he’s finally my creation—through and through. Organic, beautiful, dangerous, and malignant as cancer though he is.

He leans back in the chair and crosses his arms and ankles, binding the dark clothes around his muscles. “Much as I’d like to, I can’t see your thoughts or your dreams. Even the elves, with their gift for telepathy, have no access to such things. My queenly mother can hijack the inner workings of a human body and learn its secrets, but other than scrubbing out memories, our magic can’t invade the fortress of a human’s mind. So the only dreams I’ve ever seen are those you sketched on paper, fed by your sister’s imagination as she shaped our world. When you sleep, that time belongs to you and Lark alone—as was intended.”

My frown deepens. “As intended? Intended by whom?”

His long, regal nose fidgets. “Are all human girls so flippant? Changing the subject before I’ve answered your original question. About the fire . . .”

As annoyed as I am by the brush-off, I concentrate on the reminder that Lark and I can connect on some level when we’re both asleep; it’s how I drew Mystiquiel and its denizens for almost three years with startling accuracy before I even realized they truly existed.

Since this is the first dream I’ve experienced in the two weeks I’ve been here, I’ve finally glimpsed inside Lark’s subconscious. Did something happen when they returned home on November first, some catastrophe she’s replaying in her sleep? It’s a terrifying possibility. Where was the fire? Is everyone okay?

Or . . . was it her suppressed emotions finding an outlet? When I took her hands in mine before she crossed through the portal back to our world, I joined our pinkies to transfer my thoughts to her—my regret that she took my place, my remorse for all the time she spent here when it should’ve been me. In return, I felt only rage from her. I assumed it was because she tried so hard to protect and lead me out of Mystiquiel even while I cut her cords in the underground maze; because I ruined her plan to defeat the Goblin King and destroy his reign forever.

But surely she’s forgiven me for those things, especially now that she’s living the life she was meant to have all along.

“You can rest assured”—Perish’s gruff timbre disrupts my anxious musings—“my mention of flames had nothing to do with your dreams. It was in reference to your namesake. Isn’t that what a phoenix does? Gathers life from the remnants of devastation. Reconstructs a soul out of nothing but ash. I’ve given you time enough to grow your proverbial wings back. You’re rested and replenished. I’ll get you some food; then we’ll explore your canvas and put Mystiquiel back to rights.”

My canvas. The answering rumble in my stomach barely registers as I note the copper chandeliers dangling overhead, their candles unlit. The cottony light falling over the room comes from outside, filtered through the diamond-shaped windows. It’s an opaque shade, neither white nor blue and not day or night but a suspended effulgent fog; the sky is waiting to be painted into place . . . by me.

The full impact of such responsibility splashes hot like acid in my empty belly.

After I completed the Goblin King’s underground maze and subverted my sister’s plans for ruining his kingdom, I unleashed a wave of nothingness to clear out the infectious rust she’d woven into the streets and terrain here. In effect, to save the world I first had to erase it. The soil and cement, the buildings, the trees and foliage, the entire setting—which under Lark’s direction had been a decaying blueprint of our hometown, Astoria—washed away, leaving a world undone.

Today I’ll be expected to rebuild it from the ground up because I’m the Architect. Such a task feels insurmountable, even impossible, when my own life has been leveled to desolation.

Perish shoves the chair aside as he stands. All it takes is his singular movement toward the wall, and a familiar scrape announces the appearance of a triangle. With a successive chiming clink, the shape reconfigures to squares then octagons, growing wider and wider until it’s a doorway the perfect size for him to exit. He stalls in the doorway, his broad back facing me.

I stand, cautiously hopeful.

“You are to wait here,” he commands.

I prickle at the words. The glass floor’s iciness along my bare soles further frustrates me. As much power as Perish insists I have, it’s obvious my effect upon the setting is fickle. Even with my toes touching the cool, glossy floor, or when my hands tap the wrought iron headboard, nothing changes. Not the style, not the substance, not even the color.

I’ve hardly had time to contemplate the chill along my feet when a fresh crop of ivy spins them up in pale green slippers, shielding my skin. I growl, wondering what use shoes are anyway. Perish is keeping me confined here until he’s ready to escort me out. For fourteen days, I haven’t had a single visitor, being denied the chance to see even little Bonbon, the pack rat faerie I purged of any metallic taint, much like I did Perish.

In removing the electrical cords and machinery that punctured Lark’s flesh and manacled her to this world, then replacing them with roots, vines, and ivy attached to me, I spent too much of my power. I blacked out within moments of the veil closing behind my family and friends. I don’t remember riding in a bubble when Perish brought me to his castle and tucked me away in this room. Upon waking, I discovered he’d enchanted the doors not to work for me, so I couldn’t escape and accidentally tap into any more magic. He wants me to preserve my strength for Architectural duties.

“Another meal alone in my prison cell, then?” I ask.

His fingernails, manicured to sharp points, tap the door-frame, though he refuses to look at me. “Your solitude will end today. And let me be clear: You’re not a prisoner. I’m protecting you.”

An itchy annoyance scrapes along my gut. “Right. Then let me be clear.” I mock his condescending tone. “My first order of business will be changing this castle into something more hospitable . . . something with doors that will answer only to me. You know, like that dagger you’re so proud of does for you.”

I can’t tell if it’s tension or laughter twitching his broad shoulders as he rests his fingers on the dagger sheathed at his waist. The unicorn horn handle lights up like a lava lamp, and his palm reflects the prismatic rotations. He turns a smirking profile to me—balanced somewhere between mischievous and malicious.

“Think again, Phoenix of the Flames. You need me to master the settings and landscapes. You may soon become the heart of this world, but I am the arteries. Which makes me the key to your power. Not one piece or parcel will respond to you without my bridging the gap. So, your magic enacts where, when, and how I choose . . . much like this dagger I’m so proud of.” With a self-satisfied grunt, he crosses the threshold.

A snarky quip teeters at the edge of my tongue. I hold it silent as a soft, fluttery sound catches my attention from somewhere in the room. Even once the door shrinks to solid black glass again, the flapping continues. Yet I don’t see anything . . . nothing but my own warped reflection.

As silence resumes, I continue to stare at myself, willing Lark’s likeness to ogle back at me. I sigh when she doesn’t appear. Such bitter irony, that the same angry glare I used to dread, I’m now forever damned to miss. I only saw her for an instant before she was taken from me again. I wonder if she misses me as much as I do her.

I groan and rub my face, finding the absence of my facial piercings almost as foreign as the webby roots—fine like spider silk—that shift my pajamas to a flowing gown across my chest, arms, torso, and legs, grazing my ankles and fanning out in a train at my heels. Singular flower petals, woven through the enchanted garment in pinks, periwinkles, oranges, and blues, appear to glisten with dew. I pause to admire the effect. After suffering a mental block for months in Astoria, unable to see anything but shades of gray, I can’t help but be grateful for this saturation of color; I crave it every minute of every hour of every day.

I hold out my arms, fanning the elegant sleeves so they look like fragmented wings. The first night I was here, the plants ate away my earthly clothes and fashioned pajamas on me while I slept, leaving my skin scrubbed clean and scented with a floral perfume. The process repeats each time I sleep. It’s a hollow comfort, like taking a bath without the warm, soaking pleasure to rejuvenate muscles, bones, and spirit.

Today, as if the plants have realized something special is in store, a wreath of blossoms and leaves braids itself through my cropped black hair, coated with fluorescent dots that remind me of firefly dust. The same golden speckles shimmer along my cheeks and the bridge of my nose, trailing the pattern of my white freckles.

The result is refined yet untamed, in an elfin-princess sort of way. Not exactly my style, but I have to admit, as an artist, I’m fascinated by the concept. It’s as if I’ve dozed for years and nature has reclaimed my body for its playground without my consent—urban decay at its most decadent. Yet the truth is, it’s only been days, and I took this role voluntarily. To free my sister . . . to save Uncle Thatch and Clarey.

The pestle inside my chest grinds harder, eroding the walls of my heart. Maybe, if I’m lucky, the misery of missing my loved ones will end once the organ is finally ground to dust. Somehow I doubt it.

I trace a finger along my lower lip absently, embracing one last painful memory . . . the kiss I shared with Clarey, sweetly intimate and the closest I’ve ever felt to anyone—despite the mask that stood between us. It was the first kiss I had with him, and the last one I’ll ever have with anyone. At least until I’m escorted through the veil some future Halloween night to find a boy who will father a daughter and then be cast out once he’s enchanted to forget—all so I can continue the line of Architects for this eldritch world.

How am I supposed to do that? Give myself to some stranger? Then again, how could I ever ask someone I care about to entrust me with a part of himself he’d forget he ever lost?

Yet that’s exactly what my mom did, before she found her way back to Dad and they tried to escape with their infant twin daughters; before everything blew up in my parents’ faces. In my dad’s case, literally. But as for my mom’s . . . I still don’t know what became of her before Lark was brought here, and every time I bring it up with Perish, he changes the subject. I can only assume her fate was as tragic as my dad’s.

A ragged sob breaks free and I slump against the wall, my heart finally leveled to dust by one indelible moment imprinted on my brain: the unwelcome visual of a car exploding around my father. Tears crawl down my face and I let them gather on my lips and along my jaw. I used to hate showing any weakness, but today I embrace it. It’s the only remaining proof that I’m human . . . that I’m still the daughter my parents fought so hard for.

The fluttering I noticed earlier stirs the hair where my nape presses against the slippery wall. I spin around and gawk, open-mouthed, as a shadow peels free from the black glass and two murky wings, a tail, and a beak take form, sylphlike and smoky.

At the sight of it, the particles of my crushed heart shake and shudder, reassembling. My pulse pounds, strong and eager—a phoenix rising from the ash.

In contrast, the small, smudged shape hovering between me and the wall isn’t a phoenix; it’s a lark. I know because I drew it, because I stamped my flesh in tribute to my sister when I thought she’d died. It’s my tattoo, the one that broke free of my shoulder and came alive to rescue me in the final test of the maze. The one I found perched on Lark when I discovered her seated atop the tungsten throne, hooked up to the world like a moribund motherboard. The last I saw of the tattoo, it was absorbing Lark’s final electrical currents before she came unplugged.

“You . . . stayed?” I ask the creature, because what else does one say to an indelible pigment as alive and untamed as its organic counterpart?

As if in answer, an orange current pulses through it—voltaic fingers stroking inky feathers. The bird comes to rest on the palm I offer, and its glow spreads through me, warm and nurturing, as though my twin were here, hugging me. The sensation fills my spirit so full of hope it brims over.

Perish was wrong. There is a piece of this world immune to his rule, because it was conceived outside, in the human realm—because it’s one part my sister interwoven with one part me. Maybe, since it was born here, for all intents and purposes, it might be interconnected enough to have an impact on our surroundings.

Positioning the wispy shape beside the glass where the king exited, I focus on our shared reflection. “Can you get us out of here, little Tat?”

Perched on my fingertip, the lark leans forward so its sooty beak dips into the wall, like a dribble of ink joining a puddle of oil. When it draws back, its beak stretches as long as a rubber band then snaps free. Cued by the popping sound, a geometric door appears, clicks from one shape and size to another, then opens to the rest of the castle.

Tat lifts off and flitters midair, waiting for me to join it in the empty corridor.

Stepping out, I allow myself a tenuous smile. I’m not as alone or helpless as I thought, and Perish isn’t the only key to my magic after all.

3

cupcake wasteland

Lark

It’s been two weeks since I burned Enchanted Delights to the ground, and I’ve never felt more alone and discouraged—not even in Mystiquiel when the world was tumbling down around me.

The hardest part was watching Uncle get the news later that morning. His face crumpled, his shoulders melted, and he slumped to the floor in our kitchen with the cell phone pressed to his ear, unable to hang up even after the police finished the call. Uncle had already been struggling with how he might keep the bakery afloat, now that the goblin fruit supplies would no longer be coming. He wasn’t worried only about himself but about all of his employees, especially the couple who recently had a baby. Loss of the enchanted ingredients that made Uncle’s recipes so compelling was enough of a death blow . . . then I went and slammed the coffin shut on the entire establishment. I rolled my wheelchair toward him and took the phone, feigning shock when he whispered, “It’s gone . . . the bakery . . . our livelihood . . . our only chance to get back to Nix . . . all of it’s gone.” My heart nearly broke at the agony in his voice, at the way his glasses fogged from the heat of his tears, at the twist of his mouth as he sobbed. But then I remembered monsters don’t have hearts, and I rallied before any tears of my own were shed.

Today’s the first time we’ve been allowed to set foot, or wheels, in my case, across the threshold to gauge our losses. A few days after the tragedy, the fire marshal composed his official report, citing a refrigerator’s faulty wiring—somehow overlooked at the last inspection—as the cause. Within an hour, Uncle called in a claim to his insurance, and a little over a week later, his representative turned in an assessment.

While we wait for our compensation check to arrive, Uncle has nothing left to do but sift through the remains of the life he made with Nix in my absence. The life that should’ve been mine all along.

After filling up on mouthwatering homemade blueberry muffins and strong coffee—I can’t get enough of the tastes and smells I was deprived of while away—Uncle and I pack into his Chevy Bolt for our drive over. We sit in silence, me dreading the heft of guilt I’m about to shoulder, and Uncle in anticipation of the blanket of grief that will smother him.

I twist in my seat, trapped within Nix’s bleak urbanity: dusky purple smeared over lips and eyelids, a bloodred flannel shirt layered over a black tank, ripped denim chinos, and a lime-green beanie covering her cropped hairstyle. My own glittery hairpins, pastel makeup compacts, and silky, lace-trimmed preferences remain in the attic in a nest of boxes marked LARK. I’ve sneaked up to look through them once or twice without Uncle knowing. He offered to bring them down, but I told him if I can’t wear them in public, what’s the point? I’m too old to play dress-up, and the naivete of make-believe no longer holds the appeal it once did.

Music plays softly in the background through Uncle’s Blue-tooth—a newer release I’ve never heard from an alternative metal band I don’t know—from one of my sister’s playlists. Uncle insists I listen as often as possible to give myself more “Nix” credibility. The clunky ankle boots on my feet begrudgingly tap to the dark melody as I attempt to memorize the lyrics, on the chance I have to talk music with her friends once I start school again after Christmas break (a delay the school agreed to as long as we implement weekly home tutoring in the meantime to help me soak up what I can of the three years’ worth of subjects I’ve “misplaced due to head trauma”).

This is my life now . . . every minute of every hour, learning how to be my twin.

Seeing her face in my reflection in the window echoes the ruthless taunt; her many piercings catch chinks of light and I sneer to reveal the SFX dentures Clarey made that fill in the gap between my incisors. They look so natural, no one would ever know I’m wearing them. No one but me . . .

I roll down the window and take a sip of salty air, reminding myself why I had to come back and why she had to stay. Yet that familiar ache still ripples through my chest, a relic from my time in Mystiquiel.

“So . . . you good with us spending next Thursday at Juniper’s? I just don’t think I’m ready to face the traditions.” Uncle’s sudden comment startles me out of my musings.

“Traditions?” I ask, but before he can answer, I notice a cloth banner with a turkey dressed in pilgrim garb outside a bike shop. The fabric snags on the wind and waves as we pass by. So caught up in all the post-Halloween drama, I almost forgot that another fall holiday will be here soon, and for the first time in three years, I get to celebrate with friends and family. “Oh, right. Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah. It was tough when you were gone. But Nix always insisted we stay home in honor of our memories with you there.” He chokes off the explanation with a sob thinly disguised as a cough. “Anyway, Juniper is using the downtime to come up with some new tea recipes and asked if we wanted to help sample them. You’ve had to be shut in the house so much . . . I thought you might like the change of scenery.”

I flick him a sideways glance, knowing the suggestion is as much for his consolation as for mine. But he’s right. Through the car’s open window, I’m bombarded by all the sensory diversions our port town has to offer. There are the sounds of cars honking and the ding of the trolley; the scents of exhaust and sea fare; historical shops coming into view alongside paths abundant with bikers and pedestrians; and the fall trees dotting the hills in the distance, glistening with raindrops under a veil of light fog.

Funny that during my time as Architect, human interactions and celebrations never topped the list of things I missed. What I ached for most was this: color, rain, sunlight, and vegetation. Probably because it was my inability to craft anything other than mechanized blueprints that caused their absence in Mystiquiel in the first place.

On the tail of the painful hindsight, we turn onto Evening-side Street and the ravaged bakery comes into view. The sick joke isn’t lost on me. All I can do is create wastelands.

Thanks to a heavy drizzle earlier this morning, the building’s black scorched remnants—a jumble of sooty fallen roof beams, partially erect wall panels, doors, chairs, and tables, all tangled with tarry strands of wire—catch light from the overcast sky and shimmer wetly. It’s simultaneously remarkable and gruesome, like the oily sludge some giant robotic beast hacked up after being ill.

The abandoned donut shop next door fared better, with just a few charred marks across the siding and bricks, interspersed with blistered paint. Its unbroken form casts shadows across the bakery’s skeletal remains. Side by side, the two remind me of antithetical twins . . . one soaring and functional, the other sunken and damaged.

Question is, which is me and which is Nix?

I shove aside the cruel riddle as Uncle slows the car and sighs deeply.

“I’m so glad someone called about the fire,” he says. His hands squeeze the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat. I avoid looking anywhere but his knuckles. He’s wearing his work clothes, complete with tie-dyed apron, and the too cheerful whites and rainbow hues hang in my peripheral view, mocking my dismal mood. “If the emergency crews hadn’t stopped it when they did, Juniper’s shop would’ve been collateral damage. I just wish I knew who the caller was. I’d like to thank them.”

My stomach sinks, and the sweet taste of blueberries coating my tongue from breakfast sours to something fermented and foul. “Yeah,” I manage to answer. “Um . . . are you sure you want to do this?” I squeeze his hand in an offer of comfort as hollow as my chest cavity.

His cheek ticks. “I have to. If there’s even a chance those vials of blood weathered the heat, that they’re somewhere still intact under the ashes in the safe, I need to salvage them before the cleanup crew comes.”

I don’t respond. I checked before I sparked the flame to be sure nothing would survive. Uncle purchased a home safe to use at work, with only thirty minutes of fire resistance; a quick Google search on safes shows that anything less than one hour of resistance is inadequate to protect fragile contents within. This was validated by the fire marshal’s report, wherein he wrote nothing was recoverable.

But Uncle Thatch isn’t one to abandon hope so easily. It’s on the list of things I love most about him, which makes it all the more hurtful that he gave up on me when I was the one taken to Mystiquiel. We haven’t discussed any of that yet . . . too much has happened in the short time since I’ve been back.

Uncle helps me out of the car after setting up my wheelchair on the sidewalk.

“I told you we should’ve brought the crutches.” I lean into him so together we can shift my weight into the seat.

Uncle shakes his head, causing the burnt bakery to reflect in his glasses and blot out his gaze. The mirror effect cuts deep—a symbol of the bleak misery that’s taken up residence in those big eyes that once held so much warmth. “You’ve only been walking baby steps for short distances. There’ll be too many tripping hazards here. I’ll clear a path for your chair. We don’t want to undo everything you’ve accomplished in physical therapy.”

I can’t argue. Even as tired as I am of faking things, even as much as I hate to be hijacking a wheelchair someone else might actually need, I have to be frugal with my alleged progress. Otherwise, I’ll out myself and lose my alibi, and Uncle will know that the ruins he’s facing fell at my hand.

I won’t have him hating me for something I vowed to do.

“Besides,” Uncle adds, “you’re looking kind of worn down today. I know this is as difficult for you as for me, Songbird.”

I don’t deserve the affectionate nickname, but gulp down any honest response. I can’t admit that I’m tired because I’ve been waking up to an alarm every two hours. Each time I sleep any longer than that, I’m plagued with guilt-ridden nightmares of the fire. I spend most of my night hours perusing back alleys on Nix’s bike, or tweaking all the half-finished projects in my room left over from before I was taken. I can’t bring myself to finish them, because their monstrous forms hearken back to my time there, to why I was taken to begin with.

As furious as I am at Nix, I don’t want her seeing only flames and fallout in the landscape of my dreams. She was unaware of the plan Uncle and Clarey had to save her, so there’s no disappointment to be had there. But I remember clinging to glimpses of normalcy I saw through her dreams. All that time I was rotting alongside Mystiquiel at its roots, she was here with Uncle—stirring batter, mixing icings, washing dishes and mopping floors. Those everyday moments replaying in her subconscious made me feel connected to something constructive, something alive.

She’s my other half and I’m hers. I can’t leave her hanging without the same hope. Maybe, in time, Uncle and I can find our own normal, and then I can sleep through the night.

A couple of towners walk by and nod to me and Uncle Thatch in sympathy. My gaze follows them as they stroll past the coffee house, then stops on Wisteria Rising’s cheery facade. The boutique glistens like a fairy-tale cottage—a beacon amid all the sadness. The strands of white lights, turned off for daytime, glitter around the French doors and from the eaves like silvery tinsel, catching glints of the sun as it slides in and out of clouds.

Clarey opens the boutique door upon seeing us and waves. The rolled-up sleeves of his vintage shirt showcase agile forearm muscles and soft brown skin. Fitted plaid pants cling to his long, slim legs as he crouches next to the brick wall to position a potted wisteria that will greet customers later this afternoon. He and his aunt postponed opening this morning so they could be here for Uncle and me.

Flannie barks from inside.

“We’ll be back soon, Nosy-Noodle,” Clarey calls over his shoulder. “Don’t need your paws tracking soot all over the shop.”

He texted me on Nix’s phone this morning, saying his border collie wouldn’t be joining us on our scavenging. It was a relief; I haven’t bonded with the dog like my sister yet . . . it’s taking longer than we expected, because although to everyone else I’m a dead ringer for Nix, Flannie can sniff out the lie.

Clarey has been setting up clandestine meetings for us, so I can befriend her enough to fool his aunt, since he and Uncle haven’t figured out how to tell her that Nix’s drawings were true, that there’s a fairy populace parallel to the human world—one that holds my family solely responsible for their livelihood—and that I’m a stowaway in my sister’s clothes and shoes.

It was easy for Clarey to explain his choice for keeping his emotional support animal locked in the shop today. She could eat or step on something that might hurt her. And her automated hind leg—made up of one of my earliest robotic projects, rewired and repurposed by Nix—poses an additional trip hazard, like me with my crutches.

Juniper follows behind Clarey and secures the French doors before locking them. A sign hangs inside, sandwiched between the glass and the lace curtains and turned to CLOSED. At the bottom, a piece of paper—stuck on with tape—has Be back at 1 p.m. jotted in neat, narrow print.

I recognize the handwriting as Clarey’s, although it’s evolved into something symmetrical and elegant since I last saw it in notes passed between fourth-grade classes. He’s evolved, too. From elementary to middle school, I watched his gangly legs and arms become sleek and sturdy; his jawbone lengthen to squared angles; and his height shoot past mine by a half inch or so. Now, when I look at him, I realize that was just the beginning. I was gone three years, and he’s grown into a man.

“You two look positively knackered,” Juniper says in her sympathetic British accent as Uncle turns to greet her. He rakes aside a salt-and-pepper curl at her temple and kisses her cheek. The deep pink in her corduroy overalls matches the flush of her skin.

A smile breaks on my face; the expression feels good, however temporary.

“Nixie, love. Can I offer you a spot of ginger-mint green tea?” She raises a yellow smiley-face thermos and a bag of Styrofoam cups and lids. “The caffeine might do you good.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” I yawn, taking refuge in the fact that there’s at least one thing I’m not faking.

I didn’t know her very well when she was friends with Clarey’s mom before I was taken. And I wasn’t here when Clarey lived with his grandparents in Chicago as his mom died. So I’ve only been around her for a few days. But just like she did Clarey, she’s taken me under her wing.

Of course, that’s mostly because she’s unaware of who she’s talking to or the otherworldly misadventure Clarey went on with my uncle. She thinks I’m Nix recouping from a near drowning, just like she thinks we’re here today to salvage what we can of the expensive “squid ink” vials Uncle used in his recipes—oblivious that it’s actually royal goblin blood.

“Heya,” Clarey says, kneeling beside my wheels as Uncle juggles cups so Juniper can pour the steaming, fragrant tea. The lenses on their glasses keep fogging, making the scene almost comical.

“Hi,” I answer. A brisk breeze wraps Clarey’s floral scent around me, followed by a faint rush of peppermint, indicating he’s used some spirit gum remover this morning.

I’m impressed that after his face nearly became a mask in Mystiquiel, he still has the passion and resolve to make and wear them. In fact, according to him, the experience gave him courage to deal openly with his therapist about a bullying episode in Chicago and the resulting phobia that he’d been trying to suppress. Though he still gets a little nervous in crowds, Mystiquiel was cathartic for him. I wish I could say the same for me.

I’m about to ask how his newest project is coming when the wind shifts direction, slapping me with the pungent odor of scorched wood from the rubble a few feet away. A wave of nausea stirs in my belly and I cringe.

“I knew this would be hard for you,” Clarey says, studying me. “You’re looking green around the gills.”

Makes no difference that he doesn’t actually know how hard this is or why; his corny choice of words manages to lift my spirits. It’s reassuring to find him still stuck in another decade, wearing his eccentric rat-pack fashions.

The white streak in his dark hair flutters across his forehead with the wind, covering the scar slicing his left eyebrow—a result of that violent encounter he endured in my absence. In response, Perish’s savage beauty and scrap-metal scars steal into my thoughts unbidden, causing my frown to return.

“You’re staring,” Clarey says, his voice hoarse.

“Oh, sorry.” I jerk my gaze lower and focus on his teal cheetah-print shoes with rose-gold laces and brassy toe tips.

“No, I’m sorry,” Clarey mutters, so soft I almost don’t catch it. He’s been saying that a lot since I’ve been back—convinced he betrayed me by kissing my sister yet unable to shake the feelings he developed for her, even with me here beside him.

“You aren’t a cheater,” I mumble. “You didn’t know I was alive.”

He shrugs.

Of all the things she stole from me, taking his heart would’ve been the worst, except my heart had started to belong elsewhere anyway. But I’m not admitting that to anyone now that I’m back here and Nix is there.

Clarey glances upward at the clouds and touches his BAHA. He’s told me that lately, when the air’s too cool or the wind changes direction, it can cause an uncomfortable fluttery sensation in his ear, like a bird’s wings.

“White noise attack?” I ask, trying to regain his attention now that he’s suddenly preoccupied with the hearing aid.

He taps his ear, his curls bouncing with the effort, like he’s trying to shake the noise loose. “It’s more than that this time. I think I’m picking up a one-sided conversation.” His frown deepens. “I heard the word ‘Tat.’ Then something about getting out of somewhere.”

“We’ve talked about this,” I remind him, tossing a look at Juniper to be sure she’s still out of earshot. “Even Uncle says he has phantom sensations leftover from Mystiquiel, and you actually had that thing leeched to your ear like a bionic parasite. It’s just an echo of the ultrasonic hearing abilities you had there.”

“I don’t think so. Everything that fused with my skin snapped free. The mask . . . the BAHA. It’s not connected in the same way.”

“Maybe not, but the mechanism still taps into your bones. And a body can’t go through that kind of conversion without suffering some weird aftereffects.”

“It’s more than an echo. The voice felt present . . . in the moment, almost.” He clears his throat. “It . . . belonged to Nix.”

I gape, about to ask for more details, when Uncle brings over two lidded cups of tea.

“Perfect theme for today,” Uncle interrupts and motions to Clarey’s button-up shirt with one cup, obviously misunderstanding the referral to Nix.

Clarey slides a palm across the abstract print showcasing two lanky black cats seated end to end with bright geometric patterns framing the background in fuchsia and teal. The cats’ long necks spear out like swans’ on either side, the heads coming together in a kiss to form a heart shape. Nix bought it for him on his sixteenth birthday because it looked so much like the grimalkin in her graphic novels—adventures based on the world I was building in Mystiquiel.

“Glad you dig it.” Clarey takes his cup and bumps it with Uncle’s in a toast, doing an outstanding job of wiping away the concern that was on his face moments ago.

“Here’s hoping it brings us luck.” Uncle offers a sad smile and rejoins Juniper. They stand at the edge of the debris pile with a broom and a shovel, discussing how best to begin the scavenging.

Clarey’s long lashes sweep down and he plucks at the collar of his shirt, as if uncomfortable in it. “Sorry I keep bringing her up.”

“It doesn’t bother me, okay?” I lie in hopes he’ll stop fidgeting. I take a sip of tea, savoring the soothing mint alongside a sharp burst of ginger. “I still say the BAHA is playing tricks. Some kind of electrical glitch. I could look at it, if you want?”

Clarey takes a few slurps from his own cup. “Maybe later.” He taps behind his ear one last time, keeping his voice low. “I could’ve sworn it was Nix, saying something about me staying . . . like she was happy about it. The opposite of how she must really feel—since I abandoned her.”

“You didn’t have a choice.” Although I did.

Clarey squints and shades his eyes, I’m guessing so I’ll think their watery sheen is due to sunlight. “I want her here with us, and not alone in Goblinville, you know? I worry about what she’s going through all the time. It could be causing me to imagine things, I guess. You still haven’t seen her in dreams or anything?”

My throat dries despite the warm tea coating and I force a negatory shake of the head. I stop short of telling him that’s not how it works. Since she’s the one living in Mystiquiel, she’s commandeering my dreams, not the other way around. I can’t access the world she’s building until she starts to use her abilities, and even then I’ll only glimpse what her all-seeing eye allows as the Architect. I can’t admit to knowing such details without telling him everything else and condemning myself in the process.

He studies the bakery’s remains, his amber and blue irises catching slashes of light so they gleam like polished copper and cobalt. I’m bombarded with another image of Perish and the metallic plague I set upon his world, and I swallow down a double lump of guilt.

“So,” Clarey continues, “have you been looking through her stories? To see if there are any clues?”

Her stories. Clarey’s misnomer is an unwelcome reminder of his and Uncle’s latest efforts to find another way into Mystiquiel. They think if I pore over the graphic novels my twin compiled, analyze every panel for hidden meanings, I might see something they’ve missed. Some secret code that only I could decipher—having been there, having built it. But how do I tell them I haven’t even attempted to look at a single sketch or painting? That just the thought of her artwork taunts me . . . leaving me bitter and homesick all at once?

I answer with a lie. “I’ve looked through a few pages. Just trying to balance it with school stuff.” Before Clarey can press further, I change the subject. “Are you all packed?”

He traces his left shirt pocket where a harmonica shape bulges against the fabric, a tribute he carries in memory of his dead mother. “Yeah. My flight to Chicago takes off at three.”

I do the math in my head. “That’s a four-hour flight, with a two-hour time difference. You won’t get there until nine. Won’t it be past your grandparents’ curfew?”

Clarey smirks. “Well, I’m staying in a hotel, not at their retirement home.”

“Right, right.” I raise my eyebrow, feeling the tug of the still-fresh piercing. “So, no one to tuck you in, huh? If you need me, call and I’ll sing you to sleep.”

Confusion blurs his expression. “Wait . . . you mean you’ve started writing lyrics again?”

I clamp my mouth shut, wondering what made me say that. Yeah, I used to like to play with rhyming, and Clarey would accompany me on his harmonica. I’d try to sing along, though it was always off-key. That’s one of the reasons Uncle called me Songbird, mostly in gentle ribbing for my tone deafness. I never had the talent to write musical notes for my songs, or to sing anyone to sleep. That was something I attempted just for Perish, when his antlers and crown weighed too heavily on his head. Ironic, that only my non-talent had a positive impact on his reign.

Uncle and Juniper motion us over, relieving both me and Clarey of our awkward dialogue. He takes my empty teacup and stacks it within his, releases the brakes on my wheelchair, and rolls me over to the edge where the sidewalk meets the bakery’s ashes.

“All right, then.” Uncle holds the shovel’s handle, clanging the blade tip along the cement as if to bolster his courage. “Let’s do this.”

Then together, the four of us enter the detritus of Uncle’s shattered dreams.

4

smoke and mirrors

Nix

Tat leads me along the castle’s dim corridor, and my sense of empowerment grows with each step. I stay flush to the wall, relying on the tattoo’s electrical currents to illuminate our way with orange flashes. We arrive at a juncture where the halls branch off like a beehive’s interlocking cells. Tat pauses midair, a nebulous swirl of feathers and beak, waiting for me to choose a direction.

Harsh echoes carry through an adjoining passage on my right—not so much voices as snarls, snorts, huffs, and growls, heated and hammered like metal, until they form recognizable words that can cut like swords.

I remember Uncle Thatch mentioning Perish’s Goblin Court before I took Lark’s place. By then Perish had already tricked me into helping him save Mystiquiel—omitting the fact that it was my sister I’d have to defeat. Afterward, once I learned how much my family had lost because of the ancient bargain our ancestor made with this world, I despised the king and all his subjects.

However, at this point, dining with the characters I came to know through my sketches of Lark’s dream-projections is more appealing than being locked in a room under Perish’s thumb for even a second longer.

A tinny clang of pots and pans then a scrape of silverware on plates convolutes the savage conversations taking place. Delectable blends of waxy smoke, sugary spices, and browned butter lead me by my nostrils toward a set of shiny copper stairs.

I’ve abandoned all caution toward eating faerie food. Upon swallowing goblin fruit seeds and washing them down with the king’s royal blood, I essentially became an honorary fey. Such things can no longer affect me like they do a typical human. I learned this on my third night in the castle, after almost fainting from dehydration and depravation. I gave in at last, eating and drinking whatever Perish brought me, having decided staying healthy was paramount. Vulnerability in any form is treacherous here.

Reaching the stairwell, I balance on the first step and crane my neck to find they stop halfway up—leading nowhere. Since the smells and sounds drift down from the third floor, I’m out of luck. There’s no way to get there, short of sprouting wings. Tat soars upward, then swoops down and ascends again, in an obvious bid for me to follow.

“Unless you can make the stairs grow, Inky-blinky, I’m stuck.”

Tat dives across the top stairstep several times, then turns tail and disappears out of sight somewhere on the third story.

“Show-off.” I clench my jaw.

“Inky-blinky, to-and-fro, snag a princess flying low. If she screams, let her go, and drop her on her head just so.”

My shoulders stiffen at Angorla’s bleating singsong voice. I spin slowly, keeping my place on the step.

The hobblegob stands at floor level, a few inches below me. She tips her spiraled ram horns in greeting, and I block my stomach, recalling her vicious headbutt when Clarey and I were first trying to sneak into this castle. Like Perish, she was purged by my touch and became flesh—wooly brown fur and pinkish skin. Her goatly face tilts upward, the folded slits of her nostrils opening and closing like fish gills. She smells of animal musk, dirt, and fruit. An odd amalgamation that makes sense in the context of her being the keeper of the king’s orchards.

“You needin’ another favor so soon, Architect? I be glad to launch the device, for a small token price.” She runs a hoofed hand through her bearded muzzle. Two long skeletal fingers spear out to spread the strands and reveal human lips and a bucktoothed smirk.

I watch her warily, suspicious of those wide, doe eyes. She betrayed me after I helped her . . . captured me and Clarey for Perish. Gave us up as bargaining chips to save her own hide.

“Your favors cost too much, Gardener.” Keeping her in my peripheral vision, I study the stairs. “I’ll figure it out for myself.” I watched them move when I was first brought here with Clarey . . . I just have to determine what triggers them.

“Hmmm.” She tucks a clawed hoof into her bulging woolen hide and withdraws a pair of pruning shears. The blades make a snipping sound as she resituates the tool in her hand, her bony hookish appendage attempting to hold it secure.

I tense and ascend a step.

“Maybe it be better you stay aground,” she says, the tufted points of her ears flicking. “His Majesty clips wings for a reason, much as I trim trees to hold safe in their season. If the branches reach too far out, dangers abound.”

“Dangers.” I snort, glaring at the scissors snicking inches from my face. “Pot calling the kettle.”

Angorla frowns, obviously unfamiliar with the human expression.

I furrow my brow. “I’m in just as much danger standing here talking with you. You’re a selfish sneak.”

Her frown twists to a smug smile as she tucks the tool deep into her wool once more. I’m curious how many gadgets she’s hiding in there. It’s interesting to see her storing them as opposed to her hands being made of tools, like they were in Lark’s cyborg world. When I first met the Gardener, she could shift her claw into a shovel or scythe with the ease of a flick—as if she herself were a Swiss Army knife. If it hadn’t been for her dying from the rust tainting her blood, she would probably have preferred that form.

“So, you thinkin’ I owe you this one favor, aye?” She continues baiting me. “Penance for leading you astray on that day.”

I huff. “Yeah, sure. That’ll make up for ruining my entire life.”

Her white crescent-moon pupils narrow. “Good. Then let’s make you fly, and we be even you and I.”

I strain to read her. Either she doesn’t get sarcasm, or she’s being facetious.

“It all be in the tip and totter of the tongue, you see.” She then bleats a word in a language I can’t decipher and could never emulate with my mortal mouth, and in a blink, the half staircase swings free of the wall and flips topsy-turvy.

My stomach tumbles as I claw my slick surroundings for railings that aren’t there. I stop struggling once I see I’m not budging. Without my realizing, the ivy slippers punctured the copper step and formed a harness to bind my feet, keeping me welded tight. In a dizzying rush, I hang upside down and watch the first floor skim by as if it were the ceiling. It’s sickly reminiscent of when Perish had my ankles tied to the pendulum of the castle’s giant clock. I grunt—tired of being strung up against my will.

Within moments, I’ve reached the third level, and the stairway rights itself so the top half hinges into place. Behind me the stairs drop away, leaving empty air and a two-story fall.

From below, Angorla shouts, “Hope you survive long enough to set things to rights. There can’t be gardening without days and nights. And remember, I tried to keep you safe. Next time won’t be free; costs thrice the price for favor three.” She shuffles away on her mismatched legs, one cloven foot clomping and the other scraping.

I stay crouched in an effort to calm my queasiness. The ivy slippers release from the platform and wrap solely around my feet once more—leaving no ruptures or ripples in the metal anywhere. The stairs are as sleek and smooth as before. On shaky legs, I resume my climb, careful not to slip.

Once I clear the upper level, I find Tat flickering with orange sparks, suspended midair before a room. From within, the tasty smells and feral sounds resume—uproarious and loud.

I peer around the doorframe. A haze of smoke swirls across a long banquet table that’s filled with roasted nuts, poached fruits, shimmery honey-glazed ham dotted with cloves, and molten candles lit by magic. I recognize the clumps of wax as the melts I pried from jars at the bakery in the mortal world—back when I naively thought I was recycling per Uncle’s contract with our supplier. Instead, the supplier turned out to be the Goblin King, and I had been helping my uncle collect human emotions absorbed by the candlewicks for the fey populace to use like mind-altering drugs.

The smoldering wax has definitely had an effect on the reveling today, because the guests—frost elves, goblins, blacksmith gnomes, piskies, pack rat faeries, wights, and sprigs, among others—are disorderly and disheveled. The tinier creatures—winged, bipedal, and four-legged—scramble from dish to dish, sampling each flavor. The bigger creatures snarl and fling food at one another, laughing wickedly in turn.

Seeing the raucous banquet reminds me of more civilized festivities at home, and how close it’s getting to Thanksgiving; this year I should’ve had my whole family together to celebrate instead of being surrounded by strange and wild faces. The resulting slash of misery slices deeper as I’m struck by how perfectly Clarey could have captured these creatures for his SFX mask collection, and it could have won him that coveted slot at New York’s Make-Up Designory after he graduates. Something I’ll never get to see happen now.

He and Lark have no doubt picked up where they left off. Maybe she’s planning to go with him after graduation. They have a second chance at romance for which to be thankful on this holiday. I remind myself they deserve that happiness, and I should be happy for them. It’s just that I never expected it to be this hard to let him go.

To let all of them go . . .

My eyes blur and I blink them clear, resolved not to show weakness in front of these creatures.

None of them have been touched by my hand yet. Each one still suffers from Lark’s toxic effects, their flesh disrupted by metallic slivers in place of fingers or faces, chain mail spines, copper scales and ears, mesh-wire wings, tails of electrified coils, and galvanized eye sockets. An unnatural aggregation of fey and cyborg features that are rusting away—costing them noses, horns, ears, tails, fingers, and toes.

Yet their corrosion isn’t keeping them from celebrating something, and as everyone grows hushed and all electrified gazes turn on me, I have a strong feeling I know what that something is, and exactly why Perish kept me hidden.

“Ah, the guest of honor arrives!” At the head of the table, on a wingback chair resembling a throne, sits Scourge—the king’s traitor brother. “Glad you found your way, Architect mine.”

My jaw drops. The last I knew, Perish—being the larger, stronger brother—had crushed Scourge’s metallic shoulder and locked him within a live-wire torture device. The stench of burnt flesh and scorched hair comes back to me as I seek the results of that violent incident but find nothing. Somehow, Scourge came out unscathed: frizzed white fiber-optic hair still intact; massive bent nose, barb-edged ears, and slimy lips untouched by scars. His complexion—free of burns—still resembles what Perish’s once did, although more of a sickly cadaverous white than a seashell’s glossy shimmer.

Perish had insisted he wasn’t killing his brother . . . that he was remaking him somehow, into a “better prince.” Yet he looks exactly the same; even his metallic collarbone and shoulder still bear the imprint of Perish’s anger—dented and warped so his left arm juts out at an odd angle. It’s as if the torture device had no effect at all.

Scourge smiles, all metal teeth and rusted tips. His thin aluminum right arm raises a goblet held by three fingers. The other two digits have flaked to stumps—rotted by rust. “Come in, come in! You have some work to do on us yet. Eager to see our perfect forms through your eyes.”

I frown, cautious to answer. “Perish wants my power preserved for building the world . . . he said the terrain has to be changed first, that the rest will follow naturally.”

Scourge gulps down his wine then slams the goblet on the table. Several teensy beings scramble to hide beneath cloth napkins and slices of ham. “Blasted brother, wants you all for himself. Wants to control you. He just can’t let you see how powerful you are. But you can beat him. Take this world into your hands and you take him by the horns. Start with us! Show him you won’t be his servant . . . that you can think for yourself, girl.”

His bid makes me itch to step forward, stokes that sense of ownership I can’t seem to shake . . . the hunger for creation I can never satiate. The knowledge that I can purge them of Lark’s curse, remake their appearance as I envision them, is both staggering and thrilling. Maybe if I fix them, cleanse them so they’re organic and whole, they’ll be grateful enough to help me overthrow Perish, to use his blood and reopen the veil. If I can reunite with Lark, together with Uncle Thatch, we can figure out a way to break this contract holding our lineage hostage—and my sister and I can both be free.

I inch forward, wary, but just as I cross the threshold, the roots making up my gown’s sleeves tighten around my forearms like slender snakes. They worm down to my wrists then cloak my fingertips, weaving together around my palms until they encompass my entire hands in thick, slithering gloves so not even a shred of skin shows.

“I—I can’t touch you . . .” I hold my encased fingers high, wriggling them.

Scourge curses. “Well, we won’t let a little ground cover stand in the way. Hold the girl down and I’ll cut out her hands.” The circuits in his eyes spark as he meets my widened gaze. “You don’t mind spilling a little blood for the greater good, do you, mortal dredge?”

A bone-chilling snick slices the air as Scourge swipes a butcher knife off the table. The guests rise from their seats in unison, tongues sticky with honey, teeth smeared with fruit pulp, lips oozing slobber, and chins crusted with glazed crumbs. But the hunger upon their misshapen eldritch faces won’t be satisfied by the spread on the table or the gluttonous portions on their plates—speared with forks and claws alike.

The reflective walls surrounding us make it appear that twice as many are in attendance. I’m outnumbered and out of my element.

Stifling a gasp, I backtrack, hiding my hands behind me. I stall in the hallway, noticing the stairs have slipped once more to the first floor. There are no other staircases or even doors along this level, which means I’ve nowhere to run. Tat wavers above me as though unsure of what to do.

“Get help,” I whisper.

With a flicker from bright to dark, Tat whisks away.

A nudge from my right side spins me on my heel. A little troll—the one I accidentally touched when I first arrived in Mystiquiel and stumbled upon Lark’s replicate bakery—grins up at me. The platelets along its squat form shimmer like rainbow fish scales. At first I think it’s come to offer assistance, until its gruesome smile spreads to reveal two rows of jagged teeth. It shoves me back into the room, in the direction of another troll who has yet to be cured.

A wave of disillusionment drags me under. Of course; when will I learn? Granting these creatures their perfect forms won’t ingratiate me with them. They’re all in it for themselves. I’m nothing but a tool here, to everyone.

Clawed and metallic hands reach to capture me—the guests crowding around my crouched position. I lunge to break free, but they press in tighter. I fall on my rump, jarring the nerves that start at my tailbone and run up my spine. A rusty, meaty musk weighs over me like fog, and a gag strangles in my throat.

Scourge steps into the circle and grips my wrist. He forces me on my knees, his wine-soured breath hot in my face. “Hold still. It will only hurt till your life’s drained away.”

The knife’s blade gouges through the roots close to my radial artery, and I cry out. Suddenly, more shoots come alive to take their place—a living shield. The binds overcompensate, tightening around my flesh like boa constrictors, cutting off my circulation. My fingers grow numb as Scourge saws harder, desperate to defeat his brother’s safeguards.

I struggle to breathe as anxiety kicks in, clamping down on my lungs. I can’t inhale deep enough. Dizziness seeps into my head, my vision tunneling. I’m having a panic attack. If only Clarey were here . . . he’d know how to help me . . .

That sweet moment, when he and I were together in the goblin orchards, when I placed a handful of snow in his palm to soothe him, revisits. An image of frost and ice blankets me, cold and calming. But reality skirts around the memory, melting away any comfort until I’m back in my awful predicament.

I’m seconds from giving in to the blackness when my captors break loose and gallop, scutter, and sprint from the room. Filigree, Perish’s pet owl, herds the retreating crowd with threatening swoops, her prismatic feathers ruffling in smears of green, red, orange, blue, violet, and pink. The gusts from her flight rattle the wreath woven in my hair. Tat accompanies Filigree, reshaping to mimic the owl’s form, like a living shadow following in her wake.

Scourge drops his knife and ducks down, arms covering his face.

Filigree’s long talons gouge the prince’s scalp, and oily blood saturates his white hair while clumps of frizzy strands rip free—clenched and dangling in tufts between Tat’s nebulous hooks.

In triumph, Filigree hoots and Tat crackles like an electrical current bursting from a spark plug. The birds glide out of the room just as Perish’s shadow engulfs my trembling body from the doorway. In one blink he’s beside me, offering a palm to help me stand.

Once I’m upright, he wipes my face where his brother’s breath left trails of slobber, then holds out my hands, coaxing the restrictive gloves to loosen to a more comfortable fit. Upon meeting my gaze, he shakes his head in admonishment. I force an apology by way of a shrug.

His jaw clenches and the spasm shimmers along his golden complexion. He glares at Scourge who’s dusting himself off and grumbling over his wounds.

“Once again, Brother,” Perish says, “you creep your way into the path of my rage. This is the thanks I get, for showing you mercy last time.”

“Mercy. Oh, please,” Scourge seethes. “As if you’re so noble. Does the girl know yet? The plan our father put into play? Of her other half’s role—”

Before Scourge can finish, Perish pulls out his dagger and twists the blade deep into his brother’s chest, carving his words into a wet, sobbing gurgle.

5

puppets and pork grenades

Nix

I cry out as Scourge’s knees give and he folds over at the waist until he’s prostrate on the floor, reminding me of a puppet cut free of its strings.

Slapping an ivy-cloaked hand over my mouth, I ask, “What did you do?” My fingers tighten over my lips to hold in a rush of bile.

Perish furrows his brows. “Retribution, of course. Wouldn’t you retaliate had your sibling betrayed you?”

My hand drops. I shake my head, struggling against the knot in my throat. “Lark would never do that. And even if she did, I wouldn’t stab her to death!”

Perish’s dark eyes appear to dance, like pools of wine stirred to ripples. “Nice you have so much faith in your aptitude for mercy. Let’s hope you never need to test it. One thing I’ve learned about family . . . they tend to surprise you, and not always in the best of ways. Isn’t that right, Scourgey?” Gripping a handful of blood-caked frizz, he lifts his brother’s head enough to show me his face. Scourge’s eyes are shut peacefully and he’s snoring.

He’s alive. I don’t know why I feel such relief after the goblin prince threatened to slice up my hands. I tell myself it’s because I still need to hear what he was going to say. He mentioned my sister in the same breath as his and Perish’s father. I already hate King Talon for killing our dad, and just before Uncle Thatch was cast out of Mystiquiel, he accused King Talon of attempting to do something to Lark and me, too, while we were still in our mother’s belly.

Whatever it was, Perish wants it kept secret enough he defaulted to stabbing his own brother with a dagger to keep him silent. Then it occurs to me that this very weapon once turned into a feather when I foolishly tried to slit my own throat.

“So, you . . . tickled your brother to sleep?”

Gifting me with a smirk, Perish twists his dagger free of his brother’s chest, leaving a hole in his shirt, yet no blood. “I slowed him down. A cessation, if you will.” The king then showcases his weapon’s newest shape. This time, instead of a feather, it’s a long cylinder with circular handles sprouting from the top. The bottom is hollow with a half-inch circumference—formed to fit into a round slot. A winding key. “When you saw me place him in the iron maiden, you had to have wondered what was happening to him. Why he doesn’t appear any different now.”

I catch a breath upon solving the riddle. “The changes took place inside.”

Perish’s sharp-toothed smile spreads wider. He’s pleased with my guess, and I’m sickened that his reaction strokes my ego.

“Since my brother’s heart was already made of metal, the torture device reshaped the organ’s internal workings—added a mainspring that could be cranked to tick faster or slower.”

“Like a clock?”

Perish’s white eyebrows rise in a bemused slant. “Essentially. And as my dagger is the one remaining piece of my past form, I can still command it to take whatever shape I bid it. In this case, the perfect key. While suspended like this, Scourge is susceptible to suggestion. I can reroute his thoughts to more positive inklings. In truth, I’d prefer he stay this way, and never be flesh again. He’s his own worst enemy, constantly making choices that endanger our kingdom.” He shakes his head, nudging his brother with his booted foot. “As it is, something good came of your sister’s blatant destruction. At last, I have charge over my brother’s inane choices. A shame the mental susceptibility wears off. The only way to permanently curb his destructive nature would be to kill him. Instead, I chose mercy today—just as I did when I locked him in the torture device—to show you that you needn’t fear me. We must learn to trust one another in order to rebuild this world to its former magnificence.”

I think back on that first altercation between him and his brother, when Perish caught Scourge betraying him, how he accused the prince of working with someone. I know what she promised, Perish said. Should she win, your greed and envy will damn us all.

The “she” he referred to must’ve been Lark, because she was the one threatening to bring his kingdom down. Scourge mentioned her again, just now . . . referring to her as my “other half.” It makes sense that somehow she convinced Scourge to work with her against Perish. It’s the only way to explain how Uncle and Clarey ended up breaking out of Perish’s custody with Scourge’s help and landed safely inside Lark’s Motherboard lair, where she could protect them.

“Lark didn’t trust you,” I blurt. “That’s why she was working with your brother to save me and the others.”

“Save you?” Perish asks, his thoughtful frown giving nothing away. “I suppose it would’ve taken that slant from where you stood.”

“I know that’s what happened.”

“How are you so sure?”

“I can read between the lines.”

“I thought painters were all about staying within the lines.”

I roll my eyes, tired of his games. Something thumps from behind and startles me. I glance in the direction of the banquet table. There’s no one there, only chunks of pear, crumbles of walnut, and large puddles of honey bedazzling the floor and chairs. Slices of ham dangle from the torch chandelier above, sizzling and curling as flame laps at their edges. From time to time, a rind catches fire and plummets, hitting the floor or table with a thud. Curling smoke from the enchanted candle wax further muddles the scene.

The display is both absurd and threatening—on par for this world. Mealtime has been relegated to a battlefield, and I’m trapped on all sides by quagmires of honey and falling pork grenades.

Sighing, I turn back to Perish. “You know, if you really want my help . . . if you want me to do my best for you and your kingdom, introduce me to your father. Let me talk to him. I want to know what plans he had for me and my sister. Why he killed my father.”

“That’s impossible. You see, he’s no longer here. Each successor comes into his own upon defeating the king before him, either in a game of chance and wills or a physical or intellectual challenge.”

“You have contests with your own fathers to take their throne?”

“And to claim a glorious, kingly form. The opportunity falls first to the eldest son. All other princes mature at a rate you’d expect, though they’re weaker, lesser specimens of our breed—unless the firstborn dies or fails in his attempt to take the throne.”

“Princes? What if no sons are born . . . if there are only princesses to choose from?”

“The crown influences the royal progeny; the firstborn is always a male, to maintain a balanced tenure alongside the female Architect. This symmetry is what keeps our world alive. Which is why we were so desperate to locate Imogen’s hidden replacement. And why it was the perfect contest between my father and I, to retrieve her true progeny and win the crown.”

Another flaming pork rind thumps the table and lights up a napkin. The sparks snuff out in a blink, but the flash of insight from Perish’s answer burns bright. “You found me and Lark first . . . so you won.”

The points of his teeth indent his plump lower lip; the fact obviously pains him to some extent, as if the victory was bittersweet. “Which meant my father was gradually ejected from his physical aspect. Once a new king wins his right to ascend, the predecessor’s life essence fades. He goes into a catatonic state as his spirit is absorbed within the royal coronet. Then his powers and memories are transferred to his son through it. That’s what ages a prince to his most consummate, kingly form—the crown materializing upon his head.”

“You mean, it just appears there? You don’t have an official coronation?”

He scoffs. “We live in a world of magic. What would be the fun of following mundane human protocols?”

“Right. Because we’re sooo boring, what with our artistic talents and all.” I glare at him.

He grins, flashing his fangs. “Touché.”

“So, hypothetically, what would’ve happened if you’d failed the challenge?” I ask to get the conversation back on track, uncomfortable with how comfortable I’m starting to feel with him.

“I would’ve changed from that little goblin boy you saw in your bedroom that night so long ago into the form of a tinker-gnome. A physical and mental devolution that would’ve indentured me to an eternity of perfunctory service to the king.”

I gawk. Whoever would’ve guessed the tinker-gnomes, those reptilian armadillo-like beings who were serving as the king’s royal blacksmiths upon my arrival here weeks ago, were once young goblin heirs to the throne that lost their chance to wear the crown then mutated to lesser, mindless creatures? It’s surprising, but in hindsight it makes perfect sense in the context of how almost childlike they seemed, relegated to monotonous tasks that required little more than the basest skill sets. It also explains how familiarly Perish interacted with them, hammering new fingers, toes, ears, and limbs for all his rusted and ruined subjects, as though he were working alongside kindred spirits.

“So if you’d failed, it would be your father . . . ?” I ask.

Perish nods. “Still running things until either my brother or a firstborn grandson stepped up to try his hand.”

My attention shifts to the golden thorns branching out from Perish’s crown. Sparks of lightning spread from prong to prong, constantly crackling; right now, they appear gentler—more like static electricity than galvanized currents. Yet that seems to vary according to Perish’s mood. Or maybe according to his needs?

I originally thought the effect was one of Lark’s cybernetic mutations, but instead, it’s the spirits of all the Goblin Kings in the history of Mystiquiel. I wonder what would happen if I could topple the headpiece from its place between Perish’s antlers. Could I somehow use it to open the veil?

Perish chuckles darkly. “Ah, the flavor of cunning. It burns the tongue . . . a bit like vinegar and cloves. Let me save you the trouble of seeking an angle, Phoenix of the Flames. Only one from the bloodline can wield the coronet’s power. And no one can take it from my head—either from the world of humankind or eldritch—unless every subject of my kingdom desires a new king, or until I surrender it after losing a contest of wills or wit.”

I wrinkle my forehead when he pinpoints my thoughts. I’m going to have to learn to make my expressions harder to read. Groaning, I rub my brow with leafy fingertips, forcing the wrinkles to smooth.

“Okay.” I press on. “Since you can decipher the memories stored in the crown, you know what your father did to me and Lark before we were born. Tell me. Or tell me about my mom. What happened to her before Lark came. Is she . . . dead?” I wince at the finality of the word, but knowing would be better than this constant wondering.

Just as he’s done each time I’ve asked about her, Perish keeps his mouth tightly shut.

“You know,” I snarl, “just answering one of those questions would go a long way toward building trust between us. Call it a gesture of goodwill.”

“No gesture is necessary. A smart girl like you already knows you need an ally here. And seeing as it’s either trust me or trust my brother and his ilk . . . what is it you humans say, the lesser of two evils?” His gaze burns into mine, his double pupils shadowed by a shimmery dusting of flaxen lashes.

I school my features into a scowl that I hope tastes like defiance to him.

Our cross-glares intensify as I refuse to look away first. My muscles strain beneath my dress and gloves, causing the roots and flowers to squeeze gently, embracing me. Their minuscule movements fill the air with a floral perfume that has a soothing effect. I frown; although I feel calmer, the emotional manipulation makes me fidget and I inadvertently break our stare.

Perish inclines his head—his horns mimicking a hat tipped in triumph. The golden prongs of his crown glint with the motion.

“You will get your fill of histories soon enough, as a natural by-product of your service here,” he says cryptically. He tucks his dagger away—transformed once more to a razor-sharp blade—and strolls toward the table, motioning for me to join him. “For now, I want you concentrating only on the present and the future.”

I glance at his hibernating brother before deigning to follow.

Perish’s clothes rustle softly, making it impossible to ignore how snugly they fit his muscular form. The grace with which he moves seems contradictory with what he keeps hidden inside: long limbs and antlers lissome and regal as a stag’s. Yet he’s no timid forest creature. At his heart he’s a predator. An untamed wolf. I must keep reminding myself of that.

“I had just brought a tray of food to your chamber when Filigree and her shadow led me here,” Perish says with an obvious struggle to control the annoyance in his voice. I wonder if he’s onto me and my tattoo . . . if he’s aware that the lively little inkblot helped me break out of my room. “Now, we’ll eat here to save time; I want you to introduce a proper sun and moon to the sky again and coordinate them with the castle’s master clock. Then we’ll tackle the settings. Mystiquiel must be reborn, and soon. My subjects and the populace grow restless in their confined states.”

As Perish strides the length of the table, he waves his hand across the waxy stumps to shut down the magical smoke. The room begins to clear.

“Idiot.” He aims the aspersion at his snoring brother. “There’s hardly enough fuel left for the renewal, and here you are using it to set a mood.” Growling, he takes Scourge’s abandoned seat at the head of the table.

I stop a few paces from the other end. Glancing upward and around me in turns, I find the cleanest spot available, at the right hand of the Goblin King . . . the one chair that was left empty and is out of range of any possible falling pork grenades.

Before sitting, I rake aside some crumbs—no easy task with my hands still wrapped in ivy. Although I can move my fingers, they don’t have the dexterity to bend effectively. Perish watches me with an amused expression while I search for a dish unspoiled by the food fight so I can fill it. As if inspired by my fastidiousness, he crinkles his nose at his brother’s masticated meal, slopped in a pile on a silvery platter.

The Goblin King’s double pupils pierce bright, lit once again by displeasure as he shoves aside the platter then arranges a napkin on his lap. “Let me make it clear why I want you to start with the terrain.” His gaze meets mine. “Any of us that you touch, you’re basically undoing—erasing—your sister’s effect. You can call it healing if you like, but that’s not precisely accurate. You don’t have the power to change our inner workings. But you do have the ability to reverse all that your sister did, through your connection with her. Once the settings are corrected, and all my subjects walk and fly through their rehabilitated surroundings, they’ll be made right again through symbiosis. But since I need to keep my lecherous lout of a brother and his bumbling merry-faerie-men in check until our world is stabilized, they’re off-limits to you.” He gestures to the dissipating candle smoke. “Otherwise, they’ll use up all the remaining wax. And since we won’t be getting anything more from your uncle, we have to be frugal until you’ve accomplished your masterpiece and your own emotions begin feeding our world.”

I’m halfway between spooning poached pears onto an untouched dinner plate found hidden under a napkin, when the mention of Uncle Thatch stops me cold. “What?” A gooey syrup, tinged with cinnamon, drizzles from the spoon I’m holding above the dish. “You won’t be getting any more shipments?” I flip the spoon, and the pears plop onto the porcelain with a wet smack. Specks of syrup splash across my face and lips, but I don’t bother to lick them away. I’ve lost my appetite.

The fact of there not being any connection to Uncle, not even through the goblin fruits shipped from here and the candles sent back in exchange, seals my lonely fate. Of course, it’s better that he no longer siphons emotions from unsuspecting humans, but that arrangement was the last-ditch chance I had of contacting my family.

The Goblin King hesitates before answering, appearing to measure his words carefully. “Your uncle’s bakery is no longer of need to me. And better that it isn’t, considering.”

“Considering . . . what?”

He drags a coppery bowl filled with candied walnuts toward him, making me wait for an answer. “Considering that once you’ve rebuilt Mystiquiel and anchored your Architect connection into our firmament and terrain, your emotions will feed us, just as our magic will feed you.”

As he picks through the walnuts with his thumb and forefinger, in search of unbroken meats, mumbles erupt from inside the basin, and four rat-size heads poke out from the pile, then four mouths yawn in synchronized succession. Crystals of brown sugar avalanche down the pack rat faeries’ velvety rodent faces, rendered burnt and caramelized by the circuitry racing through the wiry manes on their heads.

A frown crinkles the edges of Perish’s eyes. He shoves an ombre wave behind his pointed ear and leans forward. “Well, well. It seems you fellows missed all the action. Have a good nap?”

The faeries clamber out of the bowl, hiccuping and stumbling over one another in their haste to bow. Unlike Bonbon, their sibling whom I changed, these creatures still have bodies and wings woven from pieces of wire, along with missing appendages where the rust has overtaken. Three of them end up hooking their wings together like paper clips linked in a chain, then topple to their bottoms. Chagrined snickers reveal pencil-lead teeth.

Narrowing his eyes, Perish gently untangles them, his savagely lovely face illuminated by the pulsing currents of their hair. He clucks his tongue, a surprisingly endearing gesture that makes him seem more human than goblin—similar to when he walks barefoot through the castle. “Your instructions were to watch him so he didn’t make any trouble. Instead, you get yourself drunk on wax fumes. Now, look at this mess.” He points at the melted candle wax alongside the spattered food. “Isn’t it your calling to cull through the debris? To keep my kingdom orderly?”

“There’s just so few of us now, with my brothers and sisters gone missing.” The fourth faerie, watching his siblings being liberated one by one, offers the explanation with a susurrant voice.

“And I’m on the lookout for them, as I said I would be. Is it too much to ask for you to hold up your own responsibilities?” Perish gives the little creature a stern frown.

“No, Majesty. Forgive, please.” He hiccups, then clasps silvery fibrous hands across his mouth. The faerie doesn’t seem afraid so much as shamed by his king’s disappointment.

Perish lifts the speaker by his mesh wings and positions him in the direction of Scourge. “Take that lump of refuse out. Set him up in his bed nice and comfy. And be sure no one visits him until I return—most especially our Royal Mother.” Perish releases the little one’s wings, and he putters midair, motioning to the others.

“Spoils for the king, spoils for the king!” The faeries sing in unison as they spin around Scourge, the circuitry in their hair joining to form a frenetic buzzing net. They twist and turn until he’s wrapped up, then drag him across the floor and out the door.

I wait until their song and Scourge’s snores fade away before turning to Perish. I’m so stunned, I can’t find the words.

“I can taste your confusion,” he says, flicking through the walnuts to find a suitable one to eat. He pops it in his mouth and bites down. “Did you expect me to punish them?”

“Maybe.” I cock my head. “Was that for show, or are you softer than I wrote you to be?”

He raises a shoulder and lets it drop in answer. “If I am the monster you created, it stands to reason that I can’t be all bad. There’s goodness in you, after all.” Dropping another walnut into his mouth, he crunches loudly.

“But I didn’t create you. Any of you.” The epiphany is consistent with all I’ve learned since I first stepped into this world with Clarey at my side. “I can take away all the mutant traits Lark injected into your physical makeup with just a touch. But beyond bringing flesh and bones to the surface . . . making a few superficial alterations to your appearance . . . I can’t change the kind of creature you are, not any of you. Any more than I can change how you think and act.”

The rest I don’t say aloud: How as for the world itself, other than turning metal shavings to grains of sand and changing clear glass to colorfully stained, I learned early on that simply touching some part of the terrain itself resulted in no change. The only reason I could alter the beach and the fake bakery’s window was because Perish chose to let me. He allowed the setting to obey me. That’s what he meant in my chamber earlier, when he said he had to be the bridge. I still don’t know quite how it’s done, but the reshaping of Mystiquiel relies on the king and Architect working side by side.

“That means the same should’ve been true for Lark—the limitation on human intervention.” I push the pears around on my plate. “You have those safeguards so our kind can’t defeat you. Otherwise, it would be easy for us to gain control. To ruin you . . . to end you.”

“Or to end the contracts we hold over you,” he adds. “The restraints are the same for every Architect in your family predating you, and those my ancestors brought here long before.”

“I should’ve known from the beginning. I thought I could control your every move because I was the puppeteer. But you were the one pulling the strings.”

Perish blots his mouth daintily with his napkin, his pointed ears twitching as if in thought. “Me and mine were merely strangers playing out on the stage of your dreams. You absorbed details through your sister’s experiences here, then composed our performances . . . writing us into scenes upon your little pieces of paper, without truly knowing us. And that’s why we’re constantly surprising you now, in reality. Perhaps you should set aside those preconceived notions and get to know us as we are. Understand us. If you can think like us, you may have a chance at teaching us how to be kinder, more thoughtful. Less brutal.”

“Maybe.” I slice a pear and spoon the pulp into my mouth. Cinnamon and sugar burst on my tongue, igniting my hunger.

I take several more bites, trying to puzzle out the last discrepancy I can’t make sense of. Somehow Lark found a way to break down Perish’s bridge. How else could she have managed to wreak such havoc on the infrastructure of the world? It was practically dying by the time I got here—all the color, all the vivacity, bleeding out in rusty-red rivulets that left a grayscale massacre behind. He wouldn’t have simply allowed that to happen. The resulting structural collapse and dying creatures would’ve destroyed his reign, at the very least. It’s the reason Perish reached out . . . lured me here through my uncle. So I could change it back, give it proper life.

I’ve polished off almost all the fruit on my plate before I notice Perish studying me as if he can’t quite read my emotion.

“Now I can taste your confusion,” I say, half teasing, relieved he doesn’t always know what I’m feeling.

“I just wonder how two earthen girls who look so much alike can have such disparate talents and imaginings.”

“Humans are that way. You can never know what’s on our insides just by looking at our outsides. We’re more complex than that. Like you turned out to be.” I take my last bite, chewing thoughtfully. “But on the subject of Lark, there’s something else I don’t get . . .”

Pushing aside the bowl of walnuts, Perish settles his elbows on the table, his focus intent on me. “Ask away.”

I want to question how she was able to topple his defenses, but I can’t have him suspecting I might try to do the same. Not if I’m going to develop a strategy to get myself out. So instead, I take a less obvious route. “Where did she go wrong? Didn’t she try to connect through the vines, flowers, leaves, roots?”

Perish studies his right palm where a raised line runs across the golden flesh. His kind don’t have fingerprints or life lines, so it must be a scar of some sort. He seems deep in thought for a minute; then he crosses his arms behind his head. His legs stretch under the table and his eyes shutter half closed. He almost looks comfortable enough to nap, yet there’s something strained about his posture . . . as if he’s trying to conceal that the subject makes him uncomfortable. I catch it in the subtle slump of his shoulders and the downward curl of his ear tips.

“Your sister’s imaginings couldn’t reach beyond the mechanical. Her attempts to connect choked the vines, reshaped them into something perverse . . . synthetic and electrical. It was a forced network, drilling into the physicality and psyche of our populace. And without the blood of life flowing symbiotically between us, her receptors became clogged, a dam for her emotions, as it were. They built up, reaching a point of despair and misery. That’s what we were being fed—though admittedly against her will, at least in the beginning. As I said before, when the relationship is working properly, there’s a reciprocity in the bonding. The Architect is connected to Mystiquiel’s framework by natural life.”

In demonstration, he sits up to touch the ivy engulfing my hands, tapping his thumbs across the leaves and stems. The vines pull back, fashioning once more into open sleeves hanging loosely at my wrists. I stretch my fingers and fist my hands, grateful to have the flexibility returned.

Flexibility. The word and my ever-changing clothes remind me of something else he said before Lark and I switched places. “The Architect’s connection to the world is ‘as flexible as a change of clothing’ . . . you meant that literally.”

“Yes, through these links you wear upon your flesh, you’ll keep our emotional wells filled and be the recipient of our nutritive magic, yet you’ll still have freedom.”

I recall the vinelike and floral scars I saw in the underground maze two weeks ago, those upon Laura from the Goblin Market tale, and the ones upon my mother from the memory Lark shared. They reminded me a bit of rope burns. I bite my lip, missing the metallic tang of my labret—a piece of my own identity, taken away without my permission.

“Puppet strings,” I murmur, and hold up my fingers to showcase the imprints left from my tight gloves, scrawled around my knuckles and up to my nails like a tree trunk’s age rings.

Perish gives them a cursory glance, then studies my face. “What are you getting at?”

“Just that your idea of freedom is very different from mine.”

Perish pushes back his chair and rises to his feet. “I’m curious if you’ll still feel that way once you’ve birthed a world and watched it take its first breath . . . once you’ve wielded the staff of a goddess.” He offers me his hand.

I hesitate to make contact without my gloves. Skin to skin seems too intimate, and even after losing Clarey to Lark, I only want to share those things with him.

With a sigh, Perish beckons the ivy to cover my palms and fingers once more, though this time they swaddle, stretchy and soft.

He jerks his chin in a confident, coaxing gesture and I lace our fingers together so he can help me stand. Unlike Clarey’s smooth palms, Perish’s are rough. I feel it in the way my gloves’ fibers snag along his calluses. Somehow, those roughened edges make his efforts to be gentle even more poignant.

I frown, disturbed by how safe I feel, and wish I could blame the gown for manipulating my mood again.

Perish smiles down at me, no doubt savoring my latest serving of scattered emotions. “Come, Architect. It’s time to wield your craft. Let us see how you envision paradise.”

6

bubbles, blank canvases, and blood like rain

Nix

Perish escorts me into the tunnels underneath the castle, through the now-wrecked maze where I destroyed Lark’s hold on the world—cord by severed cord.

To avoid tripping over frayed copper circuitry or busted stones, toppled giant computer chips, and cracked light bulbs, we travel—shrunken—in bubbles the size of Uncle Thatch’s cupcakes. I bob along behind Perish, our clear transportive spheres joined by a glittery line that puts me in mind of an exquisite umbilical cord made of diamonds. Perish told me that it works as a transmitter, that if we need to speak on our journey, it will carry our voices from one bubble to the next. There’s no seat, so I lean against the convex surface; it cocoons my backside like a second skin—not bursting no matter how far I stretch. It seems ridiculous now, that I once considered puncturing one of these with a pair of gardening shears. They’re formed of magic, powered by magic, and indestructible without the intervention of their origin magic.

I’m relieved the ride operates similarly to a train so I don’t have to steer my end. There are endless labyrinthian tunnels, and I can’t keep my mind off my family to be sure I don’t take a wrong turn. Ever since Perish said he’d opted not to give Uncle any more enchanted produce, I’ve been concerned for the livelihoods of the people I care about: my family, the employees, especially Dahlia and Carl and their newborn baby who hadn’t yet been named after she arrived early—on Halloween of all days.

I’m trying to tell myself none of this is an omen, striving to believe that somehow Uncle’s amazing cooking talents and unique recipes can keep the bakery from failing. But I’m not so naive as to discount the power of the goblin-fruit lure. Our regular customers will sense the difference and realize something is lost. I only hope it doesn’t affect their loyalty. Nothing would be more heartbreaking for my uncle than to have to shut down his dream. Well, nothing other than having yet another niece taken away and the veil sealed between us.

I shake the miserable conjecturing from my head, helpless to change anyone’s plight when I can’t even alter my own, and glance around at the destruction I wrought the last time I trudged these tunnels. The torrents of mechanical and organic goop that flooded each passage have dried up. Only the gerbera daisy petals remain, previously animated by Lark to play out our tragic family history.

Today, the wilted petals hang plastered to the half-fallen walls, coated with dried grease and blood. Flakes of black and rust-red tremble and flutter aimlessly as we float by. My view is slightly distorted by the bubble’s curve, and combined with the bouncing sensation of the ride, I feel as if I’m being shaken within a macabre snow globe while gruesome flurries sprinkle down around me, close yet never touching.

My stomach churns, though less from the sensation and more from everything I learned in this maze: the truth of the Goblin Market poem, the real meaning of Halloween masks, and the grim sacrifice our parents made to give us a chance at freedom and life; an unselfish act we never got to thank them for because it was all in vain.

By the time Perish and I emerge, rise into the fog-cloaked sky, then enter the pinnacle of Mystiquiel—a structure once made of steel, now stone, and shaped like a head that resembles me, Lark, and our mother—I’m wallowing in agony, with no idea how I’m going to imagine anything beautiful or vital ever again. My gown contracts gently, releasing that soothing floral perfume, but this time it only manages to soften the sting to a numb despair.

Triggered by magic, the stone entrance closes behind us, locking out Mystiquiel. We float across a dirt-strewn path that was once a conveyer belt, then hover above a shallow flight of stairs—the place where Clarey and Uncle hugged me one last time; where I held Flannie’s muzzle in my lap and patted her for comfort as I learned the truth about Lark’s three-year sentence. None of us got the chance to say a true goodbye. I didn’t even get to tell Lark how much I’d missed her, how much happiness I wish for her. Everything was too chaotic, too distracting: penlight bulbs blinking along the walls and ceiling, red-tinged alarms screaming painfully in my ears.

Only when I traded places with Lark and she fell into Uncle’s arms did the alarms grow silent; and only when the four of them crossed the veil did the artificial flashes fade, leaving Perish’s crown and his cured, luminous form to brighten the darkness.

I’m so deeply submerged in grief, I almost miss the window at the far side of the lair that reveals the voided landscape outside. It works almost as a telescope if one were peering through the opposite end—whittles the world down so I can see the entire span of Mystiquiel in one glance. As I soar by, the opaque haze clears in ripples, permitting sporadic views of the emptiness. Perish’s earlier comment revisits: My subjects and the populace grow restless in their confined states. I catch a breath upon understanding the full scope of his claim.

When I last saw the denizens of this world, whether they could fly, or run on two legs or more, they’d gathered into panicked masses, adrift in the emptiness without anything to anchor them—like sketches waiting for an artist to fill in their background.

After Clarey and my family stepped back into Astoria, just before I blacked out, Perish waved his hand, releasing thousands and thousands of bubbles via his crown magic. The orbs combined, growing big enough to swallow the homeless fey, who then sat down and waited inside their translucent domes like animals in a zoo. Even Perish’s living, mobile dungeon—the skeletal snakelike creature Lark assigned to the role of trolley in her faux Astoria—parked itself inside a cylindrical vesicle to wait for a new setting in which to roam.

I lost consciousness before getting to glimpse their reactions, so it’s as if I’m seeing them freshly encased today, although realistically, they’ve been waiting ever since I first awoke to find myself locked in the castle. They appear as sad as I feel; they sit quietly inside, batting tiny specks of light back and forth between them, as if playing an enchanted game of Ping-Pong. From time to time, they open their mouths and catch the lights, swallowing them. The glow then winds its way down their throats and illuminates their veins and innards, until tears flow from their eyes in radiant rivulets. Smoke follows in the trails, searing flesh and rusting metal.

They’re obviously in pain, yet they’ve resigned themselves to their confinement in a way that feels commonplace, as if they’ve done it many times in the past. I turn my attention to Perish’s traveling bubble linked to mine and find him sitting stiffly, knees drawn to his chest, watching them as we go by.

“Is this how it always is, when they’re waiting? Is this the limbo you mentioned?” I ask him, hoping the sympathetic tremble in my voice doesn’t carry through the umbilical transmitter.

“Yes,” he answers without looking away from his subjects. “It’s standard practice for my kingdom to endure such stasis while waiting for a human’s talents to reset our world. The casings that surround them offer a type of preservation. It allows them to feed upon their own life magic without draining completely away . . . that’s the drifting lights you see. It’s a form of self-cannibalism—an agonizing and dismal process. It’s more subsisting than existing. The event happened often when we had to lure handfuls of new Architects down on Halloween, using goblin fruit as bait. There was always a learning curve for the human captives, and our citizens had to wait for the connection between an Architect and the world to be forged each time one was worn out and another took over.”

Upon hearing him refer to us as “human captives,” as things to be used up and cast aside, my earlier sympathy expands to a bundle of rage in my throat.

“Of course,” he continues before I can react, “until your mother’s power became depleted without an heir to replace her, it had been centuries since we had that problem. This is the first stasis under my reign.”

My cheeks and ears grow hot. Instead of making another attempt at seeking information on my mom, I release the rage that’s brewing. “Because my family was forced to hand down the responsibility from one offspring to the next, keeping you all comfy and happy at the cost of our own freedom.”

Perish glares over his shoulder. His pupils spark with an emotion I can’t read, and again there’s that bow in his shoulders, the bend in the tips of his pointed ears, just like when I brought up Lark’s time here. “It’s no more ideal for us than for you.” The resignation behind the words seems genuine enough. “I’d prefer we had our own lineage to rely upon, as the devotion to our world would be deeper and incorruptible. That’s why my father tried to develop a way to—” Perish cuts himself short and turns back around, leaving me with the view of his antlers and crown sprouting from curtains of thick, dual-colored hair.

“A way to what?” I press.

“A way to keep the populace free each time.”

I frown, because his answer feels clipped, as if he wanted to say something more, then thought better of it.

“Until then, we can only offer harbor to a chosen few within the castle, it being the one structure besides the Architect’s lair that isn’t erased during blank intervals, because they’re both solely connected to the royal family’s magic.”

I’m still suspicious of his answer, but it explains the creatures I’ve caught glimpses of in the castle since I’ve been there: members of the royal family, the boggle knighthood, Scourge’s buddies, and the elite of the Goblin Court.

“Can’t some stay here in the lair?” I ask.

“The lair is hallowed ground in the eyes of my subjects, a place for only Architect and king to inhabit on days of creation. Besides, they’d still be surrounded by walls . . . wouldn’t have access to roam their world.”

“They’d be imprisoned here, just as in their bubbles,” I say, understanding.

“Yes, and I want them to have freedom, above all else.” Perish’s voice aches with sincerity.

I take a last look at the sad sight before the Goblin King and I pass under some frayed electrical cords strung from the ceiling. They drag across the top of my bubble like long strips of cloth raking a windshield at a car wash. These, too, differ from the last time I saw them. The ends no longer pop with sparks. Instead, a thick moss coats them—so deeply green they resemble jungle vines. Nature has reclaimed everything synthetic here, just as it claimed my flesh here when the seeds and blood I swallowed—to free Lark—bloomed with light and life while sprouting from my skin.

With piercing clarity, I’m reminded of that sensation, when the brightness and warmth flowed through my veins—how it didn’t hurt at all. How instead, the changes taking place inside and outside my body felt robust, powerful, transformative. Even the stench of machine oil and melted rubber cables gave way to something verdant and fresh . . . something succulent and bracing. Petrichor: the essence of rain being welcomed by barren, arid earth.

Then all at once, I understand. That’s what I am to this place, to these beings. I’m rain. They longed for me, thirsted for me, welcomed me, when I wasn’t even aware they truly existed. My leafy gown squeezes me with gentle pulses, the flower petals brightening and the dewdrops glistening, the scents of nectar and chlorophyll heating my nostrils, as if to validate my epiphany.

A fierce guardianship incites within my chest, shrinking the knot in my throat and the anger I earlier felt. Our bubble train enlarges to return us to our true size, and as we alight on the stone floor and our casings burst with a wave of Perish’s hand, I feel fully capable of nurturing this place back to health, and I’m eager to try.

“Come see our world’s Heart, Architect.” Perish leads me to a lumpy tungsten boulder dotted with moss and fungus that rises from the ground and stands level with my chest. “This is where the Heart pulses, in the center of the room. With your sister, however, her warped magic uprooted it, placed it on the stage to raise her above all others . . . like a god.” He points to the stairs that lead to the world’s viewing screen.

That’s the place where Lark’s throne sat, where I found her perched like a dying queen. But now the Heart is back where it belongs. And the deadness in my sister’s eyes, the emaciation of her muscles, the cords digging holes in her skin to shuttle electrical currents through her veins . . . I no longer have to fear those images because she’s where she belongs, too, free and home—safe.

On the floor all around us, Perish sets out the candle wax he gathered from the buffet table before we left the castle, then conjures a smoldering effect with sparks from his fingertips. Smoke rises, filling my lungs with a weight that spreads into my shoulders. A memory of the glow they once made on the table at Uncle’s bakery follows suit: pink for uncertainty, green for heartbreak, blue and bold, turquoise and happy, angry red, and energized orange. I understand now why Perish lit them, as these are the hues I’m going to paint with. My arms, my wrists, and each of my fingertips hum with the need to spend the prismatic emotions absorbed within the melts, to create scenes in which to house them.

The compulsion is so overwhelming I hear a buzz in my ears—like those times I couldn’t wait to face the page and color a sketch, except turned up several hundred decibels.

“Now, make the Heart yours, Phoenix of the Flames. Touch what’s left of your sister’s throne. Claim it, bind it. It will conform to match your talent and our needs.”

The ivy gloves retreat from my hands, enabling me to caress the dark, shapeless stone where moss fuzzes along its back. I frown when nothing happens.

“What am I doing wrong?” I ask.

A ghost of a smile passes over his lips, as if he’s encountered such frustration before—and I realize Lark must’ve had the same insecurities as me. Since we’re the only two Architects Perish has ever trained, it makes me feel closer to her somehow.

“Patience.” Perish places one hand on my shoulder and nudges me until I stand behind the stone. “Set both hands here, and embrace it as you would a loved one. Then close your eyes. Remember a time you felt safest, most connected, most inspired by a scene, by an image, by an idea. Relax, and the Heart will respond.”

I hug the stone so tight its angular tip juts into my biceps and collarbone, and the wood-earthy sponge of the moss cushions my nose. At first, too many moments flood my mind: rainy Saturdays snuggled up in the living room watching cartoons with Uncle and Lark, Sunday picnics at Cannon Beach searching for seashells and leaving our prints in the sand, weeknights swapping stories of school and work over a delicious home-cooked meal of pumpkin soup with lentils or clam-stuffing casserole.

Since Uncle Thatch always made me and Lark feel safe and cherished, I switch gears, focusing on something smaller yet even more indelible. Images from my childhood come to mind in the form of picture books. Our mother’s Goblin Market always sat upon a shelf alongside many others, and I learned to adore them all. Not for the words as much as the illustrations. Those depictions of life, painstaking brushstrokes of color and visceral emotion, gripped me by the throat and wouldn’t let go until I reached the last page, where the hues were most vivid and all the characters earned their perfect endings. Those paintings and drawings were the reason I became an artist.

Then just like that, I’m back in Uncle Thatch’s lap, begging him to read me my favorite story: “Thumbelina.” When I was little, I yearned to wear the skin of a girl the size of a thimble, to ride upon the backs of birds, to bathe in dewdrops slipping down grass blades like waterfalls, and to win a crown made of baby’s breath and golden threads.

Once I surrender to the memory, the boulder transforms beneath my fingers—the implacable dark tungsten draining of color and yielding to a buttery softness that spreads, leaving a giant white tulip with petals folded snugly against one another in its place. I gasp at the change, and as my breath heats the creamy petals, one unfurls high above my head, as wide as a boat’s sail and winnowed to a point at its tip.

I stand there, staring upward; the sheer height and magnitude remind me of a giant movie screen.

Perish moves behind me, close but not touching. “There is your canvas, Architect. Paint the world with all the colors and scenes you can imagine. You need only wave your fingertips.”

That buzz in my ears and the hum in my hands evolve, causing the vines and flowers in my gown to quiver and glow. Giddy with power, I step closer to the white backdrop, relishing the spicy aromatic fragrance of the tulip. I splay my hands with the intention of commanding emotions into images like a maestro bids song out of notes, but before I can swell my fingers to a crescendo, Perish stalls them midair.

“Wait, we have to get this right.” He drags a chained watch from his pants’ pocket and reads the hands. After counting down from ten, he gestures for me to continue. “Begin now. It’s almost the gloaming.”

Standing with my arms posed in the air, I stare at his face, his skin as gilded and shimmery as the gold encasing his timepiece.

He must taste the question etched in my features, because he clarifies without my asking. “It’s the faerie word for dusk, although humans have commandeered it as their own. It means the time between sunset and darkness—when the sun and moon share the sky. It’s the ideal moment for us to drop the heavens into place.” He points to the canvas. “Paint the sun at the edge of the west horizon and the moon rising in the east.”

Nodding, I imagine an orb, orange as sherbet and citrus-bright, with splashes of pink and purple throughout. With a snap of my hands, the sun appears on the left side of the canvas just as I pictured, wearing a furred collar of wispy lilac clouds, its cheeks flushed with flickers of flaming yellow. Another wave of my fingers, and on the right emerges a bluish crescent moon, shrouded by luminous mist, its shy gleaming smile opening in silver slivers that grow more resplendent the higher it rises.

“Perfect,” Perish croons, and even without seeing his expression, I sense a buoyancy in his voice. “Now, between them, paint the terrain—the four courts surrounding my castle.” He moves closer and places a handful of seeds in my palm. “These will revive the goblin fruit.”

I curl my fingers tight and smile, because I’ve been wanting to reconstruct the seasonal orchards, the only part of Mystiquiel formed of my own thoughts; Clarey and I stumbled into them while trying to find Uncle and Flannie, and the two of us shared our first and last kiss where the autumn court intersected with winter.

A lonely barb jabs behind my sternum at the reminder, but it’s distant, overpowered by a gnawing curiosity. Knowing what I know today, that my conceptions wove themselves through the fabric of Lark’s creation—providing a healthy, natural habitat to hide the goblin fruit and Perish’s castle from her invasive synthetic toxins—I’m curious how I bypassed my twin’s jurisdiction as Architect. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe we were cocreators just for that one moment in time . . .

That possibility makes me smile even bigger.

My conjecturing fades as the tingling in my arms and palms ignites the seeds in my hands to tiny pinholes of light. The lights sink into my flesh, then burst from my fingertips in rainbow smears that float midair, and I lose myself to creation. The vines surrounding my body writhe with flashes of color and pull me into a spin, needling my bones and muscles into motion. I dance, twirling my arms, as in my head the scene comes alive: four medieval faerie courts—fall, winter, spring, and summer—each intersecting at its borders.

Across the canvas, orange, crimson, and yellow leaves bloom alongside rust-red apples, burgundy cranberries, and golden figs. These yield at the border to frost-jeweled winter spruces and fruit trees and bushes, fat with deep purple pomegranates, bright red raspberries, and pears that peek through sleeves of ice in glimpses of yellow and green. Next, white snow surrenders to wildflowers, sweeping across the ground. To these, I add my own unique touch, to separate them from earthly flowers, marking the petals in tribute to Clarey’s patterned shoes, my one thing to remember him by: checkered, striped, speckled, and marbled, an unnaturally glittering polychromatic carpet that leads to apricot trees and strawberry bushes whose buds sprout to vivid green leaves. One final fling of my hands, and spring gives way to summer, where watermelons, peaches, plums, and gooseberries grow under waves of stifling heat. Above each season, I change the sky from overcast and misty to gray and clouded, then gentle shimmers of rain opening to radiant sunlight.

The moment I’m done, I stand back, my heart pounding an ecstatic and accomplished rhythm. My masterpiece is dazzling and inviting. But then my stomach drops, because it’s just as it always was . . . dormant on the page. A tribute to life that’s as quiet and motionless as death itself.

Before I can turn to Perish, he’s at my side—his expression one of pure bliss as he looks at his pocket watch again. “Well done, Phoenix. An exceptional start. Now, step back.”

I’m about to argue that he’s wrong—to tell him I can’t possibly be done because it’s no different from the stagnant paintings I’ve always drawn—when the fizzing static in his crown strikes my masterpiece, razing up and down like licks of lightning as it shrinks my canvas to the size of a real tulip’s petal. Perish plucks it free, leaving an opening in the remaining giant petals where the flower’s center can be seen.

“Come, my little nectar nymphs,” he says, tipping his head inside, antlers nudging the large petals farther apart. “Let’s pollinate the world.” Sudden movement stirs within, and a band of tiny ball-shaped creatures spills out from the stamen. Luminous antennae sprout from their heads, and they float without wings—glossy, amber, and sticky like droplets of honey suspended in midair. They swarm my shrunken canvas and rip it apart until the painting is a clump of torn bits upon the floor. A sob burns in my throat at seeing my work undone. But then Perish inhales the smoke drifting from the wax on the floor and exhales across the pieces; they catch on the gust and transform into bees—each diaphanous wing showcasing parts of my scene like stained-glass puzzle pieces—and I’m awed to silence.

The pollinators straddle the bees, which buzz out the window into the emptiness waiting between the sun and moon. As they hit the misty haze, colorful lights burst on contact, like fireworks. When the flashing clears, the bees and their riders are gone and my scene has opened to life-size—vivid and pulsing with energy and movement. Soil, sky, vegetation, peculiar flowers, every season as I imagined. A breeze blows through the leaves and grasses, carrying a scent that reaches us, heavy with nectar, pollen, rain, and snow.

“Psithurism,” I whisper, remembering a spelling word from a time that seems an eternity ago, in a world far away. A world I could never have impacted like this.

Perish studies me. “What did you say?”

I shrug. “A human word, for the sound of wind in trees.” Then I laugh, my heart brimming with pride. “I never thought that would be something I could create.”

Perish grins back, but then his attention falls to my cheeks. “Are you tired?” he asks, sounding concerned.

His comment alerts me to the tears on my face, and I swipe them away. They weren’t caused by weariness or strain. Something much more powerful is at play. I’m beginning to understand what Perish meant at dinner when he said I would access past histories during my service as Architect. The deeper my roots dig into the reserves of past Mystiquiel landscapes, the more I sense a kinship, an emotional bond with the Architects before me. I can’t see them so much as feel them: my mom, a weaver, using thread to build her scenes; her mother before her, a sculptor; prior to that, a songstress, whose melodies sang the world into being. Writers, seamstresses, performers, woodworkers. Somehow, in my heart, I understand what’s happened to them all, and it answers the question of my mother’s fate. When their life essence burned out, each one was absorbed into the foundations of the lair upon which I stand.

They’re here with me, if only through their creative spirits. I’m saddened, yet at the same time inspired. I can sense all of them, and it becomes apparent that until Lark, there was never a mechanic. Until her, the poisonous taint of metal and rubber had never touched this world. Again, I wonder how she broke through Perish’s defenses, how she managed to embed herself so fully into Mystiquiel’s Heart; why Perish wasn’t able to prevent it.

“Do you need to rest?” he asks again, shaking me out of my musings.

“No.” My impressions of all the other accomplished worlds make me even more determined to make mine beautiful . . . inhabitable. Maybe the ambition of each of my successors has been woven into me, like a tapestry. Or maybe it’s the gown I’m wearing, how it’s probed so far under my skin, fused to my veins, pumping me full of magic, leaving exquisite scars in its wake. Whatever it is, I no longer mind these puppet strings.

“I want to do more,” I answer. “I think I could do this forever.”

The Goblin King’s gaze warms to something profound and stirring as he turns from the view outside to me. Another giant petal unfolds above us, awaiting my design.

“Then by all means, Architect.” He steps aside to give me space. “Color our world alive.”

Lark

Sunlight blinks in and out of the clouds, evoking a shifting white ripple across the bakery’s excavation site. We’ve been out here an hour already, and so far, no one’s found any vials intact. No remainder of the Goblin King’s blood that could be used to open the portal and save Nix. And judging from the scent of rain heavy on the air, our time is about to run out.

Seated in the wheelchair, I roll myself into a space in the center of the debris that Uncle cleared out for me. He’s trying to help me feel useful. He has no idea I’m already up to my elbows in ash without even touching the bakery’s eviscerated remains.

Billowing plumes of soot stir in the November breeze, blotting out a sky already overcast and gray. The potted wisteria in front of Juniper’s shop rustles in response; the sound of the trembling leaves reaches my eardrums, louder than the traffic and pedestrians passing by.

Psithurism. I shiver, wondering why the word popped into my head. That spelling bee was years ago, and I won with another word: “petrichor.” I left Nix in my dust without a glance behind . . . without caring how our competition affected her. How it affected us.

Now look how far apart we are.

I swallow hard, angry at the emotions tangled in my throat. Angry for her sacrifice that somehow still overshadows mine. Angry, most of all, for missing her.

Seeing Uncle and Juniper—digging madly through their remaining piles beside the alley across from me—and Clarey just opposite them, I bend at the waist to sift through the heap of charred pans and broken dishware surrounding my footrests. The overturned debris unleashes a scorched, stale scent that nearly chokes me. It’s too much like the burnt s’mores from those evenings Nix and I camped out with Uncle at Cannon Beach, so intent on ad-libbing backstories for our absent parents we’d forget what was on the end of our sticks until the marshmallows charred beyond recognition, until the ooze dripped into the fire and we had to start with fresh ones. Uncle always brought two bags of Jumbo Mallows to ensure we’d have enough for at least four or five good s’mores.

The edge of my mouth trembles, trying to smile. But the reminder of our parents’ true history, of all that was taken from them both, freezes my lips to stone. Our mother died alone in Mystiquiel, slowly wasting away from a broken heart after seeing our father’s tragic accident. Yet she found comfort in thinking his martyrdom had saved their twin infants from an Architect’s fate.

I’m still angry at King Talon for his hand in our mother’s pain, but when Perish took his place, my vengeance was paid in full. Now, I’m glad of my time as an Architect, because of the closeness I felt to a mother I would otherwise not have known, thanks to being rooted to Mystiquiel’s Heart. I miss mining those vestiges of her spirit preserved in the foundation like fossils, almost as much as I miss building a world for monsters. But that’s Nix’s place now—her turn to know Mom on a spiritual level, her turn to create.

So absorbed in the resultant onslaught of grief, I jerk without thinking, and a slat of burnt wood crumples to dust beneath my touch. My right hand slips into a nest of caramelized glass shards, and a jagged piece nicks my finger. A shocked yelp stalls in my throat when my oozing red blood touches the air and bursts into bands of color.

“No, no, no,” I murmur. My blood’s not white like a goblin-elf halfling’s, or green like a fairy’s, or black like a troll’s, but it’s all wrong. Creaturely.

My eyes sting from not blinking—held open by both fascination and horror. I wanted to be one of them . . . while I was there. But not here, after being cast out. Not like this.

I hold out my finger, staring in disbelief at a leaking wound no bigger than a paper cut. Colorful drizzles spatter on the burnt refuse beside my right wheel, pooling like thin layers of water atop oil—an iridescent striation across the black depths.

Nausea fills my stomach. How did this happen? When did I stop bleeding like a human? Glancing at the scar on my left palm, I frown. Is this because of the deal I made with the Goblin King, or is it something else?

I press the cut on my finger against my jeans, hoping to stanch the flow as I watch the droplets being absorbed by the ashes. My eyes strain to hold off blinking when several flowers sprout into place. Stems curl up, leaves outstretch, then buds open to petals that are more vivid than any I’ve ever seen. Their riotous patterns, glittery surfaces, and hyper-bright pigments remind me of the ornate shoes Clarey’s worn over the last couple of weeks—intense enough to burn the eyes, even under a cloudy sky.

My heart thunders. I created these flowers, without even trying. My blood acted like painted rain and fed them into being.

Is it possible? That I finally have the power I craved in Mystiquiel—the power that Perish wanted so much for me to wield, the power that would’ve made me belong with them . . . with him?

But the hope dies as soon as it was born. No. This is Nix’s talent . . . she’s the painter. Which means somehow it’s seeping through the magical link that Perish’s father forged between my sister and me while we were still in our mother’s womb. For some reason, his spell is working backward. While Nix is building Mystiquiel anew, I’m acting as a broken conduit, bringing her creations here.

Broken . . . always broken.

“Lark, did you find something?” Clarey’s voice sounds from across the debris.

Nothing I can share. The confession stalls in my head, unspoken, because these flowers are too extraordinary, too kaleidoscopic, to be natural. Which makes me unnatural. Unfit for this natural world.

I jolt upright in my wheelchair when I see Clarey picking his way over as Uncle and Juniper look up from their trash piles. Horror and dread coil in my chest like snakes, threatening to strike me down, to force my brokenness into the light of day. I can’t let any of them see . . . can’t let them know.

I slide out of the seat and crumple atop the grime and debris; my fingertips and knuckles grind raw as I rip up the flowers. Once I’ve managed to uproot them, I bury them under piles of soot, but more pigmented blood oozes out and new blossoms sprout to life, painting the ashes around my knees with bizarre rainbows.

Resigned, I slump in the middle of my blood-sucking garden. Bitter irony cuffs me hard in the gut. Once more I’m stuck in a world where I’m an outsider. Here, where I thought I could start over, reclaim all I lost. Here, where I thought I could find some sense of belonging.

But I no longer fit anywhere.

Perish said that by burning down the bakery, my link with Mystiquiel—with Nix—would finally be broken. Was he wrong? If I can’t break these magical binds, I’ll be as homeless among the humans as I was among the fey. I might as well not exist at all.

Clarey arrives. His eyes widen as the sky opens up and sheets of cold rain sluice down my face, diluting the blood trickling from my finger, drowning my quiet sobs, and rinsing soot from the flowers I uprooted, baring their vulgar audacity to flourish in a burned-out tract that should hold nothing but death.

7

graffiti paradise

Nix

I don’t know how many hours I’ve been painting Mystiquiel to life . . . but I’m down to the giant tulip’s final petal.

For a while, the sun disappeared; now, outside the enchanted window, pink tendrils of dawn open like a ripped seam along the horizon, a magenta stain across a night sky as dark and deep as the sea. The stars glimmer their last gleams, blushing and radiant. My “princess dress” twinkles and pulses in response, connecting me to my surroundings in a visceral way. It dances with me—a partner and a mentor. The vines wind around my palms and up to my fingertips, conducting a symphony only I can hear. Not in my ears, but in my heart. My arms stretch upward in turn, and my hands splay wide as they did when I was a child and tried to capture stars and moonbeams. I always believed those mystical chinks of light could be within reach, if I just squinted both eyes.

Or . . . was that Lark’s rationale? Didn’t she always say we could catch the stars like we did snowflakes—on our tongues, on our noses? That all we had to do was cinch our eyes tight and wait for them to fall?

I pause, the gown’s petal-and-leaf train twining around me as I stop. Shaking off an eerie feeling of displacement, I decide the memory must have belonged to us both—something we shared via pinkie-link. On this thought, a surge of happy nostalgia flows from my veins to each flower and leaf and root occupying my scenes; their erratic patterns and colors—already too brilliant to have ever graced a human garden—intensify to a gleaming purity that shames any earthly stars or snow.

Inhaling a contented breath, I blot some sweat beads from my forehead and am taken aback when I rake my hands through my hair and find it has grown past my shoulders. Multicolored waves, thick and lustrous, slip like tie-dyed threads through my fingers. I’m reminded of Lark, how she looked when I found her: hair braided and hanging past her waist, the strands as black as the gown swaddling her pale skin in tarry vinyl. She was bereft of color—as pen-and-ink-hollow as the lines of her world.

What’s left of the tulip unfolds, providing my final canvas along with a welcome distraction. I center myself under the movie-screen-size petal, staring upward, unable to focus for all the emotions and expectations running through me. I want the final scene to be perfect. A tribute somehow . . . to Lark especially, but also to my family and friends, to the home I left behind.

And then I know exactly how to do it. I glance over my shoulder in hopes Perish won’t try to intervene. Earlier, he took a seat atop the highest step, no longer needing to lead me once my muse grabbed hold of the magic and ran. Instead, he became a silent spectator filled with wonder, like a little boy at the movies entranced by his first animated film. The colors and lights of my living masterpieces reflect along his golden skin as he watches the sun rise over his kingdom, his hands gripping his knees as if to hold himself back from diving headfirst into the scenery.

If it weren’t for his wine-soaked irises, his white pupils, and the lightning crackling from his crown tips to each prong of his antlers, I would swear he was as human as me.

“One more left.” His deep grinding voice intrudes on my observation as he turns to meet my gaze.

I swallow. “You won’t stop me? Whatever I decide to paint?”

“You’re connected to Mystiquiel now—by the Heart. And as yours is a healthy bond, you won’t hurt her, or me . . . or any of us. Because she would harm you in turn.” He waves his elegant fingers in a permissive gesture. “Finish what you started, Architect. Give my subjects their playground so I can at last set them free.”

Chest swelling with confidence, I open my hands and release the images housed within my dreams for three years. To honor Lark’s time here, I gather up the threads of her replicate Astoria, still woven deep within the core of Mystiquiel’s memory, reviving the industrial faerie tableau I once sketched in notepads as the foundations of my graphic novels.

Before my eyes, our hometown comes into view on the canvas: hilly terrain surrounded by an endless ocean, smoke-stacked factories and glistening-asphalt roads, a track for the trolley beast. Eleventh Street appears, and familiar stores fall into place in shades of gray, side by side as in the real world. There’s a hair salon, a coffeehouse, a bike store, and a winery, even a favorite used book shop. The roundabout forming Eveningside Street takes shape, revealing Uncle’s bakery, the deserted donut shop, and Juniper’s boutique—which serves as both barrier and entrance to the royal orchards.

I hear Perish grumble something indecipherable and assume he’s shocked by how it looks—as monotoned and decayed as Lark’s version, with shingles cracked and missing, doors strung on loose hinges, crumbled bricks, torn siding, and sidewalks buckling against an invasion of mold and rust branching up from the ground.

“I’m not finished yet,” I assure him without glancing his way.

Then, with one last twirl of my hands, my fingertips flare like polychromatic Christmas lights and a downpour of pigment saturates every inch of the beach and the town: golds warming the sands; blues shading the Columbia River; reds, oranges, and yellows tinging the buildings and roofs; azures and cottony whites daubing the sky; emeralds and jades spangling the hills and trees. And in this final stroke, Lark’s toxins fade to my antidote as a fuzzy green moss replaces her smudges of blackened mold, and the rusty veins that once infected everything in their path become fingers of lime-bright ivy with shiny, saw-toothed leaves and red berries.

The deterioration is no longer toxic; it’s natural and lovely. Everywhere Lark’s design once bled rust and corrosion, my rendering overtakes with foliage and flowers. Nature bursting at the seams of ruin, breathing life and renewal into death and decay.

With a flick of a finger, I unroll a spread of tracks for the trolley creature that serves as Perish’s mobile prison. At the border of town, I restore the sign. The dented aluminum square’s whitewashed surface, clean as fresh milk, waits for the lettering. I slather Mystiquiel in spray-paint script. The letters swell like rain clouds, then begin to leak, raining colors to the ground in puddles absorbed by the soil. In a blink, the graffiti spreads and replicates everywhere, pictures within my picture, daredevil artistry in places I could never reach in the real world: a tribute to my uncle’s bulging-eyed smiling face six hundred feet up, at the tip of the Astoria column; a pink lacy imprint of Juniper’s favorite crocheted dress across the Astoria-Megler Bridge’s frame.

I’m reminded of Astoria’s Riverwalk . . . of the murals and graffiti painted on the walls of chosen buildings. When I was in ninth grade, the city was inspired by the Oregon Coast Public Art Trail to invite artists to share their talents with the community, even welcoming schools to join in, and every year since, around Thanksgiving, art students have gathered along the Riverwalk to add new pieces. Throughout the following year, those pieces are integrated into the work of professional street painters, making the youth feel a part of something bigger . . . grander. When I stopped seeing color, I stopped participating.

How liberating it is to dip into my talents again, on my own terms and without boundaries.

As I bask in the freedom, other rainbow murals materialize across sidewalks, buildings, tree trunks, and curbsides, tying the panorama together. Paired with more flowers—stamped in Clarey’s signature patterns—I’ve almost completed my tribute to Lark’s Astoria, our hometown, now colorized and sanitized to a tolerable, organic oasis the fey can enjoy.

I just have one more addition. At Astoria’s entrance, right next to the Mystiquiel sign, I cast my hands out in an inverted embrace, and from the depths of my love for Lark comes a statue in her image—dressed as she was on our final happy memory together that Halloween—with fairy wings, goblin ears, and long flowing hair, all etched in glistening gold so shimmery she could be the queen challenging Perish’s king on an enchanted chessboard. I cover her nakedness with a princess dress made of flowers, dragonfly wings, and dandelion fuzz—a gown of tenderness and beauty meant for her, not a cruel robe of constricting vinyl and snarling electrical cords.

I step back, a profound sense of accomplishment humming through me, but cry out when without warning, a hammering begins inside my cranium at my temples, narrowing my vision. Perish catches me around the waist before my knees give and guides me to sit on the bottom step. My mouth dries as chill bumps erupt across my skin. The symptoms remind me of the flu, and all I want to do is sleep.

“I never could’ve guessed you would use Lark’s design.” Perish seems somewhere between pensive and impressed. “The mind-share will be swifter and deeper for you.”

I’m too weak to question his meaning.

Frowning, he crouches his muscular form low and bows his head, enveloping me in his scent. Gone is the tang of rust and machine oil that once infected him; all that remains is musk and a sweet, nourishing warmth, like honey caramelized over a flame . . . a blend of animal, man, and fey.

The tip of an antler taps my shoulder and magic flashes along the ivy-and-petal dress. The resulting glow soothes my senses while nutrients siphon through the vines rooted in my arms and ankles, pulsing into my veins to refill my depleted wells of magic.

“Any better?” Perish asks, crinkling his forehead.

“Pain’s gone.” I’m so relaxed, I can barely hold my eyes open. “Just . . . tired.”

“As you should be. You did more than most in one session. Only one other has ever done so much.” He smiles then, his canines sharp against the plump of his lips, making him appear both beastly and bewitching. He stands and faces my canvas. “I expected this to take days. Just look at what you’ve accomplished. Your talent is—” His voice breaks, then he forces it to continue. “Wondrous.”

Wondrous. A gruff sadness erodes the word as he says it, and I catch a glimpse of his profile. Much like when we traveled here and he shared regret for his subjects being imprisoned in bubbles, the tips of his ears fold down and his shoulders slump, bearing an invisible weight. And then it hits me that he looked the same way when we dined and he spoke of Lark’s time in Mystiquiel.

I thought he was just uncomfortable discussing her, but it wasn’t that simple. He was sad. Was it sorrow for her failure, or for the upheaval she caused? Or something deeper?

The questions ignite an odd sensation, like a tugging in my chest . . . an unraveling of hours, days, years. The haze along the edges of my vision thickens, then clears. An image imprints in my brain, yet it’s more than an image. It’s a memory that isn’t mine.

I’m viewing another time, here in this place. Still me, but wearing Lark’s skin. It’s a private moment between Perish and my sister, and I hear the same pride in his praising of her, although his voice rings higher, and that feral-charmed smile is on a youthful face.

Seeing him through Lark’s eyes, I realize he’s not the Goblin King I know. He hasn’t been crowned yet . . . hasn’t aged to his adult form. He’s still that startlingly beautiful goblin youth who entered the human realm and stole Lark away into the night. This is him as he was . . . the boy prince who wasn’t much older than us when he sent her across the veil and through a tunnel, muggy with the stench of loam and minerals. Only this time I’m with her vicariously—as the grit of soil propels her forward on the suctioned fingertips of his froggy-fey accomplice, as she arrives in Mystiquiel, then sees the empty void, the creatures stranded in their bubbles. And at last, I understand the emotions I sensed in her the night I thought she died: the exhilaration of her importance, tangled with horror at all she was leaving behind . . . a fresh and bitter knowing that fractured then restructured all the fairy-tale endings once held safe in her fourteen-year-old heart.

With just a blink, my view returns to that private point in time, being seated in the ballroom a few months after her arrival. Her lineage had been challenged by Perish’s brother, Scourge, delaying her induction as Architect. But once she was proven as the blood daughter of Imogen by Perish, he was free to train her. Having just finished dancing at the celebratory gala, she and Perish are in a private corner at a table, he kneeling at her feet as if she were royalty and he her subject.

“Will it hurt you?” my vocal cords ask in a quiet, younger voice, because it’s Lark seeking the answer, not me.

Perish tilts his soft-curved chin, obviously surprised and affected by her question. “You’re worried for my pain? Not about how being bound to this place will feel for you?”

She studies the vines already wrapping around her wrists, preparing to fill her with magic once she makes the world’s Heart her own. “I get to use my talents to build things. That’s every artist’s dream. But your entire body will change overnight. I think that would be a lot more painful.”

Perish looks thoughtful. “It’s a metamorphosis, and they’re never easy. A shift in my bones . . . a swell of mass and muscle, an enrichment of magic.” His form, adolescent and lean, bends even lower to show her the top of his head where two velvety knots protrude, spearing cowlick parts in his short burgundy-and-white hair. Each bump has three tines that flash with faint snaps of light, resembling miniature tridents.

Lark was taken to view Perish’s father, King Talon, before the ball. Imprisoned in a solitary bubble, Talon drifted deep in stasis while his spirit infused the crown that would soon manifest itself upon his son. A pillow swaddled the king’s head, and the twenty prongs on each antler dented beehive holes into the cushion.

Thinking back on that image, Lark finds it difficult to imagine what it might feel like to have such things spontaneously grow in heft and width, the strain it would cause to suddenly carry such a burden.

Paying no mind to the gala activity in the background, she reaches out and gently traces the flickering knots on Perish’s scalp. A sizzling sensation makes the hair on her arms stand on end. If I weren’t attuned to her emotions, I’d be shocked by her boldness. But she feels at ease with him . . . safe. She trusts him—likes him, even—yet I can’t dig deep enough into her psyche to comprehend why.

“Heavy is the head,” she mumbles, easing her hand back.

The goblin prince’s youthful brow furrows.

Lark grins at how human and boyish he looks in his confusion, if not for his twitching pointed ears. But unlike me, she finds the beastly and foreign parts of him more appealing than any familiarity could be.

“It’s a mortal saying,” she explains over the music playing softly now. “ ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown.’ ” She shrugs, and my own shoulders tweak in response. “It takes on a whole new meaning here. I can sing you to sleep, if it ever gets to be too much for you.”

“You’re a songstress, too?” he asks, appearing intrigued.

She laughs. “Well, I can’t really hold a tune. But I love words . . . the sound of how they fit together. So I guess since I can’t really put them to musical notes, it’s not creating songs, in the purest sense. It’s more like writing lame poems then letting someone else put a melody to it. I can’t do it alone.”

He grins. “Dear Larkling, you were brought here because of the other talent you possess; the one that is your mastery, and yours alone. The life you bring through your hands . . . conjuring creatures and worlds out of paper and pen. That’s enough, and more than we could ask for.”

Lark smiles, thinking of all the blueprints she’s drawn throughout her life, of how important her ability to draft and then build is about to become, in a way that could’ve never been a reality in the mortal world.

Their discussion turns political, to what will happen once Perish transforms to full grown; their plan is for the partnership to benefit them both. I feel something unexpected in her heart. A desire to succeed, to please him.

He treats her like a precious gem, tells her she’ll be dazzling, that with such wondrous talent, she’s destined to be the final Architect.

Final?

My loud gasp shatters Lark’s shell around me, placing me squarely in my own skin again, seated atop the step where Perish led me. So caught up in the vision, I missed when he shrank my final painting. He’s already coaxing out a new flock of nectar nymphs. The teensy creatures get busy ripping apart the petal; I watch in muted discomfort. A fresh unraveling tugs in my chest, another sense of knowing things I shouldn’t know. Feeling things I can’t possibly feel.

I’m shuffled backward in time once more, to relive another memory that’s not mine.

In this one, Mystiquiel is falling to rot, and I look down from Lark’s body, in this very lair, seated on the tungsten throne where it’s been raised on a dais. There’s something cast to the side that resembles a desk, also made of tungsten, though it’s crumbling, as if decaying. She’s the Motherboard now, connected to everything that’s dying. Her hive mind thunders and roars, loud and painful. She’s lost all individuality, no longer thinks of herself as one, but many.

Perish, now in his adult form, takes one cautious step at a time, climbing toward her heights. Behind the screen of her mind, I watch electrical sparks shudder across her pupils. The brightness pierces my line of sight.

“Are you here to bargain with Us, Goblin King?” she snarls, teeth clenched.

“I am.” Perish’s iridescent skin and metallic wounds glitter under the flash of penlights and red beeping alarms. “Or rather, to offer a proposal.”

“You already did. And didn’t live up to it.”

He looks down at his palm, the shivery lights of his crown dimming briefly. “This wasn’t how I wanted it to be. But I can give you your old life back. We can end this. Trick your sister . . . lure her here. Only you have the power within you.”

“Then We’ll be free of this torment. To reclaim Our human life. All she stole.” Lark’s words slur, but I hear her thoughts, loud and clear, and I taste her hatred. Her fury. I’m startled to find it directed toward me and not Perish.

The Goblin King’s ears droop. “Yes. We’ll make her think she’s saving you. We’ll let her see your misery.”

I feel Lark’s lip twitch, as if tweaked by a battery. “Through the mirrors, where she witnessed Our rage?”

Perish shakes his head, dodging orange and white popping sparks that fall like fire and brimstone to the stairs where he ascends. “No, to make the exchange, she must come here of her own accord. She’ll have to see you, face-to-face. Touch you. We’ll play on her guilt . . . her sense of family and loyalty. We’ll bring her to Mystiquiel and stage a game—she’ll think that by winning, she’s harmed you.”

“Yet there will be only one true winner.” Lark smiles . . . an expression that stretches my lips to an ugly, jagged length. “Me.”

She winces, prepared for the punishment of identifying herself in the singular. A white-hot spasm slashes her body; the cords connected to her brain shuttle piercing sparks through her ocular nerves and vertebrae. My voice wails in sync with hers as she’s blinded temporarily and a torturous shudder shakes her backbone.

Perish stands level with the throne but doesn’t kneel this time. “I’ll close the portal from this side. And you must do the same on yours. It’s the only way to end your agony and break the cycle.” He cups Lark’s chin, his thumb blotting away sizzling tears from her cheek. “Will you vow to do that? Destroy it all? Even if it means no contact ever again?”

She doesn’t shirk at his touch. Instead, she leans closer as the bitter electrical hiss within her ears silences momentarily at the gentleness of his caress. “The vials of your blood, the goblin fruits. Burn down Our ties to this world, so We can forget.”

Perish’s shoulders slump. “If only we could.”

Lark growls and jerks her face free, leaving his cupped palm empty. “Begin the game.”

The betrayal breaches my chest, an agony so deep I’m shunted out of the vision. I hunch across my knees to ground myself back in the present, ripping free just in time to see Perish inhaling the last tendrils of smoke from the wax around us. He blows across the bees, and the nymphs and their mounts take wing. Sweeping out the window toward the last space that needs to be filled, they skim across the sun. I squint against the resulting pulse of energy—an aurora borealis that detonates then plumes across the world. When the ground stops shaking, the haze clears to reveal my final scene come to life.

My gown pulls at me, bidding me to dance . . . but I’m weighed down with disbelief and grief.

“She teamed up with you to bring me here.” I croak the words. Admitting it aloud hurts almost as much as viewing it firsthand. “She agreed to destroy the bakery. The fire I’ve seen in my dreams—” I can’t say anything more or I’ll scream.

Perish’s ear tips curl low, but he keeps his shoulders taut and high. It’s an obvious strain. “Yes, Phoenix of the Flames. Can you live up to your grand assertions? Can you forgive your sister as easily as you thought?”

I don’t answer, tears pricking my eyes.

Perish addresses my silence. “It appears I chose the right tactic, then. I had her set the fire so your uncle couldn’t open the veil, so you wouldn’t neglect your duties here in order to seek vengeance. No one was hurt. You may take solace in that.”

My bones begin to quake, my nerves jitter, my heart beats so fast . . . so hard . . . my sternum feels as if it will split in half.

Half. My other half; how could she do this? We could’ve worked together. She could’ve turned on Perish at the last minute. I thought that’s what she’d intended from the beginning.

“But . . . Scourge,” I mumble. “He was working with her to help me. To free Uncle and Clarey and Flannie.”

Lightning crackles along every inch of Perish’s antlers, lighting up his profile as he shifts slightly. “Idiot thought he was betraying me. He had to believe that for the plan to work.”

“Wait. You’re saying . . . my uncle and Clarey weren’t even in danger?”

Perish shrugs. “I had no use for them, other than their getting you here. They were to be returned with Lark all along. It was my pledge to her, in exchange for all she did for me.”

“All she did for you? She was killing you!” Then bitter clarity hits. My sister didn’t find a way to break down Perish’s bridge of control. He let her cross it, freely. “You allowed her to introduce all those destructive elements into the terrain, into your subjects. You let her taint their blood and flesh with metal.”

“Not exactly . . . During the first few weeks of her creation, I saw the flaw in her talent. How it didn’t mix with our world in a natural way. The moment the first glint of metal caught my eye, I began to remove her from her post. But she stopped me. We were confidants by then; she had seen my rivalry with Scourge for herself. So she suggested a way to utilize what she had to offer.” A dreamy look stirs his features. “She has an impressive mind . . . instinctual, feral. She thinks like a creature, not a human. It’s the very reason I hoped she’d be the one to end up staying here . . . forever.”

Forever. I need to understand more about that exchange between them, about him alluding to her being the final Architect Mystiquiel would need. But all I can do is focus on his description of her: She thinks like a creature. He said these words with conviction and admiration.

It’s true. It always was. Everything she ever created as a child had monstrous elements. Instead of playing with her toys, she tore them up, limb from limb, and recast their spare parts in gruesome yet brilliant robotic novelties. A doll head with chomping dentures and spidery pedipalps made from a secondhand Erector kit; a jack-in-the-box clown’s torso, dragged free of its cube and secured atop a decapitated unicorn—the horn cleaved to the clownish forehead with superglue; a Barbie’s arms and legs bleeding red glitter and set to spin on the blades of a fan, with a stuffed toy lion’s roaring muzzle seated in the center.

Strange and macabre masterpieces—each one automated to appear alive—elegant despite their mutations. Those bizarre wildlings would’ve been at home in Mystiquiel. It’s as though her mind was already here, long before her body arrived.

“So you see,” Perish continues, dragging me out of my nauseating tumble down memory lane, “only after we agreed on a plan of action did I share my power with her.” He holds out his right hand, that strange line finally making sense. “She has a matching scar. It was the only way to allow her to burrow past the roots, to infringe upon the populace.”

“Plan of action.” I feel feverish, and my belly quivers. I want to blame the wax’s smoke filtering through my nostrils, how it singes my gown’s floral scent to something saccharine and acerbic, but the emotions roiling inside me are all mine. “Control over your brother. She gave him a metal heart, for which you now have a key.”

“Can you blame us for making the best of a bad situation?”

His comment is pure smugness, and if I weren’t so drained of energy, I’d attack him with fists, fingernails, and teeth. I revisit my earlier epiphany, of all the Architects before me, of their gifts. “Your ancestors . . . they didn’t randomly seek out Architects, all those years before my family,” I mumble. “They studied them, watched them, pinpointed the artists and the dreamers who had the talents they desired most. They were stalking them like prey every Halloween night. They knew exactly where to go and how to find their targets. Then when my family became entwined with you, your ancestors steered them toward the skills that would serve your world best . . . grooming each one. Lark and I, we broke that mold by growing into our own talents.”

“Sadly, yes. Which in turn forced your sister and me to resort to stagecraft.”

“Stagecraft. Such a pretty word for trickery and deceit,” I seethe.

Perish bares his sharp teeth in a snarl. “There was nothing pretty about it. You saw her destructive effect upon your entrance to our world, how it was destroying even her. We didn’t mean for it to happen, but once she was part of me, part of Mystiquiel, she couldn’t break loose. Things escalated out of control; she began to have an ability akin to a god—able to forge halfling creatures—but because her craft wasn’t compatible with the natural nature of eldritch magic, she couldn’t make them healthy . . . or keep them alive.”

A sick comprehension overwhelms me as I remember the tiny sea creatures Clarey and I encountered when we first arrived—cyborg versions of seahorses, starfish, shrimp, and more. Then, the robotic facsimiles of the store owners who lived in the real Astoria that Lark replicated to run the shops in her warped version of our town. These, like the manufactured Uncle Thatch with his metallic nose and ear eaten away by corrosion, were not faerie creatures at all, but robotic fabrications given life.

“Aggrieved by her failure, she turned her eye to the existing fey. Tried to improve their lives—to fix any flaws, to make them stronger through her unique power—but her adjustments had the opposite effect. By that time, her synthetic conceptions had nothing to feed on in our natural world, and they began to die,” Perish finishes. “They coughed up rust and grit . . . a disease that spread, poisoning a fey populace already made vulnerable with the introduction of metal and rubber.”

I cover my face with my hands so Perish can’t savor the pandemonium that must be warping my expression. “So I was lured here to correct not just your mistake, but hers.”

There’s an interminable pause before he answers. “Now you wish you had a key to control her heart, yes?”

An image of my twin with Clarey flashes across my mind. She doesn’t deserve the life I left behind. Not after all her manipulations. I can’t help but think of the statue I made in honor of her, erected at the entrance of my parallel Astoria. I’d like to bust it into a thousand pieces. “I—I don’t know what I wish,” I lie.

“Well, I do, because your twin shares your mind, and warned me.” When I drag my hands from my eyes, Perish has turned his back once more. “Regardless of your love for your sister, you crave retaliation, just as she did in the end. Or at the least, you want your prior life returned.”

“Did either of you ever think to just ask me to come? By lying, you took away my right to choose!”

“Your sister knew you’d come for her . . . but couldn’t be sure you’d stay unless given no alternative. I need you here, focused on this world, not the humans’. Painful though it may be, the only way to ensure that was to break all ties—permanently. And though you may never forgive her, you will forgive me. This is what you were formed for, after all . . . why you’ve aspired to such heights all these years with your art. Now watch, Architect. See how we thrive within your designs, and marvel at your vision.”

Keeping his gaze trained on the window and the scene manifesting below, Perish motions to the bubbles holding his subjects trapped. I rise on trembling legs so I can watch them descend, dozens at a time. The moment the globule casings touch down, they burst. The first one to break free is the trolley creature. As there are no prisoners incarcerated at the moment, it slithers along the rails from end to end, in search of misbehavers; reptilian scales cover all of it—no more rips or decay—sheer enough for passersby to see the empty skeletal seats within, as if looking through a discarded snake skin.

The rest of the fey populace fills the terrain, furnishing my backgrounds, and like the trolley, they re-form, reshape, shaking off their metal scabs—becoming flesh and blood once more—ridding themselves of Lark’s taint, just like Perish told me they would. Missing fingers, toes, ears, noses, wings, and spiny tails spontaneously renew, replacing rusted nubs and fissured holes. They’re healed, through and through.

I ache inside, torn apart, because watching the poisoned creatures I once drew on flat paper with erasable lead now dance and skip and run—alive, robust, and buoyant—is vastly gratifying, just as Perish said it would be. Yet I can’t even swallow for the grief swelling in my throat. Lark tricked me into coming here; then she burned down Uncle’s beautiful bakery to sever all ties between us, to destroy any possible way back.

It’s too much to hold in. I want to explode, but I’m drained and broken. So instead, I implode, an internal folding-up that advances into the marrow of my bones.

I slide from the step to the floor and curl up, allowing darkness to sweep over me, and numbness to carry my agony away.

8

candied-flower angel

Lark

“Okay. One last taste test.” Juniper balances a flat lemon cookie garnished with purple-and-silver-spotted petals on a spatula.

I inhale the scent of warm baked spices, dried flowers, and fresh air then shift in my seat. A tremor of disorientation sweeps over me as early afternoon sunlight glimmers through the crocheted curtains on Juniper’s kitchen window, imprinting tiny moon-shaped orbs upon the vine-papered walls and subway tile floor. The window is cracked open to counteract the heat from her oven, and each time a gust sways the curtains, the lights move around me, appearing too similar to Perish’s magical bubbles in Mystiquiel for comfort.

Those bubbles not only eased traveling, but they set a beautiful ambiance for the parties the royal family staged in the castle to welcome me that first year of my service. I wonder if Nix is receiving the same kind of treatment, and my chest quavers as the vivid image of dancing with the goblin prince beneath thousands of iridescent orbs—back before he came of age, before he wore the crown, when he was young and hopeful like me—slams into my head.

I squint so I can feel his hands at my waist, gentle, chaste, and awkward—so I can recall his nervous, berry-wine-scented breaths stirring the hair piled atop my head in a bun interwoven with jewels made of dewdrops.

Juniper crosses the room toward me, almost breaking the spell. Then the sugar-coated tiger lily catches the light and glistens atop the cookie, making the scene feel even more magical. That odd pang of homesickness, which has slumbered in my heart for weeks, startles awake, and all I want is to be surrounded by the absurdity and danger of turbulent banquets, the grunts, snarls, and growls of the attendees—their weird and feral countenances and unpredictable actions slaking my appetite for the abnormal in a way my mechanical creations never could. I’ve been so desperate for even a glimpse, I’ve started risking longer sleeping stints at night in hopes Nix will offer a peek at what she’s building . . . even if it means I sprout flowers out of my ears. But I feel like she’s slammed the door in my face—her all-seeing eyelid stitched as tightly as a cyclops corpse’s on a mortuary slab.

I glance down at my left palm where a scar, hidden cleverly in my life line, serves as my most sanguine reminder. Unlike the tube-scars I earned from joining with Mystiquiel, this one was formed by a slash of magic, and the Goblin King bears its twin. I wonder if he ever looks at it, if he regrets the chance we took or the chaos we wrought—making mutants of monsters.

I struggle to suppress the lonely ache that follows each time I think of Mystiquiel. Three years in that enchanted place was all it took for me to forget how to appreciate being human. But that’s not entirely true. Even as a child . . . even with the love of my sister and Uncle . . . I never felt complete. Something was always missing, something I tried to fill with my inventions. Robots made of pieces and parts that didn’t fit together until I forced them. Just like what I did to the fey—shoving metal into their bones and pumping oil into their blood.

Juniper settles on the other side of the table where I’m seated next to Clarey and holds out her palm. Hiding my sadness, I take the treat and lift it to my mouth. The soft cookie melts on my tongue, releasing a wave of butter and citrus, then the floral flavor washes over it all, otherworldly and singular. My whole mouth tingles, even my teeth, and just like with all the other confections I’ve sampled today, a comforting bliss shuttles through my veins.

Happiness instantly replaces my grief, ushered in on a rush of memories from my childhood. It’s as if each flower is spiced by Nix’s and my past. Upon sampling their own cookies earlier, Clarey and Uncle didn’t mention anything about memories; instead, a sense of purity and happiness burned brighter with each bite, making the result just as addictive to them as goblin fruit.

“Well, is this one posh enough for the new menu?” Juniper prompts.

I nod, unable to speak for the bittersweet smile stretching my lips, allowing myself to get lost in a moment of nostalgia. But it has to be short-lived. My next act—in order to cut all ties between me and Nix so her creations stop infringing on this reality—will be to kill her flowers. And I’m not sure how I’m going to do it without anyone finding out.

Juniper believes the queer flowers spilled over from the edible flower garden she’s had growing in her boutique’s courtyard for years. That the roots grew deep and stretched across to Uncle’s plot; that they wound together underground and mutated to new geneses, and only by Uncle’s bakery burning down were they finally able to get the sunlight and oxygen they needed to bloom and thrive. To her, it’s a silver lining to the tragedy.

She thinks they’re a miracle of nature. Uncle thinks they’re some sort of mutant genus, born of goblin fruit and the king’s essence from the vials that burst in the fire. Only Clarey and I know the truth: that my own blood spun them into reality.

Juniper has already transferred offshoots into terra-cotta pots, which now line the balcony of her and Clarey’s two-story condo. She’s taking care only to use a half dozen or so flower heads from each bunch for our tastings, intending to plant the rest in her boutique’s garden where she hopes they’ll flourish—as soon as the weather is favorable.

For the past nine days, it’s rained nonstop. Finally, the sun decided to make an appearance this morning, a short reprieve before the cold front moves in late tonight, forecasted to bring light sprinkles of sleet but no accumulation of snow quite yet. A frost-free Thanksgiving Day gives our town something to be grateful for, I suppose.

“Grant us an adjective or two then.” Juniper leans across the table, pencil in hand, prepared to write. There’s no question the flowers are bespelled, brimming with that same emotionally manipulative magic Uncle’s Goblin-Roonies and Fairy-Cakes possessed, yet without needing Perish’s royal blood to tame any ill effects. It’s like somehow the goblin fruit essence has been distilled into these petals as something safe for human consumption—a poisonous snake that’s been defanged.

But I can’t tell Juniper those details.

Clarey waits with a thesaurus open at his elbow, studying me hard, although I know it’s less about what I’m going to say than about what I’m hiding. He left for Chicago before we could discuss what happened as the rain began at the bakery’s remains. While he waited for his flight to take off, he sent texts from the airport, telling me his BAHA was picking up more voices and sounds. Then followed the pointed questions, asking about the flowers, about the paint he saw streaming out of my fingertip.

I refused to answer any messages while he was gone, but last night he came home. And now, with us all spending the holiday together, I’ve run out of ways to avoid him.

“Clarey, pay attention.” Juniper ruffles the white streak flopping over his forehead fondly with the pencil’s eraser. “I’d like to be done in time for lobster stuffing and Waldorf slaw.” He shifts his gaze back to the pages filled with synonyms, yet I sense him counting the minutes till we can be alone.

Once upon a time that would’ve been because he wanted to hold hands, or hug, or even maybe kiss. That fairy tale has been fractured beyond repair. Just like every nursery rhyme and childhood lullaby I grew up hearing. The only one that turned out to be true was Goblin Market, because you must beware of goblin men. They’ll steal your heart and choose your sister instead.

My teeth clench tight, and Clarey glares at the clock on the wall for the hundredth time, waiting for me to speak. He’s not the only one whose patience is wearing thin.

We’ve been at this since Uncle and I arrived at ten this morning, and have managed to cook up and name five new confections in the last three hours. So far, we have Hibiscus Brights, Lavender Lushes, Rose Charms, Jasmine Zests, and Lilac Wisps; the foundations of each are Uncle’s earliest icing, cookie, and cupcake recipes, the ones he perfected for me and Lark when we were kids, pre–goblin fruit era.

Having tasted several of the petals to be sure they were safe for consumption, Uncle is once again relying on faerie magic to elevate his recipes, but instead of baking enchanted fruit into them, he’s embellishing them with the sparkling, ornate flowers that drizzled from my fingertips. Except Uncle doesn’t know they came from me, and integrating them into his recipes is in part to align with Juniper’s suggestion that they reboot his bakery with new recipes, while also sending out a message to Perish.

Uncle’s convinced that if he profits from the flowers in any way, it will lure the Goblin King back across the veil. His logic relies on the assumption that Perish is greedy and won’t want us exploiting any of his magic without him reaping benefits.

What Uncle fails to realize is that Perish is more concerned with Mystiquiel’s welfare than with any personal gain. He’s a selfish creature, but only in that he cares for his kingdom above all other life.

Now that he has the chosen Architect, the one who will end the need for any others, he no longer requires anything from the humans.

“Nix?” Juniper presses. “Any descriptions come to mind?”

I clear my throat once the cookie slides down and floats safely in my belly. Managing to loosen my tongue, I say the only adjectives I can think of to describe a memory of catching stars and moonbeams with Nix—of the way, even now, my fingers and toes twitch in a pantomime of reaching for the sky in honor of those tender moments of pretend: “Buoyant. Floating.” The words taste sour on my tongue. I don’t want to betray these memories. I’d eat these cookies forever if only I didn’t lose pieces of myself with each bite; feeding the symbiotic channels between my sister and me is draining me of any chance at a normal life.

Clarey’s jaw flutters as he flips through the thesaurus, mouthing the word “float.” He moves his finger across and down the f columns, stopping mid-page. He says, “Okay, how about ‘breezy’?”

“Tiger-Lily Breezes. Brilliant!” Juniper scribbles the final title and practically skips over to help Uncle store the leftovers.

Together, they transfer the last few sugared tiger lilies to a box containing the cooled iced cookies. Uncle’s quiet . . . introspective. Since the appearance of the flowers over a week ago, he and Clarey both have renewed hope that we can get back to Nix.

The first few days, Uncle searched for ways he might use them to open the veil somehow, by pressing, drying, or boiling them to make color-tinged water. When each attempt resulted in black withered petals and rotted stems and leaves, Uncle chose instead to preserve the freshness and colors—and thereby the magic—by using an egg white wash on the petals, coated with ultrafine sugar, then storing them in airtight canisters.

Normal candied flowers can keep for months this way, so who knows how long enchanted ones will last?

A loud thud sounds beside me as Clarey shuts Juniper’s ancient thesaurus. He taps my crutches where they lean on my chair and motions toward the hallway with his chin, indicating we should take advantage of our guardians’ preoccupation.

“Hey, we’re going on a walk,” I say over my shoulder, hobbling behind Clarey toward the front door. I wince as the underarm pads chew at the tender skin beneath my T-shirt where they’ve rubbed me raw from too much unnecessary use. Small penance for maintaining so many big lies, I guess.

“We’ll be eating at three.” Juniper tries to rub a smudge of icing from her cheek, smearing it instead. Uncle smirks as he uses the corner of a towel to help . . . the first real smile I’ve seen from him since I’ve been home. It’s amazing what a little hope can do for someone. The loss then rebooting of the bakery has brought them closer. Together, they came up with a plan to combine Wisteria Rising and Enchanted Delights into one exclusive shop that specializes in organic treats and fresh-cut florals and herbs from a courtyard botanical garden. They coined the name Wisteria’s Enchanted Tearoom & Arboretum, and Uncle took his insurance check to the bank as a down payment on the donut shop that stands between their businesses.

Juniper’s half of the combined buildings won’t change much, other than one wall coming down. On her side, she’ll continue to sell the vine clippings, fresh flower jars, and arrangements she’s known for; Uncle’s will be a new café specializing in edible floral treats—made of organic ingredients—which will also be served in Juniper’s courtyard alongside her herbal teas.

Renovations begin next week, and the calendar is marked with New Year’s Day as the grand opening. Maybe I could’ve found redemption for my sins by reviving Uncle’s dream bakery through this magical coincidence. Unfortunately, my angel’s halo feels more like a noose around my neck, since I’m planning to crush his hopes and dreams again.

I turn to Clarey. There’s somberness and longing in his eyes as he watches Juniper and my uncle, and I’ve no doubt he’s missing Nix. I nudge around him into the hallway, a not-so-subtle reminder we’re on our way out. He whistles for Flannie. She shows up with her tail wagging, ready to go.

I offer my hand, slow and cautious. She nuzzles it, even allows me to scratch her ears, but then whimpers and prances backward when I try to adjust the ESA vest Clarey placed on her earlier, in case for any reason he needs to prove she’s his support animal while we’re out. Her mechanical leg clicks off tempo with her clacking claws on the entryway tiles. She senses my deceitful nature and I respect her for that, even though it hurts.

Catching my downtrodden expression, Clarey squeezes my elbow. “A week ago she wouldn’t even sniff you. I call that progress.”

“I wish she’d let me look at her leg.” I lift Nix’s black hoodie off one of the pegs on the wall and slip my arms inside before zipping up. “The joint torques could use some tightening.”

“Or you could just make her a new leg for Christmas.”

He knows how much trouble I’m having staying focused on my projects lately. I’ve revamped several gadgets I made as a kid but can’t seem to move beyond that. Maybe he thinks if I have a deadline, I’ll manage to get something new done. I haven’t shared the real problem behind my inability to work on my inventions: nothing holds the same sense of wonder upon completion that it once did. How can devising a braided pneumatic actuator for a biorobot compare to creating an entire world out of nothing but conceptions? To envision something and see it assembled instantly without lifting a pair of wire cutters or needle-nose pliers, activated without a motor or battery to power it . . . it’s more addictive than Uncle’s enchanted treats.

I pull the hood over my twin’s hairstyle, settling on a good response to Clarey’s suggestion. “I’m stressed enough trying to catch up with Nix’s classes so I can start school after Christmas break.”

“Sure, I get that.”

He lets it drop, like I hoped. He doesn’t need to know that I recently soaked up everything Nix had learned over the past three years in my absence; it’s the one advantage of our magical connection I’ve been grateful for. The tutor helped me tap into her reserves without even realizing it.

Clarey shrugs into a plaid blazer with red and violet flowers embroidered along the suede lapel and elbow patches. All I see when I look at it is my sister’s talent, warping through my blood. I can’t help but wonder if he chose this particular jacket just to get under my skin, but keep my suspicions to myself as the three of us step out into the brisk air.

Sunshine toasts my face an instant before a cool gust, heavy with the scent of rain-slogged leaves and grass, chills my cheeks. The gutters are all flooded, the streets filled with gurgling brooks; fallen autumn leaves dock like colorful boats around the curbs, and streaks of mud and mildew stain the sidewalks.

Clarey’s hair flutters, teased by the wind. He places a fedora over his head to shield his BAHA. “You didn’t answer my texts, but I know you got them.”

“About the voices.”

“About her voice.”

I sigh. “Because it didn’t make any sense. Growing stairs—what even is that?”

Clarey holds his hand above Flannie’s wagging tail, letting the tip brush his skin as she sniffs at a series of muddy cat paw prints on the sidewalk. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You were in the castle. You saw the inner workings.”

I rake Nix’s combat boot through a shallow puddle, rippling the sky’s reflection. “So my sister reached out to you from beyond just to say she was going up the moving stairway.” I’m not sure if I’m angrier at the possibility of her reaching out to him in the first place or that she’s doing it while purposely shutting me out.

“She also said ‘Get help,’ and there were the sounds of more wings, and creatures growling all around her. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

My jaw tightens. “No, because it only proves you imagined it. She’s their Architect. You don’t realize how revered that makes her. The adoration and protection Perish will lavish on her. She’s not in danger, Clarey. This is all you, being obsessed with getting her back. Because you feel guilty for having to leave her. Do you think she would want you stalled like this? Unable to move forward?”

He glances at his fish-scaled shoes.

I raise an eyebrow, strumming his exposed nerve like a banjo string. “She wasted all those years I was gone with regret. She’d be furious if you did the same.” The tactic makes my stomach cramp. It’s a low blow, because it downplays my sister’s devotion to me, but I’m still not convinced she missed me at all. And his resulting silence provides the perfect segue to a safer topic. “So how was your trip? Did you eat turkey and dressing at the retirement home? Was it pureed?” I grin and point my finger into the air. “Aha! There’s something to be thankful for. Working teeth.”

Clarey clenches the leather harness that frames Flannie’s vest. “No dice, Lark.” His eyes turn on me, amber and blue spotlights in the sun. “I want to know why you aren’t telling your uncle where the flowers really came from. That stuff dripping out of your finger . . . it wasn’t human. There’s residual magic in you. This could be the break we need to cross the veil and get to her. And here you are playing Thanksgiving roulette.”

I smirk at the mention of the game Nix and I invented for this time of year, later inviting Clarey to play along once we formed our little threesome; the goal is to shout things to be thankful for in rapid succession, each of us trying to outdo the others with the absurdity of our choices.

“Stop smiling,” he snaps. “You need to take her rescue seriously. It’s like you don’t even care that she’s gone.”

My cheeks burn. “And it’s like you don’t even care that I’m back!”

Clarey’s face falls. “That’s . . . that’s not true, Lark.”

“Lark. You used to call me your little gearhead. Why did that have to change? Why did any of it? Do you realize how much I’ve lost since I’ve been gone? My mom’s Goblin Market picture book is ruined . . . my dad’s pocket watch stopped ticking. Every keepsake left of my parents has been wrecked; even their pictures and our birthday were faked.” I don’t even mention that I was home for my birthday for the first time in years, or at least the day after, having come back on November first, and yet no one suggested celebrating, because Nix had been left behind. But didn’t they celebrate her birthday when I was gone? “Then there’s the things I missed out on,” I continue, not willing to lose my edge. “Things I’ll never get another chance to experience. Things I could’ve done with you . . .” I drag off my hood to expose hair, piercings, and makeup to the light of day. “And how do you think it feels knowing that even now, just to have a future, I’ve got to be Nix? While also knowing I can never be . . . especially to the one person who wishes most I could.”

Clarey glances around us, looking miserable, either because of the conversation itself or out of worry we might be overheard. But the streets are abandoned; people are in their homes, sharing happy family times.

I growl to recoup his attention. “She chose to be the martyr. She stepped in and ruined my plan to dethrone Perish. Otherwise, we could’ve all been together this year.” I almost choke on the astringent lie, but the sugarcoating of jealousy makes it easier to swallow. “Really, is it so much to ask that we do one traditional thing today? No turkey, no pumpkin pie, no wishbone to break. Now we can’t even play a stupid game. It’s been three years since I’ve had a holiday, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Clarey admits, having the decency to look ashamed. Nice that one of us still possesses that quality. “You’re right. So . . . okay. What I’m thankful for: that I bleed red.” He casts a sly glance my way.

I huff a laugh. He’s developed a sardonic streak since I’ve been gone. Good for him. “All right, I see this holiday is no longer Thanksgiving. It’s Pranksgiving.”

He tilts his head. “Because I just pranked you?”

“Because fate has decided to use today to show me how different I am from the people I once felt at home with.”

Clarey studies me hard. “So what? Your blood’s messed up,” he says, using my own snark to trap me. “That could actually be a good thing. If you tell your uncle and stop keeping it secret, maybe we can help you. By figuring it out, we could get Nix back, and then life will be normal for all of us again.”

“Normal. How are we supposed to explain me coming back from the dead?” Or that I still feel dead. I focus on where my hands clench the crutches. The jacket cuffs hang low on my wrists, covering the scars there and on my forearms from the cords and sparks I left behind, frayed and fizzing inside the core of Mystiquiel.

After sharing consciousness with so many otherworldly creatures, will I ever feel alive again? My brain’s all wrong, powering only one light instead of thousands connected to a string circuit; even my heart is a singular bulb, stuck inside a series of dead sockets. No, there’s no more normal here.

My bangs fall across my eye and I tuck a long strand behind my ear, changing tactics. “You sure you want to have both of us back? Then you’d have to actually choose. Think you’re up for that?”

Clarey pierces me with another glare. “I’d rather have you both here as just friends than have her lost to us. Wouldn’t you?”

Refusing to answer, I swing-step my crutches over the puddle, which forces Clarey to grab Flannie’s harness and follow. “Okay, let’s logic this out. You keep saying my blood looked like a rainbow. But the storm had already washed my cut before you saw it. And then there was the lightning. It was just a flash of the flowers reflected on the raindrops along my hand.”

Clarey’s gaze narrows. “I thought you might say something like that.” He fishes around in his left pocket where he sometimes keeps his harmonica then surprises me by pulling out an X-Acto knife used to carve details on his latex masks.

“Prick your finger.” The miniature blade sparkles silver in the sunlight as we pace side by side.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.” I stall, mid-step. I really do admire his craftiness, even if it irritates me.

He holds out the tool, his chin cocked—looking more like a hardened man than the timid boy I used to know. “One tiny cut. That’s all it will take to shut me up about it.”

I frown. I scraped my knee a few nights back while out on a bike ride. The blood stayed red, even in the fresh air. It drizzled down my leg and touched the ground, and nothing grew. The next day, I pricked my thumb purposely and had the weird experience again . . . prismatic flowers blooming under the bed in my room and along my wall where the tiny droplets of blood spurted. Took me hours to rip them up and discreetly discard them in the contained blaze Uncle had going in our living room fireplace.

I reasoned it out. Since the doctor took blood from my arm on her house visit upon my return to this realm and the blood that filled the syringe was normal, the anomaly is tied to my hands. I’m assuming it has to do with Nix using her own hands to create. It’s like I’m being haunted by her art. Even while I’m refusing to look at any of her spirals at home, I still can’t escape her shadow over me.

I was actually planning to fake a fall today . . . scrape an elbow or shin, as a way to get Clarey off my back. Would’ve worked, had he not insisted my finger be the test subject. The boy’s too smart for his own good.

Balanced on one crutch, I shove his wrist in hopes he’ll drop the tool. He tightens his fingers around the handle, accidentally tilting the blade. The tip razes my left palm above my life line, and blood beads at the site. Before either of us can react, we hear a familiar voice from across the street.

“Hey you two, wait up!” Jin’s colorful braids poke out from the edges of a yellow beanie like the tentacles of a tie-dyed squid. Her girlfriend, Brooke, strides alongside her, carrying a straw beach tote filled with clanking spray-paint cans.

“Dammit, Clarey!” I snarl, unable to finagle my crutches fast enough to stop my blood from drizzling to the sidewalk.

His eyes widen as a lustrous rainbow speckles the cement. Groaning, I crush the sprouting stem, leaves, and petals with my boot, sealing them between my sole and the sidewalk. I shove my hand into my jacket pocket and situate it around the crutch handle just as the girls reach us.

They’ve already been by my house twice to check in on me. Both times I made Uncle say I was napping, unprepared to put on my Nix facade for friends who once belonged to us both but are now only hers. I knew I was going to have to see them at some point and map out some new dynamics, but there couldn’t be a worse time than in this moment, with a garden blooming inside my pocket.

“We were starting to think you were avoiding us, Nix.” Jin furrows her eyebrows. I don’t know her well enough anymore to gauge if she’s teasing or serious. Then I catch the glint of amusement in her dark gaze that I remember seeing when we were in middle school. “Stop looking so scared, girl! We know you just wanted time with your squeeze here. Now that you two are official and all.”

Flannie bounces up and licks Jin’s chin—a blessed distraction. While she and Brooke fuss over the border collie, I toss a frown to Clarey and mime: Official. Who told them that?

Clarey mouths the words Aunt Juniper and rolls his eyes. His aunt came to the conclusion after catching the two of us with our heads together one too many times whispering about Mystiquiel things. We let her believe it in hopes she’d give us wide berth with our privacy. A hot blush races from my cheeks to my ears. If only Jin knew how far off base she is.

Brooke elbows Jin. “Shut up, you’re embarrassing them. We just wanted to go with you over to the Riverwalk. You’re headed to the graffiti trail, right?” I’m about to say no when the blond cheerleader motions to the streaks of color seeping out from under my boot’s heel. “Oooh, is that a practice scrawl?” She nudges me aside so she can view it.

I drag my sole across the sidewalk on my shift to the right, hoping to leave the flowers as nothing more than smears. Clarey coughs when a pulpy stain remains where my foot rested.

“Weird-looking paint.” Jin squats down to get a closer look.

“Yeah, it’s some of that puffy kind,” I answer.

Jin frowns. “I thought they didn’t make that in spray cans because it clogs the nozzles.”

Nix would’ve known that, you idiot. Sweat beads along my nape, prickling like icicles as the gusts of wind turn colder. I shiver, glancing at the clouds gathering overhead. Looks like the cold front’s moving in sooner than expected.

“Can I see one of the cans?” Jin asks.

“We don’t have them anymore.” Clarey steps between us, gesturing to the hooded city trash receptacle a few feet away. “We were testing them, but I guess the texturing element separated from the color. We couldn’t get a good stream and had to ditch them.”

I give him a look of appreciation for his quick thinking. I can’t possibly paint a mural in front of other artists. There’s no way my stick figures will pass “Nix muster” under professional scrutiny.

“Yo, what?” Jin turns her full attention to Clarey. “You’re coming, too? That’s awesome!”

“No, no.” I flick a glance at Clarey’s strained expression. “He was just helping me test the paint. He’s not up for being around all those people today.” I piggyback on Jin’s subtle referral to Clarey’s enochlophobia. Even though his fear of having a panic attack at congregated events has improved somewhat, it’s not inconceivable that he may have lapses from time to time.

“I get it,” Jin says, always sympathetic. “But the murals are huge. You can hang way back and still see without having to talk to anyone. This is our last chance. The city won’t be inviting schools to take part anymore after this year. Plus, the theme is Christmas, and no one can bring out the dark side like our Nix.” She then looks pointedly at me. “Tons of towners will be there, so it’s the perfect chance to resurrect your St. Krampus. He’s legendary! We’ll need him to decapitate all the holly berry angels and gingerbread elves Brooke’s planning to paint with the third graders.”

“Hey!” Brooke grumbles.

Jin barks a laugh and captures the crocheted scarf around the blonde’s neck, tugging it playfully.

Clarey throws out one last attempt at escape. “We don’t have any more paint. We were headed back home so Nix could grab some. We could just meet you there later.”

Or not at all. I raise my eyebrow.

Brooke shakes the tote at her side, clanging the cans together again. “No need. We have plenty. We’ll share!”

Pulse pounding, I wriggle my fingers in my pocket. The stinging sensation on my palm yields to a tickle that feels like flower petals filling the space between my skin and the fabric.

Clarey and I exchange helpless glances as both girls spin me around on my crutches in the direction of the trolley. He and Flannie follow at our heels and I squeeze my fist tighter around the crutch handle, praying the pressure can stave off the blood and stop the magical flow. Otherwise, the entire town of Astoria is about to witness the freak show I’ve become.

9

jolly old st. krampus

Lark

By the time we board the trolley and settle in for the ride to the Riverwalk, the tickling in my pocket has stopped, which I’m hopeful means my blood has been stanched.

The petals and leaves sticking to my palm under the cover of cloth feel scant, three or four flowers at most—nowhere close to a full bouquet. I suck in a relieved breath. The scent of brine and the far-off bite of cold weather rushes through the half-opened window. I let it sink into me, seeking courage in things once familiar.

I look past Nix’s reflection in the fogged glass and study the Columbia River. The clacking of the tracks under our wooden benches plays an accompaniment to fellow riders’ crinkling bags and jingling zippers. The sun slips in and out of the clouds and twinkles along the waves like thousands of penlights adrift on the water. Triggered both by Jin’s earlier mention of Krampus and by the sparkling waves, another unwanted memory of Mystiquiel surfaces: my earliest attempt at creating after I claimed the world’s Heart and it formed a tungsten chair with one arm folding over and flattening above my lap like a desk.

Once the vines—draped in gownlike fashion across my skin—connected me to my workspace by shedding half their leaves and morphing into something resembling black cables, I completed my first masterpiece. Perish, crowned and fully grown into a beautiful goblin man, brought the scene to life then stood by my side. Together we looked out the enchanted window upon the edge of the ocean where metal shavings shimmered and jingled in the breeze in place of sand.

“It’s like a beach filled with Christmas tinsel,” I said, awed at the genius of my creation—a tribute to the holiday just around the corner that I’d be missing that year. “It even jingles like reindeer bells.” In a few weeks, I could fabricate a forest of metallic evergreen trees—living, breathing replicas that would sprout lights and aluminum ornaments instead of needles and pine cones. As I thought of my loved ones—of Nix and Uncle and Clarey—my heart ached in conflict with the power growing within. I worried how broken they would be over the holidays, missing me. Perish had explained that they believed me to be dead. In the beginning, I’d railed against the pain it must’ve caused them. But now, knowing that I was made for this world, how it needed me, the miracles I was capable of here, I only wanted them to move on and forget.

Perish looked thoughtful. “Christmas. Another human celebration. Gentler than All Hallows’ Eve. Led by the laughing fellow in the red suit who eats bowls of jelly.”

His oversimplified observation made me snort. “Because his belly shakes like a bowlful of jelly?”

“Naturally.”

“Well, he’s just one aspect of the holiday. There are lots of traditions and meanings that different people celebrate.” I glanced sidelong at his profile, still adjusting to the intimidating height and musculature of his adult form. It would take some time to reconcile the powerful king with the quiet prince I’d come to trust and admire, but if I squinted and imagined decorations dangling from his antlers—each prong aglimmer with red, blue, and gold foil balls—I could almost overlook the spontaneous changes. The thought brought a smirk to my face.

He met my gaze and grinned back, fangs glistening. “You’re amused. Why?”

By now, I’d come to appreciate his keen insight into my moods—how closely he watched for the smallest changes in my features to savor each one, how the entire fey populace craved human emotions.

“I was picturing you as a Christmas tree,” I answered.

“Ah. Should I spruce myself up?” He held out his arms like branches and using his glamour ability attempted to fashion himself into a tree. Everywhere his skin showed—his neck and chest where his half-buttoned shirt split open, his face, hands, and bared feet—sprouted a fur of pine needles, thickest and longest at his chin and jaw. The result, paired with his antlers, made him look like some sort of Frankenstein Santa, his hominid features stitched and spliced with the boughs of a spruce tree. I hinged over, giggling hysterically.

More of his shiny white teeth burst through the needles in a ghastly grin. His dark wit had won me over from the beginning, and I was thrilled to see the materialization of his crown hadn’t changed that aspect of his personality.

“No, stop.” I struggled to catch a breath. “That’s . . . so wrong.”

“Should I play the jolly red man next?” he offered, the pine needles quivering at his chin as he spoke.

I blotted giddy tears from the corners of my eyes. “No. You’ve already nailed it. You’re St. Krampus—head to toe.”

“I thought the fellow’s name was Claus.”

My chest spasmed with a barely contained bark of laughter. “That’s the good Santa. You’re the other one. Not so jolly, but much more interesting.”

Eyes glinting with curiosity, he waited for me to explain.

“Think of it like there’s one Santa split in half. The good side, and the bad side.”

Perish’s smile surrendered to a pained frown. He almost looked disturbed. It was obvious he was thinking of me and Nix . . . of the spell his father had cast upon us both before we were even born. A secret Perish wasn’t supposed to share with me, but did anyway, consolidating the trust between us.

“They’re not twins”—I sought to assure him of the differences in the tales—“not even from the same folklore. There’s one who visits the good children, and the other visits the bad. Krampus isn’t human. He has long goat horns and a hairy body, sharp teeth and razor claws. He’d be right at home here. And he’s the one who punishes the naughty kids at Christmastime.” I tapped the needles at Perish’s chin, making them tremble. “Take my word for it. You’d never pass as Santa Claus. Although you have given me the best present I could’ve ever asked for.” I gestured to the window displaying the world I’d just begun to build.

He returned to his true form, the needles shedding to the floor around my chair and releasing the scent of pine before they vanished completely in tribute to his power of illusion. His stare intensified on mine, and I averted my gaze, which only made things worse. The way his clothes clung to his mature, toned form birthed flutters in my stomach—new, conflicting feelings that I battled to hide under a calm expression.

I’d left my boyfriend, Clarey, at home and then became so absorbed in this place and its crown prince that I barely missed him. I wasn’t proud of it, but my feelings for Clarey—a boy—and for this otherworldly goblin were two very different things: innocent affection contrasted with avid fascination.

I felt as if I had aged years over the few months I’d been here, even more in the hour it had taken me to create my beach . . . as if I was no longer a fourteen-year-old girl but a wizened young woman. It must have something to do with all the enchanted connectors linked to my body. Through them, I was absorbing the wisdom and knowledge of the Architects before me—similar to Perish and his spirit crown being filled with the wisdom of all the kings before him. There was a symbiotic symmetry to the magic in this place, which made me feel even more connected to Perish than I already was.

At this thought, I shifted my attention back to the Goblin King, struck by how carefully he studied the metallic beach. Through the window, my “sands” reflected the enormous Edison bulb I’d hung in midair in place of a sun, the glimmers gilding his high forehead, sharp cheekbones, and full lips.

“It’s truly beautiful,” he said, immersed in the scene.

“It absolutely is,” I answered, though I still looked at him.

“What is this tinsel you speak of? How do you give it such light? It appears to be made of the razor-scales of a thousand serpents or fish, ground fine.”

“Well, it’s not really tinsel,” I responded dreamily. “I was using an analogy. It’s actually swarf.”

“Swarf?”

“Shavings . . . debris. To most, it’s just junk . . . by-products of machining. Completely useless. But I’ve always looked for ways to repurpose it. Yet I never imagined metal scrap could form the foundation of a world.”

“Metal.” Perish ground out the word, his deep voice surrendering to a croak of dismay. “So it’s inorganic. My subjects would be better off wading through a lake of venom.” His earlier playful mood had turned bleak. “That would be less lethal.”

“Lethal?”

His antlers lowered as he bowed his head, as though the crown suddenly weighed too heavily. He studied his subjects, tucked in their bubbles and adrift in the hazy phosphorescent sky. “I can’t turn them loose onto such terrain. Metal and magic . . . they don’t mix well. I thought you were an artisan.”

“I am.”

“What kind of artist?”

My heart sank at the criticism lacing the question. “I invent things. I tinker . . . with mechanics. Robots, wires, motors. Pendulums and algorithms.”

The points of his fangs indented his lower lip hard enough for blood to trickle out, black fading to white as it hit the air and streamed along his chin. He licked it away and his pointed ears curved down.

“What were you hoping for?” I asked, a defensive heat warming my cheeks and ears.

“A sketcher, a painter. A storyteller.”

“That’s my sister,” I whispered.

“So . . . Scourge was right. I chose the wrong twin. Our world will be uninhabitable.” The weight of his head seemed to drag his shoulders into a slump. He wrapped an arm around the back of my throne as though he needed the support to stay standing, his expression more human than bestial as horror etched the hard angles and planes ever deeper. “With my failure, the reign will fall to Scourge.”

I met his burgundy gaze, struggling to hide how his disapproval of my talent injured me. “But you’re physically superior to him. You can defeat him easily. I’ve seen you.”

“With the accumulative royal power I wear on my head, I’m superior. But since I didn’t technically win the challenge between my father and me, all my spirit predecessors will label me an imposter. They’ll force my essence into the crown, and my strength will pass to its new wearer, the next in line to be king. I’ll be nothing but a gnome with no thought but to serve.”

“That means Scourge—” I couldn’t bring myself to say it aloud, fear of anything happening to Perish overshadowing my own terror of being left in this world without the ally I’d come to rely on.

Perish nodded. “He’ll have all he needs to claim his victory.”

I knew what Scourge planned for the humans, and the weight of that knowledge rolled over me, leaving me breathless. “I can learn to reroute my imagination, can’t I? I’ll try writing songs . . .”

Perish sighed. “In your kind, the talents are honed in the heart and mind very early. Ever since your family’s contract, we’ve worked with our Architects to shape the gifts we wanted for them. But that was from birth. I’m not sure, in one whose talent is already ingrained so deeply within their being, if it can be reversed or altered. With time, maybe. But we’re short on that. We must release your ties to the world, before your metal taints my subjects.”

“But your brother . . . and everyone else. Won’t they know you failed?”

His eyes reflected my own dread and sadness. “Yes. That’s unavoidable. We can only hope he’ll send you back and bring your sister in your stead once he’s crowned. That he’ll uphold the contract.”

He crouched, the lightning in his crown skimming through his hair, down his neck, and then across his shoulder and arm to strike at the black cables wrapped around my torso, arms, and ankles. Each one tightened around me, as if they didn’t want to let go. He concentrated harder, his magic razing my skin like the pointed tips of electrified claws.

“Wait,” I pleaded, my brow furrowed. I couldn’t let Perish—all his power, humor, and intelligence—waste away into the lesser form of a pitiful, thoughtless gnome. Hugging myself to hold the cables in place, I sank as far as possible into my chair to protect the symbiotic bond. “There’s something about my robots you should know. Their hearts are modifiable. If they’re not working right, they can be upgraded. Reshaped. Controlled.”

Perish lowered himself to sit by my feet, eyes level with mine. “You’re suggesting I allow you to alter my brother—internally?”

“Exactly.” No sooner did the word escape than I clenched my hands around the tungsten desk across my lap, formulating a new invention in my mind. Just like my earlier concept, I didn’t have to draw it out. The desk acted as a conduit, and my blueprint came to life on its black surface in glowing yellow ink.

“A coffin?” Perish stared pointedly at the magical rendering. “I can’t kill him. The crown won’t allow it; he’s of royal blood.”

I traced the lines with a fingertip; they brightened with my touch. “That’s not what this is. It’s based on an iron maiden . . . a torture device in our history books. But this one’s slightly modified. Think of it like an oven. Once Scourge has metal in his bones and organs, you can put him inside and bake him for a bit. His arteries will become circuitry, and his heart an electroactive polymer. The organ will change shape with the turn of a key that releases electrical pulses through his body. You can then reprogram him for snatches of time.”

Perish looked both impressed and baffled. His silvery-blue complexion reflected my draft’s yellow glow, and his eyebrows furrowed as he puzzled out the machine’s inner workings.

“I can write down the instructions for you. Christmas presents always come with user manuals.”

Perish set his hand atop the blueprint. “So you’re Krampus now. Giving gifts to the wicked.”

He held my gaze a beat too long, and when my face warmed beyond comfort, I looked back at my rendering, waiting in anticipation for him to be the bridge as he was earlier—to ignite the glow into bands that resembled neon tubes, then fling them out into the ether, where tiny dragon-like creatures would blow fire across them, melting them into smears of bright color that settled and re-formed into a living, working portrayal of my conception.

But Perish continued to hesitate, his hand clamped on the back of my chair again. “In all our history, no king has ever partnered with an Architect in such a way. For you to take root deep enough to modify the actual composition of any one being—far beyond their surface appearance—I’d have to bypass all the enchanted defenses. To do that, I would have to siphon my crown’s power into you, and in turn allow the metal to wind its way through me. My entire kingdom would be affected—all my subjects, even myself.”

I look at him, unblinking. “I can’t let you fade away . . . and I won’t let Scourge hurt another human, ever again. You once asked me to trust you, and I did. I allowed you to drag me here without a fight. You know you can trust me, too. We’re beyond this. I will never hurt you.”

He huffed . . . a self-deprecating sound. “Oh, there’s no worry about that. Once you become that deeply ingrained with me, it would be impossible for you to harm us intentionally, as you would be harming yourself. I simply want you to be aware of what awaits you.” His four white pupils burned into me like flame. “Heed my warning, Lark; you will feel everything we feel, our pain, our ecstasy, our bliss, our apathy. All of it will become your own. Even your senses and moods will be collaborative. If we’re cold, you’ll be cold. If we’re frightened, you will fear. Your mind will no longer be your own. It would take a strong person indeed to retain their individuality in such circumstances. You are very young yet . . . I’m not sure we should risk it.”

“I’m no younger than you were one day ago. And I’m stronger than you know.” I didn’t tell him everything, that I was enthralled with the possibilities. To think like the eldritch, without a conscience, without any preconceived morals or ties . . . my heart hammered on a rush of adrenaline. “The taint will only be temporary,” I said, trying to convince him I had thought it through, when really, I was riding a tidal wave of my own reckless eagerness. “Only long enough to infect your subjects in the smallest ways. I’ll concentrate my main efforts on Scourge. Once Scourge is changed enough for you to remake him so he can never get the upper hand, we’ll fix everyone else back. Together. You can show me how to adjust my creative inclinations; train me. And your subjects will see your power and our compatibility. There’ll be no question after that, that you chose the right sister. That we can be an invincible team.”

Perish’s gold-fringed lashes lowered in thought, fencing in his merlot-dark eyes. “I like it,” he said at last, his fingertip gently and chastely brushing my cheek. “You, my Larkling, are more monstrous than I even hoped you might be.” As if it took all his willpower, he tore his gaze from mine and scooped up the blueprint, but this time he tossed the tubes into the air at the bottom of the steps instead of casting them out the window.

“Come, dragon mites, forge your flames.” The teensy winged reptiles appeared and melted the image, and the smears fell upon the floor of the lair, materializing before us—another creation, spawned to reality by my mind’s eye.

As I watched, Perish sliced his right hand with a glimmering bolt of magic coaxed from his crown, then did the same to my left. It felt like fire licking my skin, peeling the edges back, widening the veins in my body to make room. I held back a scream, determined to prove myself worthy. Along the seam of Perish’s cut, his blood welled black then faded to white, and before he could change his mind, I slapped my palm into his, squeezing our fingers together. A flare—so bright it singed my brows—streamed up from our joined hands, an outpouring of magic that sealed us together so we could enact our plan.

The trolley dings at a stop, startling me out of the memory, ripping me away from that astonishing sense of accomplishment, alliance, and belonging I’ll never feel again, since everything went wrong. All because of my pride. Because I thought I was strong enough to wield a king’s magic at his side.

I sink into the bench, leaning my forehead against the cold glass as people disembark, wishing I could blot out my time in Mystiquiel so I’d never have to remember.

After the trolley has emptied of everyone except us, I take the aisle behind Jin and Brooke, who hold my crutches for me once they’ve deboarded so I can descend the steps in front of Clarey. He takes my hand in his the second I drag it free from my jacket. In the past there would’ve been a spark between us . . . a tug, even. Now it’s only a strained collaboration to preserve a secret he doesn’t even fully understand or appreciate.

I squeeze my fingers in his, and when nothing blossoms to life between our palms, he keeps hold just long enough for me to alight onto the asphalt and reclaim my crutches.

The walk to the graffiti trail, though less than ten minutes, feels as if it takes a year. While Jin and Brooke dominate the conversation, Clarey and I cast long, meaningful looks at one another. Not only does he have to suppress his nerves about being around crowds, we both have to battle the knowledge that I’m not up to this. I haven’t even practiced drawing at home, and the fact that I’m failing so miserably at my own hobbies gives me no hope for faking my way through a public performance of Nix’s.

I’m debating if I should pretend to trip over Flannie where she trots between me and Clarey. It would be easy to tangle my crutch with her mechanical leg, but I can’t bring myself to try it. Despite her mistrust of me, I’ve become fond of her . . . she reminds me so much of the creatures who kept me company in Mystiquiel—who became like family. I won’t hurt her like I ended up hurting them.

Instead, I hobble along, looking for some other opportunity to present itself. The crowd appears around a bend before I can contrive a plan.

Our school’s art teacher, Miss Sparks, stands alongside a half-dozen students, holding a space up front next to the once heavily graffitied wall of an old storage building. Recently, the prior artwork was painted over with several layers of white, providing a fresh canvas.

Jin nudges me gently forward through the onlookers while Brook walks at my side, discussing what she plans to paint. Clarey stays back, his eyes traversing the onlookers from behind. He offers me a half-hearted nod, assuring me either that his phobia is under control or that he believes I can fool everyone. If it’s the latter, we both know he’s lying.

Miss Sparks smiles upon seeing me and my two gal pals, mistaking me for the sister she taught in ninth and tenth grade. I’ve never met her personally, but Uncle’s given me index cards galore with yearbook headshots of Nix’s teachers, past and present, along with pertinent details, so I know enough to skim by.

Upon our arrival, the other students greet me, asking how I’m feeling, telling me what a rock star my skull is for kicking that sandbar’s ass . . . wondering when I’m coming back to school and hoping I’m still on track to graduate with them next year.

We make small talk, Clarey sending Flannie forward to perform her newest tricks when I get stuck. It’s a skill he developed to keep people’s attention off him while I was gone those three years, upon realizing she made a better mask than silicon rubber ever could.

Finally, a woman from the city council steps up and thanks everyone for partaking in the graffiti trail over the past few years and says this final rendition will remain as a historical landmark once the professional street artists add their touches to our amateur pieces.

In a dreamlike fugue, I walk up to the wall and prop my crutches against the cement, holding the spray-paint can Brooke offers. I stand there, pulse pounding, smothered by the sound and scent of aerosol nozzles misting all around me as other students craft their pieces. I try not to think of all the eyes on my back while I study the white surface facing me . . . mocking my incompetence. My stare is so intent, I almost imagine I see an outline—a goatlike image, horns and hooves spliced with a man’s body, the first creature character I saw Nix draw in my dreams in Mystiquiel. It’s only now that I realize she must’ve been inspired by my chat with Perish about human Christmas traditions, and it hits me once more how closely intertwined our thoughts, dreams, and talents have been from the very beginning—all thanks to Perish’s father.

I’m so lost in introspection, I don’t notice when Flannie, excited by the activity and smells around her, bounds toward me. She hits my calf and I stumble into the wall, getting tangled with my crutches and teetering off-balance. The spray can slips from my grip, and my injured palm scrapes the stone and brick, right where I imagined Nix’s drawing to be. The entire scene takes shape in my mind: a disturbing Christmas-themed mural with the goatlike face of Krampus biting off the head of a gingerbread man and plucking feathers from an angel’s wings while a snowstorm spins around them.

The cut in my skin reopens, smearing blood on the wall. I gasp, but no flowers bloom. Instead, the paint begins to blister and bubble, the layer of white peeling off into shreds on the ground, allowing the colored paint underneath to surface and reveal the very scene I imagined, as though Nix’s handiwork had never been concealed.

“What the—” Jin shouts from a few feet away where she stares at the white paint in front of her peeling free to expose other parts of Nix’s scene, though I can barely hear over the rush of blood in my ears as part of my palm fades where it touches the wall. The colors of Nix’s scene funnel into me, and with each prismatic pulse, more of my own realness drains away. An actual hole forms where my life line should be, where the scar I share with Perish rests. The hole is the size of pea, all the way through to the back of my hand, as if part of me is vanishing.

“Clarey,” I murmur, forgetting he’s somewhere behind the crowds and can’t possibly hear me.

To my relief, he appears at my side, led by Flannie. If I weren’t so focused on my hand, I’d kiss her cold nose in gratitude. Clarey gapes as I tuck my fist tight to hide the now-dime-size hole in my palm, then shove it into my jacket pocket before anyone else can see.

“We have to go,” he says to Miss Sparks while snagging my elbow. The spray can clangs against my feet at his insistent tug. “Did you forget, Nix? We have to be home in time for dinner.”

“Oh yeah,” I mumble back, grabbing my crutches and manipulating the right one with my covered hand. I suppress the clawing horror in my heart as my ring finger rubs across the hollow spot where the middle of my palm should be. It takes every bit of concentration to squeeze my fingers over the crutch’s hand grip through the fabric and hold on for dear life.

Other art renditions are being revealed now, pieces connected to Nix’s though not made by her own brushes and paint. Our audience, including the art teacher and our classmates, seems too captivated by the reemerging artwork all across the wall to notice my and Clarey’s hasty exit.

Theories fly fast and furious . . .

“It’s all the rain. Made it too wet for the paint to adhere.”

“Too many layers, that’s what it was. You can repaint cement only so much.”

“The sun today . . . magnified by all the clouds. Must’ve gooped up the top coat.”

On our awkward rush back to the trolley, Flannie whimpers as if she senses the paint from Nix’s masterpiece pumping through me. I feel it in my veins, gushing through the open space left by my absent life line. Everything I want to say catches in a lump in my throat as I gulp the frost-tinged air. Gray clouds gather above, and white flakes begin to fall. It’s far colder than the weather team predicted . . .

Then I realize it’s because the snowy scene from the wall has been transferred to the air around us. Horrified, I question where the other, more threatening details of the painting will burst to life, now that I’ve freed them from their prison of cement. At the rate my hand is fading inside my pocket, will I be here to find out? Will I even still exist by the time Clarey crosses the threshold to his home?

10

a window to the souls

Nix

“Architect!”

The feminine shout clenches me, shakes me, but I stay where I am, standing in the middle of a snowstorm. All around, white flakes whirl then dot the cement before melting into rainbow puddles of graffiti, forming goatish faces, reindeer antlers, snarling teeth, and spruce trees. For an instant, I’m home, creating a Christmas mural along the Riverwalk.

“Enough of this hiding. Arise and attend to your responsibilities.”

Though the tone has softened, the voice jostles me fully awake and disappointment follows. I was reliving Lark’s dream, my one and only connection to the mortal world, the same dream she’s been having each night for weeks. It must mean that she went with Clarey to the Thanksgiving event, the same one I shied away from last year.

What I wouldn’t give to go back and reclaim all that lost time. But thanks to Lark’s memory-glimpses, I know the holiday has already passed and Christmas is on the horizon. A soul-deep longing for Uncle Thatch, Clarey, Flannie, and Juniper makes me shiver.

I bring the covers up to my chin and squint bleary eyes, seeing the doorway vanish into the wall; I’m no longer imprisoned here, but the entrance only appears when I need it, or when someone from the outside wants in.

Perish’s mother, Lady Glacia, comes into focus bedside, her slender form—stalled at the edge of my mattress—situating a bowl of colorful gelatinous balls on my nightstand. She raises a fresh pitcher of water and refills my glass, murmuring under her breath.

It’s easy to see the traits Perish inherited from her. His features and movements radiate the same ethereal grace that smooths the rough edges of his goblin half’s sharp-pronged antlers, powerful build, and mountainous height; unlike his brother, Scourge, who inherited her willowy stature and their goblin father’s jagged facial structure and harsh mannerisms.

Much like the canon in my graphic novels, each Goblin King in the royal family is required to marry a female elf, since the two classes of fey boast the most ancient and potent sorcery between them; the resulting progeny are born with unparalleled magical abilities, which serve to curtail any attempt by others of the eldritch populace to revolt or to steal the throne for themselves. The tactic has kept the goblins and elves in power for centuries upon centuries.

I’ve watched other details similar to my stories play out in everyday moments here, obviously woven into my subconscious. It’s proof that Lark’s psyche was indeed feeding my imagination over the years she served as Architect. The otherworldliness of our strange psychic connection is impossible to deny after seeing it play out in reality.

Yes, most twins have a bond, but ours was always beyond the typical. We knew it was off somehow, even as children. It’s why we kept our pinkie-links to ourselves. Why we never told Uncle Thatch how we could feel each other’s emotions and thoughts if we were physically touching. How we could sometimes experience each other’s pain even when we weren’t touching, such as the pricking of a thumb or a stinging paper cut, or be party to each other’s olfactory, tactile, or audible cues even miles apart—as if we shared sensory receptors.

Now I realize it all has something to do with Perish’s father, King Talon. The spell he put on my twin and me as fetuses played a role. If I could just figure out the exact enchantment he used, and why he did it, maybe I could undo it. Or at the least, use it to contact Lark, to lure her back so we can switch places again.

A tendril of guilt struggles to unravel inside my chest at the thought, but I keep it tightly coiled behind my sternum. It serves another purpose now: an enforcement for my hardened heart. Gone are the days of my grieving and fretting. Gone is the black and white of regret. Such emotions no longer have business existing inside me, considering how Lark tricked me and burned down our uncle’s bakery without a moment’s hesitation.

The elfin queen leans across my mattress, recouping my attention to her unwelcome presence. Her ears, the color, size, and shape of an albino bat’s, spear through flaxen strands of waist-length hair. Lines of piercings trail her elongated lobes and jingle with her movements. The sound reminds me of sleigh bells and rouses that nostalgic agony for human holidays I’ll no longer celebrate.

“Refusing to get out of bed, are we?” Before I can answer or even raise a defense, Lady Glacia digs spidery fingers into my shoulders over the covers to hold me still. “Well enough,” she croons, “I’ll examine you from here.”

Her breath is oddly reminiscent of my dream, that crisp-frosted burn on the nostrils after a heavy snow; and those ocean-blue irises, round and wide enough to take up the entire top half of her face, swirl, as though ice-crusted waves lap within. I struggle to escape her luminous, liquid glare. I’ve already felt what it’s like to have my body scanned, the first time I was brought here after using up all my magic. How her eyes pierced through my skin, as if those spiky iridescent lashes were actually made of the icicles they resemble.

Since I’m pinned down and unable to roll away, I avert my gaze. It’s too late, though. As the examination intrudes ever deeper, her flawless complexion begins to crackle and feather, from golden to glittery white, the way hoarfrost crystals form across an autumn leaf in a time-lapse video. My blood slows and I sense it turning to slush; my insides tremble—a chill creeps through me from organ to organ. If she manages to freeze all of me, from my head to my feet, I’ll be unable to move. I’ll be trapped in this position, my bones and muscles as desolate as permafrost.

I try to scream for Tat, wishing I hadn’t sent the little inkblot on an errand. I know if it hears me, it will come back in a rush of murky wings. Yet no sound escapes, my voice box having lumped into a block of arctic tundra.

Next comes the languor . . . a stiffening of limbs and torso reminiscent of sleep paralysis, like I’m inside a nightmare but unable to wake myself. Although it’s no longer a nightmare. This is my reality.

The full body freeze starts at the top of my head and makes its way down my neck, my torso, and to my hips. Before my legs grow fully numb, I gather all that’s left of my autonomy into my knees and shins, then donkey-kick my feet against the frame of the bed. The movement shoves Lady Glacia off-balance. My innards quake, prickles of ice being shaken free from bones, nerves, and muscles.

The queen hisses, her concentration broken. I scramble to sit up, putting space between us, and hug a pillow over my chest and face in an effort to calm my pulse. Once her poison vacates my body, I drop the pillow to glare at her. My spine presses against a headboard no longer made of metal but of branches woven like a basket, with mist and clouds binding the lattice—a gift from Perish to make my room feel more hospitable. The kindness he’s shown in his daily visits has only served to confuse me more.

“Why don’t you leave me alone?” I snarl at the queen the instant my throat thaws. “I built your world. My job’s done.” It’s the same excuse I’ve been giving Perish for the past month, each time he’s tried to get me to leave the room. I even refused a tour of the mazelike tunnels beneath the castle—the passages I missed when taking the tunnels to defeat Lark and when riding in my bubble behind Perish’s to the Architect’s lair. I told him I didn’t care to see the rumored magical cistern filled with human emotions, or the origin goblin fruit tree. I’m not interested in any of the lore or inner workings of this world. He needs to understand that I’ll never make peace with the way he and my sister betrayed me, just like I’ll never be okay with being stuck here.

“Mystiquiel will fade without your constant upkeep,” Lady Glacia answers. “And its health is tied to your own. Our genteel Gardener sent me here to investigate why the spring and summer fruits in the royal orchard are frosting over with ice and withering. My diagnosis is that you’re dehydrated and depressed; these could explain the impact on your creations.”

I huff. “Your diagnosis. You’re no more a doctor than Angorla is gentle.”

“Genteel,” the queen corrects.

“Yeah. I know what you meant. And I know what I mean. I’m practicing being more like all of you. Word games and tricks. Flimflam, bait and switch. Nothing gentle or genteel about any of it. Also, FYI, in my world, physicians don’t probe their patients’ innards without consent.”

“FYI?” The queen raises one silvery eyebrow as if almost amused by my uncooperative mood.

“For your information.”

“Ah. Well, FYI, I’m all you have now.” She offers what looks like a gumdrop. “Eat this.”

I consider shoving the bowl off my nightstand to watch the contents bounce across the shimmery slippers on her dainty feet, but the delectable fragrance reminds me of favorite holiday dishes Uncle used to make for me and Lark. I’ve already missed Thanksgiving, and it’s just a matter of hours until they’re celebrating Christmas. The temptation is too much, so I grab the squishy candy from her fingers and bite down. The tiny orb bursts, and a juicy syrup coats my tongue, robust with the flavor of turkey and dressing, cranberry sauce and green bean casserole. I reach for the bowl to grab another. This one tingles on my tongue with cinnamon, cloves, pumpkin, and whipped cream. The next tastes of mascarpone cheesecake with chocolate drizzles and almond crust. Then there’s butter-and-yeast-roll essence, eggnog flavor, and on and on. I know it’s some kind of enchantment, but still, I eat as if I’m starving. Maybe because each one tastes like home, like the food I’ve been craving for weeks . . . or maybe because I’ve been refusing the plates Perish brings on his visits, taking only nibbles once he leaves—just enough to stay alive. I can’t remember the last time I ate enough to feel satiated.

Not only does the nourishment fill my belly, but the magical depletion I’ve been suffering abates. In response, the mist from my headboard winds around my body under my gown, cleansing my skin and stamping me with the scent of trees, oakmoss, and dewdrops. I stretch my muscles, inspired by the current of rejuvenation, trying to decide if my maternal instincts toward the settings I’ve crafted are enough to persuade me to finally leave this bed and step outside.

Unconvinced, I burrow deeper into the covers to finish grazing.

“Stubborn fledgling,” Lady Glacia mumbles. In the soft afternoon glow of my room, her beautiful complexion, smooth and golden once more, mirrors the chandelier strung from the domed ceiling—another gift from Perish. The parchment luminaries cast shapes everywhere as the fixture spins gently in place: birds, moons, suns, and stars, each of them painted by colorful flames. Since it’s all glamourized, there’s no risk of the paper catching fire.

If only Uncle’s bakery had been made of illusions, it wouldn’t be a pile of ash, wrought by my sister’s hand.

The queen glances about at all the changes her son conjured on my request. Walls that were once black glass are now covered with gauzy white curtains that blow gently, as if a breeze wafts from behind them—carrying with it the perpetual scent of rain. Innumerable fireflies flitter behind the curtains, casting misty, muted light that brightens to yellow in the day and dims in the evening to a blue haze as soft as moonbeams.

Lady Glacia makes a frustrated sound—similar to a royal unicorn’s snort. “It appears our king has been indulging you . . . using his powers to fulfill your whims. He’s too delicate with you. Like he was with your sister. I’m here to amend that lapse and see that it doesn’t ill-affect our world again. One day of labor, however extraordinary the results, is just the beginning of your tenure. Yours is a lifetime obligation with many facets . . . including continuity of the Architect line. And my search of your body systems attests that you’re of childbearing age. So today we prepare for your betrothal.”

A stomach cramp disrupts my enjoyment of the sweet-potato-casserole-flavored gummy squished between my teeth.

“W-what?” I ask, nearly choking on the mashed-up treat as I scramble to sit up again. I’ve been despondent, sleeping on and off for what feels like a year. But I know it’s been only a few weeks since I rebuilt Mystiquiel and discovered the depths of Lark’s hatred and betrayal. My cheeks burn. “It’s not Halloween again yet.”

“Silly nescient hominid. Whatever your uncle may have told you about our contractual binds, those were his own unfounded suppositions. He’s never been here . . . never experienced our kingdom’s inner workings. Finding a suitable mate was not a choice we expected our girls to make overnight.” Her spindly fingers sweep long, colorful strands of hair that are stuck to my temples from where I’ve laid unmoving for days.

“What, do you think us barbarians?” She laughs at this, a bright tinkling sound contradictory with her wolfish teeth. That severe flash of white against thin, pretty lips rockets the nausea from my stomach to my head. She rearranges the flowery tiara across my temples. Since it flattens as I sleep and sprouts anew each day, it’s been sharing my hibernation.

Giving me a final appraisal, she glides across the room toward one wall panel, then pulls back the gauzy cover, effectively erasing Perish’s illusion of fireflies. The black glass appears again. Across it, she bids an opening in the shape of a square.

I shove the covers off, letting my feet rest on a floor carpeted with warm sand, rich with color, as if someone ran a rainbow through a mill grinder, shaving it into tiny glistening granules. “You’re going to open the threshold . . . let me visit my world today?”

Lady Glacia’s silken eyebrows furrow. “Your world is here. And no, you won’t set foot in the human realm again. Granted, in the past, we allowed our Architects to be an active part of the hunt once they’d chosen a mate. The boys responded better, when lured by the female. But things have changed due to your mother’s deception and the resulting disruption of my husband’s plans for you and your sister.” Lady Glacia’s petite nose wrinkles upon this cryptic claim.

“So, when our mom escaped, she somehow put a kink in King Talon’s spell?”

Lady Glacia scowls but doesn’t answer.

I know better than to try to force an explanation—but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up. The whole reason I sent Tat out was to search the castle for Scourge. Perish has his brother hidden away. He believes I’ll change Scourge back to flesh and blood, jeopardizing his control over the prince. His distrust is well founded, because I’m willing to bargain almost anything for information.

“On the upside, with this new protocol,” Lady Glacia continues as if I haven’t spoken, “there’s no reason for us to wait for a night of hauntings and monsters so we might blend into your world. The moment you choose your soulmate, we’ll retrieve him for you. You’ve been prattling on and on about missing out on holiday traditions, after all. So, we’ll make a new one this Christmas Eve. Tonight, we’ll bag you a gift as your Santa Clown would . . . but ours will be living and breathing. A boy of your choosing.”

The queen waves her hand across the square in the wall. The shape transforms into a window instead of the door I anticipated. I frown, bringing my legs up under the covers again and debating if I should drag my pillow over my head.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious how your mother chose your father?” Lady Glacia casts me what would be a sweet smile if not for her fangs.

Perish insisted that of all the things his mother can infiltrate in my body, my mind is not one of them; but she’s definitely adept at understanding the human psyche. Or, more likely, he told her how much I miss my parents . . . how curious I’ve been about them—the questions I’ve asked that he’s refused to answer. I don’t have to partake in this experience; I simply want to learn from it. After all, I have to choose a boy for them to bring me one. And I have no intention of doing that.

After tossing the covers aside, I swish some water to wash the delicious gummy bits from between my teeth, then light on the sand. My toes spring across the sponginess as I walk toward Lady Glacia. This sand, being illusory, doesn’t stick to the feet the way its corporeal counterpart would. I can’t decide if I like that aspect, or if it makes me miss home even more.

On my way, I coax the vines and petals of my long gown to reshape into a two-piece outfit: a tunic—slim at the bodice, with long, ruffle-cuffed sleeves—and soft fitted leggings that skim my ankles for easier movement. The scent of honeysuckle drifts down from my hair as the dew-sparkled blooms on my tiara unwind then sift through my colorful waves to form a braid down my back. Green ivy swirls at my feet, sculpting into a pair of leafy knee-boots lined with a fur that resembles dandelion tufts.

Unlike my futile attempts at redecorating my room, altering what I wear is something I’ve been able to do on my own. I’ve practiced while lying in bed during my hiatus. Compared with creating settings, it requires much less magic, but it’s still draining to refashion my clothes. However, it’s worth it. At least in this way, I can regain some sense of identity and control—being dressed as a mortal girl instead of a fairy princess.

Glaring at the queen, I wait until she steps back from the window with a swish of navy fabric. Her robe appears to be made of starlight, and dazzling-bright pinpricks reflect across the bared glass panel with her movements.

The opening in the wall is similar to others I’ve viewed in the castle, revealing living scenes like a television. Yet these don’t showcase Mystiquiel. They’re tuned in to the frequency of the mortal world.

My world—regardless of what anyone here says.

The window rattles then shifts, breaking into six separate images revealing close-ups of earthly boys, each preoccupied with different hobbies. Two look familiar . . . guys from art class at school. Another couple are strangers. But I nearly yelp upon seeing Ebon’s face—the mechanic and artist I dated in ninth grade. He’s the one who tattooed my lark sketch onto my skin, which I later liberated as a living being.

A temptation to call for Tat niggles once more, but I suppress it. The tiny creature has been keeping me company every night over the past week, listening to me recount stories of my past, of happier times with Lark, Clarey, and Uncle, and providing an ear as I vent aloud about Lark’s betrayal. So I can’t blame it for needing to escape the binds of my room during the day in search of amusements. Although it was conceived in the mortal world, being born here has given it the wandering spirit of a fey with the instinct to seek out mischief.

My focus homes in on Ebon’s image; he’s giving someone a tattoo. He looks older now, confirming that this is current—maybe even happening in real time. It’s shocking to find that the royal family knows about a guy I dated over two years ago.

“How long have you all been stalking me?” I snarl, turning to stare at the queen.

She shrugs a narrow shoulder. “The king played no part. But you’ve been in my sights since Perish discovered you and your sister. There was always a question if the twin he brought back was the fated one. I don’t believe in leaving things to chance. If anything were to happen to your other half, we needed to have access to her replacement.”

Although I’m angry at being duped into coming here by Perish as much as by Lark, I’m grateful it was the queen watching me and not him. It would’ve been more intrusive somehow, had he watched me so closely. Even further, it proves his devotion and faith in my sister were genuine to some degree, as he was too preoccupied with her to keep tabs on me.

I step closer to the lineup of human boys, enacting a slower study this time. I stop with a gasp when I come to the last one: dark curls with a sweep of white at the forehead, deep brown complexion, dual-colored eyes, and a frown hiding the dimples that only come out when he smiles.

“Clarey,” I whisper, my heartbeat stuttering.

He’s sculpting and carving a silicone hand, some SFX piece I’ll never get to see finished. It’s flesh colored, like a human’s. In fact, it looks very lifelike. Suddenly, he takes the X-Acto knife and jabs the hand, tearing the faux flesh apart, ruining the perfect symmetry of fingers and palm. My stomach clenches. The joy that used to spark in his eyes each time he worked on a new project is noticeably absent, replaced by frustration.

Maybe he’s upset over the bakery’s demise, though there’s no question Lark’s keeping her arson hidden. Whatever the case, he’s unable to concentrate on the things that once brought him joy. Is it more than the bakery? Could he be missing me as well?

I don’t want him or Uncle battling any guilt for my situation. Only Lark is to blame, and I need to find a way to tell them. I reach my finger toward the window and trace his face, willing Clarey to feel me. He pauses and looks up, searching around his room as if sensing me.

If only that were possible.

A swish of robes and starry lights along the reflective wall indicate Lady Glacia’s return to my side. “Seeing as you already have some affection for the boy, royal decree states we include him as an option.”

I temper the loneliness breaching my chest. “This was Perish’s idea? To let me be with Clarey?”

The queen cocks her dainty chin. “I don’t need to consult him. It has always been the way of things. Conception is more expedient with chemistry and romance initiated. Familiarity negates the need for a drawn-out courtship. You humans and your obsession with love. We’ve tried to breed Architects without the emotion . . . but the babies never grow to term here. Odd that in your world, the absence of love doesn’t impede procreation. Yet here, it’s a necessity for the continuation of Architect lineage. We believe it has to do with our own need to feed on human emotions. As we starve, the baby starves. So, is this Clarey your heart’s choice, then?”

A resounding yes sits on my tongue, waiting to launch.

He can’t belong to me . . . he’s with Lark now. I almost voice the bitter fact aloud, but stop myself, because my twin doesn’t deserve him or the life I gave up for her.

Instead, I share my reservations. “He won’t come. He doesn’t return my feelings anymore.”

“Love can be rekindled in your kind. So says my son. Although he’s against uprooting the boy. A confusing turn . . . considering his disdain for the thought of your other half with the human,” the queen answers cryptically.

Her words puzzle me. Yes, Lark’s affections for Perish grew beyond friendship before she left. From all I’ve observed, in visions and while watching Perish when her name is spoken, he harbored some fondness for her. But I can’t imagine any of the eldritch being capable of something as selfless as love.

For an instant, I consider letting the Queen bring Clarey to me. Maybe if I held him, talked to him, told him everything I’ve confided about to Tat, he wouldn’t want anything more to do with Lark; and together, he and I could find a way to escape just like my parents did.

Then I remember that even if by some miracle Clarey and I could escape . . . could bypass our sentence . . . my mom’s capture, along with my dad’s violent death, attests to how hopeless—and dangerous—it is to try to deceive the fey. They’ll always find me. They’ll always bring me back and hurt the ones I love as punishment.

My throat swells with tears I refuse to shed. I’m done crying.

“No,” I say, surprised that my voice doesn’t waver.

“No, you don’t want the boy you brought here with you on All Hallows’ Eve? The boy who would’ve become a goblin just to stay by your side? I daresay you won’t find a purer love.”

“No, you can’t make me choose any of them.”

Lady Glacia laughs. “Oh, but can’t we?”

With another swish of her hand, the window changes again. This time, it’s my father in each panel. Although he’s a teenager, I recognize his albino-white skin and colorless hair, those gray-frost eyes. Each panel shows him in different places: at home reading classic literature—several of the books being titles Uncle Thatch mentioned my mother loved; forming wool into yarn on a spinning wheel—another hobby shared with my mother, as she was also a spinner and a weaver . . . a fact impressed upon me when I sensed her talents through the foundations of Mystiquiel. My father’s fascination with wool and spinning begins to make sense when I see him shearing a sheep in another panel, then tending a herd on a mountainside in the last. Instead of wielding a staff and wearing a tunic or head covering like the shepherds of old times, he’s in a woolen cap and jeans, with a dog whistle strung outside his hoodie. Each time he blows it, a border collie that looks similar to Flannie, but with four working legs, bounds over to round up the flock.

A lesson in social studies from sixth grade comes to mind, when we learned about modern-day shepherds in the highlands of Alaska. I wonder if that’s where these scenes took place . . . and if, had Lark and I watched these moments play out back then, we would’ve known where to look for our dad’s family—to seek relatives who might still be alive.

Strange that I never wondered what kind of life he lived before Mom; I never questioned what she saw in him that made him special. Seeing this now, I can appreciate how she would’ve been drawn to the likenesses and interests they shared. The same thing any teen girl would be attracted to, if given a chance to date and find that special someone.

Then it hits me, that each of the boys from my options earlier was an artist in some way or another, just like my dad was. How maniacally brilliant of the royal family to choose young men they deemed creative, showing their Architects these intimate private scenes, these windows into their souls, in order to ensure their children would have such tendencies themselves.

“I watched each time your mother viewed Owen.” Lady Glacia disrupts my musings. “All those months prior to their meeting. I observed how he made her pulse rise, her pupils widen, her face flush—more than any of the other boys. I knew she was falling for the young shepherd even before she did. I could read it in her body’s reactions. Yet she refused to admit her desire. Refused to choose the boy she longed for most. So my husband took matters into his own talons.”

The window shifts into one plane again. The image of the border collie bounding over a cliff and disappearing into a thorny ravine, with nothing but blood and fur left behind, makes me cry out. At the top of the cliff stands the same white stag I saw leap in front of my parents’ car on the night they hid my sister and me from the fey. The same stag that caused my father’s fatal crash.

That creature was King Talon’s special glamour.

I fist my hands to tamp down my rage.

“I understand your favored boy loves his own little dog very much,” Lady Glacia whispers, far too close for my liking.

Bile rises in my throat just to imagine anyone doing something so awful to Flannie. I glare at Lady Glacia, my own teeth bared like a growling dog’s. “You would do that? You would hurt a helpless animal? I thought your kind respected nature.”

“More than your kind, to be sure. But above all else we protect our own. We do what must be done to keep our world running seamlessly. We had to demonstrate what would happen to the boy she refused to choose, how the same unfortunate accident that befell his dog could be his own. Thus, we roused your mother’s hand and heart. To save your father, she lured him here.”

My disgust must taste as bitter to the queen as her admission does to me, because she smacks her tongue as if trying to clear her palate. “Surely you don’t expect that we would conform to the same morals and strictures of humankind?” she asks.

Despite her use of the word “we,” I refuse to believe Perish would play the game in quite the same way. After all, he could easily have harmed Flannie when she was here with Clarey and me. Instead, the king let her go back home. Lark didn’t even know Clarey had a dog when she and Perish made their pact. It wouldn’t have been part of his bargain with her. Also, he was so kind to the little faeries at the raucous dinner party, choosing not to punish them for letting things with Scourge get out of hand. And Perish appeared to pity his subjects when they were trapped in their bubbles, waiting for their world to be reborn. Most noticeable of all, each time I bring up my sister’s failed attempt to build his world, he actually looks regretful for the part he played.

All of that has to mean something. Or am I being naive? Lark’s feelings of trust and fondness toward the Goblin King rubbed off on me during my view of her memories. Am I being influenced by experiences that aren’t mine because they now reside in my mind?

I watch the pinpricks of light dance within the queen’s evening-dark robes, remembering clear nights on the beach with my sister . . . how we used to wish upon stars, side by side. What’s she wishing for now, when she stands beside Clarey looking up at the moon?

Does she care that I’m here in her place? Does she feel any guilt at all? Does she wish she could take back what she did, so she could be beside Perish again?

My throat dries—as if I’ve swallowed all the sand on my floor—as I’m hit with a sudden epiphany. Over these past two months, I’ve come to learn what happens to the fathers of Architects. How they’re forced to forget everything through a process much crueler than inhaling a piskie’s nirvanic dust. For not just temporary memories are erased, but their own identity.

If I bring Clarey here to be the father of the next Architect, once the fey have what they want, they’ll make him forget who he is and drop him back in the mortal world, homeless and lost.

“Say the word, Architect, and your Clarey will be in your arms by tonight,” Lady Glacia presses. “A Christmas gift for you, sans the bow and wrapping paper.”

Since she can see into me, read my body’s responses to Clarey’s image . . . how can I lie without hurting him? What’s the right answer to protect him and Flannie both?

I’m given a reprieve when a square shape snicks into view in the wall that leads into the castle. Once it enlarges to a doorway, Perish fills the entrance, his antlers sizzling with magic, his otherworldly beauty warped with rage.

“What have you done, Phoenix of the Flames?” the Goblin King asks with a snarl. “Explain this havoc you’ve unleashed upon my kingdom.”

11

winter bird

Nix

Perish’s royal robes rival his mother’s, though the fabric on his swirls with storms. The silken rustle brings to mind gusts of wind, and gray stippled clouds drift across the black velvet, then gather at the neck to form a collar that resembles fleece. Deep inside the fluff, zigzag flares radiate—mirroring those that embroider his crown and antlers—like a tempest pulsing with living light.

Yet it’s not just the robes. He is a tempest. He’s never looked more powerful: broader, taller, wilder, or more intimidating.

I struggle to hide an influx of reverent admiration. It’s my sister’s influence, and I’m determined to contain it.

“Answer me, Architect. Give an account of your motives.”

I don’t know how to respond until he steps fully inside. His skin-hugging pants, tucked into knee-high boots, are wet with icy slush. Given this and his mother’s mention of frostbitten trees and fruits, it’s an easy assumption he’s been strolling the royal orchards.

“Explain yourself. Why are you seeking my ruin? Do you not understand yet, that you’re a part of this place? How compromising that symmetry affects you as much as all of us?”

I frown as if puzzled. “I’m going to need more information.”

“How about a visual aid?” Perish slips a shadowy form from inside his shirt and holds it up between his finger and thumb. Wings splay open at his palm, fluttering in brushstroke streaks—ink smearing the air.

Tat.

“Oh,” I mumble, biting back my disappointment at being caught.

My partner in crime pecks the Goblin King’s hand, drawing a black well of blood that turns white upon hitting the air.

“Little vampire!” Frowning, Perish grits his teeth. At first, I think he’s going to smear my tiny companion into oblivion, but instead he tsks. “Fine, you want a feast, have at it.” Tat bites him a few more times before Perish finally flicks his attacker away. Tat flies to my side then lands on my shoulder, rustling the honeysuckle vines that have slipped free from my plaited hair. Smacking its beak as if savoring Perish’s blood, Tat winds its way under my braid to hide at the base of my neck.

“What is that . . . thing?” Lady Glacia asks from somewhere behind me, her question edged with horror.

I almost laugh at the irony—a monster being unnerved by something so benign as an inkblot.

“A spy,” Perish answers as he compresses where the blood leaks from his palm until the flow stops. His burgundy eyes and white pupils turn on me. “The cursed thing freed Scourge from his room. I’ve no idea where he’s hidden himself.”

I tamp down the urge to gloat at my success, hold every reaction at bay so Perish and his mother can’t feast on my moods.

“Well,” I say calmly, “if you would spare an answer now and then, I wouldn’t have to resort to seeking information elsewhere.” Now I only need to find out where Scourge has holed himself up. Tat can help with that.

Perish tips his head low, like a buck preparing to charge. I don’t tense a muscle. He’s never been physically abusive to me or Lark, and I don’t expect he’s about to start now. Rather than rushing me, he glares at the floor. His magic crackles blindingly, uncoiling from his antlers in a staticky strike.

Flashes ignite across the sand. Here and there, patches transform from rainbow glitter to sterile glass again. One sheet hardens beneath my feet like a glossy black puddle. With that change, the sparking current forks to all corners of the room, and other details shift back—branches and mist returning to a sterile iron bed frame, the chandelier’s prismatic luminaries replaced by the milky flicker of anemic bulbs. Besides a few small stretches of sand here and there, the only thing that remains is the breezy white curtains, from behind which the glowing flutter of bugs continues to gild the room with daylight.

He’s punishing me while leaving just enough intact to remind me of the rewards he can provide should I choose to cooperate.

I set my jaw as he raises his eyes to mine, locking me in a stare. Our momentary clash of wills shatters around us once Lady Glacia overcomes her fear of Tat and approaches me. Her chilling huff raises goose bumps along my nape and spine as she snatches my shoulders and jerks me around to face her.

“Traitorous little beast. After all my royal son has done to coddle you.” She turns to Perish. “Your brother was right—her lineage can’t be trusted to uphold the contract any longer. Both girls are tainted with their mother’s brazen audacity. It will carry on to this one’s children as well. Do not waste time seeking out your brother as a fugitive. He will rise from underground of his own accord, if you acknowledge he has devised the perfect solution. Invite him to stand by your side . . . to be an advisor to the throne. Allow him to enact his idea of reinstating the Goblin Market, but instead, we take humans as babes. Use our enchanted fruit to bid obeisance from caretakers at orphanages, hospitals, nurseries—anywhere the human spawn are born and kept. Have them snatch the babes and bring them to us at each All Hallows’ Eve, before the stroke of midnight.”

I gulp back a shocked gasp, stunned by the brazen depravity of such a plan. This is why Perish was keeping Scourge under his thumb? Why he locked him up? Why he and Lark joined forces and had him altered?

I’m sickened by my rash interference, by the danger I’ve set loose. I wanted to bargain with Scourge, thinking there was no such thing as the lesser of evils between fey brothers—that Lark’s view of Perish was blurring my own perceptions.

I was wrong. Scourge wasn’t just hungry for the throne . . . he wants to hit humans in the one place they revere most of all. Their offspring. Bad enough when it was teens. But now they want to take babies.

My stomach drops like a lead balloon.

Perish steps over the threshold and the door clicks and clacks as it shrinks into the wall, then vanishes. He looks past me to his mother, gold-fringed lashes squinted in an expression of controlled ferocity. “You want that I should appoint my brother a position, knowing what his ultimate plan would entail? Taking male and female babes alike . . . growing them here like cattle put to pasture, penning them up, breeding them, and chaining them to their tasks. You would have me acquiesce to such savagery, despite the tenuous threads that weave their dreams and talents?”

Lady Glacia purses her lips. “You needn’t be concerned about the inbreeding, that the progeny may become dull-witted, unimaginative. That’s why we capture fresh batches every year. What’s important is we regain consistency, control. There’ve been too many lapses in our settings of late. Our subjects are growing restless spending so much time in limbo; they’re losing faith in our leadership. Should it continue, they’ll start a revolution, raid the throne. End our reign. Unless we can provide reliable Architects in constant supply. Think of it; there’s no limit to what we can do by having more than one designer at a time, each spinning the world’s threads. There would be boundless variety in such fluid environs.”

Perish huffs. “Variety does not equate to consistency, dear mother. Would that you could understand. Humans are competitive by nature. They would try to outdo one another. There must always be only one. You simply can’t see the ruination our greed and their miscellany would cause in the end.”

Mother and son are so intensely focused on their narrative, it’s as if they’ve forgotten I’m here. For the first time since my arrival, I feel like I’m getting the truth. I envision myself as a firefly on the wall, hidden behind a curtain, and hold myself rooted to the glass beneath my feet, afraid to even twitch a muscle else they remember I’m here and curtail their dialogue. I’m careful to keep my gaze averted, convinced if I don’t see them, they won’t see me . . .

My focus tightens on Perish’s boots. The mud-tinged ice crystals dribble in rivulets along the leather and dampen the sand beneath him, melting from warmth—either from the room or his own body heat.

“We know from our histories,” he continues, “that human innovation feeds on the mortal experience . . . it’s why we always have the mate brought in from the world of mortal men, someone who was raised there, untouched and unspoiled by our kind. It’s that crucial spark they bring to the Architect line—absent in the girls shielded here without ordinary human interactions and concerns—that feeds into the baby, spawning an emotional propensity and purity that can be forged only through the human condition . . . that fragile symmetry of life and death. Should this be taken away, all is lost here. You think our current situation stark? We’ve learned better—when the Goblin Market began to fail us, when the captives missed their homes and loved ones and lost hope, and inspiration died alongside it. Perhaps since you didn’t bear witness with your own eyes, you don’t remember that dark age.”

“Neither did you! Your great-grandfather walked in those shadows. Your father and I weren’t yet born ourselves. So how could you possibly remember?”

He bares spiked teeth and traces a long fingertip across the bright flashes atop his head. “My crown remembers, and so it will never be forgotten: without hope, earned through experiences, inspiration dies. Barren landscapes and emotionless voids give rise to starvation and deprivation in our immortal populace, the cannibalization of all magic just to subsist—a fate far more damaging than sitting secluded in limbo while waiting for a restructured world. The only arrangement that will serve us, prove us capable rulers and prevent our preying on—or being reliant on—the humans more than necessary, is the contract we have with this family’s line. It’s elegant in its simplicity. We simply need to resume the ebb and flow of the original agreement. We teetered off course, but we’re finding our way back again, so long as I can prevent Scourge from undermining our progress and costing us this precariously earned peace.”

Lady Glacia’s frown deepens, and she squeezes my shoulders tighter. “I would have agreed with your hope for peace, if your Lord Father’s attempt to elevate this Architect’s loyalties in vitro had worked. But Imogen’s escape resulted in premature births, and botched everything.” Lady Glacia grinds her fingernails into my scapula and locks my gaze with her fluid eyes. I yelp and dig at her wrists, trying to break free.

“I’m not so sure of that, Lady Mother,” Perish answers.

In the instant Lady Glacia’s attention shifts from me to her son, Tat darts out from beneath my braid and flutters in the air, reshaping into something resembling a bat. It dive-bombs into the queen’s long hair, tangling it into frizzled knots. The queen frees me, preoccupied with the tiny clawed wings and pricking teeth that leave black-streaked punctures along her flawless neck and chest.

Enraged, the queen growls and captures the tattoo. She crushes its body into a drizzle of sludge in her right hand. I gasp when she raises her fist, ready to launch my blotted friend into the wall alongside my father’s images of the past still playing out in the window.

“Please, don’t,” I plead.

“That’s enough.” Perish’s deep voice ignites behind me, his complete sovereignty a gruff whetstone that grinds the edges of each word to sharp points. “Put the nestling down. It meant no harm and shouldn’t be held accountable for following the commands of its creator.”

“Its creator?” Lady Glacia pales and allows the sludge to drip out of her fingers onto the floor—a puddle of black blotting out the rainbow sands at her feet.

“Tat, come back.” I kneel. Not only is this my creation, it’s my one keepsake from the mortal world. I hold my breath, hopeful as a current of electricity pulses through the puddle then scatters the liquid into a line of oily beads. I rein in my trembling vocal cords, forcing a strong command: “Good. Get yourself together.”

The tiny orbs rise from the floor like a string of black beads, and a few inches up, they reassemble into my lark tattoo.

Determined to keep my companion safe, while also hoping to fix my mistake, I issue a final directive: “Go back to where you came from; then we’ll lead the king to his missing brother.” I stand and wait for the tattoo to weave itself once more into my skin, to imprint its wings onto the outer edge of my left collarbone and suture its dual tail feathers into the tip of my shoulder, so together we can find Scourge.

Instead, in a blurred slash of ink, Tat soars toward the glass wall and becomes one with the window before evaporating from sight. I watch in bewilderment. The tattoo must’ve misunderstood and returned to the tunnels beneath this castle where I first freed it from my flesh.

I turn to see Perish and his mother standing stock-still, both of them staring with expressions of awe at the rippling glass until it smooths, marking Tat’s successful exit.

“How could she have created this being?” the queen asks. “Furthermore, a phenotype of man, foreign to our kind. The only one who had such an ability was—” She cuts herself off. “No. This twin isn’t rooted deep enough in our world’s foundation to enact such a miracle. Unless . . .”

“Yes.” Perish takes up the queen’s abandoned observation. “Unless her other half’s connection is still being facilitated by the magical bond between them, causing a loop of sorts. Which might also explain what’s happening outside. It appears Lord Father’s thwarted spell has taken an unexpected turn. Whether the effect will be fortuitous or fatal is yet to be seen.”

Lady Glacia opens her mouth, then shuts it without speaking as Perish slips the starlit robe from her delicate form.

“You’ll need this for warmth, Architect.” He settles the fabric across my shoulders and back. His mother’s residual body heat sinks into my shoulders, easing the gouges her nails left beneath my clothes—the closest I’ll ever get to an apology from her.

“Aren’t we going to look for Tat? For Scourge?” I ask.

“In due time,” Perish answers. “But first, you need to mend what’s become of Mystiquiel.”

“So you’re taking me to the orchard,” I guess, straightening the robe’s sparkling collar.

Perish resituates the tiara on my scalp, coaxing it to sprout taller atop my head. “To view the winter season, yes. But not just in the orchards. The streets of your new Astoria, the beach, and the forests. Our entire world is withering beneath a cruel frost. And you need to help me find a means to contain it before my subjects become ice sculptures. You’ve been asking of my father’s enchantment upon your sister and yourself. You’re about to get your answer. But be prepared, for the chill out there is nothing to what the truth will spawn within your heart.”

Lark

It’s 7:00 p.m., five hours left till Christmas, and with every turn of the clock’s hand, my own disappears a little more.

Glancing down at my left arm, I flex silicone fingers, animating the robotic skeleture underneath. It’s basically a high-tech ambulatory glove, the harness of which clamps onto my wrist and is concealed by a wide cuff bracelet of black leather with silver studs. The grunge design fits perfectly into Nix’s wardrobe, so no one’s the wiser. The outer silicone shell, crafted by Clarey to fit over my own mechanical prosthetic construct, looks so convincing in its fleshy realism—with knuckles and veins that bulge during strenuous activities—I’ve managed to fool both Uncle Thatch and Juniper for almost a month.

But even as I’ve extended the harness bracelet—from a single two-inch-wide strap all the way to six fat strands—in hopes of concealing my forearm’s regression, the vanishing doesn’t seem to be stopping. It may be slow, but it’s incessant. Soon the hollowness will reach my elbow. And today, there’s an added wrinkle. Fighting a wave of nausea, I reach toward the curtain on my bedroom window with my right hand and watch in the lamplight as the very tips of my fingers slide through the gossamer cloth without causing even a ripple. At this rate, by New Year’s I’ll be a full-blown automaton. How ironic: the mechanic becoming the mechanical.

I’ve already soldered together a second metallic counterpart of carpal, metacarpal, and phalange bones and connected them to an automated wrist joint. This I’ll attach to a studded leather bracelet once Clarey arrives with the silicone shell and we confirm it’s a good fit. Judging by the clock ticking on my wall, Juniper closed up shop a half hour ago, so Clarey should arrive any minute.

My stomach knots, anticipating another argument. That’s all we seem to do lately. Fortunately, even with school out for the holiday break, his stints at work helping Juniper and Uncle Thatch prep for their grand opening while I’m supposedly laid up in bed unable to walk without crutches have made it easy enough to avoid any in-person visits. And I’ve been able to talk him out of telling Uncle anything until we’ve figured out what’s happening to me. My logic being, Uncle deserves to have a stress-free start-up with Juniper, considering all he lost with the fire—not to mention all the people relying on Uncle’s business for jobs, including the couple who had a baby two months ago on Halloween night.

Still, Clarey’s made a point of calling and texting me. He’s been hearing Nix’s voice in his BAHA more frequently. Each night she shares secrets with him as a kind of bedtime story. Apparently, she’s completely unaware that he hears her, as he’s tried to talk back with no success. The frequency is staticky, which means he’s not catching all of her words. But one thing he did piece together is that I wanted her to get trapped in Mystiquiel. That I helped Perish lure her there so we could switch places. I’d think the boy was losing it, if not for the truth behind everything those whispers say.

So far, I’ve been able to hold him at bay, telling him he’s being tricked by the eldritch. That they’re toying with both of our lives. That they’re responsible for my procreant blood and vanishing flesh. That they’re trying to turn us against each other, punishing him for crossing the veil and me for all the damage I left in my wake. But I’m not sure how much longer I can maintain the lies. There’s some real magical reason I’m fading away, and if I can’t stop it on my own, I’ll need both Clarey’s and Uncle’s help. No doubt once they learn of King Talon’s enchanted link between me and Nix, they’ll want me to use it to find a way back to her somehow—which means everything will come out. Then I’ll have to see her succeeding in Mystiquiel where I failed . . . I’ll have to face Perish’s disappointment twofold as he realizes I failed him here just as badly as I did in his world.

How many sordid details does Nix know on her end? Is she aware of the traitorous lengths I’ve gone to here, following Perish’s instructions in order to break all ties? That’s the burning question now . . . no pun intended.

If she’s tapped into any of my residual landscapes, she’ll know things only I know. And faerie-kind forbid she share any of those details with Clarey.

I exhale across the window to fog the view. Outside our house, white powdery drifts, tinged blue by the twilit sky, cloak the ground and cap the trees. Snow crochets the window frame and curls in scallops across the outer sill, as if Uncle piped them on himself with a tube of vanilla-bean frosting. A clouded mist hazes the neighborhood, enveloping the trees and streets, making everything appear subdued and abandoned. Earlier today, when bits of sunlight peeked out, children in brightly colored winter coats appeared at intervals from behind snowmen and forts, volleying a rain of snowballs. A picturesque, perfect Christmas Eve—for those ignorant enough not to know the things I know. Not to see the things I’ve seen.

It’s been like this ever since Thanksgiving. The meteorologists failed to predict a snowstorm of this scale and duration. But considering Nix’s scene’s encroachment into both my blood and my dreams, I’m holding my magical bond with my twin responsible, just as it’s to blame for the otherworldly flowers sprouting uncontrollably at ground zero across town and here in my room, under my bed and around my baseboards and window. Even though I uprooted the first batch, I have to pluck new ones daily so Uncle won’t notice.

I won’t have the chance to kill the ones Juniper holds in pots until they can be planted in her boutique’s courtyard. Doesn’t matter anyway. After all, what good would it do to crush the original invasion, considering new seedlings continue to sprout where the bakery once stood? Even in the dead of this winter gale, they grow tall and hearty, garish-bright against the background of powder white.

The phenomenon has actually become something of a local legend over the last couple of weeks. Uncle paid to have a wrought iron fence installed around the plot, and locked the gate to hold tourists at bay. Even our fellow towners seem inclined to stargaze, crowds stalling on the sidewalk all hours of the day and night, conferring as to what kinds of plants could possibly thrive in torched, ice-crusted earth . . . and how their growth can’t be natural.

Rumors abound, the most outrageous being that a UFO sent a laser beam into the roof of Uncle’s bakery and leveled the building, leaving bare a place to plant the seeds of a telepathic genus of flowers—so aliens could control our minds and take over the world.

Though most people laugh off that theory, everyone is mystified enough to avoid touching the rainbow blooms, much less eat them. Which means the conjecture has ruined Uncle’s plans to use the candied petals to kick-start his new bakery line. But it hasn’t quashed his idea to use the flowers as bait for the Goblin King, in hopes of opening a line of communication between them again.

After crushing the candied petals, he and Juniper used the colored powders to create bright marzipan-style flowers, which they set atop an assortment of meringue confectioneries flavored with Juniper’s specialized teas. They’re calling them tea-dainties, and their combined clientele are already abuzz, eager for the opening in two weeks so they can sample them for themselves.

I’ve been too preoccupied with my own physical changes to figure out how to stop him. All other concerns center on what horrors I’ve unleashed upon the town that have yet to materialize. The winter scene outside my window is incomplete. Where are the missing creatures—Krampus, the puzzle-piece gingerbread men? Angels with their wings torn and ruffled by the anti–Santa Claus?

The destruction they could unleash on the innocent people here is every bit as disturbing as Scourge’s plans for our world. I cringe and huff on the windowpane again, then swipe away the fog with my mechanical hand. Clarey’s Suburban appears across the street but stalls a few houses down under a bright streetlight. I squint, seeing him press his forehead against the steering wheel.

One of his hands clenches the grip’s leather cover beside his temple, knuckles knotted into pale protrusions. His other hand cups his ear, as though cradling his BAHA.

I gnaw the labret in my lower lip. Is he receiving more enigmatic transmissions from Nix? As if startled, he sits up and shakes his head. Scowling, he gives the Suburban gas and pulls alongside our curb to park.

I rush to my bedroom door, shoving my ear against the slight opening to hear Uncle greet him. My heart thuds as I strain to listen, part of me convinced Clarey’s going to spill everything before he gives me a chance to explain. I inhale deeply when their conversation dances around weather and store-related chit-chat.

Uncle urges Clarey toward my room after promising to bring some cocoa he’s boiling on the stove, and a set of footsteps shuffles down the hall. I rush over to my bed, ensure my crutches are visibly propped against the wall beside my headboard, then settle on the mattress with my legs crossed in the lotus position.

“Come in,” I call while trying to look busy with my tools—untangling the nylon-coated wires running through my newest metal hand.

The hinges creak and Clarey peers inside, his forehead and white forelock awash in lamplight, leaving everything from his nose down drenched in darkness. I squint, trying to see the slant of his lips; when that fails, I force myself to read his eyes. The anger and mistrust there are unmistakable.

I shift my attention to the large canvas pouch he’s carrying. It’s the one he uses to transport any SFX items—makeup, sponges, and small tools—that he may need for touch-ups. It looks like a mix between a purse and Santa’s toy bag.

“Well, if it isn’t the Grinch that stole Christmas,” I quip, my throat scratchy and dry. “That must be the tiniest evergreen ever. What, did you raid Malibu Barbie’s holiday house on the way to Whoville?”

He steps fully inside and shuts the door. The lamp illuminates the rest of his face, revealing a frown that deepens as he clenches the bag tighter at the sight of the skeletal framework I’m holding with my working ambulatory “hand.”

A tremor vibrates along his jaw. “You know, there was a time I would’ve been so glad to see you working on inventing again. That was back when you made things for the pure pleasure of it. Or even because you wanted to help others. Now, it’s all about covering up your fictions. If anyone’s heart needs to grow a few sizes, it’s yours. Tonight, you’re going to be the solid eighteen-karat girl you once were. The one I can trust. The one who cares about her sister. And just so you know, I’m not backing down this time.”

“Easy enough to deduce by the look on your face.” I roll my eyes, still not ready to cave. There has to be some way to fix this without opening up a Pandora’s box. “So you think you heard Nix again. The fairies and goblins must be laughing their pointed ears off at how gullible you are.”

His stare intensifies along with the silence around us.

I lift an eyebrow. “Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to tell me what I’ve been accused of now?”

He plucks at the drawstring cinching the bag. “I heard that the bakery fire has your fading fingerprints all over it.”

His words hit hard, and I clench my teeth to hide my shock. If he knows that tidbit, then Nix must know, too. I wish that didn’t bother me like it does.

“Right.” I manage the rebuttal without my voice trembling. “That makes so much more sense than it being arranged by the Goblin King.” I’ve learned by now that the art of subterfuge is all in the delivery. Lies roll off the tongue easier if you can spin them into half-truths. “Think it through, Clarey. He sent his little deviants here to shut down Uncle’s access to his blood so we’d have no way to get back to Nix. As an added benefit, it eradicated our supply of fruits—the last piece of Mystiquiel here in our world—since he no longer requires help feeding the fey populace with human emotions. Makes a lot more sense than me committing arson back when I was in a wheelchair and could barely lift my arms, don’t you think?”

“What I think is that you never needed the chair or therapy. When we went scramsville after the spray-painting fiasco, you forgot to pretend you were a crip and jumped out of the trolley, leaving me to get your crutches. Did you forget that detail?”

I start to open my mouth, to remind him that my legs gave out when I hit the ground outside the trolley, but a sharp shake of his head stalls me.

“Sure, you pretended to fall, like you were so freaked out your adrenaline overtook . . . like you couldn’t even think straight. But the truth was, you were so freaked you couldn’t fake straight.”

I align my functioning mechanical fingers with the skeleton’s counterparts to measure them, trying to avoid his stare. I’m furious: with him for outing me and with myself for thinking I’d managed to cover up my faux pas. He’s been sitting on this accusation for weeks, waiting for the right time to trap me with it.

He smirks. “Ah, I see I hit a nerve. Just so we’re clear, kitten, I’m in the driver’s seat now.”

I swallow to moisten my throat. “So, what? You’re going to out me to Uncle?”

Clarey directs his gaze to my fading left hand and opens the canvas bag just enough for me to see three perfect silicone fingertips peeking out. “Don’t have to. He’s going to see for himself what’s happening unless you get what you need from me. And I’m not delivering until you pay with the truth. Until you dish everything you’ve been hiding since you came home.”

Situating the beak of some needle-nose pliers—red handles instead of pink since my own tool was lost somewhere in a maze in Mystiquiel—around several wires, I squeeze. My motorized fingers bend and flex, joining the cluster together.

Clarey leans against the door behind him, squinting as he watches me work. “By the way, it wasn’t only Nix this time in my ear. I heard Perish, too. He said something . . . not about you . . . or I guess it kind of is.” He rubs the scar that cuts through his left eyebrow—a self-soothing gesture he developed while I was gone all those years. “It’s about both you and Nix. About a curse of some kind. Something Perish’s dad did to you guys, in vitro. I’m guessing you know what he meant by that, too.”

I clear my throat, hoping to clear the sand filling my vocal cords. “Have you ever considered not wearing the BAHA for a while? You know the old adage—if you can’t hear something nice, don’t hear anything at all . . .”

Clarey snarls and tosses the bag across to me. It lands on my bed, inches from my knee, teetering on the edge of the mattress and threatening to slide to the floor. I snag it before it falls.

Borrowing his smug smirk, I sigh. “You disappoint me. With your love for noir detective shows, you should know better than to hand over the goods before you open the briefcase to count the payment.”

“I’m leaving the counting to you. Tell me, how many fingers do you see there?”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. He’s toying with me, although I’m not sure what his endgame is—until I tug down the canvas to reveal the full hand. It’s a mess . . . all five fingers akimbo like broken twigs, gouges in the palm, and distorted knuckles bursting out from their silicone shell; it’s like a prop from a horror movie, after someone’s arm is caught in a wood chipper. The only thing missing from the mangled specimen is oozing blood. Clarey made the perfect hand, then crippled it.

I glance up at him, the edges of my eyes stinging hot. “Is this some kind of sick joke? Why would you do this to your own creation?”

He shakes his head. “What an apropos question for this entire situation, Lark. Because according to Nix, you and Perish intentionally ruined Mystiquiel for his gain. Then when you couldn’t fix it, your sister had to go in and take care of things.”

I start to open my mouth, but Clarey holds up a finger to stall me.

“I’ve heard your excuses. I’m not buying that the fairies are to blame for the bakery . . . for any of it. What’s it going to take for you to be straight with me? With yourself?” He motions to the traveling SFX bag on my bed for emphasis. “I brought stuff to fix that hand . . . but I’m the only one who can do it. First, you have to lay it all on me.”

I huff. “You don’t want to help? Then I don’t want your help.” I shove the silicone mess off my mattress, listening to it thud like a fat toad when it hits the floor. “And news flash, bozo, you can retire the sixties slang seeing as it’s the twenty-first century!” I throw my skeletal framework across the room. It drops with a sickening clang next to Clarey’s feet.

Unblinking, he keeps his attention on me.

I snarl and toss the Santa-style bag back to him.

He catches it midair. “So, you think you can go down swinging? How are you planning to do that, when you’re about to have nothing left to swing with?”

I curl my right hand to hide the fading fingertips and wince.

“You know,” he continues, “I get that you were scared when you were there. I get that you felt like you had to do anything you could to cash out and make it back home. But to go along with the Goblin King’s evil plans? To pair up with that fink over your sister? Nix would’ve taken your place without anyone needing to trick her. She loves you that much. That’s the difference between you and her. She’s platinum . . . thinks of others over herself.”

I leap off the bed, no longer trying to hide the strength in my legs. My face flushes hot and my stomach clenches tight. “I’m so over her being the sacrificial lamb. You’ve no idea what I gave up because I was thinking of others. Trying to keep all the mortals in our world safe.”

“Saving all humanity? C’mon.” Clarey schools his features into a sardonic glare; his doubt is a slap to the face—despite that I’ve earned it.

I’m about to unpack everything: the truth behind my and Perish’s scheme, my feelings for the Goblin King and what we almost had together, my brokenness at leaving Mystiquiel behind and handing it over to my twin, and the enchantment King Talon put into play that launched it all. Just to shove an example of true sacrifice in his face. But the words gurgle in the back of my throat unspoken when Clarey yelps in pain and grips his BAHA in the same instant a tiny black bird slams into my picture window and explodes in a splatter of oily ink and black smears that pale to white in the cold air.

White—like goblin blood. A king’s blood.

Clarey meets my gaze—looking as stunned as I feel. I forget to grab my crutches as we race toward my door, each trying to pass the other on our way out.

12

volte-face

Lark

We don’t even make it across the bedroom threshold before a crackling, snapping sound draws our attention back to the window.

Clarey and I trade alarmed glances as the glass fractures, tiny threaded lines intersecting like cobweb. Through the fissures, both the ink and white-blood residue seep in. The mixture dribbles down the glass until it comes together in a marbled blob of black and white.

Still as statues, Clarey and I look on in wonder when the shapeless form peels free and floats, acquiring a familiar outline—similar to Batman’s bat signal, yet instead of an imprint of light against a night sky, this is a shadow in midair.

Upon closer inspection, it’s not so much a bat as a bird in flight . . .

“Lark!” Clarey shouts beside me, his voice ringing in my ear.

I wince. “I’m right here, pinhead! You don’t have to scream.”

“No, that’s a lark. A lark tattoo.” The rest he leaves unspoken so it hangs in the air between us like a python waiting to coil around my neck and suffocate me: Nix’s tattoo, to be exact.

As if prompted by Clarey’s observation, the winged interloper shifts from abstract and fluid to corporeal and sylphlike in a blink. It flutters in place, its inky wings streaking the air in front of us like a butterfly moving in slow motion.

The living smudge dive-bombs me on its way toward my desk. I duck behind Clarey, then peer out as the tattoo flaps itself across one of Nix’s notebooks, opened to a blank page because I couldn’t bring myself to look at her work. The inkblot locks flatly into place, a dead ringer for a freshly drawn sketch. Alongside the image, atop the paper, a creamy white pool of goblin blood remains intact and alone. Weirdly, it doesn’t dampen or soak the page, or even blur the lark’s edges. It just sits there like a half-dollar puddle of melted pearls, shimmering in the dim light of my room.

For another minute or so, neither Clarey nor I move. My throat tightens, but I’m not exactly shocked by our uninvited guest; I doubt Clarey is, either. We’ve already seen every law of logic and nature challenged in Mystiquiel.

What I feel is fear for what this means . . . Perish’s blood is the key to unearthing Mystiquiel’s veil, along with everything I’ve been hiding.

“She found a way to do it,” Clarey whispers. “Nix is reaching out. She’s given us the way to her.”

I suppress a whimper in response.

Catching my breath, I flash a glance toward the Kleenex box that sits on my nightstand. Every muscle in my body tenses, and I leap forward to snag a tissue so I can wipe away the king’s blood before Clarey can show it to Uncle. I forget that my right hand’s fading and reach out with my faltering fingers. My thumb almost catches the tissue’s corner, but my forefinger’s tip flows right through it, causing it to tremble as if on a gust of wind.

My ridiculous performance gives Clarey just enough time to draw out a makeup swab from his bag and aim it at the white puddle. I growl, helplessly watching as he sops up the blood. For protection, he drops the sponge into a baggie and cinches his fingers around the zipper closure.

“You suck,” I say.

“Actually, sponges do.” He smirks, his dimples making an appearance, which has been happening far too rarely of late. “And then all they need is a little squeeze to release what they’re holding.”

He starts for the door but I step in front of him. “What are you planning?”

“Take it to the kitchen to show your uncle. We’ll squeeze it into a vial and finally have a way to cross the veil.”

I tell myself silently not to worry . . . that these guys won’t be able to find any workable entrance.

Clarey must read the look on my face because he continues, “I’m itching for a field trip to Cannon Beach. Haystack Rock is quiet this time of year, yeah? We’ll have all the privacy we’ll need to explore.”

I curse under my breath. Of course . . . Clarey and Nix wound up finding that portal by stepping into a house of mirrors that Perish bridged to the rock. A part of me revels in seeing the Goblin King’s mistake. If only I could point it out to him. Make him feel as inadequate as I felt with all my failings in his world.

I scold myself for that thought, because Perish actually never made me feel inadequate. He gave me every chance to prove myself, had faith in me until the bitter end. And now I’ve let him down again. But I don’t have to take full blame on this one. It was him who exposed the whereabouts of the entrance with his little trick.

Doesn’t matter anyway, because I still have a chance to stop this from going any further. I just have to get that sponge . . .

Clarey nudges me aside and opens the door before I can stop him, then makes his way down the hall.

I glare at the tattoo, dried and dormant on the paper.

“Thanks a lot, inkblot,” I growl, almost laughing at the unintentional alliteration. When I was strapped to Mystiquiel’s core and my mind began meshing with all the other creatures who inhabited my settings, lush, poetic language became the only way I could steer my thoughts to any semblance of individuality. Thinking in stanza and verse anchored me to sanity. But there’s nothing sane about a living tattoo, or about talking to a piece of paper.

I start to follow Clarey out, determined to snatch the baggie before he makes it as far as the living room, when an orange spark electrifies the page, releasing a slight scent of sulfur. The voltaic shimmer follows the lark’s outline then flashes from one wing to the other, ending at the beak tip. A sizzling pop follows, turning into something like a hissing squawk that carries the words “Go back . . .”

As it clears up, the static smoothing away, it transforms into a voice as familiar as my own. “Go back to where you came from.”

I gulp when the message repeats. It’s Nix’s command, being played over and over, like a recording.

So caught up in the phenomenon, I don’t hear Clarey’s footsteps pounding down the hall in my direction until he arrives at the doorway, fidgeting with the BAHA behind his ear with one hand and holding tight to the baggie with the other. His brown complexion pales, and his dual-toned eyes glimmer with hope.

“I heard . . .” he says, staring at me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I grouse.

“Where . . . is she?”

Shrugging, I point to the lark. “I’m guessing this is what you’ve been hearing all this time. Maybe because Nix had this etched on her skin, and you were with her when it came alive as you guys stepped across the veil, it shares a link with the part of you that started to come alive, too. It’s like a walkie-talkie effect. The tattoo transmits and your BAHA became the receiver.” I leave out that I think I also played a role, because that spark racing through the outline has my name all over it. Just my luck, I’m probably the one who recircuited its little brain and formed the voltaic connection, completely unintentionally, since I was still plugged into the world and juiced up with my Architect skills.

“Whoa.” Clarey steps to the desk for a closer look at the tattoo. “Nix, can you hear me? Is this thing on?” He taps the sparking outline.

Just as I hoped, he becomes so distracted by trying to converse with my twin, he rests his other hand next to the notebook with the baggie sagging beneath his palm.

Biting my lip, I reach around him and snap it up, then race out of the room.

“Dang it, Lark!” Clarey chases me, but I manage to get into Uncle’s bathroom and slam the door in his face, twisting the lock shut in the same movement.

Panting, I press my forehead to the wood, overcome by the scent of the bath bombs I’ve been using to smell more like my sister. Lavender and honey. Their sweet sultriness makes me physically sick. A clock ticks on the wall to my right. Uncle put it up because I took too much time with my makeup and Nix took too much time soaking in baths, so he had to assign limits. I almost want to laugh, wondering how Nix is handling the enchanted “waterless” baths she’s receiving in Mystiquiel.

“Hey!” Clarey’s shout from the other side shakes my skull, pounding harder than his frantic knocks.

Thud thud thud. My forehead throttles with each blow, but I press in closer; I deserve at the very least a healthy bruise for what I’m about to do. For all I’ve been doing since the day I came back.

“You don’t understand,” I say, loud enough for him to hear over his tirade. “I have to close the way. I made a promise.”

“To the Goblin King? Seriously? What did she do, Lark?” Clarey screams. “What could your sister have done that was so unforgivable that you’d bug out like this? That you’d just abandon her there?”

Thud thud THUD.

This time, I feel the knock all the way into my teeth. The jolt is enough to force me to step back.

“She stole my life,” I answer Clarey. “Twice.” Even though that’s not the foremost reason, it’s the only one he’ll believe.

“Twice?” he screeches at me. “What does that mean? Lark?” Thud thud thud. “Nix was broken when she thought you died. She was so wrecked she stopped seeing colors . . . she almost stopped living. She could never forgive herself for letting you die.” He growls. “I came onto her . . . okay?” The thudding silences momentarily, enough for Clarey’s voice to emanate loud and clear through the wooden barrier between us. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. After you and Mom died, I just felt adrift, alone. And then all that bad stuff happened in Chicago. I came back here and there was Nix, anchoring me. She could see into me, just like you did. She knew me through and through. It reminded me of how it felt when we were all together, the three of us. You two were always so alike, beyond being sisters. I told myself that maybe there’s more than one person in the world for everyone, and I got lucky. I wasn’t trying to replace you; she fell into all my empty slots so easy. The perfect fit. Do you get it?”

My lips tighten—a seam of muscle and stubbornness holding back any response.

“And your inventions . . . Nix used them to help my dog. She didn’t step into your shoes to steal your life. She only wanted to somehow honor you. To stay close to you! Why can’t you see that? Lark? Lark!”

THUD THUD THUD.

I clench my teeth against the pounding as it shuttles all the way through my vertebrae.

“What the heck is going on here?” Uncle’s shout sounds from outside the door and stalls the knocking.

Sighing, I drag the sponge out of the baggie and turn to the mirror above the sink to admire the reddish mark on my forehead. It’s not enough. No punishment will ever be.

Without Clarey’s loud knocking, I can finally hear the clock again. The metronomic snick makes it difficult to decipher Uncle and Clarey’s muffled conversation. So I shut them out. Before Nix’s likeness imprints itself on my retinas, I look away from the mirror and step up to the open toilet. The makeup sponge, held pinched between two fingers, reflects back at me from the water.

The clock ticks on and in the still, blue-tinged liquid, I can almost see the past yawning open, dragging me back to my final moments of sanity, before I rooted so deeply into Mystiquiel that I couldn’t escape my tungsten throne and the tortured thoughts of a thousand fey creatures.

I close my eyes, and I’m there again: Perish leading me through the tunnels to the Architect lair for my first day of creation. We didn’t ride in bubbles; instead, he chose to walk me there on foot, to show me the maze of passages and the inner workings of his world.

I studied the surroundings—the walls made of mirror-smooth stone like the castle itself, and the ground beneath crunching with dirt and pebbles. We stopped at a cave to see his cistern of rejuvenation, where the residue of each Architect’s emotions formed a pool the king would bathe in to restore himself each evening. This immersion was what gave him the ability to taste what humans were feeling.

As we arrived, the drip of water greeted us, along with a rush of the humid air. Soft bubbles sprang from the surface of the pool, each popping colorfully along the ceiling with the sound of a laugh or a sob, a snarl or a coo. Over time, the bursting filaments had formed stalactites, whose prismatic glistening shapes reminded me of inverted snow cones—just like the rainbow flavors Nix and I had always loved. My concentration wavered as the pool’s rippled surface caught my eye. I couldn’t help but picture Perish bathing some evening in the near future—with every one of my feelings rolling over his bared flesh. Then, on the tail of that thought, appeared an image of me bathing alongside him.

My face flushed. I told myself it was just my desire for a real bath, because since I’d been here, I hadn’t had a traditional one. Every night, when I lay down in my bed, a pink vanilla-and-lavender-scented enchantment settled atop me like a blanket of fog and magicked away the day’s grime and sweat. But the truth was, I adored the feeling of this fairyland erasing every aspect of my humanity.

While I stood gawping at the water, Perish raised an eyebrow. “Ready to move on?” he asked. If he tasted my longing, he was kind enough not to embarrass me.

“Sure.” We stepped out of the cave, and our breaths echoed off the mirrored walls. “So I have a question . . . about the castle,” I said, desperate to distract my thoughts as we ducked into another tunnel. “You told me I can’t re-create it . . . that it’s immune to my touch. How is it the only part of the world insusceptible to change?”

Perish glanced at me over his shoulder, his silvery eyebrows crimped in thought. My stomach fluttered, as it always did when he looked at me with those intense otherworldly eyes, though my flutters had become more pronounced since his crown had appeared and altered him. I was still trying to get used to him as a man, not the boy I’d befriended in the months after I arrived. When we first met, his build reminded me of Clarey . . . young and wiry, not utilitarian enough to be a man yet. But the blueprint was always there, waiting to be made real. Now he’d become both lithe and sturdy, the perfect prototype of monster and masculinity, every swell of muscle and cord of tendon wrapped in sleek silvery skin.

“It’s not the only part. The castle, the mother fruit tree, and the lair are all protected like my subjects.” His crown projected rivulets of light across the points of his ears and antlers then bounced off the stone walls. “Appearances can be slightly modified, but nothing more. In my subjects, that would be the simplest tweaks in their characteristics . . . color of skin or scales or fur, length of hair; in the castle, that means the tinge of the walls in the rooms and corridors, the curtains and carpets—only the exterior, aesthetic designs. Just as our internal workings can’t be changed, neither can the foundation and frameworks of my palace or the lair. The only way to offer access to the intrinsic, viscerous parts would be a pairing between the Architect and myself. A magnification of both our magics.”

His words made my heart pound, being so close to what I’d been hoping for but lacked the guts to voice aloud. “So, you’d have to marry them?”

He paused, then began walking again—that graceful, panther-like way he’d developed since growing five inches taller overnight. “Our rituals of matrimony are different from yours, but yes, it would be a union of the deepest sobriety. Slicing our palms, clasping hands, allowing me to fill their veins with strands of crown magic. Even a goblin’s queen doesn’t receive such a gift. So, a union between a king and an Architect would be more potent, consecrated, and enduring than even your human renditions of marriage.”

I caught a breath, the huskiness of his matured voice making the description feel both seductive and sinister.

“Think of my magic as a flower,” he continued. “Being spliced and planted in another garden, yet still connected, so the graft draws constant strength and nourishment from the source, allowing the magic to flow back and forth between them—an enhancement yielding unparalleled growth and fruition.”

“Has there ever been that kind of union here?”

“No.” Perish captured my wrist and gave a gentle tug as I almost missed a sharp turn into a dim passage at our right. His long fingers gently squeezed before releasing me, leaving phantom depressions in my skin that throbbed, as if missing his imprint.

“The limitations are a fail-safe,” he went on, “so the stairs, doorways, and inner workings can’t be tweaked to cause the palace to be felled or disordered; otherwise, it could imprison the royal family, giving a human the advantage. Just like my subjects are protected by the same shield. It’s our way of keeping the ultimate power out of human hands that might destroy us out of spite. The crown is the key to all of it.”

“So, such a thing has never even been attempted? This . . . power share?”

He shook his head. “Not in all our history. We’ve never had enough trust between our kinds.”

I swallowed hard, blaming the dusty tunnels for the tickle in my throat. “But we have that. You and I. There’s trust between us.”

Perish stopped and turned; the tightness of the passage made me acutely aware of his magnetism . . . of his heat. He leaned down, his long, loose hair sweeping off his shoulders to fill the space separating us. His warm breath, scented with something spicy like amber and oak, gilded my face. And in that moment—as I breathed him in—he was my young goblin prince again. It was the one part of him on the outside that hadn’t changed. Then contentment surged through me, because I already knew that everything on the inside remained the same: him, unaffected.

“We do have trust,” he murmured. “And perhaps, in time, when we’ve both aged and are practiced—you in your artifice . . . me in my ruling—then, we might embark on such a venture between us. Once I’m sure you’re strong enough.”

The butterflies in my stomach took wing and became leaves, branches, and detritus, captured in a whirlwind, clanging against my rib cage. I couldn’t wait to prove myself to him. “I would like that.”

He smiled gently in the soft flashing light, his sharp-edged teeth bright against dark, full lips. “But you’ve yet to even ignite your first dawn, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” His fingertip tapped my chin—reminding me again that he was now the king—then he turned around to lead me deeper into the darkness.

Following closely, I cleared my throat against that relentless tickle, angry at myself for not saying what I’d wanted to say. I’m ready now; I was born ready . . . born for this. For you.

Guilt blew through me, slight and tremulous as a breeze, tender enough to shrug off. I thought I’d loved Clarey, but the truth became clear the moment I stepped into Mystiquiel’s castle to be greeted by all the oddities of the goblin court. I was ashamed to admit it now, but my attraction to Clarey revolved around superficialities—more to the point, his peculiarities. The things in his appearance that made him different from most people. How he looked almost otherworldly. It’s why this fairyland felt immediately like home to me. A place where my strange curiosities could develop and reap rewards. As of today, I had only been in Mystiquiel for twelve weeks—yet already it felt like a wondrous lifetime.

I was beyond those juvenile infatuations and petty affections I’d entertained in the mortal world. I was beyond being just a girl, and I would never be just a woman. In the darkest corners of my soul, where the cobwebs of my discarded identity stirred unkempt, I was spinning myself into something other. And here was where I could evolve to my truest form.

“This way.” Perish directed me toward another opening, which seemed to wind around and ascend back toward the castle floors. The passage became tighter, and the loud ticking of a clock shook the pebbles under our feet. I knew without him telling me where we were, just underneath the swinging pendulum in his game room—the clock that kept time for all of Mystiquiel. My attention landed on a closed trapdoor that would open up into the alcove’s floor. But fascination overtook me upon seeing a scrim of glowing, silky webs—strung down at the trapdoor’s edges—home to creatures that Perish called windershins. They were spindly eight-legged things, with tiny heads that resembled snapping turtles’, yet they were incandescent and sylphlike, their legs as long and limp as a weeping willow’s fronds, making their movements fluid. Watching them spin their webs was like watching jellyfish floating in midair.

Perish reached up and opened the trapdoor carefully so as not to disturb the windershins. I followed him up the ladder and he motioned to the back of the clock far overhead. What one couldn’t see from the front was how the gears and sprockets sliced and whirred through casings of beautiful gossamer strands. The busy little windershins worked to repair any holes with their saliva, leaving behind beads that hardened and glittered. I watched, awed, as they layered sheet upon sheet of web, from the ceiling down to the base of the clock, until their designs looked like ruffles of chiffon, spangled with diamonds. Or maybe a misty night sky filled with sparkling stars.

“There.” Perish pointed to the corner, a few feet from the clock, where an ancient tree—responsible for all the enchanted goblin fruits Mystiquiel had ever harvested—twined up to the high ceiling, rooted deep. It was almost as huge as the giant clock, at least twenty feet tall with what appeared to be hundreds of branches. The tree stood as timeless and eternal as the eldritch themselves. The scent of fruit swelled around us. The bark along the trunk glimmered like the scales of a tropical fish. Shivery, snaky vines twined around the branches, and velvety purple leaves gathered thick as bushes around the base. Each branch yielded a different genus, from apples to wild oranges, from bilberries to winter-melons, from dates to pomegranates—every citrus, stone fruit, berry, melon, or pear a person could possibly imagine. It was a freakish harvest, where produce that in the mortal world grew on vines, bushes, or trees came together all in one place here. More windershins floated around the branches, draping the tree with a transparent webby film as thin as a bride’s veil.

“Their lacework controls the pendulum.” Perish’s explanation disrupted my meditative state as he gestured again to the back of the clock. “They spin counterclockwise . . . so that time moves slower here than in the mortal world. And in turn, the cessation of minutes and hours keeps the mother tree in stasis, so it will never wither away and will always bear fruit and yield seeds that you, as our Architect, will use to build the royal orchards.” Perish carefully sliced his nails through the web covering the tree, then knelt to gather a spattering of seeds off the ground. He placed them in his pocket, then smiled as he watched the windershins repair the hole he’d made.

The luminance of the webs and creatures caused his skin to shimmer—almost angelically. Seeing his pride for the inner workings of his world, sharing these private moments with him, I felt both grateful and covetous.

Without a doubt, this was the most strangely beautiful place in all the cosmos, and I never wanted to leave. I hoped time stopped altogether . . . so I could live here forever. And I would soon find out that’s exactly what Perish wanted to give me. Eternity. Until I botched it all.

Returning to the present, I look down at the ambulatory glove and the scar on my left palm that’s been lost to nothingness.

“Lark.” Uncle Thatch uses his most calming tone on the other side of the door, jarring me out of my musings. Clarey remains quiet, so I assume they’re finally done mumbling about me.

I focus again on the toilet water.

Just toss it in. Just drop it and let gravity do the rest. Then all it will take is one simple flush . . .

The weight of Perish’s blood in the sponge actually feels heavy and warm against my fingers. It’s as if he’s nudging me to finish this. So what’s stopping me? Why can’t I be strong for once, like I need to be? Like he needs me to be.

“Clarey told me what’s going on,” Uncle continues. “About the fire, about what you’ve been hiding.”

My stomach drops. “Of course he did,” I snarl. “Way to be a traitor, Clarey.”

“He’s no longer here,” my uncle answers. “I sent him to the attic for a box.”

A box? Oh, ornaments. I frown, remembering that we’d planned to decorate the tree in the living room this evening. With how busy Uncle and Juniper have been, getting everything ready for their grand opening, he didn’t have time to even purchase the tree until a few days ago.

I’d actually felt relieved, thinking we would skip it this year. How can I pretend to be a part of human festivities when I feel so alien? And now I wonder, how can Uncle pretend to be calm enough for us to act like a normal family after what he’s just learned?

“It’s only the two of us now,” he says, finishing his explanation.

My shoulders sag, and I prepare myself for his rage . . . his disappointment. It’s everything I deserve, and I wish I could find relief in finally getting my comeuppance, but I don’t know how I’ll survive in this empty world without his love and faith in me. He’s always been here; he’s all I have left of my family. Yet I betrayed him as heartlessly as I did Nix. Maybe that’s what’s keeping my fingers wrapped around the sponge.

“Kiddo.” Uncle’s utterance sounds gravelly, filled with pain. “I know you’re scared. And I’m so sorry.”

Eyes burning, I squint at the door. That’s the last thing I ever expected to hear him say. “Wh-what?”

“Clarey told me what’s happening to you. The flowers . . . your blood. And that your flesh is somehow changing. He tried to explain it, but I need to see to understand. Thing is, you shouldn’t have felt you had to face it alone. You should’ve known you could come to me. But I screwed up. I made you think you weren’t important enough. I should’ve taken the time to talk to you. From the very beginning—the instant I got you home. If only I’d celebrated your eighteenth birthday with you, made sure you knew how much I missed you, how I agonized over your being taken. How it broke my heart to have to pretend you’d died. I’ve been so caught up in trying to get your sister back, I didn’t once stop to think how you must’ve felt while you were there. Believing I abandoned you . . . that I didn’t care enou—” His voice cracks.

My jaw clenches, and I stare at the sponge still waiting to be dropped. It’s my one chance for redemption. Either I drop it and am redeemed in Perish’s eyes or I hold it safe and win back Uncle’s trust. A shredding sensation ripples through my throat and ends at my sternum, as if the dilemma is tearing me apart at the seams.

“When Perish explained the contract,” Uncle says, “I had to make a choice. He was going to take you no matter what. He said they’d already chosen you, and he was planning to make me forget the entire night, so I’d have no memory. So we’d all think you ran away, or were kidnapped. Instead, I begged him to let your sister have closure; to help me fake your death. He agreed, but only if I never told anyone else the truth. He bound my tongue in a curse, so I couldn’t even try to get help.”

His fingernails scritch the wood softly, as if attempting to scrape away the barrier between us. “Do you hear me, Lark? I didn’t give up on bringing you home . . . it wasn’t like that. I gave up forgetting you were taken, because the agony of remembering was the only way I could honor your mother, and still watch over my sister’s precious daughters, even if my guardianship of you was from afar. I love you both the same, sweetie. Please, know that. I would’ve fought for you if I could’ve. I know you bargained with Perish . . . but I also know you didn’t have a choice.”

I bite back a denial, because I did choose, and I’d do it again. All for the love of a fairyland I can’t inhabit.

“You must’ve been so terrified. Felt so alone. This time, I’m no longer under Perish’s thumb, and I have the chance to get you both back. Home, where you belong. But I can’t do it without you . . .”

My chest tightens as his confession rips down all the ugliness I’ve nurtured inside, the wall of thorns that grew to strangle my heart until I could no longer feel the light of family love or loyalty. “Thank you,” I mumble. “Thanks for loving me, even though I’m a monster.”

“I’ll always love you, Songbird. And I want to help you. Will you trust that enough to let me in?”

I know he means more than just into this room . . . and I think I’m ready. Ready to tell him everything—how I feel about Mystiquiel and the Goblin King, and why I chose to help him trap Nix, even though it meant leaving my heart behind.

The house grows quiet as he waits for my response, so quiet I can hear the sporadic drip of the sink’s faucet over the clock’s ticking. I start to turn toward the door to unlock it, but haven’t even taken a full step when my fingertips dissolve to the first joint and the sponge slips away. I try to grab it with my mechanical hand before it reaches the toilet bowl’s basin, but I’m not fast enough.

Thankfully, Nix’s tattoo is. I watch in astonishment as the living smudge, having slipped through the slit where the door meets the threshold, dives down to rescue the sponge the instant before it would’ve touched water.

13

jigsaw hearts

Nix

The Goblin King doesn’t waste time on bubbles for our trek to the orchard. He leads me to the stables. Filigree perches upon his broad shoulder, preening her kaleidoscopic feathers as her owlish eyes scan me with interest.

Soon we’re trotting on royal unicorns, the wind skimming through Perish’s long hair, turning the ombre strands in a hypnotic dance. A contingent of the Goblin King’s boggle knighthood rides alongside us. Although once biomechanical in form, the boggles have recovered their flesh and blood. Their toadlike faces snarl with bony tusks, and red-furred ogre-like arms bulge out from tight chain-mail shirts, forming a protective hedge around the two of us. Even their scent—once rife with oil and rust—has altered to something organic. It reminds me of rancid mushrooms: sour, musty, and fishy.

Lady Glacia’s hooded robe swaddles my head and body with a glistening darkness—warm and soft as a summer night. My mare keeps time with Perish’s stallion in the midst of our escorts, her horn flashing through every color of the rainbow. On the ground beneath us, the same glowing lights stream through each of our mounts’ hooves and smear a colorful slush through the snow, as if we were galloping across rainbow snow cones. Those were my and Lark’s choice of iced treats, because we always wanted to share but couldn’t agree on one flavor. I haven’t thought of that since I’ve been here, and can’t imagine what made me think of it now. It’s not that I’m hungry, exactly. But I do feel unsatisfied somehow.

Only a few hours ago, I ate an entire holiday dinner in the form of enchanted globules that burst on my tongue. Though they reminded me of earthly favorites that once strengthened me, I still didn’t feel completely nourished—not in the way this brisk ride revives my energy. With every bone being jostled by my unicorn’s movements, and every muscle being stretched and loosened, I’m coming to see how depleted I’ve been . . . why food or nostalgia wasn’t the answer. I needed this: to feed upon my creation. Just as it’s been starving for me, I’ve been starving for it.

Perish casts sidelong glances my way, I suspect to relish the wonder that I feel molding my features to an unexpected smile. Those burgundy irises and white pupils reach into my guts, as if I’m rooted to them, just like I’m rooted to this world.

Behind the castle, the sun slides toward the horizon—setting already, although it should be seated higher in the sky given how time moves slower here. The Goblin King turns his attention to the wrongness, baring sharp white teeth.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Can you forgive me?” The inadequate apology escapes my mouth before I can stop it.

He nods once, stunning me with the unexpected pardon. For a minute, I consider how often I’m surprised by him. The golden skin of his sleek muscular form shimmers luminous in the tangerine glow and then fades to blue beneath the castle’s shadow—as if echoing the light and dark of his ever-shifting disposition.

That symbiotic relationship Perish once tried to explain suddenly makes perfect sense. All this time, I’ve been fighting the temptation to give in, to answer when he calls. Now it’s clear that I have to listen, because his voice is synonymous with my creation. Just as there’s a deficiency in his world when I refuse, there’s a depletion in my artist’s heart that weakens me physically. Conversely, there’s strength and satisfaction to be found when I appease the cries of my masterpiece. There’s tenderness beyond the silken wind whisking through my hair, exhilaration beyond the chill burning the tips of my fingers and nose, and freedom beyond the openness of outdoors.

Most importantly, there’s pride in the curative quality my elevated settings have bestowed upon the living beings here.

My fingers tighten around the unicorn’s reins. Much like the boggles, these royal steeds once had decaying pelts that showcased corroding motorized innards and metallic skeletons; now, in the absence of Lark’s synthetic curse, they’ve been restored to flesh and bone. And with my artistry boosting them, each one flaunts a healthy, satiny hide. Their markings emulate precious gemstones: striped agate, abalone shell quartz, tiger’s eye topaz, and iridescent opal. My mare—a pale cerulean swirled with white like a blue lace agate—and Perish’s stallion—a carbon copy of snowflake obsidian with his black coat, his silvery tail and mane, and spatters of glitter across his flanks—are the prettiest of the lot.

If I look too long, Perish’s unicorn’s markings bring to mind treasures I’ll never again see. That silvery mane reminds me of Clarey’s hair and the way his white streak permeates the pigmentation along his forehead, while the sparkle along the dappled hide brings my thoughts soundly back to Lark, the queen of glitter and grease.

Anguish razes through me, knowing she’s able to consult daily with Clarey on his projects. I miss that. Yet considering what I saw—what I felt—of her own experiences here, I wonder if she’s missing this: her connection to creation, the overwhelming rightness and wholeness that comes with building life.

I bite down a growl, forcing myself not to empathize with her.

She deserves to suffer, just as Clarey deserves to know how badly she’s betrayed us all . . . he and Uncle should know who she really is.

I wish they knew almost as much as I wish I didn’t.

I urge my mount slightly ahead of Perish’s, eager to get my mind off painful meditations, resolved to concentrate on my duties instead. I watch for the orchards to come into sight, opening myself to that sense of ownership I’ve been suppressing. The vines and flora forming my clothes and boots take root and sink into my skin at my ankles, wrists, and pulse points, as they sense my Architect instincts reawakening.

The knights spread out to give me a ringside view, and I’m leveled with shame upon arriving at the edge of the orchards, slammed with how off course things have gone due to my negligence.

The fruit and foliage aren’t just frostbitten; they’re warped. Berries and flowers, trees and shrubs, intertwine to form a morbidly garish hash, crossing boundaries from one season to the next so there’s no segregation or rationale. Autumn cranberries have pimpled the skin of summer peaches, like blood welted atop a ball of gnarled flesh; watermelons slump, breached in half to deliver a field of spring marigolds, the petals stained with sticky pink juice from their unwieldy birth; cherry trees droop, hunched and split from the rotten pumpkins and wilted sunflowers budding heavily on their delicate frames. Before I understood the Goblin Market poem, these are what I imagined goblin fruit might hide underneath its charmed allure: a mishmash of putrid scents, colors, and textures, offensive to the eye and insulting to the mind.

Globs of wet snow, looking more like pus than powder, peer out in intervals. Nausea sears through me as slimy roots surge from the ground to swell and writhe over all of it, acre upon acre, like a thousand tongues lapping at a putrescent wound.

My heart sinks. If it’s this bad here, it must be even worse in my fabricated Astoria. That would explain why occupants of my town have trickled into the orchards already, as if trying to reach the castle for help. The living trolley—against its nature to forcefully apprehend victims—welcomed as many denizens as could fit inside and has crashed into my version of Wisteria Rising, providing a way in.

Piskies and dryads, sprites and sprigs, myriad creatures including Angorla herself—perfect specimens of flesh and blood, scales and bones—have come to the orchards seeking refuge. They react to the harsh elements by hunching and shivering in the shadows. They can’t even enjoy being free of their bubble asylums, can’t function or frolic in their new surroundings. My goal was to give them a hospitable habitation, yet they didn’t have more than a few weeks to live happy and content before it came crashing down around them. Even the dryads, once proud and tall as the trees, shudder and buckle in a web of twiggy limbs, like a dying forest cowed by vicious winds.

The damage to my settings appears insurmountable, and will probably take hours or days to repair. I’m not even sure how to put the sky to rights; here it is late afternoon, and a bright moon has already risen, casting a silvery veil over all.

However, in the interim, I can at least comfort the creatures that rely on me. I can give them better window dressings, to protect and warm them while they wait.

The minute our regiment stalls at the border, I slide down from my saddle onto grass crunchy with frost, and almost slip. My unicorn bends her head, offering me her horn to grasp, while the foliage that forms my boots erupts into cleats along the soles that grip the ground.

“Thank you,” I tell my mount, and receive a musical nicker and a nuzzle to my cheek. Her hay-scented breath coats my face and I smile before looping her reins over a nearby branch. Turning back to the orchard, I peel the hood from my head so it hangs between my shoulder blades. My tiara of flowers and dewdrops shimmers, reflecting moonbeams on the ice and snow. I hold out my hands, beckoning each denizen out from hiding, calling them by their creaturely names. It’s the first interaction I’ve had with most of them, and they ease out slowly, shyly.

Within minutes, there’s a line that twines deep into the orchards, ending somewhere out of sight. Some snarl, some sniffle, some speak in languages I’m astonished to find I understand, having learned through osmosis via the influence of former Architects as I built my version of this world.

The moment I touch the vines at my wrist, they unwind just enough to wrap around each proffered paw, claw, hoof, or stalk. Whether they are twiggy, cadaverous, ethereal, or sylphlike, the creatures sprout layer upon layer of woolly fur or downy feathers, cobwebbed leaves or fleece-lined scales—in bright colors to complement their natural fey appearances—giving them added protection.

At last, Angorla brings up the end, with Bonbon flittering in the air around her. The tiny pack rat faerie, my and Clarey’s very first rescue here in Mystiquiel, perches on my palm. At my touch, the brown twigs and bright pink flowers that make up its body thicken, and a plush moss fills in any holes and cracks until it’s doubled from the size of a monarch to that of a tennis ball. Its gossamer wings expand three inches in length to support its updated form.

“Bonbon bouncy!” the faerie screeches, its whiskered muzzle breaking out in a grin to showcase tiny rodent teeth as it dips and dives like a ball being batted back and forth in midair.

Angorla scowls, her bearded chin sagging as she shoos the faerie out of her path. The Gardener’s crescent-moon pupils stare into me, and she reaches out her cloven hoof where a skeletal finger and thumb curve at the end, waiting for me to touch her. “Seems we’ve been here before, Architect of lore.”

When I altered her the first time, prior to my taking Lark’s place, she tricked me into it. This time, I know full well my power, and the Gardener knows how much she needs me.

“Maybe today you won’t make me regret helping you.” I lift an eyebrow, still missing the piercing that once adorned the edge.

Angorla nods, her ram-like horns tipping low with the effort. “This favor you do is for your own pardon. But I wipe the slate clean, if you fix back me garden.”

I assure her that I’ll do my best. Then, upon bestowing her with a surplus of salt-and-pepper mohair thick enough for a trek through Siberia, I step back, about to turn my attention to the landscape and sky. Honestly, I don’t expect gratitude or loyalty from any of them. I know better by now. These creatures are as selfish as they are fascinating, as mercurial as they are beastly.

Yet before I can spin all the way around, they prove me wrong. They step forward to thank me, each one gifting some small part of themselves. From out of their mouths burble the same shivery phosphorescent balls I saw them devouring inside their bubble prisons . . . tiny portions of life magic.

The luminous marble-size beads roll from my palm, over my sleeves, and up my chest, until they settle around my neck to form a necklace of enchanted pearls—trembling and warm against my skin, pulsing in time with my heart.

So intent on my interplay with the creatures, I don’t notice Perish until every one of them bends to the ground simultaneously. At first, I think they’re bowing to me, and have no idea how to react. Then I glance up to find the Goblin King standing at my side, watching intently as his boggles secure the unicorns and take position behind him, bearing beatific smiles that outshine their ugliness.

“Well done, Architect,” Perish says, his eyelids lowered to half-mast; even the density of his dusty gold lashes can’t conceal the gratitude in his otherworldly gaze.

My cheeks warm at the praise and I tip my head in response, the tiara reflecting moonlight upon each eldritch face lifted to observe our interaction.

Perish addresses our audience. “Go out, find any others who need warming. Bring them here so we might see to their comfort.”

The denizens scamper, fly, and trot in a race to board the trolley. Filigree ruffles her feathers, then hoots and perches on top of the living prison to be sure they follow their king’s command. No sooner has the trolley slithered away than a rash of eerie giggling bursts out from some shrubs.

“Come forward!” Perish calls, assuming, like me, that we have some stragglers hidden away, too cautious to come out when I first beckoned.

Instead, what wriggles free from the shrubbery has me gaping in shock. Gingerbread men, each the size of a capuchin monkey, scramble out around us. As they twist and turn, a strange anomaly presents itself. From the front and back, they appear as plump and crispy as their earthly counterparts, but from the side, they’re as wafer thin as a blur of paint streaking the air. Yet still, they have the power to affect my settings, ripping up bits of frosted grass and spooking the unicorns.

The boggles take a collective step back with swords, daggers, and maces drawn, unsure what to make of the half-baked gremlins.

Most of the cookies have missing limbs replaced by three-pronged metal forks, or gnawed-on gumdrop buttons, or melted chocolate chip eyes that flash electric from their sockets. Butter-cream hair caps the gingery skulls of some, with bald patches smeared along their brows or temples. Others have heads hanging by frayed wires, yet still manage to dodder behind their scrumptious siblings in a blind chase around the trees—laughing and chittering with licorice mouths like the primates they bring to mind.

For the first time since I’ve known him, Perish stands speechless. I can almost see his mind clicking, trying to place where they could’ve originated, yet the familiarity on my end almost knocks me to my knees.

An entire scene takes shape in my mind, a mural in tribute to a gruesome holiday spree . . . Krampus biting off the heads of gingerbread men and plucking wings from a string of paper angels with paper clip halos, before setting feathers and crumbs loose to blend with a winter storm.

“Oh no,” I mumble as I look around at the impromptu snowfall overtaking the orchards and everything drops into place. It’s like I’ve stepped into the insidious mural I painted along the graffiti trail a year ago. Somehow, everything has transferred here—alive. I bite down a knot of trepidation, because I know better than anyone that these little troublemakers are the smallest and least intimidating things I had on that mural scene.

I turn to Perish, struggling with my confession. He must taste the recognition on my face because he lowers his antlers, blotting out the moon with his proximity.

“These are yours?” he asks, his deep voice hoarse and dry.

I nod. “But how? I didn’t paint them on the canvas you provided . . . these are from my life before. A mural I made on a concrete wall. I added mechanical touches, to dedicate it to my sister. It was inspired by our favorite Christmas lore, and ornaments we made together throughout our lives.” Then it hits me. “Wait. Lark saw this scene recently. I viewed it through her dreams. But how can her just seeing a mural bring it here? Didn’t we unplug her from Mystiquiel’s mainframe?” I lift my hands where the ivy, vines, and flowers wind around me, tenderly embedded in my skin, and try not to compare them to the electrical cords that savagely gouged my sister’s flesh.

Perish studies the warped gingerbread creatures clambering around his ankles and climbing his legs as if they were tree trunks. He shakes three off, and two more come to replace them. “We successfully disconnected her from this world, yes. But not from you.” He snarls, and with a shake of his antlers tosses off one determined cookie that has almost reached his crown with its three-pronged fingers.

Sensing the threat to their king, the contingent of royal knights moves in to herd the scampering gingerbread men into a circle, holding their weapons aloft in preparation to start slicing and dicing.

The full moon, seated at the top of the sky, gilds everything in a haze of lustrous blue-gray; it’s like we’re watching a noir horror movie play out on a big screen. I avert my eyes, unable to watch my drawings die, regardless that I never asked them to live.

“What are you saying?” I question Perish. A cookie with only half a torso sways from some branches above me, wearing a malicious licorice smile; I dislodge him so I can focus solely on the Goblin King. “Why would you want to disconnect Lark from me when your father forged our bond in the first place?”

His strong jaw set, the Goblin King gazes at the surroundings where gingerbread men dance around the boggles’ giant feet or dangle in bits and pieces from trees. Dismembered arms and torsos instantly snap back together, weaving their seams with icing-and-wire stitches, like sugar-and-spice Frankensteinian monsters.

Out of curiosity, I touch one, trying to force my will on it. “Be calm, be quiet.” The cookie smacks licorice lips as if spitting at me, then returns to its rampage. I frown. “I created them, but they act like they don’t know me.”

Perish presses his lips tight, his fang tips peering out. “They can’t be stopped or reasoned with because they aren’t actually living.” Trepidation edges his voice. “They weren’t conceptualized here or secured by my crown magic. Since they’re something in between, they’re as boundless and chaotic as human imagination.”

A sick dread itches my throat when, upon stitching themselves together, the mutated cookies regroup to volley rotten fruit at the boggles. Under different circumstances, the assault on both ends would be more ludicrous than violent.

Maybe I should laugh that the boggle knighthood faces such an indefatigable adversary, or maybe I should root for the cookies to crumble . . . but I don’t have the will to debate loyalties. I’m too busy parsing every word that has fallen from Perish’s tongue. There’s a step I’m missing, and he’s done all he can to avoid spilling it up to now.

“Uncle Thatch.” I bait the Goblin King, forcing him back onto the path of our conversation. “He said your father did something to us before we were even born. He must’ve meant our enchanted bond. My mom shared that with Uncle the night she left us with him.”

“She herself knew only half of it. That my father marked one of you in vitro, to be our chosen one. That’s the only part the king admitted.”

“So she didn’t know we were linked magically somehow? That the king cursed us for the betterment of your world?”

Glaring at the chaos around us, Perish sighs. “It would seem My Lord Father cursed all of us, not just you.” He takes my elbow and guides me into a grove out of view of the slashing and crunching. We stand there, beneath ice-tipped honeysuckle and winterberry bushes that have merged into an ungodly jumble of sweetness and poison.

I jerk myself from his hold, causing Lady Glacia’s robe to fall from my shoulders. Chilled, I rub my arms, ruffling the petals that form my sleeves. “It’s time you tell me everything.”

Perish’s ears droop—a gesture I’ve come to understand is akin to human remorse, as much as he’s capable of such an emotion. For what feels like an interminable pause, the soft crackle of his magic is intercepted only by crumbs pattering the leaves like drizzling rain.

At last, he levels his gaze on mine—his crown lighting our shadowy canopy with intermittent blinks. “Prepare yourself, Architect. Be grounded in the strength your roots can provide. Allow them to support you through the telling.”

My stomach pitches at the foreboding in his words. The petals along my tunic shake and my leafy leggings contract gently, releasing perfumed comfort to alter my mood and lighten my spirit; but my fear is stronger. “Tell me,” I grit out, although I sense I’ll regret it.

“Your mother did not conceive twins.” Perish’s ears quiver slightly as he waits for my reaction.

My brows furrow in hopes of working out his meaning—with no success.

He smacks his lips and crinkles his nose, as though averse to the flavor of my bewilderment. “You and Lark . . . you were one person. One fetus, one baby. My Lord Father divided you into two. Half and half, down the middle. Your individuality, the very heart of who you are—likes and dislikes, strengths and flaws, talents and incapacities—was severed into jigsaw tiles like the finest cut porcelain and pressed into new forms. Two mosaics that were meant to be one complete masterpiece.”

The battle between cookie and boggle continues outside, but here in our hiding place, everything comes to a halt. My heart tumbles, a rapid fall into my stomach. The organ lies there, pounding, until I have to fight the compulsion to purge my earlier breakfast.

“No. That’s not possible.” The weak rebuttal is all can manage without gagging, because I know his kind aren’t capable of even a fib, much less a blatant lie.

His shoulders sag this time, underscoring the honesty of his claim better than any spoken assurance ever could.

I can’t move, the starry fabric of Lady Glacia’s robe wound around my ankles as if I’m sinking into a midnight sky. “But why?” I ask in an attempt to escape the darkness . . . clawing for any logic to stay afloat. “How?”

“When he first took the throne, My Lord Father inherited an ancient enchantment uncovered by one of the prior kings. An elevated version of your world’s mitosis, where the split includes the spirit.”

My brain fumbles with the terminology. All I can remember from science class is something about a single parent cell dividing into two daughter cells—each with a complete set of chromosomes of its own. A prickle rambles through my spine.

“The awareness came to My Lord Father through the crown’s memories,” Perish continues, oblivious to or unconcerned with my internal struggle. “It was a spell used upon unicorns centuries earlier, when they ceased breeding, to keep the royal stables filled and the genus alive. King Talon had an inkling the spell could rectify our Architect dilemma forever. The sole problem was it was meant to be used only on our kind. Before My Lady Mother was appointed as his queen, she stepped forward with the idea of reshaping the enchantment to fit the inner workings of a human’s body using her unique ability. It was what won her the throne at his side. Together, their goal emerged a reality: to make an immortal Architect . . . by splitting the spirit into two pieces that could feed upon one another, continually . . . eternally, while still growing and evolving, sharing years and dreams.”

The heat of our breaths in the small space begins to melt the icicles on the shrubs. Glacial wetness drips into my hair and sinks into my scalp. The cold penetrates my bones until I’m shivering, but the chill goes even deeper, beyond the marrow.

Still unable to grasp the concept, I latch instead upon the one benefit he mentioned. The one thing Lark and I might use to our advantage to somehow escape this nightmare. “We’re . . . immortal?”

Perish holds up one clawlike nail, catching a drip on his fingertip and rubbing it with his thumb. “Not exactly. Only the chosen Architect . . . the one who was marked during the spirit division . . . the one given the talents compatible with our needs. She was to be made eternal. Our chosen Architect—you—would be raised here from birth . . . channeling your creativity into Mystiquiel. The other—Lark—would grow and live in the mortal world, connected to the lifeblood of emotions and experiences that nurtures your kind’s imagination and feeds your talents. Due to the mental and spiritual connection between you, your gift would be ever changing, in league with your sister’s world’s constant evolution of ideas and techniques. Lark’s children would have been yours in theory, because you are the same person essentially; so you see, once your sister died and severed that connection, it would splice and reroute into those offspring being born and living on earth. And so on and so on, generation after generation, the circle never ending.”

My breaths are small, stifled. The plan was as brilliant as it was abhorrent. And it would have worked with no more humans being affected. It would have stopped the constant sacrifice of my lineage, of all humans but me.

When the twisted, horrifying epiphany arrives, I’m shattered by where it all went wrong. “Mom intervened . . . she took us away before we were born.”

“Yes, and when we found you both, the mark had faded. We could no longer tell you apart. We didn’t know which of you was the chosen one. Even worse, since you weren’t separated at birth as was originally intended, your bond grew beyond spirit. You became intertwined physically—able to feel one another’s pain and sense one another’s emotions—which was never supposed to take place. And now I fear, since each of you has taken root here, you’ve made visceral imprints. And your spirits—recognizing one another in the lithographs upon our world’s foundation, the intuitive fossils left by each Architect—are determined to merge once more, as demonstrated by Lark’s ability to absorb your art and send it to you. Which also means some of your creations must be bleeding into her.”

I can hardly speak. “You’re saying that—”

“You are becoming a singular being once again.”

14

gingerbread and monkey wings

Nix

I swipe at the tears gathering along my lower lashes and murmur, “We’re puzzle pieces . . . and we’re . . .”

“Snapping back together.” Perish completes the thought I can’t even comprehend, his gaze falling to his palm. He’s tracing the line there, and curtains of hair cover his expression. “And since you’re established in Mystiquiel as a necessary part of our world, she’s the one at risk.” His focus flicks up between strands, seeking the enchanted pearls at my neck. “Had things gone as she and I planned, that necklace would have been hers . . . her key to eternity. But now it’s yours. Perpetuity, enabled by the eternal sources of every creature here.”

Gaping, I run a fingertip along the warm, pulsing beads—awed by the scope of their power. “This was going to be Lark’s?” At last I understand what Perish meant when he told her she’d be the final Architect.

He looks up then, sweeping white-ombre locks out of his face and looping them in a knot so they hang down between his shoulder blades. “In a perfect world, it would’ve belonged to her. I told her how it would happen—her induction into the timelessness of the eldritch. She insisted that after she received the necklace, she and I would be wed. One monster to another . . . a fairy-tale ending.” His eyes appear to be unfocused, the dual pupils merged momentarily into one, spellbound by the possibilities that might’ve been. In a blink, his pupils separate once more. “But eternity—via the life-force connection—must be gifted freely by the occupants of our world. Because through it, the wearer can communicate with all of us via her mind. When the landscapes she crafted didn’t win Lark the gratitude or loyalty of my subjects, it all fell apart. According to the criterion of the eldritch, she failed. She even believes that herself. Thus, her spirit is superfluous . . . incidental . . . inessential—in her own eyes. And therefore, in danger of ceasing to exist altogether.”

Bile rises in my throat. My knees want to give, but the plants forming my clothes won’t allow it. They hold me up—a spindly scarecrow, forced to stand against a tempest. “You mean . . . she’s . . . dying?”

He hides his face behind his palms and growls. “I don’t want it to be so.” His hands drop, revealing the agony crossing his features. “I couldn’t bring myself to look in on her, but my queenly mother has been watching, and she said she’s fading. Since you were ever only one person, there’s only one body between you. And now that both your spirits have recognized the split, I suspect her physicality is being siphoned away through the art you left behind. Every piece that comes to life here, and every part of your creation that blooms there, will use up more of her until there’s nothing left but one body . . . one form. The one that’s rooted in Mystiquiel.” His voice breaks, sounding as hopeless as I feel. “Only you will be whole and complete. The individual you would’ve been all along had my father not intervened. Lark will be a segment of that, but how much of her will survive, I’m not sure. Her memories? Her feelings? Or only her essence, just a spark of what she was?”

Expelling a groan that shakes the shrubbery around us, he raises his face so the dripping icicles can christen his lustrous flesh. He scrubs the wetness across his cheeks and his crown’s blinking slows—a dimness that reminds me of watching starlight ripple atop a midnight lake. He’s unnaturally, transcendentally beautiful, even in his sorrow.

“I tried to stop it,” he continues. “By having her cut all ties, close all portals. I was sure that burning those bridges, literally, would also break your physical links. I was mistaken.” He presses his broad back into the tangle of branches behind him—bracing himself against a cushion of venomous thorns and fragrant yellow flowers—and I have no more doubt that in those three years they had together, he came to trust and need her friendship as much as she did his. Just like I need Clarey’s.

I took Lark’s place knowing I might never see him again. It gave me comfort, believing he’d be happier to be reunited with her. But if Lark disappears from the mortal world, Clarey will be left heartbroken and alone again, just like losing his mother and Lark the first time. Except this time, he’ll have lost me, too. I don’t want that for him. I don’t want it for my uncle, either. Or for any of us, least of all my sister—because Lark will always be my twin, no matter what anyone says.

“I used to call her my other half as a figure of speech,” I say aloud, leaving the rest unspoken: How could I have possibly imagined it was literal and true? Now I understand why the only two differences between us physically—her missing widow’s peak and the gap in her teeth—were caused by a scar along the top of her forehead and her thumb-sucking. She was born my mirror reflection, and vice versa, until life got in the way and disrupted that perfectly symmetrical image. “When I thought she’d died, I felt so much shame for wasting the time we had together trying to best her instead of embracing the ways we were different . . . instead of respecting them as something to be nurtured and revered.”

“That inner conflict was inescapable,” Perish says. “On some unconscious level, you sensed those were parts of yourself that you’d lost, and you jealously wanted them back.”

My chest constricts, stifling my breath. At last, a rationale that defines why we were so often at odds, and why that rivalry—what I once believed to be typical of all siblings, the healthy competition they kindle in one another that makes them better—only widened our rift. All those years, we were warring against one another because we craved the characteristics we felt were missing. Because we were both incomplete.

Now the universe intends to fix that, at Lark’s expense.

The anger I’ve been harboring that hardened my heart melts away like the icicles sparkling overhead, leaving me with a profound sense of loss.

“Lark . . .” I lurch forward, breaking free of my vine-and-flower constructs. I crash to my knees. Every nerve implodes on impact, yet no scrapes or blood compounds the pain, since the ivy in my leggings flourishes to form a pillow of leaves over my skin.

Gagging, I angle my head behind a bough of honeysuckle and hack and hack until my stomach empties, ridding me of the nutrients I’d only begun to digest. When it’s over, there’s nothing left but an ache in my lungs, a void in my chest, and the sourness of tragedy on my tongue.

Perish kneels down. I wrinkle my nose at the stench of vomit, embarrassed he’s here to witness my vulnerability.

The foliage senses my needs. My clothing sprouts fresh offshoots that reach into the honeysuckle shrubs surrounding us, shaking the limbs. Every frost-fuzzed blossom trembles loose; the fragrant cascade gathers in a thick carpet atop the residue of my sickness. A crackle of lightning spears from Perish’s crown to the petals and sets them smoldering, a mask of smoky sweetness to overpower the stink.

The kindness of the act, from both him and this world—protecting my dignity when I’m too broken to even feel human—strikes me as if I were the one lit up by strands of magic. My agony deepens, seeing how safe Lark would’ve been in this place. How cherished, happy, and whole she would’ve been.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, more to my sister than to anyone else.

Perish keeps a slight distance between us, only close enough to reach for the beads of pearlized magic at my neck. He halts his finger inches away, unable to bring himself to touch it. “I meant to put a stop to this, by having Lark break the ties between our worlds. I meant for it to sever your spirits from one another once and for all. Give them each a separate plane to inhabit.”

I nod, because I witnessed the two of them orchestrating those plans and hated them both for it. Yet he only wanted to save her from vanishing into the ether of my consciousness.

More hot tears singe my eyes.

If I’d just stayed in Astoria on Halloween . . . holed up in my house, hidden away. If I’d never ventured through the veil, we would both be where we were meant to belong. We would be apart, but we’d continue to exist. Yet that’s not exactly true, is it? She couldn’t sustain this world like I could. She wasn’t given the proper talents in the division. She should’ve never been brought here. But since our mom hid us away, a simple case of mistaken identity altered everything.

No wonder such animosity radiated from Lark in my dreams.

“So she knows?” I ask, gulping against the hot rawness in my throat. “She knows everything?”

Perish offers an icicle to soothe me. “No. I told her my father used a spell to bridge you to one another. That we had to close the crossings for the safety of the mortal world, and to relieve her of the burden of being tied to Mystiquiel and me forever through you and the magical bond you two shared. She believes you’re twins still. I couldn’t infer she was incomplete in any way. She already convinced herself she failed here. I feared if her confidence plummeted any further, she’d simply give herself up . . . evanesce.”

Evanesce. A word worthy of a spelling bee. Too mellifluous to mean something so vicious and vile as someone disappearing from your life forever.

Perish tilts his horns. “I’m curious, Architect. How are you feeling? Any different?”

The icicle melts in my mouth, cool and refreshing, as out of place as his question. Still, I consider an answer. In spite of my nausea and heartsickness, I feel stronger, more alive. Everything is more vivid; the colors are brighter, sounds and smells more potent, the essence of everything I’ve given life warmer and more tangible beneath my touch, even under a coating of snow and ice.

He wants to know if I’m stronger, because if I am, it’s proof what the queen said is true: Lark is fading.

“Oh . . . no.” I stifle a dry heave, but there’s nothing left in my stomach to give. I scramble to stand, my weak, shaky legs supported once more by enchanted clothing. Perish follows my lead.

“You can fix this.” I grip his hand. “You have your father’s power through the crown, right? We’ve got to reverse the spell somehow . . . we have to bring her back here!”

“That can’t happen.” Perish’s form looms over me—tense and indomitable.

“Why?” I jerk my hand from his when he doesn’t answer. “Oh, of course. You have what you need for your world, and Lark be damned. Is that it? You bastard! How can you just shut your eyes to her fate?” I pound his chest, his muscles hard like rocks beneath my knuckles. “She thought you cared for her. She trusted that! And for what? So you could turn your back on her and leave her there to die alone?”

He catches my waist and spins me so my spine aligns with his sternum, his palm coming up to cover my snarls. “Shush . . . listen.”

I’m preparing to bite him when I notice it, too. The battle between the gingerbread men and the royal knights has ceased. It’s quiet . . . too quiet.

“Do you hear that?” Perish asks. I look at him over my shoulder. His sharp ears perk high as he slowly drops his hand from my mouth.

I strain with my smaller ears, wishing Clarey were here with his BAHA—wishing he were here for so many uncountable reasons. My lovesick longing stops dead when I pick up on other faint sounds in the distance where trees snap and rattle, as if something huge swipes them aside like curtains.

Cautiously, the Goblin King and I step out from our covering and notice our two unicorns prancing in place nervously. Steam billows from their nostrils as they yank their reins against the trunks that anchor them.

The royal knights—unable to defeat the cookie creatures who are now an army of jumbled bits and pieces meshed together with buttercream and steel sutures—sit atop their mounts a few feet away. Both the gingerbread army and the boggles stare upward where a legion of silver-haloed, paper-thin angels, chained together wing by wing, circles in midair. The angels dive toward the patchwork cookies. In a blink, the gingerbread men turn the tables, capturing their attackers, tearing the links and ripping wings off, one by one. Blood-curdling cries shatter the air then dwindle as the tattered remains of the paper angels drift down—strung out in soggy wads that blend against the snowy patches.

I bite back a scream at the brutality as the sugar-and-spice gremlins fasten the wings onto their backs with more icing. The tattered remnants of angels burst like popcorn, spontaneously drying and reshaping, but without their wings they seem unsure what to do. They rip free their paper clip halos to connect their triangular bodies, then wriggle like a captured snake when they’re snatched up by a gingerbread man, flocking with his brothers in the sky on the way to the Goblin King’s tungsten fortress.

With their silhouettes imprinted against the towers looming in the distance, I’m reminded of a scene from The Wizard of Oz, when the flying monkeys circle the witch’s castle. It was always Lark’s favorite part of the movie. Mine was the fairy princess in the glimmering bubble. Or was it the other way around?

We were split down the middle, so is it any wonder so many of our likes and dislikes are black and white, with no gray in between—or that in some instances I can’t even remember which are hers and which are mine?

I jump, startled by a series of harsh cracks fracturing the air. Just a few acres away, in the summer season, the trees collapse, one thudding into the next—a large-scale domino effect. The royal knights, Perish, and I wheel around in synchrony to seek the origin. From the dense canopy of spring, moving branches stretch high above the ice-glazed leaves. Except it’s not branches at all; it’s antlers of shiny steel, five times taller and more circuitous than Perish’s own.

“Krampus,” I murmur in awed terror. My living mural is now complete—ironically, right in time for Christmas Eve. But what does that mean for Lark?

Perish turns his full attention to me. “You should run.”

He shoves me up onto my unicorn and frees the reins. As furious as I am that he’s not willing to bring my sister here to help her, he’s still the only one who can save her. I just need to convince him—and he has to be alive if I’m going to do that.

I frown and grip his forearm, urging him to come with me, but he slaps my mount’s hide an instant before Krampus crashes into our clearing. Like the other mural pieces, his faun-like form looks three-dimensional and lifelike from the front and back but is oddly two-dimensional from the side—flat as a layer of paint flowing on the air. Viewed head on, his fur stands out stiff and unmoving like brushstrokes of brown, and his horns shimmer with a glossy sheen. Standing on his hinds casts him taller and more monstrous than anything I’ve seen in this world so far. His eyes glimmer with coppery shavings that appear red beneath the moon. His gaping maw opens in a roar, revealing six rows of sharklike teeth, and even the sky-high dryads saunter out of the way on all fours like a herd of frightened wildebeests.

The unicorn’s hooves thunder beneath me, sending shudders through my spine. My clothing vines secure me to the saddle, a harness of safety as we gallop out of the way. I cast a glance over my shoulder and see Perish’s royal knights forming a barrier around their king. Emboldened, Perish unsheathes his dagger, the handle twinkling with rainbow light. With a flick of his wrist, the weapon expands into glowing prismatic links, one building upon the other until they’ve formed two giant chains, connected at the center. He casts the manacles toward Krampus. The cuffs clamp around each of the beast’s giant forearms in an effort to bring him down. The moment they touch my living sketch, the glowing links function like real metal chains, clanging loudly and shimmering in the moonlight. The royal knights rush out, weapons held high and at the ready.

Convinced Perish has the upper hand, I’m about to sink into my saddle and make for the castle when I see who’s seated between Krampus’s pointed ears, waving a broken branch while shouting instructions: Scourge. He’s accompanied by his band of henchmen. Each wicked fiend who attended the raucous banquet with him weeks ago rushes out of the scattered snow-clad trees, following in the giant wake of destruction Krampus leaves behind.

Though the rebels wield weapons of their own, they’re far outnumbered and would never be a match for Perish and his knights on a typical day. But with everything I’ve accidentally unleashed through Lark, they could potentially win this coup.

Guilt ravages me, not only for setting Perish’s evil brother loose with my ill-sighted plan, but for giving him the perfect accomplice—a giant unstoppable force. I know my Krampus; he won’t surrender easily, especially with Scourge feeding his chaotic nature.

As if to prove my point, Krampus slings the chains, a sweeping rush from both sides that unseats Perish’s army from their mounts in one fell swoop. Spooked by the commotion, the riderless royal unicorns stampede toward the castle. Wind from their passage rushes through my hair, almost capsizing my tiara. The flowers root deeper in my braid for stability; the wriggling sensation along my scalp gives me goose bumps. My unicorn prances underneath me, as if wanting to catch up with her herd, but I rein her in.

Scourge’s battalion dashes into the clearing and throws an enchanted net across the royal regiment while they’re down. The boggles struggle to get out. On each attempt, the net flickers with zaps of circuitry like a bug light. The underlying buzz emits a haunting susurration: “Spoils for the king . . . spoils for the king.”

I realize I’ve seen such a trap before, another net made of biomechanical pack rat faeries—an entanglement woven of their electrified hair. But all of Perish’s subjects have been living outside for weeks . . . they’ve resumed their original forms. So how can these still be mutated?

I’m reminded that the pack rat faerie at the banquet complained how some of his siblings had gone missing. Scourge must have had them all along, trapped them somewhere so they wouldn’t be exposed to my settings . . . holding them in their biomechanical forms so he could use them for his own despicable ends. And with my environs so broken now, they can’t be healed until I’ve fixed everything again.

The net wriggles and writhes, the teensy faeries obviously reluctant to betray their king but afraid to provoke the prince and his gargantuan accomplice.

A few creatures that didn’t leave with the trolley peer out from behind crumbled trees and smashed bushes, creeping to the king’s aid. Even Angorla tromps onto the scene, wielding gardening shears and a scythe. Each creature in turn gets struck by Krampus’s jangling chains and lands in a busted and bloody heap on the ground before dragging themselves into hiding again.

A low whine scrapes my raw throat. This is what my mistakes have cost the kingdom: the destruction of my orchards, of the creatures I’m supposed to provide for. I won’t let my mistake ruin Perish, too. If Scourge defeats his brother, I’ll never be able to save Lark, and every newborn earth child, including Dahlia and Carl’s, will be at risk.

I growl, tugging on my unicorn’s bridle. The mare swivels at my command, her horn casting garish prisms of light. Every crystalized leaf and jagged icicle reflects the colors, creating a dizzying kaleidoscopic effect. I urge my mount toward the Goblin King, holding her to a cautious gait.

Perish crouches at the edge of his fallen knights and speaks in soothing tones to the hostage pack rat faeries, trying to help them unlock from one another and free his army. Seeing me from the corner of his eye, he motions me to stay back.

“Admit the truth, brother!” Scourge shouts from his soaring perch. “Tell the Architect why you won’t bring her sister here.”

I draw back on the reins, slowing my mount—both embarrassed that Scourge heard me shouting at the king, and curious what his barbed words could mean.

“Get to the castle!” Perish swats frustratingly in my direction.

I refuse to budge.

Scourge laughs. “Seems both girls have minds of their own. How ironic is that?”

At Scourge’s command, Krampus’s gargantuan claw scoops up the live-wire net—filled with the knights—before Perish can manage to liberate the faeries. Krampus straps the wriggling mesh to one of his enormous antlers, leaving the boggles dangling there.

“What he hasn’t admitted to you, Architect”—Scourge continues to taunt, poking the squirming net with his stick—“is that the instant your sister and you come face-to-face, she will be absorbed into you. The eyes are the windows to the human soul, after all. And seeing one another as the mirror images you are will break the magical spell that split you apart. In a blink, the one remaining, you, will be so adept in your completeness . . . your perfection . . . you’ll no longer need the king’s aid to create our world’s foundation; you’ll have the ability to alter any settings you wish, to even create new creatures and mutate the ones already here, giving you power over us all.”

I glare at Perish. He returns my gaze, his eyes as gloomy as pools of wine in the haze of our moonlit-midday surroundings. The expression he wears reminds me of when he spoke to Lark in the memory, when he coaxed her to betray me. How he stared at her with desperation and sadness. It’s not the look of a king afraid of losing control over his kingdom . . . it’s the look of a man afraid of losing something much more precious.

And in that moment, I understand the depth of his personal sacrifice that day. He gave up his own desire to keep Lark by his side, pushing her to reunite with Clarey, knowing she’d need to have a life with a mortal to continue our bloodline. It’s a token of his devotion as king, freeing Lark so she could start a family among the humans, as it would be the only way to provide the children who would subconsciously feed into my talents and imagination, keeping Mystiquiel evolving and everlasting—never again to be reliant on reluctant stolen mortals.

Yet there’s more to it, something inconceivable for one of his kind . . . the real reason he sent her to be with Clarey in spite of how it hurt him, and also why he won’t bring her back today.

“You love her,” I say, simultaneously stunned by the depth of his feelings and horrified at how hopeless Lark’s situation is—that if we come face-to-face, her life would be over in an instant. “You sent her away so she would be safe, so she could have happiness; you were hoping if she found love with Clarey again, she’d remain whole and survive.”

Scourge grunts, answering for his brother. “Yes, his fatal flaw. It’s not that he doesn’t want her to rule him. It’s that he doesn’t want to infringe on her purity . . . alter her identity. I could’ve understood a fear that the two of you, once united into one, would overpower us. I could’ve forgiven foresight. But this? Falling prey to love and compassion . . . the weakest of all human emotions. And giving her access to affect the parts of this world that he was vowed to protect? A stain on the royal name. There’s a price to be paid.” He cracks the branch in half over a bent knee, then casts the remains to the ground. “And it’s the throne.”

On Scourge’s command, Krampus plucks up the Goblin King. In a blink, Perish’s features shift to something righteous and regal . . . fury and power. He homes in on the chains woven through Krampus’s fingers, using his connection to his dagger to recall them. They return to Perish’s hands as if he were magnetized.

Forcing Krampus to break his hold, Perish leaps down, swinging on the links, around and around the creature’s ankles. Krampus totters across the bleak landscape, yet manages to stay balanced, the spikes in his hooves digging into the icy layers for traction. In retaliation, he shakes billows of white from the trees, burying Perish in a mile-high mound of snow.

Desperate to set things right, I leap off the unicorn and spin my vines into corkscrew coils then mentally nudge them to break the soil. They drill to breech the frozen ground, a clawing strain I feel through my spine and musculature. At last, they plunge deep, and I pump the ground with what it needs to amend its frozen stasis: lava—hot and fiery.

The vines swell and glow red, shuttling pulses of magma beneath the surface. Every root and trunk drinks in the heat, causing the snowbanks to melt in torrents. Perish’s white-powder prison sluices away to puddles. Once freed, he shakes off a spray of water, looking both majestic and fierce, like a glistening, golden stag emerging from a lake.

The ice beneath Krampus’s hooves crumples to slush and Perish nods my way, the slightest movement only I catch. I pump more lava, accelerating the melt until nothing remains but sumps of mud. Perish tugs at the chains once more, the tendons in his hands, chest, and neck bulging with the strain. Krampus loses the advantage of traction and slips in the muck with a slurping sound. The resulting giant thud rattles the remaining trees around us. His collision snaps the electrical net apart. Freed at last, the pack rat faeries buzz into the air, seeking refuge in the remaining trees. The royal knights scramble up, intent on capturing Scourge’s rebels. A chaotic chase ensues, with everyone skidding and sliding in the mud.

Perish’s brother—having leapt off and landed on a collapsed tree trunk mere inches from me—wraps an arm around my neck before I can bolt. His stench, a tang of oxidized metal and rot, chokes me, but at the same time spurs an epiphany.

Up close, Scourge looks just as he always has . . . scorched wisps of white hair, bent metal shoulder, rusted teeth. He’s still damaged and biomechanical, like the pack rat faeries he held captive, because he was imprisoned by Perish in the castle and never set foot on my healing ground until it was already tainted again.

Which means, most importantly, he still has a metal heart.

“Perish, the dagger! The key!”

Wrestling against the fallen Krampus, the Goblin King transforms his chains back into a dagger, then attempts to shift them further into the one shape that can defeat his brother. The flying gingerbread monkeys intercept, having returned from their trip to the castle armed with axes. They chop at the trees still left standing. Branches fall in a blinding haze, and the fruits burst upon hitting the ground. In place of pulp, lava spatters the surroundings, melting Perish’s dagger and Krampus’s metallic fur, then sparking, igniting the wood and plants with tiny fires. Krampus bellows as his fur singes, and blistered pink skin appears in patches. Perish’s boggles duck to avoid the sprays of scalding liquid and sparks. A handful of Scourge’s cohorts escape and shuttle through mud on their way to Perish. They cover him like insects.

Determined to aid him, I instruct my ivy and flowers to strike at Scourge as if I were a full-body Medusa. He shouts for the flying gingerbread monkeys. They flock around us, chopping my vines with their axes. With each offshoot they amputate, a rip slashes through my heart. I fall to my knees, barely able to see through bleary eyes as Perish’s attackers scramble off.

Krampus rolls over and with a triumphant roar rips the crown from the Goblin King’s head. Perish wails, a howl so guttural and primal it makes the weeping wounds in my flesh pucker like crying mouths. The voltaic puddles left from the melted dagger merge and harden, becoming the familiar weapon, though the handle looks flat and gray like stone, no longer blinking with light.

I slump at Scourge’s feet, staring in disbelief as the Goblin King lies on the ground, a preservation bubble forming spontaneously around him—his last line of defense. But inside, he’s comatose, oblivious as the flames light up around his casing in small outbursts.

“Perish! Wake up!” I lunge for him, but Scourge gouges my shoulder with metal fingers, jerking me back. “It’s not possible.” I whimper. “He told me no one could steal the crown. Not unless every citizen wanted a new king!”

I saw myself how Angorla and the others came to Perish’s defense, even risking their own safety; I know their loyalty remains true.

“Ah, but thanks to you, I found another way to win my rightful place.” Scourge sneers as Krampus rises, holding the lucent crown in his palm and stepping over Perish’s sleeping body, headed in the direction of the castle. “It’s true, no citizen of our land could ever have taken the crown from my brother’s head. Neither could any human. It’s impossible without a magical connection to all the kings before, and the golden circlet is enchanted to kill anyone who tries. But a creature not of earth or fey, made of both flesh and metal, be not held by those boundaries, do they? Thanks to your crafty artwork, the crown’s mine. I can’t wear it yet, but when my brother’s spirit drains away, it will default to me, since I’ll have bested him in a battle of wits. And my first order of business will be to kill you and your sister so you can’t gain the power to be stronger than me. She’ll be easy enough. She’s weak and human, already shrinking away if my mother’s suspicions are true. I’ll simply squash her like the bug she is. And I’m guessing, the moment she dies, you’ll feel it to the core. If your shattered heart isn’t enough to do you in, I’ll have Krampus standing by to finish the job.” Scourge’s gaze falls to my eternity necklace, an obvious insinuation that I won’t be wearing it for long.

“You’ll never get to Lark!” I snarl, struggling against his hold. “You can’t cross the threshold to take her! Only Perish’s blood can unlock it. And he has to give it freely, you ugly pig-faced idiot.”

Scourge barks a cruel laugh and tangles rusted fingernails through my hair, wrenching my head back. “You don’t catch on very fast, do you? Just like Krampus is immune to our laws, so are the other creatures you’ve loosed into our world. When you sent your little tattoo to free me, I told it that to save you, it had to take a portion of blood back to your sister. That you needed her here to help you.” He glances at all the havoc being wreaked around us. “As I don’t see the inky splat hovering about, I assume it went through the veil. Question is, did it have a supply of king’s blood?”

The question strikes me like a slap as I see the vision of my tattoo sipping from Perish like a vampire. Then mercifully, he set it free—the same thing as him giving his blood away. And my last command to Tat: Go back to where you came from.

I meant to reclaim the ink into my flesh . . . but instead, I practically reiterated Scourge’s insinuations, sending Tat back to the place where I first drew it on the pages of a notebook, back to my room where it was first conceived.

“What have I done?” I whisper.

His eyes spark with electrical lights that vibrate as the ground shakes from Krampus carrying the crown toward the castle. “Everything I hoped you would. Humans are so pathetically predictable. I don’t have to get to your sister. She’s coming to us. And I’m guessing, as attached as she is to both you and my brother, she’ll cross the veil within the hour.”

I gulp against the knot in my throat. If Lark makes it across the veil, she’s damned. Either by Scourge and his henchmen or by me when we come face-to-face. Struggling for a plan to stop her, I glance at the flames spreading in the orchards. Maybe they’ll grow high enough to hold her back. But that presents its own problems for Perish and Mystiquiel’s populace. When Krampus left for the castle with crown in hand, the fire stretched up around the comatose Goblin King, forming a circle around his bubble—a ring of flames. Last I could see of him, the prongs of his antlers sparkled with dimming lights. For now, there’s enough hierarchy magic left in his veins to render him untouchable, but once that seeps away, he’ll be toast.

Although I can’t see him, I can still try to help him. As I attempt to reach out with my power, my insides shuffle and quake, as if my very bones are turning to ash. I moan. If it hurts this much to be entwined with a burning world to such a small degree, I can only imagine the pain Lark experienced when Mystiquiel rotted as she was spliced with it, acting as a magnifier for Perish’s magic.

Angorla and the others are no longer in sight, but I’m hoping they’re still close, hiding. They once shared their very minds with Lark; my bond with the creatures is nowhere near as strong, but maybe they can at least hear an echo of my thoughts. Perish did mention that through the orbs around my neck I can somehow communicate with them.

Rescue your king . . . take the trolley . . . get everyone to the beach; there’s sand and water to barricade the flames. Hold Lark there. I’ll find a way to get the crown back so Perish can fix this.

Oblivious to me, Scourge glares up at the gingerbread monkeys. “Wait at the veil’s border. When the other girl arrives, bring her straight to me. She needs to be destroyed before she and her sister have a chance to reunite.”

“No!” I strain to propel my vines, but they’re too small and weak—withered buds sprouting from my skin. I don’t know how long it will take to mend, but to give Lark a fighting chance, I have to manage it soon. If I can escape and hole up somewhere, I can concentrate on healing.

I elbow Scourge, nearly knocking him into a tree. He growls and hands me off to his goon companions.

“Take her to the game room. If she’s swinging from the clock’s pendulum, she’ll be too disoriented to recover her Architect powers.”

As Scourge’s conscripts surround me, choking me with the stench of bestial sweat and muddied clothing, I will the anger Lark’s been harboring to burn bitter and bright, in hopes she’ll decide I’m not worth saving.

“Tickety-tock,” Scourge calls out as I’m shoved toward the castle. “Soon I’ll be wearing the crown—and the mortal world will be my playground.”

15

a very fairy christmas

Lark

I stand alone in the family room, staring at the Christmas tree Uncle bought and plopped into a bucket of water last week. The scent of pine and dust drifts over me. The limbs, still unadorned, are as bare-boned and exposed as I feel.

After I opened the bathroom door for Uncle Thatch and removed Clarey’s silicone prosthetic to reveal my mechanical skeleture underneath, Uncle saw for himself the extent of my deterioration. With him seated on the tub and me on the sink, I gave him a rundown of everything that I’d been hiding . . . at least on the surface. My blood’s magical tendencies, my faking the need for crutches, my short but disastrous venture into arson.

I chickened out before telling him what’s deep inside me . . . all the secrets my heart’s been keeping—the why behind everything I’ve done. What would he think, were I to admit my limerence for the Goblin King? That I was foolish enough to believe he cared for me, too, and led by that foolishness, sold out my sister to appease him?

Uncle listened to me and, without any accusations or chiding, took my good hand in his. He paled when my fingertips slipped through his palm, then led me to my bedroom so I could put on the other ambulatory glove in order to have two working hands.

Now, I wait while he fetches us cocoa—my thoughts and nerves jittery and wild, because it’s about to be his turn to talk. Maybe he thinks the memories of family occasions spent putting up decorations will soften the blow when he finally addresses all my wrongs.

It’s quiet in the house, except for a few thuds and shuffles in the attic where Clarey searches for more ornaments. Two opened boxes already sit on the hearth, marked Christmas decor in black ink. Robotic fingers whirring softly, I dip into one and shove aside tissue paper, uncovering a two-dimensional porcelain cupcake. This ornament is new to me, so I move closer to the floor lamp for a better view. I hold the decoration by the silvery rickrack ribbon made to look like a candle. Eveningside Delights trails across the cupcake’s front as if written in icing. Flipping it to the back, I find an inscription:

To Uncle Thatch, the man who’s sweeter than marzipan. So proud of you for opening your dream bakery.

Nix—Christmas 2020

I swallow hard. That’s the year after they thought I died. Once again, I’m pounded by the evidence that life went on in my absence, seemingly uninterrupted. Uncle says he missed me . . . Clarey says he and Nix did, too. I’ve learned since being back that Uncle opened up shop only six months after I’d disappeared. It’s hard to believe their grief was sincere given how quickly they started a new business and celebrated all the holidays without me.

A chiding reminder pecks at the veneer of righteous indignation I’ve built around my heart—a suppressed memory from the night I was taken. I’d woken up to see Perish kneeling at my bedside—a goblin boy whose eyes glittered, more infinite than puddles of rain beneath a bloodred moon. His dual pupils twinkled, four brilliant stars reflected in the darkness. I was transfixed by his beauty . . . intrigued by his monstrosity. It was as if one of my robotic inventions—mismatched parts and a manufactured heart—had somehow come alive, then melded into a complete and splendid new entity. He offered his hand to me, and I took it without any hesitation. My sister slept on, unaware, as I watched in stunned silence when the goblin’s form blinked in and out of focus. The stubby antlers on his head, his pointed ears, his long, flowing hair, and flesh the color of pearls—all of it transformed in a blink. Looking back at me was myself, replicated. He’d become my mirror image. I gaped. “Fear not, Architect,” he whispered, his young voice a bow that strummed the strings of my core, waking a hungry song that had always been there, unsung. “We’re taking you home,” he explained, and I nodded, knowing it was true. Knowing I’d been waiting for him my entire life. Then a transparent orb swallowed me up and shrank me down. Through the filmy case, I saw my sister rouse and, bleary eyed, take in what was happening. A silent scream clogged her throat—I felt it wedge in my own. She started to speak, started to protest, but the goblin boy silenced her with a temporary sleep spell. I felt her again, some minutes later, as I was riding my bubble through tunnels toward a kingdom of magic to stake claim on my true purpose. I couldn’t see what she was seeing, but I knew that the goblin prince had stayed behind, wearing a facade that looked exactly like me. I also knew by the grief slashing Nix’s heart and ripping into my own that he somehow used the likeness to convince her I was dead.

Up until this moment, I forgot how debilitating her pain was. If Nix truly lived with that same agony all the years I was gone, if it never dwindled but only grew, then maybe she had missed me.

But where was the proof of her pining? All I’ve seen in the weeks since my return is how easily she slipped into the exoskeleton of my life, painting that shell with tinctures of herself until it no longer resembled me. Even our bedroom has no signs of my time there left. It’s all her.

“Hot cocoa.” Uncle Thatch’s voice startles me from my pity party. He glances at the ornament in my mechanical hand. My cheeks flush as I carefully hang it on a branch.

“The sad remains of your dream, thanks to me.” I make the cupcake swing in perfect symmetry with the seesaw rocking inside my stomach.

Uncle moves to my left side, handing over a cup with chocolate steam curling from the edges. I hover my nose at the brim, inhaling the sweet, creamy heat.

“You love your hot chocolate,” Uncle says, maddeningly avoiding the subject of his scorched bakery again. “While Nix is all about the coffee.” He sets his own cup on an empty corner of the hearth and digs around in the box. “From the time you were infants, you two had a lot of differences, more than I can count. But there was always something special about the way your minds sparked when they came together.”

He holds up a set of six ornaments, one at a time, so their sheen catches the light. These I recognize. They’re glossy and variegated like marbles, but each has a unique shape, none of them perfectly round. Nix polished the precious stones herself with a rock tumbler she’d received for her eighth birthday. She ran them through multiple times, until there were no more pits or rough patches—always the perfectionist. I made frames for them with brass and silver wires, twisting pretty coils around the shapes and leaving a hook at the top for hanging. We surprised Uncle Thatch with the set one year for Christmas.

As I’m suspending the ornaments on the branches, I get lost in the swirls and marbling of each one: cherry quartz, yellow jade, red jasper, rainbow moonstone, spiderweb turquoise, and opaline pearl. They’re sleek and flawless, though my wire frames have worn scratches and scrapes along their surfaces. Typical, since everything I create seems to erode the beauty it’s meant to support. I’m convinced the only reason Flannie’s prosthetic limb works to enhance her life is because my sister took my invention and made it better.

The inadequacy settles in my chest, carving such a cavernous, dented sensation it makes me struggle for breath for an instant. When I finally inhale, the hollowed-out sensation remains—as if my heart is shrinking inside its cavity. My pulse stutters, growing quieter. I wriggle my mechanical fingertips and stanch a wave of dread. Surely the weird fading will stop at my elbows. Surely my insides won’t be affected . . .

Uncle drags out a trio of gingerbread men next, and a nervous jolt spikes goose bumps along my arms and neck. They remind me of the mural I unleashed, and the niggle of fear winds tighter—an unsettling hunch that these might come to life somehow to clamber in the branches, knocking pine needles loose and making a mess of our Christmas. But as I watch Uncle hang a few in place, I relax. They’re nothing more than the dough ornaments Nix and I made years ago, inanimate and harmless. I can still smell the salty-baked scent that filled the kitchen after we formed them with cookie cutters and Uncle placed them in the oven. Upon their cooling, Nix painted them, while I added glittery buttons for eyes and made hair with metal shavings and a soldering iron.

I help Uncle hang the rest of them, befuddled by how he’s treating me like I’m cherished . . . like I’m the same girl he raised—the one he loved and fussed over for years. Even after all I’ve done.

“You know, you two were always better as a team,” he says.

I bite my lip, hard. I couldn’t mark it on a calendar, but there had to be a day, an hour, a minute, when Nix and I forgot how good we were together, when we became opponents instead of allies. It hurts that I stopped believing in us. It hurts even more for Uncle to have to be the one to point it out.

As he winds some silvery garlands around the branches, I step back to survey the small spattering of ornaments in place, focusing again on the cupcake and all it represents. How long do I have to totter in limbo, until he pulls the rug from under my pedestal and accuses me of betraying not only him and my twin, but my parents’ memory?

Uncle winds the final glistening tendril close to the tree’s base and stands up, dusting off his hands. “Should we do the paper angel strings or the snowflakes next?”

The mention of angels bound together by papery webs reminds me again of the mural, but I shake it off. Nix must’ve been inspired by these ornaments to paint her mural.

In the absence of my reply, Uncle squats to drag out the angels, illustrated by Nix then cut and decorated by me, with wings linked together in a papery network. The glitter still glistens white, though the paper underneath has yellowed with age. Silver paper-clip halos catch the light, ready to be hooked around waiting branches.

I groan. “So this is it, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“My penance. I get that you can’t possibly forgive me. No more than I can forgive myself. So I guess it makes sense that we’re just going to let . . . whatever this is”—I wave my ambulatory gloves—“happen. Without even trying to figure it out or fight it.”

Sighing, Uncle glances at the wheelchair folded and propped against the far wall, waiting to be donated to charity because I no longer need it. Tonight, he realized I never did.

His face solemn, Uncle places the angels back in the box and picks up our cocoa. He leads me over to sit on the couch. Handing me my drink, he urges me to sip before doing the same. We both set our cups on coasters, then turn to face one another. His big owlish eyes measure me from behind the lenses. I used to think he looked like a handsome frog, that he was a prince in hiding, like in a fairy tale.

That was back when I believed in happy endings, the Easter bunny, and Santa Claus. Back before Mystiquiel opened my eyes to the truth about faeries and castles, kings and queens, and goblin scum like Scourge who could only be reasoned with by a key crammed into his metal heart.

Yes, I wronged my sister and the rest of my family. But will I ever get credit for trying to save humanity? Then again, how can I, when I don’t have the courage to admit how I humiliated myself, how I assumed I’d be the one Perish would want by his side as his queen? How, on that assumption, I coaxed him into a plan that almost leveled his world. It hurts enough to think about it; it would slaughter me to say it aloud.

Uncle takes my mechanized hand in his. “There’s nothing to forgive, okay? I don’t care about the bakery. It wasn’t my dream. What I have planned with Juniper, a joint venture with a dear friend, with recipes that we’ve come up with together . . . that’s dream-worthy. Enchanted Delights was nothing but an opportunity. A way to stay in contact with my precious niece who’d been taken in the middle of the night. Those first few months, all I could do was worry about you. Then my idea for the bakery came along as a link and a means to have some control. To have a reason for the Goblin King to check in with me, to consult with me, to answer any questions I had. And because I was keeping his subjects from starving, I had an iota of power over him, at least. So no, it wasn’t some big aspiration. It was a means to a connection. And just so you know, Perish ruined the bakery before you even burned it. By closing the veil, he stopped the fruit shipments. All to seal us off, to be sure I had nothing left I could use to contact him again.”

“There was more to it, though,” I interrupt, wrestling with how to tell him that Perish actually did it for me, so I could move on without him. That I went along with it and threw my sister into the fray of faerie-kind in hopes of fixing my mistakes and mending my broken heart.

Uncle plows ahead, unaware of my inner struggle. “Yes. There was something done to you and Nix, before you were even born. And I think it’s behind what’s happening to your hands and arms. But I only know what your mom told me that Halloween when she dropped you both off . . . the first and last time I ever saw her.” Uncle takes off his glasses, rubs the lenses clean with the hem of his T-shirt, then slides the frames back into place. “We were rushed that night, but she managed to share a little about her life, being raised in that world. And I wanted so badly to share it with you and Nix, but my tongue was tied. First, by a vow of secrecy to her. She didn’t want you two to know the truth . . . said it would endanger you. Then, Perish silenced me with magic. But now, I’m free to tell you everything. Things like how Imogen was a weaver. It was her gift. It was her curse.”

His voice cracks, and I think of how changed he was, just by that one encounter. I wonder how I could ever have been so careless with my sister’s love. How either of us could’ve taken the other for granted with such ease. Uncle barely knew my mother, and she barely knew him, yet they trusted each other implicitly: Mom with the most treasured parts of herself, and Uncle with his future, sidelining it for her children without hesitation. That’s how sibling love should be. Absolute. Unbreakable. Transformative.

How did Nix and I get it so wrong?

Half listening to his recollections of Mom, I sink into my own, since I knew her in a way he couldn’t. When I became part of Mystiquiel through the Architect link, I tapped into Mom’s spirit . . . her psyche . . . and portions of her life imprinted on my mind. Not just hers, but those of every Architect before me. An eternal loop, a mindshare between mortal visionaries who’d been held captive at the mercy of a broken fairyland. It gave me such pride, that my talent was going to put an end to the imprisonment of our kind. Now, instead, Nix will be the heroine in our story.

“Imogen’s given medium was earth and blood.” Uncle’s voice weaves its way back into my thoughts. “Her blood. The puncture marks in her flesh never healed, open and waiting for the leaves, flowers, and roots of Mystiquiel to splice with her veins when new supplies were needed. They only closed after she managed her escape . . . she said within minutes they scarred over.”

I shut my eyes at his telling, recalling the intricacies of the magic from my own insights. Her blood merged with chlorophyll and sap to make a concoction that mellowed within her like wine, to be reborn as faerie thread. Upon its exodus from her open wounds, the drizzle of fine strands appeared crimson but dried to bone white, which she would dye with the pigments of nature.

The loireag—tiny beings with the bodies of hummingbirds, spindly human arms hidden under their wings, and the wrinkled faces of old women covered in pebbly warts—were mandated by the king to make Mom’s tools. They took twigs from the branches of white elms, set them in parallel lines, and hummed songs that turned their spittle to strings as tough as fishing line. These they bound around the sticks, providing Mom’s hand looms. She always pretended to be playing a harp as she worked—at least, with as much as she knew of harps from the fairy festivals she’d attended, since she wasn’t allowed any glimpses of human life until it was time for her to choose a mate.

“She wanted you both to have a better future,” Uncle continues as I mentally pad his words with intimate details only I know. “To be with humankind. When they led her out that first Halloween to seduce a mate into Mystiquiel, she already had a plan for escape in mind. But she knew she’d have to have someone on the outside to make it happen. Which meant she had to lure Owen in and conceive his child, even if he’d hate her for it.”

“But he didn’t,” I say.

“No. He was wise enough to understand that she had no choice, trapped in some strange purgatory—dominated as a laborer while simultaneously worshipped as a divinity—in that fairyland where she’d been born, a world where her own daughter would be birthed and groomed to replace her.”

I saw Mom’s handiwork in my mindshare. Tapestries, touched by Talon’s royal magic then imprinted upon the world to bleed into reality—coming alive to form sun, moon, stars, snowy mountains, forested hills, pebbled creeks, and riotous oceans—exactly as she captured in her silky woven settings. Mom spun the infrastructure upon which the lives of the eldritch thrived for over thirty years, and I’ve no doubt Nix is doing the same with her artwork. I’m the only one of our ancestors, in centuries, who’s failed.

I cough at the cracking sensation in my chest, trying to ignore how the odd, vacant feeling seems to be widening, how the emptiness has moved to lurk beneath my ribs—siphoning air from my lungs. My breathing feels off, more labored than I like. I tell myself it’s a reaction to the dust on the boxes. But even if it isn’t, maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe this is my retribution—the same “just desserts” I portioned out to Nix by trapping her in Mystiquiel and slamming the door, in hopes of salvaging my own wounded pride.

Uncle’s movement catches my attention. He returns to the hearth to delve into the ornaments, shoving aside several layers of tissue until he comes to a small box. I arrive at his side and he opens it to reveal a braided circle of red threads. I catch a breath and reach for it tentatively.

“Father’s wedding ring,” I whisper. I recognize it from another memory imprint, of the moment Mom and Dad exchanged vows—deep underground and out of sight of their fey captors. I wonder if Nix has experienced that mindshare moment yet. If she’s witnessed our parents’ great love.

Uncle places it in my synthetic palm. “They gave it to me the night they brought you both to me. A keepsake for you girls, in case the unthinkable happened and I had to tell you the history. I never understood how the ring’s magic worked. Imogen tried to explain. Said she captured a piskie mid-sneeze. But before she could expound, Owen panicked, worried the Goblin King was already close behind and they were losing time. They left to throw the Goblin Court off my scent, allowing me to escape with you girls.”

The memory imprint of Mom’s capture, of Dad’s death, slashes its claws through my gut and I wince.

Uncle squeezes my fingers around the ring so I’m holding it in my metal fist. I ache, because I want to touch it with my skin; I want to feel the only part of my father that survived. I open my palm and hold it up to my nose, nuzzling the threads. I can almost smell him: rain, wool, and human sweat with a mingling of copper.

Out of desperation, I peel off the ambulatory glove from my right hand. Uncle releases a shocked gasp upon seeing my fingers faded down to the middle knuckle. It doesn’t faze me, as I expected the degeneration to have reached this point. At least there’s enough flesh and bone left for me to put the ring into place.

I nudge it onto the fleshy nub, intending just to feel it there for a moment before taking it off again so it wouldn’t be lost once my hand completely vanishes. But the moment the circle reaches the base of my knuckle, the braided threads absorb into my skin until all that’s left is a scar. It has burrowed into me, exactly as it did into my father’s flesh. Does this mean the magic still lives inside?

Uncle gulps and traces the raised line of skin. “What kind of power is in this thing, Lark? Do you know?”

I tilt my chin in thought while pulling my metallic glove back into place. “The threads were made of Mom’s blood, but they were drawn out from a prick in her fingertip—so there was no interference by Mystiquiel’s roots or vines. After she bled the length long enough, she snipped it free, cut it into three strands, and soaked them in a potion made of Dad’s blood with a piskie’s sneeze stirred in. When they dried, she braided them.”

Uncle frowns, not comprehending.

I crinkle my forehead, and Nix’s eyebrow ring feels strangely heavy, as if every piece of jewelry should have the ability to be absorbed like Dad’s ring. “Perish once told me that the biggest difference between humans and the eldritch was the way we gestate our existence. He said that with our kind, everything we experience makes up the essence of our individuality. Even our veins hold traces, forming tributaries that connect our heart to visceral imprints—what we call memories—that are as unique as fingerprints. So our very blood keeps them pulsing and alive; that way, even once we’re gone, those parts of us live on.” I shrug. “That’s how Mystiquiel retains the memories of each Architect, since their blood goes into the making of the foundation. And that was Mom’s advantage. Through those connections, she understood the inner workings of the eldritch. She knew that Dad’s blood would retain his memories, and hers—which actually formed the ring—would do the same. And that with their blood united, Dad would have their entire story inside him, waiting to unwind at the proper moment. All she needed was to hide the ring, and to counteract the mind-scrape that the fey were planning for him. She understood that for every fey curse, there was a cure. That the same piskie dust that would erase his memories when paired with the command “Extirpate” could also restore those memories if the dust were teased out with a sneeze while the command “Replevy” was recited. So she formed a magical ring that would blend into his skin—”

“And harvested her own piskie dust,” Uncle jumps in. “As a means to trump the king himself.” He smiles sadly. “Brilliant.”

Pride washes through me for her ingenuity. If only it had been enough to save her and Dad. But I have their story now, tucked safe inside me. I wriggle my fingers in the glove, relishing the thought of their blood intertwining with my own—all our memories bonding together.

Uncle places a crocheted snowflake on the tree. “So we know the queen read your mom’s aura, before Imogen even realized she was pregnant. And once Talon knew she was having twins, he performed an enchantment . . . to mark the Architect so they’d know which of you to keep and which to cast out and make an orphan. Imogen was resolved not to let that happen. And she managed to stop it, for a while.”

I hang a few snowflakes myself—at last understanding Uncle’s insistence on decorating. It’s to help us strategize. He’s always been one who thinks more clearly through work. “But Talon’s enchantment did more than that. We don’t even understand how deep it all goes. But one thing I know . . . it bonded my and Nix’s dreams somehow.”

“Right. That, none of us knew.” Uncle steadies another snowflake, readjusting the ribbon hanger around the branch. “We couldn’t have known it yet, not until you were older. Not until you were . . .” He pauses.

“Separated by a magical veil?” I toss the question out, sounding more acerbic than I intend.

“Exactly. I’m guessing that whatever Talon did has joined you two so closely, you can’t live without one another.”

I let his hypothesis sink in, because it would explain why Nix and I could sometimes feel what the other was experiencing, or read one another’s thoughts when our pinkies were linked. There were times it felt almost as if we were the same person in two different bodies.

“Which means what’s happening to you is also happening to your sister. And by getting you back together, side by side and hand in hand, only then will you both be well again.”

I tap my lower lip, metal fingertip clinking against Nix’s metal labret, considering his words. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“It’s got to be why Perish sent for you,” Uncle Thatch continues. “He might’ve burned the bridge, but he’s offered us another way in.” Uncle drags a vial out of his pocket. An inky sludge splashes the glass walls as he shakes it.

“His blood . . . ,” I whisper.

“When I was in the kitchen pouring our cocoa, I squeezed out the sponge. This is our ticket back to Mystiquiel.”

I curl my toes in an effort to hold my hope at bay. Is it possible Perish actually does need me? Wants me back? “What makes you think he sent it? Did the tattoo tell you that?”

“No. It’s disappeared in the house somewhere and we can’t find it. But Clarey told me what it said in his BAHA earlier: ‘Go back to where you came from.’ What could that be but an invitation . . . from the king himself? Spoken to you, because your sister and you were conceived there.”

A frown tugs at my lips. “Yeah, I heard it, too. But it was Nix’s voice.”

“Okay, yet Perish must be behind it to have given the tattoo his blood.”

I reach out, my robotic thumb clinking the vial. “Things must be very bad if he’s opening the way for us to come back.” We look at the shimmering royal essence then at one another.

“So you know now that I’m not going to let what’s happening to you or your sister go unchecked. Right?”

I nod.

“I need a few more details. Clarey told me about you bleeding flowers on ground zero. Which means you started changing in early November. But when did the fading start?”

“Thanksgiving. When we went to the graffiti trail,” Clarey answers, entering the room with a dusty, cobwebbed box cradled in his arms. I frown at seeing the words “Last Halloween” in Nix’s handwriting across the side.

“Since when do we trim the Christmas tree with skeleton bones and miniature jack-o’-lanterns?” I ask, suspicious.

Clarey sets the box down and glances at Uncle. “This is the one you said to find, right?”

“Yeah.” Uncle Thatch turns his gaze on me. “It’s all Nix’s keepsakes of you, including some from the last day you were together.”

So “last,” in this case, means final. I step closer, tentative, as Clarey opens the box. The desolation overtaking my chest—the gaping maw suctioning my pulse and gutting my breath—ebbs with each item Clarey fishes out. First come sketches of me made by Nix’s hand, next my phonograph and Mom’s vinyl records, then metal sculptures of a bird’s nest, paper boats . . . so many other pieces of our lives together. Clarey unwraps them one by one, reverently, as if this shrine is as much to her as to me.

Lastly, he drags out the costume I wore that final night we went trick-or-treating together. The Halloween I was taken. With just a flick of my finger on the switch, the fairy wings spring to life.

“They still work,” I murmur, more of a question than an observation.

“Nix put a new battery in each year so she could run it in honor of you.” Clarey nods toward the lavender hoodie that’s folded neatly inside some tissue paper. “She took that and the wings on the trolley this past Halloween to sketch how she remembered you. Trying to reboot her retinas.”

When Uncle and Clarey first told me about Nix’s depression causing the hues around her to fade, how only her dreams were Technicolor, I was skeptical. I honestly thought that it was my life that had turned monotoned and bleak—because of my failure in Mystiquiel. That when all hope of me being the Architect Perish needed died, it bled me dry of purpose, and because I was so deeply rooted in the infrastructure of my settings, I drained the entire fey world of color.

I was convinced that’s what affected Nix, via our strange connection.

But now, seeing her keepsakes, knowing about her memorials to me, I think maybe it was the opposite. Maybe it was her depression affecting Mystiquiel through me.

Either way, I’m leveled by the homage she kept, and can no longer deny our connection, beyond fey enchantments. The magic of sisterhood. My heart surges, the emptiness in my chest filling with something I’ve forgotten how to feel: needed . . . necessary.

“You okay, kiddo?” Uncle asks. The worried crinkles edging his eyes provoke an unexpected surge of fear for my twin . . . and this time, I allow it to flourish, allow my love for her to resurface and rise, letting it choke out the envy I’ve fostered for so long.

“We have to get to her,” I say. Yes, I’ll always be a selfish creature, and maybe in some small way I hope to redeem myself, but even more, Nix should be with family and loved ones; this is where she belongs.

“That’s my girl,” Uncle says, squeezing me in a hug. Then, to Clarey: “Make sure you grab some food for the road and pack anything you think we’ll need. I’ll go gas up the Chevy for our trip to Cannon Beach.”

After Uncle steps out, I dig through what’s left in the bottom of the box, producing a wig of mossy, silver-leaved hair; a set of prosthetic ears; and a headband of horns he fashioned for me that Halloween night three years ago, because I didn’t just want to be a fairy. I wanted to be a fairy goblin queen, partly in honor of Mom’s picture book, but even more because I craved the monstrously beautiful—fragility merged with ferocity. Even back then I felt adrift because my outsides didn’t quite match my insides, and I was determined the costume would right that wrong for at least one night.

Today, seeing all these pieces revives a new emptiness—to have been so close . . . to have almost attained it all . . . and then lose it forever. Yet I hold the silent ache inside. It’s my shattered dream. No one else needs to know but me and my Goblin King.

“Hey . . . would you mind helping me put this stuff on?”

Clarey frowns thoughtfully. “You want a costume? Are you scared for them to see you again?”

More like ashamed. I nibble on Nix’s labret, holding back the answer. “The fey won’t feel threatened by you or Uncle,” I say, placing everything on the couch alongside Clarey’s makeup bag, “but I should be inconspicuous. I hurt them, and they’ll be on the defensive if they see me. They hate me now.” It pains me to admit it aloud because those creatures are beloved to me. Our minds and hearts were connected and inseparable at one time. At that thought, I bite my lip. “You know, I’m going to pack a few of my inventions. And you should think about bringing your harmonica.” When I was one with the world, I saw through my singular eye how Nix used her art and Clarey used his music to weave magical wards against the dangers they encountered. “We’ll need all our creative reserves in case there’s any trouble.”

Clarey nods wordlessly, then proceeds to remove Nix’s facial piercings from my skin. At one time, my nerves would have lit up at his touch. Instead, all I notice is the sensation of having the face jewelry gone. Like a weight being lifted, but also like a door slamming shut, one that will never open again—simultaneously stirring echoes of both relief and sadness inside my chest.

Next, Clarey uses spirit gum adhesive to glue the ear tips in place along with a prosthetic face shell from a vampiress costume he worked on this past Halloween for a costumer who ended up canceling the order; Nix asked to keep it, so it’s already been altered to fit her face. Clarey pats the mask into place, blending pieces to the edges of my mouth so my own lip shape shows, and then follows with the wig and two-inch-long false eyelashes the color of a dove’s feathers.

After handing me a fanged dental veneer and positioning the horns so that the silvery-vined hair hides the headband, he holds up a small mirror so I can view his masterpiece.

The mossy tresses are a perfect match for my pale eyebrows, and with the sharpened cheekbones, snarling teeth, and white lashes, I feel more like me. Even the shimmery gray skin tone offers a sense of identity I’ve been missing.

“When you get there, this stuff is going to become part of you for a while. Are you okay with that?”

“Absolutely,” I don’t hesitate to answer.

“Just want to be sure you’re prepared, because it’s a pretty weird experience.”

Weird for you . . . a wild and wonderful wish for me. I stare at the mirror, keeping that sentiment to myself as well.

Back when Clarey first made my fairy goblin accessories, he was just learning how to mold prosthetics, which is why there were only ear tips and horns. He hadn’t yet learned to carve realistic fingers. So he used the remainder of leafy vines from the wig to make hand covers. These he helps arrange over my mechanical appendages as the final touch.

The irony of me bearing the same metal-and-galvanized taint I introduced to Mystiquiel should be cathartic, a penance for the harm I caused those creatures who relied on me to offer a world in which they could live. Still, seeing myself look so much like their mutated selves—organic and synthetic elements twisted into unnatural and ungodly tangles of flesh, foliage, and carbon fiber—causes me to shudder.

“You sure you’re okay with all this?” Clarey asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, surprised by his concern. “I’m glad to see you still care.”

His thick eyebrows furrow. “I never stopped caring, Lark. You’ll always be important to me.”

“So I haven’t completely slayed our friendship.” I assign the label to his feelings, an acknowledgment for both of us that it’s all we’ll ever be, from this day forward. He doesn’t need to feel bad any longer about how things turned out. I accept who has claimed his heart now, just like I hope he’ll be able to do the same for who and what have claimed mine.

He offers a half smile. “Nah. You just mangled it a bit. Nothing a tourniquet and a few surgical sutures won’t fix.”

I snort in appreciation of the gruesome analogy. Then, wearing a sneer that reveals the small gap in my front teeth strategically centered between Clarey’s vampire fangs, I turn again to the mirror and am greeted by the Goblin Queen I almost was. The mate Perish deserved—every bit as frightful and alluring as him. I curse silently, because I’m not over him . . . not over any of it. For that reason alone, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to be there again. Yet once I’m done pulling on a blue tulle sequined fairy gown and adding wings that hang to the knees of my jeans underneath, I realize I have no choice but to be strong enough. With that in mind, I add Nix’s army boots in tribute to her.

I owe it to my sister to break our bond once and for all, so at least she can come home and be happy. Once we’re face-to-face, I’ll take her in my arms and we’ll forgive each other everything, and we’ll be close again, just like when we were kids. Maybe I can even convince Perish to release our family from the contract. Maybe he’ll trust me again now that my blood bleeds flowers. Since Nix and I are twins, surely there’s some untapped part inside of me that’s worthy of being the Architect she is.

No matter what happens, this final trek to Mystiquiel will be the end of something monumental. I’m just hoping, if I put everything right, it can be the beginning, too.

16

tickety-tock, tinker and rot

Nix

. . . BONG BONG BONG.

The clock’s hourly cymbal halts at eleven counts, leaving a reverberation that skitters through my bones and rattles my skull. It’s almost midnight . . . one hour until Christmas in the human realm. In the past, the holiday heralded traditions, peace, and hope. But this Christmas ushers in the end: a kingdom on fire, a Goblin King’s throne stolen by a vengeful brother who wants to breed and use humans like livestock, and the impending dissolution of the girl I’ve always known as my sister.

My stomach lurches and wooziness clogs my head like cottony ink as the pendulum sways metronomically back and forth. I’m carried along for the ride, suspended upside down by my feet. As uncomfortable as my pinched skin might be, the movement itself summons an even deeper ache, because with each swinging lurch, more of Lark’s life slips away. Tears roll from my eyes to my hairline, saturating my widow’s peak.

I remember this feeling well; only two months ago I was imprisoned in this clock room by Perish under similar circumstances—the weight of the world strapped to my ankles. However, some things have changed. Much like me realizing Perish isn’t the enemy I thought he was, the surroundings have improved, too—no longer poisoned by Lark’s rusted, voltaic ruin. Even in the dimness, I sense the differences. My hands skim walls soft with moss instead of slick and sticky from splatters of rancid pulp, and a sweet, dark-earth scent fills my nostrils, much more palatable than soured wood and rotting fruit.

I don’t need to crane my neck and look up to know the clock’s face—big as a brass hot air balloon—and its giant black roman numerals stand free of tarnish. Fruit still winds through openings in the wood-and-stonework frame, but the push is delicate, a gentle intrusion. This goblin harvest, stretching from somewhere behind the clock, ripens on the vine, fresh and dewy, with a scent as ambrosial as the stock Uncle kept boxed up in the bakery’s storeroom, before the building fell to ash at Lark’s hand.

My hair, substantially longer now, flops from side to side. If it were hanging loose, it would be ripped from my scalp by the giant gears and pulleys that click and grind beneath an opening in the floor. Instead, my leafy tiara—the sole part of my Architect regalia untouched by axes—winds through the strands and braids them into a halo, reminding me of the paper angels in the royal orchards.

A slight glow from beneath the skin at my collarbone slathers everything with brushstrokes of gold. Just before the goons strung me up and left me here, they attempted to remove the eternity necklace from my neck. Each time, the luminous orbs shrank back and rolled away from their grasp. When they forced me to try to yank it free, the necklace burrowed beneath my clavicle under my skin, and there it sits still. I would’ve laughed at the rebels’ reactions, at their fury for having to leave the necklace in place, but the comfort any such humor would provide is lost on me. The gentle pulse of life stings, like a thorn buried in my flesh—a constant reminder that I’m wearing the one thing that could’ve kept Lark safe and whole.

Even my efforts to utilize this gift, to mentally send an SOS to any of the fey who might listen, have gone unanswered. Either they can’t hear me, or they’re too afraid to help, which means it’s up to me to figure a way out of this so I can stop Scourge’s army from murdering the part of me who’s my twin.

I huff at the bizarre logic, wondering how such a thing could even be remotely possible. Then again, how is it any different from all the strange magic I’ve seen, experienced, even performed myself, since Halloween?

With a snarl, I try once more to invoke the vines and flowers of my tattered tunic and leggings to sprout and lengthen—hoping to use them to tug my ankles free and pad my fall. But the fuzz in my head muddles the lines of communication. Their response is feeble . . . they twist in strands flush with my skin, barren of leaves or petals and as small and intimidating as albino earthworms. I slump, surrendering once more to my bindings.

Even if I could escape, where would I go? Scourge has three guards at the entrance to the clock alcove, and another half dozen watching the game room. I would have to be invisible to slip under their beaks, muzzles, and noses.

All of this is happening because I used Tat to free Scourge. I should have learned by now you can’t bargain with the fey. At least not with one who has a metal heart. I’d had a plan. I was going to command Tat to become a key that would wind Scourge’s heart like Perish’s dagger . . . to force the truth from him. Had I known that Scourge was the true enemy, I would never have taken such a chance. I’d like to blame Perish for not telling me everything, or my Architect mindshare for not showing me more of Lark’s time here. If only I’d seen my sister and Perish when they discussed Scourge’s terrible plans, things would’ve turned out differently.

Yet it all circles back to me. If I hadn’t been shirking my responsibilities, if I’d honored the consistent act of creation, it would’ve opened the mindshare wider and I would’ve seen all those things. Instead, I stubbornly hid away and pined for the earthly future I gave up to save a sister I thought had betrayed me.

Given enough time, the Goblin King and I might’ve learned to trust one another and found a way to break the bond between me and Lark. We might’ve saved her. But with every snick of the second hand, however slower it may be here, that very time fades away—just like Lark’s chances for survival. Once again, time is our enemy.

I crane my neck, squinting to see through the glass front where a black Victorian streetlamp anchors to the stone floor. A coating of something that glistens like stars trapped in spiderweb latches onto the glass’s edges and winds around the clock’s hands, disrupting the view and gumming up the gears below me.

Perish wanted to introduce me to the windershins—the breed of fey who curtail the passage of minutes and hours here. Maybe if I’d been open to understanding his world, if I’d even met them once, they’d come to my aid now . . . halt the clock and turn the hands backward so I could erase every mistake I’ve made since becoming Architect.

But their magic doesn’t reverse time, only slows it. That much I know. So what good could they do me anyway?

I’m crying in earnest, wetness soaking my forehead and hairline, buried so deep in my regret I almost miss the feathery rustles on the other side of the clock—out of sync with the second-hand ticks. Before I can make sense of it, an infestation of white, luminous, spidery forms swarms over me. Their overlong silky appendages, more like droopy tentacles than actual legs, brush down my inverted body and drag across my face, getting gummed up in my tears.

I yelp, swiping my hands erratically to rake them off. As they cascade free, each one rises into the air—floating—aglow and ethereal. My horror gives way to a dreamy surrealness. It’s as if I were underwater, strung from the bottom of a swaying ship, watching a thousand turtle-headed jellyfish swarm around me. I bat at them weakly, unsure if I want to capture them for closer inspection or hold them at bay.

“Merry-merry, Mistress Contrary.”

I stiffen at the gruff, goatly voice from below. I never thought I’d be so happy to hear one of those taunting, snarky greetings.

“Angorla?” I struggle to speak, my throat clogged with unshed sobs. I manage to look down to where her cloven hooves perch on the platform of wood just shy of the clock’s spinning gears and whirring cogs.

The windershins descend and drift around the hobblegob’s spiraled horns. She mumbles something to them I can’t hear over the metronomic beat. A handful of the spindly fey envelop Angorla’s horns with web, lifting her so she appears weightless.

Others swoop in my direction, their spidery forms climbing steadily as if stitched to threads of wind. Half converge across my legs and ankles, while the remainder gather at the crown of my head—wispy appendages raking over my hair and shuffling around my ears in cringe-inducing flutters. I shudder and instinctively bat at them.

“’Twas the night before Christmas”—Angorla teases, hovering in front of me—“and all through the land, the creatures who stir are forestalled by your hand. But what if, dear Architect, as you cringe and you scoff, you realize an unsettling appearance is no reason to cast off?”

I force myself to stop batting and swing haplessly, resisting the urge to argue as several limp-legged tendrils brush, feather light, across my mouth and nose. Cinching my lips tight to suppress a gag, I wait for an explanation.

“Even the ugliest of us can be heroes, in case you still don’t believe. And yes, that means this is favor number three. You’ll owe me thrice as much as our first bargain’s weight. But payment won’t be due till we get you somewhere safe.”

It hits me that Angorla must’ve heard me reaching out through the necklace. My pulse pounds at the base of my jaw—faster than the pendulum’s metronomic beat carrying me along—as my heart winds with a hope I never expected to feel. If she can free me, I have at least a chance to save my sister, to fix things.

Yet I hesitate. It might be a trap . . . Angorla may be working with Scourge. But hindsight tells me I don’t have the luxury of caution anymore. Too many things have gone awry because I was too stubborn to trust anyone here.

I give her the benefit of the doubt and hold myself limp as several windershins stop the pendulum from swinging with their wire-strong webs. The creatures at my head form an interlaced gossamer cradle while the ones at my feet spit jeweled saliva from their turtle beaks; the viscous substance anchors my boots against another network of web. Meanwhile, Angorla’s horn harness levers her close enough to slice my ankle binds free from the clock with gardening shears.

When I’m cut loose, I glide softly, the gauzy mesh at my head and feet guided by an ever-growing swarm of windershins, until I’m seated upright on the floor with the gentleness of an autumn leaf set adrift from a dormant branch.

I thank the windershins upon standing and peel the webbing from my hair, wilted clothes, and frayed boots. Their hauntingly beautiful spectacle of harnessing time resumes once they’ve deposited Angorla on the floor beside me.

“Come, Architect,” she beckons, tucking her scissor blades into a scabbard at her hairy waist. She opens a trapdoor behind the clock and clambers down a ladder. I toss a quick glance at the goblin fruit’s origin tree off in a distant corner, its branches twining all across the space and reaching into the back of the clock. I wish I’d taken the time to visit when Perish offered, and hope the enchanted inner workings of this and every other fragile and wondrous aspect of both his world and my human one won’t be destroyed by Scourge’s mercenary reign.

Stretching my muscles to work out the kinks, I climb down after Angorla, emboldened that we’re making our escape through the underground tunnels to avoid Scourge’s guards in the castle. My tension eases another iota, and I follow as she dodders in front of me with that off-balance gait, leading me through the maze.

Unlike when I rode in a bubble behind Perish on my last trip through, there are no frayed copper circuits or giant computer chips, not even any cracked light bulbs. When I created the new settings in Mystiquiel, the underground tunnels were altered, too, being a part of the terrain.

We weave through tunnels of shiny black tungsten with pebbles crunching under our feet and colorful flowers sprouting up at intervals. I slow to a stumbling stride when several tinker-gnomes slip out from the shadows to join us. They begin vacantly humming their work songs while adjusting to our pace. Once I’m convinced they’re on our side, I find myself humming along—relieved to find they’re no longer blinded with the rusted aluminum eyes I drew for them in my sketchbooks. Like Angorla, they’re organic and healthy now. At least as healthy as they can be, knowing what they truly are: goblin princes from Perish’s lineage who failed to win their crown tournaments.

Perish said they mutate to gnomes and serve their relatives as the castle’s blacksmiths, constantly exposed to heat and flame. With that in mind, their natural armor—armadillo-style shells that protect their backs and fronts, alongside white reptilian scales that surround their heads like helmets, leaving only fuzzy ears, red eyes, and rodent muzzles exposed—makes a strange kind of sense. In fact, the closer we’re crammed together in the passage, the more I notice the char blackening their scales and shells, and the scent of woody smoke wafting off them. It occurs to me that because of these inborn shields, they would’ve been the perfect candidates to save Perish from the flames in the orchard.

Eyes wide, I turn to Angorla. “You’re taking me to him, aren’t you? Perish . . . you have him hidden somewhere.”

Her horns tip forward in a nod, and her beard droops. “Our king, even without the crown, is every bit the king that his brother is a clown.”

As we continue through the tunnels, our company grows to include Filigree and Bonbon, among others I recognize from the orchards. My necklace shimmers brighter under my skin upon seeing each one. They did hear me, and they did choose to listen. I’m touched they would stick their necks out for Perish, but even more, that they came for me. Yet I can’t help but worry. How is this ragtag band enough to go up against Scourge’s henchmen, the gingerbread aviators, and Krampus—while locked tight in a fortress no less?

We need Perish’s knights. The last I saw of them, they scattered when the orchard trees fell and caught fire. If they’re guarding Perish now, their manpower—or boggle-power—could give us a fighting chance to win this thing.

As we plunge through a huge cement pipe and take the giant stairway to the lair, I admit I’m surprised. Since according to Perish, his subjects revere the place, I didn’t expect anyone to be holed up here. Maybe that’s their strategy—that Scourge will think the same thing, too.

Once we cross the threshold, the rocky doorway thunders closed behind us. My entourage disperses to different ends of the chamber. I take the dirt-strewn path, the blue-flamed wall torches offering just enough light to see the lower center of the room, without fully illuminating the top of the shallow stairs. A steady buzz of chaos swarms all around. An assortment of fey have found their way here: piskies, sprites, wights, and sprigs, but no boggle knighthood in sight to keep order. I wonder where they could be?

Do these lesser, weaker fey really think hiding Perish here will keep him safe from Scourge? The moment his spirit blinks out and Scourge wins his “challenge,” the crown will manifest on Scourge’s head. Then he’ll have every predecessor king’s magic in the palm of his grubby, clawed hands.

Chewing my inner cheek, I head toward the stairs and duck out of the way of several piskies swinging on mossy cords strung from the roof. A few tap their feet on the top of my head as I cross under them. I pause at the giant tulip in the center of the room, watching Bonbon and a sprite wiggle into the center to play hide-and-seek, their antics releasing a gentle fragrance. Considering how many canvases it took to paint Mystiquiel’s vistas, I expected no petals to remain. Yet it appears that the flower regenerates for endless sessions—as indestructible as Lark’s tungsten throne.

On that thought, déjà vu strikes hard. The two times I’ve been here so far have resulted in trauma. First, when I saw Lark hooked up to cords that were simultaneously charging her with electric shocks and sucking her dry. Then second, my debut as Architect, when I learned she’d betrayed me and burned down Uncle’s bakery. I can’t let tonight be another tragedy in the making.

Upon climbing to the top of the stairs, I find Perish asleep in his preservation bubble atop a table-high slab of stone. Lady Glacia sits beside him on a smooth ledge, keeping vigil. Filigree has settled herself at her master’s head, where she fluffs her lustrous feathers and coos softly, as if grieving. The queen shifts in her seat to stare at me with her ocean-wide eyes. Her full white skirts rustle, sparkling in the torches like a snowy clearing under the light of a blue moon.

“You?” I ask, my voice echoing through the craggy space. “You were behind my rescue? I thought you were on Scourge’s side.”

Lady Glacia stands up—all chilling grace and glittering spite. “Scourge is out of control. He left his own brother out in the flames so his spirit would vaporize into nothingness. Once his preservation casing deteriorates, if there’s no crown to absorb him, Perish will dim to nothing but a blotted-out name in our royal history archives.”

Her hypocrisy isn’t lost on me. I debate pointing out that the same thing is happening to my sister, but don’t expect Lady Glacia to care. “You’re not worried Scourge will find you missing and command his soldiers to come looking for you?”

“Soldiers? Bah. Those idiots are too busy looking for your other half at the moment. Our royal regiment has been sent to intercept.” Her batlike ears twitch, their fuzzy white tips peeking through her flaxen hair, causing the multitude of earrings to jingle.

A tingle of relief chimes through me, but I don’t surrender fully. First, I have to understand the queen’s agenda.

“As for Scourge,” she continues, “he’s oblivious to anyone but his new pet and is prematurely celebrating his victory with a handful of his favorite turncoats. He’s so drunk with power, having yoked himself to that unnatural beast you unleashed, he can’t see past his banquet table.”

I’m reminded of the gala I walked in on weeks ago, how Scourge and his companions gorged themselves to the point of indifference and oblivion. I narrow my eyes. “So . . . you do have a favorite son after all.”

“Scourge is playing a dangerous game with the welfare of our world, and our subjects hate him for it. So, in answer, I’m on the side of what’s best for my family’s kingdom. For our legacy. Of my two princes, only one is worthy to wear the crown and sit on the throne. His weakness for a human doesn’t negate his devotion to our kind, and vice versa. Just see how many came out of hiding to bring you here, so you might help him.”

I step closer, cautious. “Yes. And I want to help. Is anyone trying to steal the crown . . . to bring it here?”

Her beautiful, otherworldly features fluctuate from a concerned pout to an embittered grimace. “The crown hasn’t left Scourge’s side. That Christmas beast shut it in a box . . . safely tucked away . . . and guards it. Perish will fade soon unless we get it placed upon his head, yet none of us can retrieve it . . . or could even touch it if we did. But there’s one other who has bonded with the crown magic, who had it channeled through their veins. That one is our only hope.”

I gulp, envisioning the scar on Perish’s palm, knowing how it matches my sister’s despite having never seen hers. “Lark.”

“Precisely. I’ve sent the knights to intercept Scourge’s goons . . . they’re to bring her here.” The queen waves toward the screen at the opposite end of the lair to reveal Mystiquiel’s landscapes. Growing fires dot the scene, razing the orchards and igniting the buildings and foliage in my Astoria. The smoke clears on the beach, allowing Haystack Rock to come into view. Lark, Uncle Thatch, and Clarey stand only a few feet from the sea cave’s entrance.

My stomach drops, because even though she’s only a silhouette, I sense Lark’s emotional state through our bond. She’s determined, and her posture confirms it—shoulders stiff, chin high. She’s forgiven me and is here to mend things between us. I silently curse myself for sending Tat back to them. They must’ve harvested Perish’s blood to even be attempting to cross the veil. They have everything they need for their journey, except the knowledge that they’re escorting Lark to her own demise.

“Wait.” I back toward the stairs. “I—I can’t stay if she’s coming.”

“Oh, but you must. My plan depends on both of you . . . together.”

I frown, confused. What good would Lark’s portion of crown magic be if she were obliterated? Surely Perish’s mother has some deeper plan. I study my twin as she steps into the cave and her form becomes clearer. She’s in disguise—a face shell with sharp cheekbones, horns and a wig, leafy gloves, and a store-bought gown—but Clarey and Uncle aren’t. What can that mean? The queen must’ve sent word somehow . . . warning them if Lark and I come face-to-face, it will end her.

“She’ll be something else entirely,” I mumble, trying to sort out the queen’s strategy. “When she crosses, the costume will become part of her. It will change her. So looking on each other won’t have the same effect. We’ll be immune to the reconciliation.”

The queen laughs, a high-pitched chinking sound, like felled icicles striking metal. “The enchantment’s not quite so flimsy as that. Your bond is powerful enough to slip through the cracks of any mask, even should it have sunk deeper than skin. It might delay the visual aspect of the curse, but all it will take is one touch between you to accelerate things. Surely, throughout your life you’ve experienced the power of such contact?”

“Pinkie-links,” I whisper, curling my fingers into tight fists. “But she’s wearing gloves,” I argue, unwilling to surrender hope. “They’ll become part of her, too.”

“It wouldn’t matter if her whole being transformed to stone . . . your touch will end it all, will put her back to rights so she can be absorbed.”

My breath shunts out of me. Desperate for the upper hand, I scrabble for something—anything—to bargain with. “Don’t you know how powerful I’ll be once we’re one? And there’s no stopping what can’t be killed.” I motion to the string of glowing orbs at my neck. “No one can remove this. Even I can’t.” As if to punctuate my point, the necklace eases out from beneath the surface of my skin to sit—pulsing and warm—atop my collarbones, yet rolls away from my fingertips at each attempt to touch the beads.

“Of course you can’t simply remove it. The necklace can only be taken off if you wish to grant your eternity to another. And you must have permission from those who gave the gift.”

I scowl. “Huh?”

“Those who gave you part of their life essence must approve your chosen bequest, half-wit human.” She shakes her head. “And the necklace doesn’t render you indestructible; it merely gives you eternity—a life without aging, like our kind.” Her hand waves, as if swatting at a bug. “It’s all irrelevant anyway. I don’t need you dead. I simply want your spirit crushed. Once you absorb your other half, you’ll have her fragmented crown magic within you. With it, you can revivify the king, and he’ll have strength enough to reclaim his crown and win the challenge his brother put forth. That’s how it has to be. For only once you’re a singular being will you be able to break through the preservation casing and touch him. Your sister is too weak to do that alone.”

“She’s stronger than you know,” I growl.

The queen huffs. “From the beginning she’s been nothing but a disappointment . . . an obnoxious castaway. Her original purpose was to be a channel to feed your imaginings, and even once she was returned to her proper place she failed—instead channeling dangers into our world through your earthly art. She’s become a casualty, and must be destroyed.”

“Perish will hate you if you do this,” I hiss.

“On the contrary. The finality of her absence will force him to shake off those ridiculous mortal sentiments, so he can be the king he was meant to be. And as an added coup, it will give you a new appreciation for your own prestigious role. I’ve seen your depths . . . I know your weakness. Your humanity is linked to her. When she vanishes, you’ll lose all knowledge of her ever having existed, just as her own memories will vanish with her. And in turn, you’ll no longer remember any reason to deny your calling here. Your aspirations, your thoughts, your emotions . . . everything will be centered on your craft and nothing more—elevated to something purely passionate that will keep our world fresh and vibrant forever. The part of you that aches and longs for human things, that wants family and love and friendship, will be lost along with your idea of a sister. All you believed in, and all you hoped for, will narrow down to one inexorable pinpoint of desire, fixated only on the need to create.”

My throat dries, my tongue bloated and gritty. “So I’ll be nothing more than a battery to power Mystiquiel.”

The queen smirks. “A happy, oblivious battery.” She shrugs then. “And this will solve the dilemma of my son’s remorse and regret. He’ll be able to move forward, to concentrate on his duties, once the human idiosyncrasies he savored and admired in you and Lark are at last obliterated.”

“No.” I choke out the refusal. “I won’t let you keep me here.” I edge toward the top step, scanning the surroundings for a way out, but Angorla’s pointed shears press against my back. There’s a rattle of scales as the tinkers form a barricade behind her—the very entourage that brought me here turning on me in a blink. “I’ll never learn,” I snap. “You’ll always betray me.”

The queen tsks. “Don’t be so hard on them, Architect. They’re loyal to you in their way. They merely want you here with us, safe and whole. A choice is inevitable. Either Lark or you will die, for there’s only one body between you. You have the advantage but you’re not unassailable. Yes, you’re as eternal as the eldritch now, but there are still vulnerabilities—for you as for any of us. Made obvious by how your tools to create haven’t yet healed.” She flicks the listless vines quivering around my body like tattered lace. “It’s only right your fey followers wish to preserve the one who showed them kindness and tranquility, however short-lived it was. The alternative would be the previous Architect and her savage power wreaking havoc once more. They won’t stand for it. Can you blame them?”

Angorla nudges me forward, although it’s much gentler than the headbutt she used the last time she tricked me. “You didn’t yet fix my garden, so consider this your payment—thrice the price. Stay with us always and we’ll guard you with our lives.” Her slitted gaze actually appears sincere.

My own eyes blur with tears. I sway, moments from blacking out.

“Sit down,” Lady Glacia commands. Angorla helps me settle on the top step. “There now. You should rest; your diminished connection to your creation has weakened you, and the absorption of your other half will take all you have left.”

“She’s my sister,” I hiss. “Not half of me. She’s an individual, a whole person.”

“No. I’ve been watching her through the windows to your world. She’s fading; she doubts her worth, and believes everything she did here, and everything she’s done since, a mistake. Her body won’t stand a chance against you, grounded here, empowered by your craft. Welcomed by all the creatures, loved so much they gave you links to their own life magic. All it will take is for someone to point her failings out, and I’m happy to oblige. Just one reminder of her worthlessness in comparison to your value, the final blow to her selfdom, and her body will turn to dust. A human soul without a place to inhabit is nothing more than a figment . . . a daydream . . . a sunspot that blinks then fades to the brilliance of light, with no imprint left behind.” The queen smirks as her frigid stare snaps onto mine and clamps my jaw shut, sealing my lips with a glaze of ice.

The telltale sensation of frost crackles through my bones and veins, encasing my organs until they weigh heavy like hailstones inside. I attempt to twitch any muscle, tweak any nerve, but am nailed in place with wintry spikes.

Only my eyes can move, I suspect to speed things along when Lark arrives. My gaze flits to Perish, and I will him to rouse and stop all this madness, but there’s no response on the other side of his bubble. Although his dense golden lashes tremble, they don’t open, and the flickers along his antlers grow fewer and dimmer by the minute. Despite that the casing helps him cannibalize his magic, he’s had his richest resource of strength stripped away with the crown. At this rate, within an hour, the skimpy remains of magic will be used up, his body will fade, and his spirit will be forced into the ether forever.

Sorrow at the thought pierces me through. I misjudged him and want to help—but not at the cost of losing my sister. Never at her expense.

Having rendered me petrified, Lady Glacia holds out her elbow. Filigree flutters up and perches on the bend of her arm. “Go. Inform the commander that we have the Architect. He needs to make haste to get the other girl in hand. We’re losing precious time.”

I shift my attention to the screen, back to the cave where three shadowy forms clamber across a sandbar, moments from crossing the veil. The screen becomes a window, opening for the Goblin King’s owl to swoop out into Mystiquiel’s countryside.

Upon Filigree’s exit, the window shuts and the image returns. The view pans out, stalling at the entrance of my parallel Astoria where Lark’s goblin queen statue stands beside the sign. It’s agonizing to imagine that after all this, I’ll look upon that statue and wonder who she is.

I watch in horror as the knights ride their unicorns through the streets. Flames catch around them . . . on the grass, at the base of the trees. The flowers serve as tinder, too. Yet unlike other plants I’ve crafted, they resist curling away to ash. Each one bursts bright and effulgent: rainbow-blazed petals with stems sprouting stickery sparks.

The knights gallop over the trolley tracks, dodging fires along the way. They catch up to Scourge’s rogue army, and the battle begins with a clash of swords and claws. Whoever wins will escort Lark to her obliteration—either at the hands of Scourge or at my own.

My helpless grief shifts to fury. Neither of us asked for this. And if a choice has to be made between which of us lives and dies, I’m going to be the one to make it.

Although I’m unable to even twitch a fingertip, my vines and flowers—clinging to me in tattered trappings—begin to tickle and purr in response to my agitation. Their fragrance drifts to my nose, both comforting and inspiring. Subtly, buds sprout petals and offshoots grow leaves, writhing and elongating. With each movement they gain power. So focused on the screen, my fey captors don’t notice I’ve renewed my Architect skills.

Against the queen’s command to rest, I compel the plants to be subtle but persistent. They coil into razor-sharp gimlets that silently crack the stone and bore into the dirt. I feel myself drain with the effort, weakening . . . atrophying. Even my frigid blood runs slower, more like glutted mud than gurgling slush. Still, I push the roots onward—deeper into the depths, spreading far and wide. I’ll stop my sister from touching faerie soil, release the rage of the world she once wounded to chase her away.

When she’s safely home, I’ll exhaust every throbbing bead in my eternity necklace—use all my waning power to light up Mystiquiel in a blaze as hot as a blast furnace—until the flames melt Scourge’s metal heart and bring his sadistic game crashing at his feet. In the end, Lark will be left with our body, to claim the life only one of us was meant to live.

17

sibling rivalry

Lark

Once inside Haystack Rock, we amble across a sandbar, careful not to trip on outcroppings of stone. Water drips from the ceiling, sinking into my wig and leaving snail trails across the vampiric prosthetic and makeup caked on my face.

Uncle steadies his Maglite to illuminate a path so Clarey and I can pick our way a few steps ahead. Here’s where Nix and I played as children, gleaning inspiration for stories to draw and robotics to build. But for some reason, those memories feel fuzzy. Was it the crabs that inspired her drawings of an underwater kingdom filled with stars, and the gimping frogfish that inspired my fascination with automated legs? Or was it the other way around? I pause at intervals—my father’s duffel strapped to my shoulder and filled with select refurbished inventions along with a vial of Perish’s blood—to view the glimmering intertidal pools filled with wildlife once familiar to me. I struggle to remember words spoken between Nix and me while exploring, or even stories shared. They’re out of reach, as if I’m grasping for them with my fading hands and my fingers keep slipping through.

I frown, and with each step closer to the cleft where streams of bluish light filter in from the Mystiquiel side, I can sense the faerie veil creeping over us like a storm cloud, eclipsing the usual to make way for the unusual.

The once common starfish fold their legs, then pop them open, revealing one eyeball blinking on their backs under feathery ornamental-fan lashes; the beaded protrusions along their legs open and close, a thousand tiny mouths spouting foam in every color of the rainbow that gathers at the top of the tide pools then fizzes with a musical sound. The seahorses sprout wings—colorful and gossamer as any butterfly’s—and crook their tails to propel themselves out of the water, swirling around the sun-bright strands emitted from Uncle’s Mag, taking flight to the rhythm of the foamy songs while whinnying like their mammal counterparts. Even the frogfish, normally bald and slimy, grow fur and drag themselves through the murk with clawed fore-fins, resembling teensy Afghan hounds with bulging throats and snapping tongues. They circle the shallows as if tied to Uncle’s beam by invisible ropes.

Other than their vivid colorings, the one thing they all have in common is they’re organic, without a trace of rust or metal. It’s undeniable proof that the healing touch of Nix’s craft has made them dazzling, livelier, heartier. They swim and float through fan blades of shadow and shimmer, casting rainbow imprints on the slippery-slick cave walls. My reflection joins theirs—providing a screen for their antics. I glare at myself, watching them play across the disguise like the world’s strangest zoetrope.

The edges of my heart quiver, a sickly sensation, as if it’s peeling back from my arteries and curling up—penitence for all the destruction I wrought upon these beautiful creatures; even my lungs seem smaller somehow, as if they’re withering in increments, like how it feels when Clarey’s gum paste dries and crinkles tight.

My breaths grow more labored; yet despite a marked shortness of oxygen, my pulse accelerates with my eagerness to be home again at last. The eldritch weirdness is both enticing and tragic; if I’d been able to provide a sanctuary equal to Nix’s, I’d be reigning by Perish’s side, and all the inhabitants of Mystiquiel would’ve thrived and blossomed instead of warping into damaged cyborgs.

I really was trying to help . . . I’m sorry I hurt you instead. I silently aim the apology their way, wishing to suppress the ache around my neck where their gratitude would’ve graced me with an eternity necklace. I wonder if Nix is wearing it now, if she was able to win their loyalty like I never could.

Uncle and Clarey find their way behind me, both of them gaping at the creatures and their performances.

“Beautiful,” Uncle says softly.

“They seem so . . . carefree,” Clarey adds, twisting the knife.

I know it’s not an intentional dig—they both want Nix to come home, so there’s no way either of them is comfortable seeing her success here. Instead, like me, they must be wondering if we misjudged the tattoo’s motivations, mistook that something went wrong with the world, because this all looks so very right.

My mind reaches for more palatable scenarios. Maybe Perish just couldn’t live without me. Maybe he’s been watching through the glass in the castle, viewing through the windows between our worlds. He might have seen my blood creating flowers and it renewed his faith in me, or he saw me fading and realized it had to do with my bond to this world and he wants to protect me. Any of these could be the reason he lured me back, and all would lead to me trading places with Nix one final time. She’ll return with Uncle and Clarey, I’ll stay here, and everyone will end up safe and happy . . . settled in the place where they belong.

As if fate’s punishing me for the fantasy, Clarey shouts, “Guys, I hear a rumble!”

Seconds later, the rock walls begin to tremble and pebbles skitter all around us as the ground quakes.

“Grab on somewhere!” Uncle screeches, dropping his Maglite. It hits a rock, cracks, and blinks out, leaving us in semi-darkness—the bluish glow streaming from Mystiquiel’s entrance our only source of illumination. I scrabble to catch hold of a craggy protrusion for balance, mechanical fingers clacking and whirring in my leafy gloves with the effort. I have the passing sense that my left hand feels feather light all the way up to my wrist now, but can’t stop to analyze the rate of my fading. I assure myself that once I find Nix, we’ll both be whole again.

Beneath my grip, the outcropping vanishes as the ground smooths out, forming a giant slanted chute. The three of us thud to our backs and my stomach careens while we spin and slip, down and down, a reverse shuttle, feetfirst toward the sea cave’s opening from where we originally stepped in.

The creatures, startled from their mesmerizing play, scramble around us, stirring up airborne funnels of water to coat the curved walls so we swirl faster. Uncle has the lead and Clarey’s in the second spot, as our bodies accelerate faster than logs in a flume ride. Dread scatters through me. Does the world remember me even in costume? Why else would it be sucking us down a drain like mucky refuse with its occupants paving the way?

Out of desperation, an idea strikes. Every denizen of this world has weaknesses and I know them all, having shared their consciousness not so long ago. While we were connected, I tried to alter those weaknesses to make them stronger. For instance, what these little sea-fey lack, due to their lives in the darkness, is light. They feed on any scrap that comes their way. It’s why they were courting the beams from Uncle’s Mag so brazenly moments ago. During my tenure, I tried to generate light through their bodies, so they’d have a continuous supply. Yet instead of giving them strength, I made them sick.

Where I went wrong was trying to change them. I should’ve simply given them a light source. Today, I can do that. And if I satisfy that craving, offer them an olive branch, they might help us slow down before we’re plunged back into the ocean outside Haystack Rock. It’s time to delve into my gadgets.

Against the wet friction heating my spine, I struggle to shift Dad’s duffel onto my chest. Positioning the bag where I can unzip it, I search for the waterproof centipede flashlight I made back in fourth grade for inventors’ camp.

My body sways to and fro, boots almost touching Clarey’s head as I skim the interminable curling slide. Water splashes my face and speckles the fake, downy lashes along my upper lids. The glitter diminishes my vision temporarily, as if I’m peering through a curtain of crystal beads and swan feathers.

I manage to blink away the droplets, but it’s still too dim to see much, and one of the drawbacks of a mechanical hand is I can’t use touch to help me find things. Fortunately, the flashlight is sticky—cylindrical with suctioned spines all around—and gloms to my leafy hand coverings upon contact. I whoop quietly. Having put fresh batteries in everything before we left, I flick it on, and instantly the ten miniature disco globes discharge a rhythmic kaleidoscope of color, slanted lights gyrating through holes in the body’s rubber casing.

The sea-fey home in on the brilliant dancing rotations, gathering at my side to get closer. “You can have it!” I shout, sputtering out a gulp of water. “But first, you help us!”

I toss the light toward Uncle so he can hold it hostage until they pay their toll, smacking my elbow on the curved side in the process, which curtails the launch. I curse when the gadget doesn’t quite reach him and lands instead on the chute between Clarey’s feet.

The suction feet latch onto Clarey’s shoes, and a fluorescent shimmy of light spangles his wet form in orange, green, pink, and yellow pinpricks. The magical sea creatures congregate on the chute around him, each one latching to the other to form a flexible latticework: a sieve that lets the water pass but slows Clarey’s lit-up form. I position my feet on his shoulders, my own speed diminishing by proxy. Once we come to a stop, anchored by the mesh, I lean across Clarey and pop the spiny centipede off his shoes.

First, I shine the spinning lights down into the channel, seeking any sign of Uncle. The gushing water flushed him away—too far to see. “Uncle Thatch!” I scream. His muffled shout echoes back to us, indecipherable.

Clarey shoves aside dripping curls of hair and cups his BAHA. “Your uncle’s okay . . . but the cave’s avalanching closed behind him so he won’t be able to get back in.” Clarey’s dual-toned eyes catch the churning lights, a penetrating somberness cutting through the dark. “He would want us to go on . . . to find Nix. You know that. She might be fading, like you.”

I nod, for once grateful for Clarey’s supersonic hearing. I know he has an ulterior motive for us going forward. But I do, too. Not just that I want to see Perish again—even if it’s only a glimpse. Even more because I owe my sister for bringing her here. For tricking her. I’ve got to give her back her life, no matter how much this world wants revenge on me.

I point the disco lights toward the top of the chute, and our sea-fey-netting comes alive with activity. The seahorses whinny, the starfish blink wide-eyed, and the frogfish release bulbous-chinned barks.

“Get us back up there, and the light belongs to you,” I answer.

While some keep our weight sustained, others branch out to widen the pattern into a ladder. Clarey and I climb the pulsing, breathing rungs. Once we reach the top, the sea-fey pull themselves up behind us and collect the prize I’ve tossed to the ground. The centipede’s suctioned feet pop free from the rocks as they drag it toward pools that have refilled. Clarey and I pick our way to the veil’s crossing point at the opposite end while the fey take turns basking in the spinning lights beneath the water, their shadows casting an eerie, aquatic carousel across the cave’s roof.

Clarey and I exchange anxious glances as we prepare to cross through the opening to Mystiquiel.

“Are you ready?” he asks, helping me free my wig’s silvery strands from beneath the duffle’s strap on my shoulder. He gestures to my face and clothes. “You’re about to become a goblin fairy.”

“I was born ready,” I answer, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said in two months.

Together, we tread onto the beach, still hidden behind the rock’s wall, which gives us time to gather our wits before we’re exposed to all things eldritch. Our feet sink slightly with each step, stirring up glimmering golden granules as fine as spun sugar.

“Sand,” I mumble, trying not to envision how thrilled Perish must’ve been to see this in place of metal shavings.

Clarey frowns. “Didn’t everything get erased when we left?”

I nod as a singed breeze brushes across the top of the rock and stirs our hair. The ends of mine slap my cheeks and scrape against my back. I tug them forward to braid them. My scalp prickles at the strain, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m no longer wearing a wig. The sparkling strands have adhered to my natural hair like extensions and taken root deep into my skin. I gnaw on my lips with my fangs. The bony points draw blood from my tender flesh, proving the prosthetic teeth are mine, too. I tap the tip of my bone-hard horns, but don’t have to check the ear tips, because they’re itching—sense organs awakening where once there was only silicone.

Stroking my mouth and nose, I test to see if the mask still reacts like unfeeling rubber. Instead, nerves activate, causing pleasure receptors to light up in my brain.

I try to peel free the leafy coverings from my mechanical hands, but they’re one with the carbon fiber skeleture underneath. Just like the attached metal fingers and palms are an integral part of me now. Higher up, on my arms, the cuff bracelets have adhered to my skin . . . the black leather and silver studs fading into my flesh so there’s no finding where they start or stop. I’m a full-on fey cyborg . . . the personification of the curse I put upon this world.

I gulp and inhale as much as my shrinking lungs will allow, then focus on the wings at my back. They weren’t in direct contact with my skin, but the aged, threadbare fabric of the fairy dress underneath proved no barrier to the magic. They, too, have bonded with me, all the way to my scapula. Without the flip of any switch, the gossamer appendages flap, prompting tickles to quiver along the nerves in my shoulder blades. My feet leave the ground, barely an inch, but I’m hovering. The wings are too small to lift me any higher or hold my weight for long, much less the added bulk of Dad’s duffle. So I drop back to the ground, stumbling on the sand in an effort to right myself.

Clarey catches my elbow, helping me balance.

“Whoa,” I whisper, my breath catching.

He traces his BAHA—burrowed into the skin behind his ear like a hungry tick. “Right? FYI, you’re handling it way better than I did my first time.”

We step out from behind the rock, agape at the chaos that greets us under the hazy blue of a perfect moon—not a giant crystal ball like I once hung in the ether. Groups of fey gather on the beach, about a football field’s distance from red-striped circus tents similar to those that once contained my Astoria.

“She must’ve restored your design, like a tribute,” Clarey muses.

“Yeah. But she made it better.” That’s how she discovered my jaunt as an arsonist and uncovered my deal with Perish. Since she purposefully tapped into my Architect blueprints, the mind-share would’ve been intense and detailed. Which means she was in my head—but was she in my heart? Does she know how I feel about Perish and this place?

I look closer at the gnomes and piskies, sprites and trolls, sprigs, wights, and others, all returned to their true forms. They should be rejoicing, frolicking in newly created settings. Instead—whether furry, scaly, or twiggy, with leafy hair or dragonfly eyes dripping sap—they all shiver in fear.

Scanning the stretch of tents, I find a gargantuan gash flapping in one side. Sidewinder trolley tracks—embedded in the sand starting at the jagged tear, and leading to the groups of fey—depict a tale of hasty retreat from the city.

“What’s happened here?” I ask Clarey, although it’s obvious we’ve arrived to a world tilting out of control.

He angles his ear toward the city. “I hear crackling, and the sound of combat.”

I clench my teeth as we walk slowly, hoping to stay unrecognized by the refugees. Nix’s tents have no roofs, only striped canvas walls. Smoke rises from inside and blots the sky, a thicker and blacker haze than the waxy candle-burn that once enshrouded my Mystiquiel. The scent differs, too. This is the bitter heat of charred wood and blistered paint—a fresher, more potent version of the weeks-old soot we encountered while sorting through Enchanted Delight’s remains.

If Clarey’s BAHA is right, some sort of battle is taking place, which means the orange blinking glow on the other side of the canvas walls can mean only one thing . . .

I press my hand to my chest, the hollows inside growing wider. “Nix’s Astoria is on fire.”

“This is cuckoo,” Clarey murmurs. “The Goblin King called back his firebug—”

“To snuff out the flames,” I finish his thought, awakening a twinge at my sternum that lances all the way to my gut. I don’t have time for mourning the many bad choices I’ve made since my pact with Perish. Something’s gone horribly wrong, and I have one last chance to save his world and all its occupants. But all I’ve ever done is destroy. What makes me think I’m capable of doing something right?

I shake off my doubts and jog through the sand toward the tents, Clarey following in my footsteps. I flicker my wings in alternate pulses to take hovering strides, skimming atop the beach, giving me a commanding lead.

Racing along the shoreline, we’re about thirty yards from the tent’s gaping rip when Clarey shouts a warning from behind.

“Something’s under the sand!”

Seconds later, the beach comes alive. Dents appear in the sand around me, resembling a honeycomb, and I’ve barely blinked before they widen and deepen, reminding me of ant lion dens being stirred from beneath to capture prey. Yet that’s not what’s going on here . . . I know what’s coming, even before the razor-sharp hooves reach up from each burrowing depression. Proving me right, mushroom clouds of grit poof upward as a pack of kelpines clamber out from their hiding places. Several snarling roars reach me—the force so strong it knocks me to my knees. I scramble about, coming nose-level with hot, rancid breath.

The pack rearranges into a line, putting themselves between me and Astoria’s tents. Like all the other fey, these giant amphibians have returned to their fleshy forms: black-and-white hides, fish-scale-covered legs, whiplike tongues, the agility and bloodthirsty appetites of cheetahs, and three times the size of Clydesdales.

The alpha bends its graceful seahorse neck down to sniff me, catlike whiskers twitching. It bays once it has my scent. The others stiffen, the scruff of their necks and long tails bristling. An unintentional shudder races through me.

The pack recognizes me . . . and they want blood.

The refugee fey look on from afar, appearing relieved I’ve been stopped. At first, I assume it’s because they’re celebrating my imminent dismemberment, now that they know who’s under my ingrown mask. Then I realize why they were shivering with terror to begin with. They may be safe from a flaming Astoria here, but they’re also sitting ducks, waiting for their own death at the hungry maws of the kelpines.

I’m a decoy, nothing more.

“Hey, get away from her!” Clarey shouts from a few yards away. I motion for him to stay put.

Shaking its zebra-striped mane free of sand, the leader paws a serrated hoof but doesn’t budge, as if there’s an invisible line between us it won’t cross. Steam rises from its nostrils, and it releases a threatening snarl with sharklike teeth that could rip me apart in less than a blink. Yet the creature holds back.

“We need to retreat to the rock!” Clarey shouts from behind. “Unless you want to be dinner?”

“Wait,” I answer. I crab-crawl diagonally, situating the duffle in front of me while unzipping it.

Clarey grumbles something under his breath.

“It’s okay.” I move an inch; the pack’s eyes follow and their flanks twitch, but still, they stand immobile. “It’s like they’re forbidden to hurt us.”

Truth is, I understand these creatures well enough to know they could’ve already captured and shredded both of us to bits—with bone-brittle teeth, snappish tongues, or lancinating hooves. Instead, they’re forming a barricade . . . forcing us back the way we came.

“They’re not here to feed,” I reason aloud to reassure Clarey and myself. I keep my eyes locked on the alpha’s. “They’re here to stop us from entering, just like the sea-fey tried earlier.”

I silently rifle through other introspections: someone . . . or something . . . is determined to keep us out, yet they don’t want to hurt us.

My mechanical hand vibrates along the left palm, a phantom twinge reminding me of the scar Perish and I shared, of the magic that passed from his veins to mine like wildfire. I always assumed, once I left this world, that bond died, smothered by my banal humanness, or at the least snuffed out once my flesh began to fade. But just thinking of the conflagration that once burned so bright between us, I feel a stir. An ember. A spark that flares through my capillaries and vessels, a scalding splash of knowing that burns my blood with dread. He’s wounded, defeated. And within the hour he’ll evaporate on the wind. Unless his magic gets jump-started.

He needs the ember I hold inside. I have to get it to him.

That’s why he sent for me . . . but someone else is trying to keep me from helping. Could it be Nix? Are we going head-to-head again, on opposite sides? I attempt to step into her thoughts, to feel the emotions driving her, but without being able to link pinkies, without touching skin to skin, all I can get is the sense of an all-consuming heat. As if a full-body fever stands between us.

I’m disappointed, having hoped that since we shared roots in this world, it might open a new channel.

“Lark, what’s the plan?” Clarey interrupts before I can drill deeper.

Filled with renewed purpose, I gesture for him to hang on, then stare down the line of kelpines. There’s no way around. Reaching into the duffle, I form a strategy.

During my hive-mind reign, I saw how these creatures functioned as shapeshifters: feline equines while terrestrial, then growing tentacles, gills, and fins upon contacting water. But like the mermaids of lore, they had to reabsorb those aquatic features to function again on land. If they happened to venture back to shore while still tentacled, they were oafish and lumbering—unable to move until completely dried, which took hours.

It’s why, as the Architect, I tried to improve them by giving them inner circuitry that enabled each to divide in half through binary fission so they’d function as symbiotic cyborg beings—skilled, deadly pairs that could simultaneously hunt on both land and sea. In the beginning, my adjustments worked brilliantly, until the metal warped their innards and left them dying.

Returned to their original state, they’re healthy but limited to one body once more. A characteristic that will help Clarey and me get past them, while also keeping the refugees safe until Perish, the world, and everything wrong can be repaired.

“Clarey, be ready to run to the busted tent when I say.” I utter the words so softly the kelpines barely tweak their striped ears. But with Clarey’s ocular superpower, he could probably hear a bee buzzing at his aunt’s boutique from here.

Using the light of the moon, I single out the items I need to make this work. Once I have them pulled from the bag and lined up in the sand toward the tide, I flick two dozen switches, sparking my waxed-cardboard seaplanes to life. Rubber-band paddles, attached to their bows like helicopter blades, launch them into the sky.

Just as I hoped, the kelpines mistake them for pack rat faeries, and their feline instincts overtake. Whiskers and tails atwitch, the pack forgets all else and gives chase, kicking up sand as they leap and bellow in an effort to snatch the tiny squadron from the sky with long, snapping tongues. A few seaplanes topple down and get trampled or swallowed, but the majority land atop the waves, skating in every direction like water bugs across the crests. The kelpines continue pursuit into the ocean’s surf, until every last hoof and leg has transformed to tentacles, every set of nostrils to gills, and every ear and tail to fins.

Finally in the clear, I shout for Clarey to follow.

Stirring clouds of sand, we sprint for the damaged tent. The evacuated fey watch us pass with bewildered appreciation. I wave half-heartedly, hoping my successful tactical maneuver will win me some small clemency for all my mistakes.

“Everyone knows it’s you . . . your costume was a waste of time!” Clarey shouts from behind as he gains proximity.

I bite back how wrong he is, because I’m realizing now that it was less about anonymity and more about wearing their skin, so maybe they’d finally see me as one of their own.

When Clarey and I plunge through the opening, the walls disappear from view. There’s only Astoria facing us now, and a hot, smoke-filled sky. The trolley slithers by, its serpentine skeleton cutting through smoke and flame, carrying another batch of fey that seek the protection of the beach.

Clarey and I stand slack-jawed, facing the inferno. It’s like seeing the bakery blaze that first night, yet this is multiplied—street by street, building by building. I can’t imagine what caused it.

“Maybe Nix did this . . . maybe she’s at war with Perish and using his world against him,” Clarey suggests.

Could it be? Is Nix trying to escape because she’s angry at Perish for my betrayal?

“No,” I answer without hesitation. “She’s an artist, through and through. She wouldn’t put the fey populace in harm’s way. She loves them”—as much as I do—“because they were her muses for so long.”

“Then someone else did this. Who, and why?” Clarey asks.

I try to home in on her emotions again, to feel what she’s feeling. This time, I catch a snippet of her intention. She’s determined to save someone more important to her than her own life, yet she’s also mourning that she might not be able to do it because she’s too fearful and broken.

It confirms my suspicions that she shares not only my love for this world but for Perish as well.

The breath I draw into my wilting lungs scalds, but the parched sensation has little to do with the smoke. Why wouldn’t she fall for everything in this place—just like I did? It’s weird and wondrous, and wild. Wasn’t she always seeking some part of her that was missing, just like I was? It appears we both found it here, but in her case, she’s actually an asset . . . she fits.

I glance at Clarey through bleary eyes but don’t have the stomach to tell him what I’m sensing. Even if Perish no longer wants me, I have to get to the castle to help him save his throne. I owe Nix that, at least.

And Clarey’s the key to getting us there, even if he hasn’t figured it out yet.

“We need to put out the flames so we can get past all this,” I tell him as I dig inside the duffle.

He frowns.

“When that was my eye”—I draw his attention to the moon, pointing—“I watched you make it rain here.”

The scar along Clarey’s eyebrow creases with a nostalgic lilt. “Yeah. Because of Nix. She believed in me, helped me get over being afraid. No one’s ever given me power like that. And I don’t mean just the magic.” He sighs, obviously lost in longing. “Feels like rain.”

I bite my cheek, conceding to a camaraderie with his soon-to-be-broken heart that I wish I didn’t share. “Well, it will feel like rain if you can remember the song you played.”

He rolls his eyes. “That is the . . . oh, never mind. Get me my harmonica.”

“Way ahead of you.” I hand him the instrument he earlier wrapped in a handkerchief.

He tucks the hanky in his pocket and places the harmonica at his mouth. The instant his first note trills, the smoky grayness in the air doubles as the sky fills with clouds. His fingers dance across the grooves upon each inhalation and exhalation. He taps a metal-tipped shoe, cradling the instrument against his lips. I blink droplets from my swan-feather lashes when cool rain begins to fall in sync with his warbling melody. By the time he reaches the chorus, flames hiss, snuffing out in puffs of steam—gray and white.

Patch by patch, the fires extinguish. On Clarey’s last note, the smoke and steam clear and moonlight reveals the charred remnants of the town. The only thing left unscathed are garishly colorful plots of wildflowers that look exactly like the ones I’ve been bleeding all around the real Astoria. Although I don’t know how it could be possible . . . I saw their petals and stems blazing moments ago.

I shrug off the discrepancy as Clarey drops the harmonica in his pocket and Perish’s knights come into view. Half of them have formed a calvary engaged in a fight with some menacing fey I recognize as Scourge’s henchmen. They’re so intent on the battle, none of them seem to notice the rain.

Perish’s magic stirs inside me again, that knowing incinerating deeper inside my blood, a smolder that reaches all the way into my bone marrow: Scourge overthrew Perish and took his crown. But how is that even possible? There are enchanted protectors in place. Nothing could get past them . . .

Renewed fear for my Goblin King scatters through every nerve as we traverse cautiously around the battle, choking on scorched air while ducking behind debris to stay hidden.

We’re only a few feet from the Mystiquiel sign when we reach a golden statue that takes my breath away. It’s almost as if I were looking in a mirror, had Clarey painted my skin a glistening gold instead of gray. Nix must’ve made it of herself as a tribute . . . the perfect match for Perish. “She’s beautiful.” My admiration is both excruciating and sincere.

“You are, Lark.”

I frown. “What?”

“There’s a gap between her front teeth. It must be you,” Clarey points out.

I stare in awe, having missed that detail. Why would Nix make this in honor of me when she’s ready to take my place permanently? I’ve barely had time to digest the implications when a half dozen of Perish’s knights ride in our direction, on an obvious mission to apprehend us.

“We’ve been spotted. Get down!” Clarey says, dragging me behind my statue. We watch from our hiding place as a flock of something flies across the moon, causing a momentary eclipse. Once the light reappears, it gilds white papery wings atop something that looks oddly like—

“Gingerbread men?” Clarey barks, disbelief grating his voice.

The flock dive-bombs the knights headed our way, stopping them in their tracks.

Clarey and I duck lower.

“Gingerbread men . . . with paper wings,” Clarey mumbles, fear quaking behind the observation. “What the heck is going on here?”

But I already know, and the implications sicken me. “The mural,” I answer, at last understanding how much my hand had in this moment; I wrought this havoc every bit as much as Scourge did. “The characters in the mural. They traveled here through my and Nix’s bond somehow. That must be it. When I set it loose from the wall, I kept waiting for the sketches to come alive in our world. But they came here instead.”

Clarey gulped. “That must mean . . .”

“Krampus is here, too. Somewhere.” Then all the answers fall into place. A creature, made only of paint and imagination, would have the ability to steal the Goblin King’s crown; it’d be immune to all the magical rules. “Scourge must be using Nix’s sketches to take over Mystiquiel.” The epiphany slips out in a murmur, but Clarey catches it loud and clear.

“You’re saying this is some kind of throw-down between the goblin brothers?”

I clench my teeth, wishing I’d already told Clarey everything. There isn’t time enough now, so I abbreviate the details. “Scourge was trying to steal Perish’s crown from the second I arrived here the first time. He wants to imprison humans. At least a portion of us . . .”

“But the goblins are already doing that with your family.”

“It’s not enough for Scourge. He wants to bring people here as infants, breed them like sheep, raise a stable of Architectural sacrificial lambs so the fey will have a constant supply.”

Clarey falls from a squat to his knees—as if the revelation has physically knocked him down. Flecks of soot stir with the movement and float upward, catching on his lashes. He blinks them away, eyes widening. “Scourge wants to cash out all humanity? Which means Perish is actually the good guy?”

I shrug. “Uncle might not see it that way. He’d say he’s the lesser of two evils. But I know another side of him. A noble side that only wanted to save his world, to keep Mystiquiel from relying on humans any longer. He had a plan. One to end the contracts between our family and the fey forever. It would’ve set my family free. But Scourge wouldn’t let it happen. He’s the reason I ruined this world the first time. So Perish could get the upper hand.”

Clarey’s brown complexion pales. “That’s why you burned bridges between our worlds? To hold Scourge at bay in Goblinsville . . . not to keep Nix trapped here?”

I’m struggling with how to answer that when Clarey shoves me down farther behind the statue. We both look up as a duo of flying gingerbread men dives toward us. One tackles Clarey and straddles him while the other snatches my horns, lifting me. The scent of ginger, cinnamon, and vanilla has never been more menacing.

Needles of pain triangulate through my scalp as I drop my dad’s duffle and weave metallic fingers through my hair to wrest my horns free, my wings flapping haplessly. Clarey growls and grunts, rolling around with his vicious cookie captor. My vision blurs, eyes watering from the strain on my skull. My attacker carries me higher in the air. I hang limp, pretending I’ve given up, until I’ve gained enough height to thrust out my legs and wrap my ankles around my statue’s neck. I tighten my hold to keep myself from being lugged away. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to clear my tears so I can see again, but a sudden snapping sound forces me to look through the haze.

Clarey clenches a broken gingerbread head and slides the cracked body off his chest. He tosses the head away as it tries to bite him. The decapitated pieces wriggle in an attempt to come back together as Clarey flings my dad’s duffle upward, clipping my assailant. The gingerbread man’s arms snap off from the impact. I tug them free from my head and use my wings to slow my descent to the ground where Clarey stomps on the remains of the dastardly duo, reducing them to crumbs and torn paper wings.

“Thank you.” I latch onto him.

To my surprise, he hugs me back. “You should’ve told us, Lark. I wouldn’t have been so hard on you. Why did you keep it secret?”

“Because Perish is my friend,” I mumble into Clarey’s smoky floral-scented shirt, scrunching up my eyes in self-deprecation. Why can’t I just admit out loud that he’s so much more? “Because I made a promise to him. And I was afraid you and Uncle would keep trying to bring Nix back, even though this world needed her to fix everything I broke.”

Clarey stiffens at that and pushes me an arm’s length away, but loses his gusto as his gaze shifts over my shoulder.

I feel what he sees before looking, as a sword’s tip touches my wing.

I whirl around. A boggle stands tall over us in full regalia: boar-size toad’s head, sharp white tusks, and red-furred muscular limbs—no metal or voltaic taint to maim him. Seeing him whole makes my heart both elated and heavy. I wish I could’ve kept all the fey this healthy.

“The queen and the Architect bid your company,” says the knight.

“Where are they? Is Nix okay?” I ask, hope and anticipation at war with my fear of the answers. I already know not to ask about Perish, whose magical dividend is searing all my vital organs like an iron brand.

The boggle doesn’t respond; instead, he picks up my duffle and shoves it at me—taking care not to touch my hand. Clarey and I trade worried frowns as the sound of scraping draws our attention back to the gingerbread attackers we crushed. The crumbs are somehow reuniting into bodies, broken arms dragging across the ground to gather up the cookie heads and stitch them back in place with icing.

“It can take them anywhere from a few minutes to an hour to regenerate,” the knight answers my unasked question. “Our efforts to defeat them are futile . . . they keep coming back. Because they’re not really alive—”

“They can’t be killed,” I finish for him.

“I swear I’ll never eat gingerbread again,” Clarey mumbles, looking almost green.

“Come with us now and we’ll see you safely out of here.” The knight nudges Clarey in the direction of four royal boggles seated astride their mounts and holding the reins of three robust and prancing unicorns ready for riders. Their hides remind me of the ornaments I placed on the tree earlier—sleek and marbled like gemstones. Nix’s choice of coloring feels like another tribute to me somehow . . . to us. Maybe she isn’t as angry at me as I assumed.

I step up to my proffered unicorn, aching to stroke its mottled purple-and-white hide—glossy as a freshly polished lepidolite. But it spooks, pawing a rainbow hoof and snorting to warn me away. “How am I supposed to ride? It won’t let me on . . .”

The boggle adjusts some blinders on the unicorn’s bridle to shield its eyes, then attaches a grazing muzzle to cover its nose and mouth. “If she can’t see or smell you, she won’t know you’re the filth that nigh ruined our world.” His harsh features form a spiteful grimace as he holds the reins so I can mount.

Gulping back a pained moan, I grip the saddle horn and settle myself in place, again taking note of how the boggle goes out of his way to avoid touching me. I came back here knowing that this world could never forget . . . but I hoped that maybe in time they could find a way to forgive.

The knights urge their unicorns to a gallop, and mine and Clarey’s fall in line with the rest. Clarey tosses me a sympathetic glance, as if he understands my agony. He thinks I’m hurting from an artist’s perspective . . . he thinks I’m ashamed that I failed in creating the perfect designs. But it cuts so much deeper than that.

I didn’t just fail as a mechanic, or even an Architect. I failed as Perish’s partner . . . as his would-be queen. And there’s no higher pedestal to fall from than a throne.

18

tongue-tied and tie-dyed yuletide

Nix

Filigree flaps through the lair’s open screen, a note clamped in her beak.

The queen takes it, and the owl cocks her head as if hearing something outside. Blinking buggy-eyed, Filigree flutters back out before the screen’s glass pane slides shut again.

Lady Glacia reads the note quietly, then glowers in my direction. “They’re escorting your other half here as we speak.”

I slump in place, defeated. At least I managed to keep Uncle out, so he’ll be safe. I just wish Clarey and Lark had given up.

Only minutes ago, the queen caught me trying to stop them from crossing into Mystiquiel. As punishment, she uprooted my vines with a ferocity that ripped my muscles and rattled my bones. She dragged me over to the corner just beneath Mystiquiel’s viewing screen and tied me to a stalagmite formed of ice rising like a dragon’s tooth from the ground—a means of keeping me under her freezing spell while her attention is elsewhere.

The stalagmite feels like a steel skewer pierced through my spine, crushing each vertebra with its frigid bulk. Even if my tongue weren’t frozen, if I could warn Lark the instant she entered, she couldn’t escape with the tinkers standing guard at the only accessible entrance and exit for someone other than a bird.

It leaves me only one final card to play. Since I’m now at the back of the upper level, the stone slab and its comatose Goblin King will be the first thing Lark encounters when she’s brought here. My plan is to keep myself invisible, out of sight, so she’ll only see Perish. I know how deep Lark’s feelings run for him, and I know how strong a fighter she is. How she thinks like a fey; she’s tricky, like one of them. If she forces her way over to him, maybe she can wake him up. He’ll break himself out of the bubble, and she’ll revive his magic. Then he can talk his mother out of reuniting us. He won the argument in my room earlier. And now that I know he returns Lark’s feelings, with her life on the line, he won’t give his mother any quarter. Maybe he can even convince his subjects to let me give Lark the eternity necklace, and it could stop her fading.

The queen may have glaciated my muscles, leaving them locked in place . . . she may have temporarily mangled the vines and roots making up my tunic and leggings . . . but my underthings, made of a frothy lace of baby’s breath that peeks out at intervals, remain untouched, as do the dandelion tufts lining my boots.

I command the tiny flowers and seeds to spread and intertwine, to tighten in layers across my body and form a skintight cocoon. From my fingertips to my toe ends, the cobwebby shroud expands, advancing over my neck then weaving across my face to cloak every feature and conceal every ounce of flesh. When Lark arrives, she’ll be safe from my touch. And for added insurance, I coax the covering over my eyes so there will be opacity between our gazes.

The long, colorful waves on my head hang free, the only part of me bared other than tiny sections of my nostrils for breathing. I’ve memorized the way my hair looks in this Architect state: the strands twisted in clumps like frayed ribbons, glittery, as if dew bejewels every turn . . . multiple pastel colors faded and bright in alternating patches.

It reminds me of the tie-dyed Easter eggs Lark and I used to make as kids, the shells painted in patchwork prints and studded with metallic glitter—the bitter vinegar-sting of innocence and sisterhood. Because my hair is so different from the way she knows me, she’ll overlook me . . . assume I’m someone, or something, else. But I wonder if she’ll recognize the patterns on some subconscious level . . . if it will inspire images of better times. When we were inseparable, strong, and hopeful for our futures. All the more reason for me to hide, so she can hold on to those memories as long as possible, before every last one we’ve shared is lost forever.

“What’s the plan, Architect?” the queen asks, having noticed what I’ve done. She moves closer and leans in, centering her maliciously lovely face in my limited view. “I can slice you out easily, and you’ll feel the lacerations all the way to your entrails.” Her fingernails grow to razor-sharp icicles. “Do you wish for such pain?” With a snap of her fingers, she loosens my tongue and melts the rime glazing my lips.

I taste the mildly sweet onion-tang of the baby’s breath pasted to my skin as I answer from behind my mask, “Any amount of time I can buy my sister is worth the pain.”

“She’s not your sister, fool human. She’s the part of you that’s been missing your whole life. Don’t you ache to claim it? To become all you were meant to be? I’ve sensed your hunger for power. You can only quell such cravings for so long.”

I clamp my lips shut, refusing to acknowledge that side of myself. The queen may as well refreeze my tongue, because as much as I want to tell her that she can unveil me but can’t force my eyes to stay open, that she can rip my casings free but can’t force me to take Lark’s hand, it’s a pipe dream. The moment Lark sees me, she’ll wrap our pinkies together and hug me close. In her mind, we’re still sisters. Sisters who have walked through flame to be together again.

Lady Glacia shrugs. “Have it your way then. I actually like this plan better. It’s tidier . . . let your other half do the work, cut through every layer and expose you herself. Let her save you in the same instant you end her. Watching your emotional turmoil upon swallowing her whole, however short it lasts before she’s forgotten, will be more delicious than any punishment I could dole out at my own hand.”

The malevolent irony behind the queen’s taunts stings more than the frost prickling behind my eyes. Lark being lured here to “save” me. Like I was brought in to “save” her at Halloween. Lark cutting my sheath away to “rescue” me, just like I cut all her circuits in the underground maze to “rescue” her.

Both of us being tricked into action without all the facts. Both of us unaware of the hell we’re about to unleash.

Scoffing at my stubborn silence, the queen ties my tongue in gelid knots once more then moves away to take her place by her comatose son. Her robes rustle with each step, the sound of a snake shedding its skin in tiny, teeth-shuddering increments.

I watch through gauzy lenses, helpless and miserable in my sweetly perfumed cocoon. Even the essential oils released by the petals fail to comfort as Perish’s subjects gather around his form in the bubble.

On a table beside him lies his dagger, as dark and lifeless as he’ll soon be. I’ve never seen Perish look so vulnerable, arms folded over his chest, horns aflicker with subsiding lights. The flashes grow dimmer and farther between, and with each lengthened interval, the queen curses softly. She begins to sing . . . a hymn or prayer in a language unknown to me, to an ancient fey god who isn’t listening.

My stomach churns. I haven’t forgotten all the things this Goblin King did: abducting my sister and me, cutting off all connections with my family during our tenures here. The problem is, now that I’ve come to know him, I can’t deny it was for the greater good of his kingdom and, in a roundabout way, to find a means of putting an end to using humans. He shouldn’t end up like this—his magic vanished into thin air, and his vile and vicious brother rising to the status of sovereign.

Scourge is the one who deserves to lose the crown challenge, to be forever indentured to Perish for all he’s done.

Yes, I’m angry about the time lost with my sister and Uncle Thatch and Clarey, but I blame King Talon and Queen Glacia’s ruthless rule, their gruesome enchantment that split an infant into two so the royal pair could have one human mind to exploit eternally.

At the thought of eternity, I focus on the pulsation of the life-force beads around my neck, warm and mocking. What kind of forever will I have, detached from my family and dearest friends, my love for them draining away alongside any memories of Lark? Maybe I should consider it a blessing that I’ll forget how I ate my own sister alive. Better than being tortured by it endlessly.

Uncle Thatch won’t have that benefit. He’ll grieve the nieces he raised and loved as his own daughters; he’ll blame himself for failing his sister. How can anyone live with that much loss and remorse?

A sob swells in my throat, an iceberg building a wedge against my epiglottis that I pray will choke me.

The sound of hooves and musical whinnies drifts in from outside—far below. They’ll be here in minutes once they’ve taken the staircase.

At my bidding, the baby’s breath and dandelion seed shroud thickens across my eyes until all I see is soft light and blurred forms, filtered through a filmy white membrane—as if I’ve been wrapped up for a snack by a spider.

I home in on every sound—aching to hear Clarey’s voice, the scrape of my sister’s footfalls, the tufts of their breaths—desperate for any last intimacy I can glean before they’re blotted out of my life and mind forever.

I love them both with all my heart—my precious sister, and the guy I’ve been crazy over since kindergarten. I didn’t get to tell him that . . . and now he’ll never know.

My eyes throb, a deep, exhausting need to shed tears too densely packed to fall.

There’s some small comfort that at least Lark and Clarey have spent these last few moments together; that Lark will get to see Perish one final time.

She deserves to sample pure happiness—however fleeting—before I swallow her whole. I mentally retreat further into my shell, wishing Queen Glacia’s frozen void would take my mind now and spare me the devastation yet to come.

Lark

I’m surprised to find that instead of the castle, we’ve arrived below the Architect’s lair hanging high in the sky.

When I first came here three years ago, Mom’s vision had wrought a masklike visage woven with silvery threads, like a mummy’s wrap. Under my hand, it warped to steel, and now Nix’s concept has rendered it carved in stone, much like the statue she made of me at Astoria’s border—but granite gray instead of gold. In all three iterations, the lair’s giant structure has been shaped like the current Architect’s head, but in this latest rendition, the face is an uncanny amalgamation of Mom’s, my, and Nix’s features—an ectype too large to constrain, some disembodied god overseeing Mystiquiel’s landscapes.

The boggle leader dismounts, and Clarey and I follow suit. “They’re waiting inside.” The knight gestures toward the sky-high staircase with his craggy chin and shoves Clarey’s shoulder, while once again avoiding any contact with me.

As Clarey and I take the first few steps up, the quartet of knights encircles the base to guard against attacks, should the gingerbread bird-men and Scourge’s squads win the battle for Astoria’s streets—which seems ever more likely, considering the gingerbread men can regenerate. Hard to believe, just a little over an hour ago, I was decorating the tree with their innocuous doppelgangers. It won’t be long till the clock strikes midnight in that world, and as the humans naively ring in Christmas, a revolution will be taking place here. If Scourge wins Mystiquiel’s throne, a mass kidnapping of human infants will take place, and the holiday will never be celebrated with the same sense of wonder, grace, and peace again.

“The queen’s here and not at the castle,” Clarey says, interrupting my dark musings. “And that ogglety-bogglety knight said both her and Nix sent for us. What do you think that means?”

When I hesitate to answer, he crinkles his forehead so the white patch at his hairline dips low. With the movement, the scar in his eyebrow twitches. For the first time, I see a glimpse of the panic he’s worked so hard to master these past few months.

“Well”—I attempt a response—“I’m guessing they’re both on the opposite side of Scourge. So hopefully they’ve worked out a plan together to fix things.”

“And now we’ve been escorted to their hideout. Which means we’re all on the same team. We’re platinum.”

I clamp my lips. I really wish I could agree, but Lady Glacia is as trustworthy as a black widow knitting a welcome mat out of trip wires and nightshade petals. I remember all too intimately her predilection for playing with humans, freezing them so they’re vulnerable to her intrusive “physicals.”

“Just keep your guard up,” I say. “Lady Glacia is fey in every sense of the word. She always has her own agenda, and can’t be trusted under any circumstances.” No more dancing around the truth with Clarey—not if he’s going to get out of this unscathed. “Avoid eye contact with her. And stay behind me.”

He nods stiffly. In silence, we scale the soaring heights. With each step, the sounds of battle grow quieter and the clogging swelt of embers and ash thins to a mild firewood vapor. Yet even up here where the air’s clearing, I grow more breathless and winded with each step. My lungs ache, my heart buckles, and again I’m faced with the possibility that my fading sickness has reached my organs. Maybe that is affecting my memories.

I refuse Clarey’s offer of assistance when he hears my panting, determined to do this on my own in case this is the last time I ever get to make this climb. Clarey concedes, though he takes the duffle from my shoulders to lessen my burden. I flutter my frail, diaphanous wings, pushing myself closer to the doorway inch by strenuous inch.

At last, we reach the threshold. Stalled inside the entrance, I let my eyes adjust, starving for any sign of Nix or Perish. They’re nowhere on the lower level. In fact, I can’t feel my twin’s presence, can’t even feel her heartbeat. I do sense that she’s alive, but that’s all I can glean of her physical state. Even her emotions are muted and stifled. I can’t get a read on her.

It’s too dim to make out the upper landing, but Perish’s waning power tugs at the strands of magic nestled inside me with febrile persistence—confirming he’s up there, waiting.

I start forward, appraising the lair, overcome with reverence for the miracles I performed here under my Goblin King’s tutelage, while simultaneously haunted by the tragic results.

The space is softer than I left it. It’s not just that the delicate perfume of greenery and flowers has replaced the sulfury sting of hot sparks and fraying wires, but all the sharp points have been filed down to gentle curves. My tungsten desk, which I had forced to the upper landing, has returned to the room’s center and transformed into a creamy white tulip, half the size of a hot air balloon. The petal edges roll elegantly while in stasis, waiting like a canvas curling in a breeze, eager for its artist’s touch—for Nix to paint her next masterpiece.

“Something’s breathing . . . smacking . . . clacking,” Clarey mumbles, a tremor in his voice.

“Shhh.” Even without his super-hearing, I’m already attuned to the fey spectators hidden in the darkest corners of the room—fervently tracking our every move. I edge toward the tulip to avoid the shadows for Clarey’s sake. The petals tighten like a cabbage at my closeness—an obvious warning Mystiquiel’s Heart no longer welcomes my toxic touch.

I grind my teeth, then lift my gaze to the moss and ivy that dangle from the ceilings and cloak the walls in place of popping electrical pulses and humming synthetic cords. More of Nix’s brazenly colorful flowers break up the greens, grays, and browns in eye-searing bouquets, as if she painted them in place using my bountiful blood.

Clarey’s feet shuffle behind me and I glance his way. He’s studying the lair with the same cautious awe I feel. He last saw this place under my curse; to him, this must look like the Garden of Eden compared to my industrial purgatory. Even the lighting and sounds are gentler. Instead of the garish flash of penlights or red chirping alarms, there are tender blue torches and the queen’s muted song.

That melody. My stomach drops as I relive when I last heard her melancholy tune. It’s an eldritch lamentation . . . the same one she sang when King Talon’s spirit was preparing to pass into a crown that would later belong to Perish.

“No,” I gasp, and start for the stairs, desperate to silence her at all costs.

“Bind them both!” Lady Glacia shouts from the upper level. “Then bring her to me.”

Her command lures the hidden fey from the shadows.

“So much for us being on the same team,” Clarey grumbles.

I frown. I can’t believe she’d be on the side of Scourge. Is she holding Perish here so there’s no chance of him reclaiming his crown? But he was always her favorite . . . what could’ve changed that? And what does it mean for my sister? That she’s working alone to fix all of this? Is that why I don’t sense her presence here?

Armed with ropes, the fey clamber out from every corner of the room—snarling fangs, shivering scales, and bristled fur—more rehabilitated victims that I crippled with metal and voltage only months ago.

I recognize all of them along with the weaknesses I tried to alter, from the smallest memory-altering piskies who are allergic to their own dust, to Angorla with her bony hoof-hands that have trouble gripping tools, to the armored gnome-tinkers whose eyes are too sensitive to withstand the blacksmith flames they stoke day after day.

Even Slinx and Binx are here . . . the grimalkin Perish employed to help us swindle Nix into taking my place as Architect. The lamb-size black cat arches its two swanlike necks, both heads hissing in my direction. Its claws flex out from all four paw pads with a deadly sharpness that razes off a layer of the stony floor. It flicks its whiplike tail, looping the tip around to form a large noose with which to rope me and Clarey in.

My mind races. Of all the eldritch, this one has the biggest bone to pick with me. The heads, each having their own minds and opinions, have a tendency to fight for dominance of their one body, causing them to scratch and bite their shared body to a bloody mess anytime they disagree. So I placed a zipper smack down its chest and formed two separate mechanical hearts, giving Slinx and Binx the option of switching hearts sometimes, so they might better relate to and understand the other.

Another experiment that went horribly awry, as the zipper became its vulnerability. Anyone could open the torso and have access to the gears and wires that kept the grimalkin functioning. A deficiency that proved its downfall when my sister came to save me.

There’s no zipper now, which leaves me with the grimalkin’s original weakness to exploit. Clarey ducks out of the way as the tail attempts to lasso him. He springs back up at my side and I motion for him to open the duffle. The plan is to reach in and grab a robotic mouse with spider legs along with the one seaplane I didn’t launch on the beach; if I send them in opposite directions, it will spur an argument between heads as to which they should chase.

Clarey has the bag on the ground, unopened, when the grimalkin swings its tail back around and glowers at me with swirly, gleaming eyes.

“I thought we sent this one packing, Slinx,” head one says, punctuating the statement with a yowl.

“Best we to try once more, Binx,” head two responds with a growling, chirping sort of sound.

Their whiskers quiver. Ears flattened and scruffs bristled, they snarl simultaneously in my direction: “What say we start with your bag, little beassst?”

With a snap, their tail forms a hook and swishes over to snatch the duffle out of Clarey’s reach. It’s then handed off to the line of tinkers, who pass it overhead to the others, until I can no longer see it.

Of course, the grimalkin finally found something to agree on: their hatred of me.

Yet even as the feline fey tightens the barricade along the top step, standing between me and the upper level, it remains hesitant, like the kelpine earlier. Despite the queen’s command, all ropes and tails of the eldritch go unused . . . they don’t even lash out with claws or teeth against me.

Their reticence gives me hope. Maybe, because these creatures shared my hive mind, they know of my fondness for them. That I wanted nothing more than to help.

“I know I hurt you. I’m sorry . . . I’ll never try to change you again. But please, let me by. I’m here to save the king.” I start forward, palms up in absolution; they cringe away, bumping into one another to avoid me. Pushed off-kilter, Angorla topples over her mismatched legs, accidentally snipping the air with her gardening shears.

On instinct, I raise my hand to keep Angorla from falling. The blades slash my metal palm. I yelp as an agonizing jolt shoots all the way up to my elbow—a mere echo of the agony I felt when Nix sliced my cords free of this world two months ago. But this time I’m taken off guard. I knew the robotic appendage had become part of me, yet I didn’t expect it to soften to something like tin instead of steel, able to be carved and chiseled. The revelation, along with the pain, sends me into momentary shock.

“Get back!” Clarey shouts at the fey, pulling me close to study my oozing wound. In place of rainbow blood, a drizzle of orangish-brown goop leaks out.

“Rust,” I whisper, shaking myself from my trance.

Clarey plucks the handkerchief from his pocket and ties it around my palm. He applies gentle pressure, both to stop the flow before any flowers can germinate and as a show of support. Clenching my teeth, I squeeze his hand back.

Angorla drops her shears and releases a horrified bleat, pointing at the rusty driblets spattered along the floor that sizzle in lieu of sprouting petals or leaves. The synthetic alterations in my hands appear to be preventing Nix’s flowers from breaking through.

Angorla and the others creep higher up the stairs, as if fearing the rust will infect them.

Infection. I turn both hands over and study the carbon fiber skeleture.

A sick comprehension lifts all the hairs across my body, as if an electrical pulse brushes my skin, sparking a new theory to light: why the kelpines were keeping a distance to begin with; why the boggles—as they escorted us here—were always a few paces behind or in front of me, never neck to neck, never grazing me with even a fingertip.

They’re not just filled with hatred and disgust, they’re afraid to their bones. All of Mystiquiel’s denizens consider me a walking disease, a sentient plague. It makes sense, after the contagious rust I set loose on the streets and terrain here that eventually poisoned them. They think I’ve become metal myself and that if they even touch me, I’ll infect them once more. They think I can’t help but harm them because it’s not only in my nature, it’s in my DNA—a cancer of alloy and rust woven within my flesh.

However misguided their phobia is, and however much I want to show them that having no metal parts means they can’t be affected by oxidation, I choose instead to use it to my advantage.

“Hold on and follow my lead,” I whisper to Clarey as I fist my good hand around his and rush the staircase, meeting their startled gazes. “Stand back, unless you want me to bleed all over your world again!” I hold my cut palm face up, splaying my fingers so the rust-stained bandage is up close and personal—a threat as well as a reminder of what they once were beneath my thumb.

The barrier of fey parts like a great jaw unhinged, opening with reluctance amid wailing and baring of jagged teeth. They let me pass with a wide berth—some gasping, others shuddering, all of them repulsed by the contagion I am.

I hunch my shoulders, relieved the ploy worked but saddened to have exploited their ungrounded fears.

Upon reaching the top step, I release Clarey’s hand.

“Feckless cretins!” the queen yells at the cowering fey. She launches to her feet, attempting to block a stone slab where Perish’s inert form inhabits a transparent casing.

“Get out of my way.” I lift my bandaged palm in hopes to send the queen scampering in fear so I can cross the upper level toward her son.

Lady Glacia stands her ground, a chilling smile crackling across the moonlit pond of her lips. “My subjects may be too naive to understand the nature of your craft, but I’ve seen inside you. And you have no power over me. Don’t you recall? I know how every part of you works. Every part.”

A lump of bile rises in my throat as I remember her icy intrusion into my body during my tenure as Architect. It’s how she discovered I was in love with her son, something she lorded over me because she knew I was afraid to tell him, due in no small part to her reaction. She laughed, looked upon me with pity, and assured me no Goblin King could ever love a mere Architect. He needed someone who was his match in every way. Not some lovesick human unable to even craft a landscape without his hand guiding her. “You’re nothing but a tool to him.”

Those taunting words ring with clarity even now, ever louder in the hollows of my chest where my heart curls thin as parchment. Her cruel barb was the reason I wanted to prove to Perish I was so much more than a simple human girl.

And prove it I did . . . by nearly ruining his world.

But tonight, as a human girl, I’ve met each challenge that stood in my way of rescuing Perish and finding my sister, even utilizing my “inferior” mechanical talents. So I guess that part of me isn’t so simple after all. Although I’ll always prefer the monstrous side.

I match the queen’s glare with one of my own. The moment her son shared his crown’s force with me, she lost the ability to trap me in her glacial gaze. And I’m willing to bet that since I still own a piece of that magic, my armor holds true.

She narrows her eyes, an arctic gale spinning through her pupils and irises. Her silvery brows lift when she sees I’m unaffected.

I sneer, vampiric fangs pinching my lower lip. “Looks like I’m still immune. What do you think that means?”

In lieu of answering, she blinks her lengthy lashes. Tufts of frost sift down her smiling cheeks. She isn’t surprised. In fact, she appears pleased. It’s almost as if she were testing me.

I stiffen my stance to conceal my confusion. “I can save Perish. But you have to let me by.” The statement starts as a plea then sharpens to a snarl. “Or are you working with Scourge?”

“I’m loyal only to one son,” the queen answers, and by the resolve in her eyes, I know she means Perish.

“Then let me get to him. He’s dying! He needs me.”

The queen’s resultant laugh is as unexpected and harsh as an iceberg striking a ship. “He needs what you hold inside you. But there’s no breaking through his preservation bubble. And even if there were, your hands are no longer flesh . . . they’re no longer able to pass his magic to him. You’re fading. Aren’t you curious why that is?”

“I don’t have time to be curious,” I say, but can’t help glancing at my robotic fingers. There’s rust inside these hands, and judging by how they blocked Nix’s creative powers a minute ago, I know they’ll block me from sharing his magic with him, too; it’s the same knowing that told me he was here, that he needed regeneration and I was the only one who could grant it. So there must be another way to get it to him.

“Oh, there is,” the queen taunts, and I realize I was reasoning aloud.

“There’s another pair of hands, purer than yours,” Lady Glacia continues. “More skilled than yours. Hands that have already worked miracles here.”

A knot hardens in my throat. “He shared his crown magic with my sister, too?”

She cocks her head. “You have no sister.”

Every muscle in my body tenses tight. “Your Architect, then. Nix. If she can help him, why isn’t she here?”

“Oh, she is.” The queen’s skirts swish as she shifts her feet. “She’s been waiting for your arrival. You’ll be reunited with her shortly. But first, I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I was right all along. That you were the wrong one because you were never good enough. That your talent was never pure enough. I want to hear you say you’re a failure. As an Architect: to Mystiquiel, to my son. As a person: to your family and friends. And then, and only then, will I lead you to our true Architect.”

I struggle to inhale. My lungs ache, and my heart shivers, like paper on the wind. It takes everything inside me not to scream, not to let on that I agree. Not to say aloud that I’ve been struggling with my worthlessness for over three years. I hate how I twisted this world, how I couldn’t fix every broken thing, because I didn’t have Nix’s talents.

Tears singe the inner corners of my eyes. My tongue prepares to confess all of it, word for word what she wants me to say, but I’m scared that once I do, what little fabric remains of my threadbare body will unravel, unspooling my blood, bones, and flesh into a pile of shapeless thread. I don’t how I’m sure of this, but I am.

Instead, I clamp my mouth shut and avert my gaze to escape the queen’s convincing lies, reminding myself how my mother and father fought for me and Nix both . . . that because of that alone I’m worthy of this moment, of helping Perish, of loving and being loved.

I do a double take when I catch Clarey sidling by in Lady Glacia’s blind spot while cupping his left ear. He hears something. I watch surreptitiously as he heads for a form coated in floral webbing under the window. The thick shroud thins at the top, where long, glistening tie-dyed waves burst free. Before I can even try to make sense of what I’m seeing, to sort through the catalog of fey in my mind, searching for the class that has such beautiful serpentine tendrils of hair, Lady Glacia spins around and snatches Clarey’s arm, forcing him to look into her eyes.

“Let him go!” I shout.

“Lark!” He struggles to tear his gaze free. “The web, I think it’s—” A crackling gurgle shuts down his voice as ice and frost expand across his tongue and over his vocal cords. Clarey claws at his throat, eyes wide with horror. He’s having a panic attack.

My instinct is to tackle Lady Glacia from behind, break her concentration. But I reconsider. The queen holds Clarey in her thrall, and it would do him more harm than good if I intervene. It’s better if his skin turns blue, if the ice frosts over his pupils, if his organs slow to a lull.

I know that feeling . . . I’ve been there before. When fully frozen, it’s more dissociative than frightening; it’s survivable. He’ll be safer there for now, in stasis. And with the queen preoccupied, her back turned to me, I have access to Perish at last.

I dart to the stone slab, falling to my knees so my face levels with my Goblin King’s. With each flickering glimpse, I begrudgingly admire Nix’s handiwork. His golden complexion perfectly accentuates those angelic and barbaric features that I couldn’t forget over the last couple of months, no matter how I tried to blot them out. My metallic regime had blemished his skin to a sickly pale hue, filed his teeth to rusty iron points. Now, with bone-white fang tips pressing into the plumpness of his burgundy lower lip, he looks healthy, robust. Feral, and regal.

If not for the feeble sputters of light tinseling his antlers—an unnerving contrast to the lightning storm that once scabbarded each and every prong—I’d think he was better off like everyone else here. But the moment those antlers blink out for the final time, there will be no retrieving his spirit.

I press my hand against the preservation casing holding him. The filmy walls bend, but won’t burst. Even with the queen’s attention solely on Clarey, I still can’t help. That bubble may as well be his coffin.

My throat expands, a swollen sensation that chokes my breath. “Perish.” I grind the whisper out slowly, so the sob I’m suppressing won’t burble up. My fingers clench the slab only inches from his translucent casing. “What are you doing? You don’t get to give up! You’re still the Goblin King,” I snarl, willing him to hear my murmurs, to remember our pact. I cast a glance at the queen to be sure she’s still distracted, then bend my lips closer to Perish’s closest ear. “Crown or no crown, you belong on that throne. I did everything you asked! Burned my uncle’s whole world to keep you there. Trapped my sister, and betrayed my closest friend. So don’t you dare leave me with your magic punching a million holes in my body. Tell me how to reach you!”

I see it happening, slowly but unmistakably, a clash in his muscles, a pull and push along the lines of his skintight clothes, an almost imperceptible stretch at the seams of his broad shoulders, across the cuffs on his wrists where his arms are limply folded over his chest. He’s trying to move . . . to respond.

His fragmented magic tugs at my sternum, a magnetic draw to the dagger laid at his side. I lean across the table to trace my finger from blade to handle. The unicorn horn lights up suddenly, then blinks off again when I jerk back in surprise.

I gasp, barely aware of the queen dragging Clarey toward the stairs where the fey are still cowed. “Hold on to the boy. We’ll decide what to do with him once this is finished.”

The grimalkin slinks forward, then wraps its tail around his frozen form and drags him into the midst of the fey, who carry him away like they did Dad’s duffle, into the shadowed fray of the lower level and out of view.

Before the queen can cross to me, I snatch the dagger and hold it high.

She stops midstride, gaping, as the unicorn horn comes to life in my grasp, an array of colors swirling through the handle like a lava lamp plugged in.

“How?” she murmurs. “How are you wielding his sword?”

I smirk, savoring the moment. “He showed me how to use it, because it’s mine as much as his. I cast the metal that went into the weapon. I helped him peel a panel free from his body, then we forged it together. And it remembers . . .”

Turning toward his bubble, I skim the filmy skin with the blade. The casing responds to the magic linked between the three of us—dagger, king, and fallen Architect—allowing the blade to breach. A gap opens above his face.

“Stop! You can’t expose him! He’s too vulnerable!” The queen rushes toward me.

“Glad to know you actually care,” I mumble. I flash the dagger, commanding it to change its shape like Perish taught me. It morphs to a metallic puddle. I toss it to the floor in front of the queen when she’s less than five steps away, and it captures her reflection. The metal grows to mimic her shape and size—a shimmery shadow that anticipates her every move and blocks her, giving me time to do what I need to do.

Lady Glacia trembles, trapped by her own reflection. “You’re worthless, tainted . . . you’ve no way to pass the crown’s life force back to him!”

I wince as her doubts give rise to all my insecurities. “Have a little faith in me. After all, your son did.” Unsure if my retort is aimed at the queen or myself, I study Perish, intent on those lips, full and serene, that spoke to me as an equal . . . as a partner. That shared his pride for this world; that teased me, made me laugh, and confessed his fears for his kingdom. Those lips that tried to draw me out, to remind me who I was when I was lost so deep in the hive mind I couldn’t remember. Now, they beckon me with the one thing I was too scared to ask for. The one thing I wanted from him even more than a queen’s crown. Even more than a share of his magic.

I hope wherever Nix is, she’ll forgive me for wanting it still.

I spare a pitying glance at Lady Glacia as she tries to outwit her reflective captor, to no avail. It’s the same pitying look she gave me every time she caught me watching her son with longing in my eyes.

“Who says I need hands to stir magic in you?” I whisper to my Goblin King. Fisting my poisoned metallic fingers and palms at my side, I lean my face into the bubble’s opening, hovering my mouth over his, feeling the frail rush of his breath—scented of paint, of oil, of sheep’s wool and yarn, of music and poetry, an intoxicant of all the art forms that have graced his world. I tasted it once, from every Architect that was part of the Heart . . . but I’ve always wanted to taste it from him . . . to get drunk on the king who rules over it all.

The fragment of the crown inside me flashes, moving from my chest into my lips—a feverish pull to him. I touch my mouth to his and the magic simmers there, a buildup, then a shock wave that shuttles between us, pushing the marrow from my bones and replacing it with power. But there’s more of it now . . . so much more . . .

I feel it expand to uncoil inside me, a thousand reverberations of the blinding, blazing scintillation that flooded my body when he first crushed his cut palm to mine, feeding my blood with his power.

I draw back, tipsy with the flavor of him, my skin pulsing with light. The burst of power trails the floor in lightning fringes, striking the transformed dagger, casting it back to a blade once more.

Breathless, I look down at Perish. His lashes twitch, a glitter of tears embroidering them; each liquid bead reflects the lightning that spangles his antlers in blinding flashes. I blot his eyes with the back of my hand, the leaves scraping his face with a soft crinkling sound. His lips move, his lashes flutter. His revival is slow but undeniable.

“He’s waking.” I can hardly contain the euphoric triumph I feel in those words. A bark of delighted laughter bursts out of me. “I did it! He’s going to live!”

“Yes, it seems I misjudged your strength after all,” the queen says flatly. Lightheaded, I turn in her direction. “But sadly, it won’t be enough to save yourself.”

She’s made her way across the stage to the shrouded form under the screen. She must’ve moved the moment the dagger lifted its hold on her, while I was lost in wonder over my kiss with her son. Glaring at me, she unsheathes her icicle-sharp fingernails. I watch, dumbfounded, as she claws away the webbing. Starting at the chest, she works her way up, revealing a slender neck, then a chin that I would recognize anywhere . . . a mouth that I see in the mirror each day, and a nose so like mine, I can almost smell the scent of winter on the queen’s nails from here.

“Nix!” I screech, hurtling across the stage, wanting to be there when she reveals my twin’s eyes. Wanting to be the first thing my sister sees. I haven’t even crossed halfway when Filigree rushes in—squawking a warning. The unmistakable sound of intrusion rattles the walls: a clash of swords, flapping paper wings, and a monster’s roar.

The queen meets my horrified gaze with her own in the instant Scourge and his minions burst inside.

19

the inevitable, regrettable nature of reality

Lark

In one move, I spin away from Nix’s cocoon and the queen, diving for Perish’s dagger on the floor.

The queen rushes by, then throws herself across her son’s prone form. He’s stirring but not fully awake. Since I sliced his preservation casing, his head’s been left vulnerable. She focuses all her energy on the opening in the bubble, forming a line of impenetrable ice to seal him in. It’s good to see her finally acting like a mother.

Scourge waits at the doorway as his rebels pour into the lair. Another ominous roar outside. The ceiling crumbles, moss-draped stones and plaster raining all around. Overhead, a giant gaping hole reveals Krampus. I gawk open-mouthed; he’s exactly as he looked in the mural, as if peeled directly off the wall—except here he’s as tall as a dryad, and powerful enough to rip the roof off the sky-high sanctuary with his bare claws.

More debris falls from the ceiling as he shakes pieces free. To shelter my head, I convert the dagger into an umbrella of steel with syrupy rainbow lights burbling along the hooked handle. Falling chunks ricochet off the shield, as loud as hailstones hitting a tin roof. Krampus reaches down and uproots the giant tulip from its place of honor in the center of the lair. He shreds the petals into strips of creamy white confetti, tossing it to the floor. The vicious extraction of Mystiquiel’s Heart gouges through my blood, my magic-filled marrow sprouting thorns that pierce my bones. I cry out and double over.

My bond with Nix tangles with the enchanted strands tethering me to Perish, triggering myriad warring instincts: protect Nix and Clarey, protect Perish, protect the fey who are being chased around the lair by henchmen and the flying gingerbread cookies seeping one by one through the sieve of the ceiling.

I grip the umbrella’s handle until my metallic fingers creak with the strain, trying to visualize some way to use the dagger for everything, but then Perish’s knowing overtakes, honing my turmoil to one pointed thought: save all the innocents. Our shared crown magic sears through my bones, a shuttle of power that forces me to open my mouth on a scream.

The wail shatters me—long, loud, and brutal. My lungs shrivel with the effort, and my crispated heart withers, but I push through the pain, craving the release of pressure. The crown’s frenetic surge swells to a crest inside me, and I open the chasm of my chest, allowing it passage.

It billows into my throat—a swarming flutter like butterflies trying to clamber free. I open my mouth wider, and a gush of bubbles rises past my lips, swirling around the room and growing to encompass the victims—Clarey, Angorla, Slinx and Binx, the tinkers, and every other faithful subject who tried to help their Goblin King in his time of need—then one last bubble stretches around my sister’s encased form.

Only Perish’s mother remains unprotected. I start toward her to share my umbrella, but manage just one step before a searing-hot ache ricochets along every nerve in my body. An excruciating throb inside my skull knocks me to my knees, and an all-encompassing weariness ebbs along my muscles. I’m sucked dry of everything I had to give.

Unable to pull in enough air, I roll to my back and gasp like a fish, watching from under my umbrella—in a woozy, achy fugue—as the bubbles containing the refugees float upward in a beautiful glimmering parade. The impenetrable casings repel the sweeping swords, gnashing teeth, and falling rubble that endangered their occupants moments earlier. Nix’s bubble remains grounded, as if something holds her secured to the floor. Still, she’s safe from harm.

The other bubbles continue to rise, drifting out through the gaping ceiling. With the roof completely gone, there’s no more falling refuse, so I release the umbrella from its shape and allow the dagger to reappear. Clarey passes by in his bubble, still wrapped within the queen’s wintery thrall, but his eyes flicker in dual-toned warmth, an acknowledgment that he’s thawing and will be okay. The fey also meet my gaze as they glide past, offering expressions of disbelief entwined with gratitude.

I grunt, lifting Perish’s dagger in a salute of solidarity. But my metal hand paired with the weapon proves too heavy, and both fall back at my side. I startle when the gingerbread men begin to chase the bubbles through the gaping roof, trying to capture them. Krampus, too, stretches his arms to grab at the soaring escapees. Yet the casings bounce off his claws and escape the sugar-and-spice stalkers like slippery soap bubbles, refusing to burst. In minutes, they’re strung up in the midnight sky, too far out of reach to be captured. They settle there, like a galaxy of iridescent planets, untouchable and bright.

It’s distant, and difficult to hear over the grumbles of Scourge’s thwarted lackeys standing slack-jawed on the lower level, but I almost think there’s hooting and relieved laughter coming from the hovering fey.

Growing bored, Krampus and the gingerbread men leave; I catch sight of them onscreen, headed in the direction of the royal orchards’ scorched remains.

I roll to my side, head pounding, unable to find the strength to stand as Scourge’s henchmen turn their attention to the upper level. They haven’t even reached the first step when Perish’s knights storm across the threshold, looking harried from the effort of beating back rebels along the stairs to press their way in. A new battle begins for the lower level.

“Larkling.” Perish speaks from the table, still lying on his back, his voice a frail husk of the rich, resonant depth I’ve preserved in the shrine of my Mystiquiel memories. “Where is she?” he asks, attempting to sit up. His bubble stretches around him, the fissure I made sutured together with an infrangible seam of hoarfrost. He groans and lies back down, lacking his full strength. Undeterred, he holds up his hand to his mother, showcasing a braid of red thread through his transparent shell.

I squint to be sure of what I’m seeing.

Dad’s ring.

How could it be? Maybe, during our power-surging kiss, it resurfaced in me then passed to him, settling itself on his finger. Or am I so oxygen deprived I’m hallucinating?

“Bring her to me, Mother,” Perish commands. “I need to—” His hand drops to his side as he fades again to unconsciousness. The lightning around his antlers retains its brightness but ripples in disorderly waves around the prongs, as if he’s recharging. He’s as drained as me from the magic we spent to save his subjects.

Lady Glacia glares in my direction, bits of ceiling debris sifting from her hair. All I can manage is a wheeze. Her tinsel-bright eyebrows furrow as she prepares to say something, but her attention shifts to the steps from the lower level. I follow her gaze where a silhouette creeps across our platform, having sneaked past undetected while the fight downstairs proceeded around him.

“Greetings, Lady Mum.” Scourge rushes forward, completely dismissing my inert form as rubbish.

Yelping in surprise, the queen turns to face him. Scourge presses a sword tip to her throat upon noticing the unbreakable seal she’s made along his brother’s casing.

“I’m ending this tonight,” he snarls. “Either you drop your spell and step aside, or I run this blade through your throat and kill your magic along with you.”

She spreads her arms wide to shield her firstborn. “You won’t win.” Her throat puckers under Scourge’s sword with the effort to speak. “Not like this. If you kill your brother, the crown will forever deny you. It will penalize you, consider you the loser of the challenge. Do you want to be indentured to all the throne’s successors forever?”

He shakes his ugly head. Strips of tulip confetti—suspended from his skeletal antlers—flitter loose, like dead leaves dropping from emaciated twigs. “Aw, Mum. How generous of you, to be worried for your less favored son. Or would this be another ploy, like the one you pulled when you pretended to be in league with me all the while sneaking away to retrieve Perish’s body and hide him here in hopes of reviving him? Obviously, you were setting him up to recoup the crown all along, so wouldn’t you already have made peace with seeing me as a lowly tinker-gnome?”

The queen doesn’t budge, despite a trickle of blood oozing from her throat where the sword tip pierces her skin. “But with your brother gone, and you indentured, another king will step up to reign over Mystiquiel from another family. Don’t you realize that? Either way, you lose.”

Scourge snorts. “You’ve always been so one-dimensional when it comes to politics. Try to think outside our little fairyland box for once.”

With his free hand, he withdraws something hidden inside his jacket. It crinkles in his grip. I squint, barely able to make out several folds and cuts along a yellowing piece of paper. It springs open as he tosses it up, taking the shape of a halo-less angel, torn wings stapled back in place. Scourge throws a knife into the air, which the living stationery neatly snatches up. It flaps wafer-thin wings and hovers above Perish, waiting for the enchanted seal to thaw and reveal the king’s vulnerability.

“See, it won’t be my hand that kills my brother. It will be an avenging angel’s. And once Perish takes his last breath, I will have won the challenge, and the crown will materialize upon my head, granting me a fully formed glorious king’s body, with all the heirs’ powers stored therein.”

Swords and shouts continue in the background, the battle in full swing. But here, on our upper-level island, Scourge has already claimed victory.

Sipping another shallow breath, I grind my teeth at my failure to do more than budge my arm, then I silently curse my fragile state.

Scourge trails the sword tip along his mother’s neck, resting it at the dip between her clavicles. “Make your choice, Mum. Last chance.”

“Scourge, think this through. You’ll still be plagued with the metal defects. You wish to live your eternity shackled to rust and rot?”

“No worries there. Before my Christmas beast ends their lives and nullifies our contract with their kin, I’ll unite the girls long enough to exploit their combined power of genesis . . . I’ll force them to restore my blood and bones, and in the process meld the crown with my flesh, permanently.”

I press the dagger’s horn handle to my temple, using the warmth from the fluid light to ground me, soothe my aching head. What does Scourge mean, my and Nix’s combined power?

“You intend to absorb the crown? Into your . . . flesh?” The queen croaks the words as if sickened by them. “To what end?”

He shrugs his narrow shoulders, the tinny crumpled side crimping awkwardly. “To what end, you ask. To the literal end of our tedious monarchy successions. Without a crown to claim, no one will have the means to challenge me. Ever. And with all my indestructible pets guarding me, I’ll be perpetually preeminent. An undefeatable sovereign, ruling over a stable of domesticated humans who will maintain this world as I see fit.”

He cackles madly, and something in his sagging chest pings, grating and discordant, like a wind chime made of rusted knives.

It’s his heart. His metal heart.

Wincing, I inch the dagger nestled at my side onto my chest without making a sound. I focus on the blade, straining for any modicum of magic—whatever I have left—to gather inside my legs, arms, and wings. The blade fluctuates in a flash of silver, reshaping to a hollow cylindrical rod with circular handles sprouting from the top. Bone weary, I move in increments, rocking onto my hands and knees, then shoving to my feet, hands on my thighs. Fighting a wave of nausea, I teeter upright—holding tight to the reshaped dagger.

The queen has fixed an icy glower on Scourge, but like Perish, he’s immune by blood. She yowls in defeat then slams her eyelids shut in outright refusal to lift her glacial buffer from Perish’s casing.

“Such a shame,” Scourge taunts, “that you would choose to side with the weaker son. To martyr yourself for the one who was more loyal to human-kind than his own kin. Let it be done, then.”

In the instant he shifts his elbow, preparing to drive the blade into Lady Glacia’s chest, I lunge, willing my weight to propel me forward. My wings flutter frantically to offer momentum and balance, and my metal hands hold the winding key true.

Upon hearing the scuffle of boots behind him, Scourge whirls around just as I arrive close enough to plunge the key home, ripping through his shirt, seating it deep into his chest—twisting it inside the organ’s keyhole, a design made possible by the machine conceptualized and created by me.

I growl. “Meet your maker, tinker-toy. You lose.”

We slump to the ground together, and I press my lips to his cheek, allowing punishing threads of crown magic to shuttle into him. Staticky glimmers flash across every part of his cyborg body, releasing him from my curse of metal at last. He’s himself again for only an instant before warping into something both organic and unfortunate. A beaded, bony armor sweeps over his withering back and torso, lizard scales curl across his shrinking head, his pointed ears grow smaller, fuzz sprouting out along the edges, and his nose curls up to a slender ratty snout. He’s no longer a prince but a gnome forever indentured to the throne.

Fighting heavy eyelids, I glance at Lady Glacia. She faces me—still standing in front of Perish and no worse for wear other than a bloody sliver on her neck.

“A simple human girl, huh?” I murmur, half laughing, half coughing.

She awards me a nod of stunned respect. There’s movement behind her as Perish again struggles to sit—but I can’t hold my eyes open any longer.

With a tremulous smile, I inhale a thready breath then let the darkness take me.

Nix

Let me OUT!

I’ve been screaming in my head for what feels like hours, yet has to have been only minutes, watching the sky fall down through a hazy screen; feeling anguish gouge my vines and flowers when Krampus mauled Mystiquiel’s heart; locked in ice by Lady Glacia’s spell, trapped inside a bubble, and unable to do a thing to help my sister or Clarey.

Even now, with the royal knights having defeated and bound the rebels in in chains, with Perish opening his preservation casing and his crown materializing where it belongs on his head, even as everything seems under control—seeing Lark beside Scourge’s tinker form on the floor, both of them curled up like empty, discarded dolls, I’m still screaming.

I haven’t spent time with my sister in months—or in reality, years. The torture of being so close but still so far is too much. Then the horror of remembering that although in my heart she’ll always be my twin, she’s also my other half and she’s fading fast; I can’t shed my cocoon; I can’t hug her or even look into her eyes . . . if I do, she’s lost forever.

As Perish sits up, I resign myself to wait just a little longer. I’m out of plans and options. I have no other recourse but to trust him. He’ll stop his mother from forcing Lark and me together until he can find a way to preserve us both, so we can finally be together again. So I can hold her in my arms and bury my face in her hair and link pinkies. So we can share memories of times with Uncle and Clarey, of Halloweens, Thanksgivings, and Christmases spent together as a family. To declare aloud our feelings, for each other, for the boy or goblin who has captured our heart, for future dreams and hopes. These are things you share with a sister . . . with a twin. And we’ll be that again.

Perish will see to it because he loves her.

A shuffle of heavy, booted feet tromping up the steps catches my attention, distracts me for a moment.

A half dozen royal knights cross the upper level, tusks framing blissfully hideous smiles. They kneel before their king, welcoming him back. Perish nods to each one, commending their bravery and loyalty. He shrugs off the remains of his preservation casing in a shimmery burst of iridescence.

A sudden yelp from the queen prompts everyone to look up as Scourge’s forgotten pet angel dive-bombs from a shadowy corner of the busted roof, aiming straight for Perish’s exposed chest with the knife.

The boggles don’t even have a chance to react. All it takes is one glance from Perish’s alert burgundy eyes, and the magic enmeshing his crown and antlers strikes out with a firebolt. Flames spark along the paper ornament. The wings writhe then blacken, the triangular torso and round head following suit. With a sizzling pop, the angel burns to a crisp, then poof!—its pieces drift gently to the floor in a snow of cinders. The pile lies there, sifting on an invisible wind, preparing to regenerate.

Perish plants his naked feet on the floor. In the moonlight streaming from outside, his skin glimmers golden and healthy, every taut tendon and ridge of muscle highlighted by gauzy form-hugging tunic and pants. The Goblin King has returned in all his glory: a feral, majestic warrior—part beast, part man, part seraph.

“Get that dross out of here,” Perish growls; whether in reference to the paper ornament’s fidgeting ashes or his defeated brother, the knights appear unsure. For good measure, one of the boggles scoops up Scourge’s wriggling, armadillo-shelled form. The knight allows Lady Glacia a moment to say her piece—an abbreviated soliloquy made up of equal parts criticism and sorrow—then carries Scourge to the lower level to share manacles with his rebel accomplices.

Two other knights sweep the angel’s ash into their large craggy hands and toss the sooty bits out the entrance, letting the breeze carry them different directions, in hopes of slowing its reassembly.

Perish’s concerned gaze anchors on Lark. He takes a step toward her.

“Majesty,” a boggle interrupts. “The screen.”

With marked reluctance, the Goblin King shifts his focus to the window showcasing Mystiquiel’s landscapes.

With my spine nailed in place, I can’t turn to look, but even through the film over my eyes, I see the destruction reflect in miniature across Perish’s fathomless irises. Having leveled the orchards to sawdust and pulp, Krampus and his sugar-and-spice conspirators gather at the castle. Ripping off the metal drawbridge, Krampus bends it into a sledgehammer to reduce the tungsten fortress to piles of rubble. The gingerbread men gather up small chunks that resemble rock candy and press them into their faces between licorice lips. They gnash their new teeth, eager to find things to bite.

“We can’t stop what won’t die, Highness,” the boggle says, his blunted head lowered in defeat. “Their destruction has no bounds. After this will be the town, and then the beach; our populace hiding there will be in danger. At some point, they’ll reach the sky. Everything the Architect made will be brought to spoils. Unless those things are sent back or killed somehow, it will be an endless cycle for all eternity. We will never be free of the bubble sanctuaries.”

Even if I couldn’t see the effects my mural pieces are having on the world, the truth of his fears run deep. I feel the destruction in my depths, in Mystiquiel’s weeping roots that are soldered to my flesh and bones.

Perish’s jaw clenches. He stalks over to Lark, his movements graceful with measured intention. The remaining knights part as he arrives where the queen already kneels at her side.

“You know what must be done,” Lady Glacia says, looking up at him with ice storms building behind her eyes. “Take comfort that she’s almost gone already. She’s a human. It’s what they do. They fade.”

Perish growls. “Take comfort, you say. You spit the word ‘human’ as if it’s a defect. Yet it’s her humanity that moved her to save you, even after all your cruelties and bitterness. That same humanity brought her here to save all of us, in fact. Even the fey who turned their backs on her . . . who feared her.”

Lady Glacia nods. “You’re right. I regret this end for her now. I admit, I was wrong about everything. She proved her worth and her love for you . . . for our world; she’s an eldritch at heart, with a strength beyond my expectations. Would that things could be different.”

Perish cocks his head her direction. “Would they be, in fact? Would you accept her? Would you stand by and allow her to rule at my side, could things have been different?”

“More than that, my son. I would never stand in her way again. I would open my arms and give her my robes; I’d spangle her hair with star crystals, gift her the crown of sparkling permafrost. I’d seat her upon my very own throne.”

“You vow it?” Perish asks, his gaze penetrating.

“I do. But it’s a vow that must die with her. The Architect has already been chosen; she wears the acceptance of our subjects around her neck. And she can only defeat our attackers by making them real, flesh and bone. Only when she’s whole will she have the power to breathe life into the lifeless. To create living beings out of any medium. And to become whole, the Architect must absorb—”

Perish holds up his hand to silence her. Something red upon his ring finger catches my eye . . . a circlet-scab of blood. He must’ve been cut at some point.

“Your Highness.” The boggle monitoring the screen speaks up. “The Christmas beasts are moving toward the town . . . we’re losing time.”

“Perish,” Lady Glacia says, a melted softness to her voice. “Say your goodbyes, then have the strength to do what’s right for your kingdom.”

No! I scream again, unheard. Even after she saved you, you would kill her? Don’t let her do it, Perish. Don’t you dare give in!

The Goblin King’s pointed ears fold low, a movement parodied by the droop of his broad shoulders. Crouching beside the queen, he cups sharp-nailed fingers over Lark’s head with a marked tenderness that tugs his lips to a frown. “Larkling, do you hear me?” His white double-pupils swallow up his dark irises as he seeks the flavor of her emotions . . . searches for any sign of consciousness.

When she doesn’t respond, Perish nudges his mother aside and lifts Lark from the ground. He cradles her against his chest, pressing his lips to her temple. His antlers brighten at the contact, a captive lightning storm that spreads to encompass his head and hers. Her eyes flutter open. With a strained breath, she offers the frailest of smiles. His lips quiver, as if struggling to return the expression but unable to.

He whispers something to her. She pauses for a minute and glances my direction, a look of horror and disbelief in her eyes. Then, eyebrows furrowed, she whispers back to him. He swallows hard, a visible lump in his throat as he nods. Lifting her carbon fiber fingers, she grasps each side of his trembling jaw. He startles at the touch of cold metal against skin, then their lips meet with a tenderness that guts me.

When he pulls back, a deep sadness wells behind his eyes, and I know it for what it is. He’s going to sacrifice my damaged sister for his world. And she’s going to let him.

NO! No, no, no!

A slushy wash of tears knocks against my lower lashes, too cold and thick to be released. The inability to cry them out only makes the agony cut deeper.

I wail inwardly as Perish’s magic bursts the bubble around me, as the queen peels away my webbed covering. It’s not for the pain of my walls coming down; it’s impossible not to notice the effort Lady Glacia’s taking, a slow divulging of my frozen skin, as if she’s trying to be gentle. But it’s a farce. Their kind doesn’t care who they hurt. Our family’s always been their pawns . . . an end to a means. And now, they’ll commit the ultimate evil by forcing me to murder my own sister.

The queen slips the last of the baby’s breath shroud from my eyes, and my tears burst free. I see everything in a smear of garish bright colors . . . but it all looks like death to me. Black and white and gray leak into my view, despair washing out my retinas like a cruel rain.

Perish props Lark in front of me, helping her stay upright. “Give me Nix’s hand.” His deep command resonates in the space, his voice gruff and robust—a testament to his indisputable sovereignty. And I hate him more than I ever have.

The queen takes my limp arm and coaxes my half-thawed pinkie to bend as a hook. I jerk free when Lark’s metal digit curls around mine, but she throws her arms around me in a hug and we’re locked together. She leans closer until our foreheads meet. Her eyes gape wide, echoing my gaze—an infinity of gray. It triggers a memory of seeing hers stitched shut three years ago in a coffin when I thought she’d died.

Last time, Perish wore her likeness for the hoax; it’s unbearable to imagine it being real this time. I can’t lose her again.

I hear the words she doesn’t speak: It’ll be okay.

My heart breaks. Lark, my twin, the strongest of us both. The one I always wanted to be. Or maybe, the one who left a hole in me? The thought is unprompted, and I wonder if she sent it to my mind. My viewpoint shifts, and the bleak, inescapable reality shatters any doubt that remains. I don’t even have time to tell her that I love her before prisms of color bleed back into my retinas. Her hair grows long and serpentine, tie-dyed pastels replacing silvery-white and ebony strands. Her vampiric fangs file down to normal, her front teeth fill out, sealing up the space between them. Her scarred hairline smooths, allowing a widow’s peak to dip down. Every choice she made that modified her, that set us apart, disappears: a forgery put to rights. A flash of flesh softens her metal hands and forearms, transforming prosthetics into skin, thawing the spike through my spine and every other part of me in the process. Even her dress—a glittery blue confection of netting and lace—conforms; the flowers and ivy held in tatters across my body blossom and grow, hale and hardy once more, spinning me up in dewy petals and verdant leaves. The living wardrobe spreads like a fungus between us, eating away at her clothes, gracing her with the perfect replica of my urban decay gown.

I squint and no longer see another girl. Was she ever there to begin with?

I stare instead at my own reflection; that half of me who’s been trapped behind glass—cold, lost, and lonely—since the day I came into the world. Hungry like a puddle craving a raindrop, I draw the part of me in where it belongs, assimilation through osmosis: palms consuming palms, chest consuming chest, face consuming face, mouth to mouth, eyes to eyes.

Last of all, breath consuming breath.

I blink, and only I remain. Everything else is forgotten, all the pointless distractions jettisoned away to make room for divine duty. The singular splendor of creation fills my being with a rainbow palette and brushstrokes of light.

I’m who I was born to be. Myself at last. Mystiquiel’s eternal Architect.

20

rebirth

Nix

“Architect, save our Mystiquiel.”

At the Goblin King’s request, I turn to look at the screen. A charred necrosis poisons the landscapes, with the exception of flowers blossoming unhindered in each setting—checkered and marbled, speckled and striped—a patchwork of glittering, prismatic bouquets that seem out of place and somehow survived the flames.

My vision rages to pinpoints of red, homed in on the cause of the ruins. Burned buildings fall and scorched streets crumble beneath the antics of the unnatural monsters infecting the town.

I focus on them and visualize their actuality.

“Breathe and be born,” I whisper, and my floral, leafy gown quivers and glows as the artworks metamorphose, no longer paper or paint or pastry but organic matter with hearts that beat and veins that bleed. They snarl and rage, threatening further destruction. The temptation to crush them is great, but they’re my children—their empty minds influenced by an evil that no longer exists. So instead, I chastise them. I shrink them down to infants no bigger than grubs wriggling in the rubble they made. Frightened and helpless, they cry and shiver in their naked, nescient forms.

The Goblin King sends his owl to gather them. Together, Mystiquiel’s populace will raise the impressionable beasts to love this world. To revere their king, and to guard our lands from all harm. To belong.

The king smiles, his fangs pressing dimples along his bottom lip. “Well done. They’ll be lumps of clay to reshape at our hands. Now, heal your paradise.”

I return his smile, heart brimming with joy at the opportunity.

First, I turn to the lair around me and hug myself, soothing the ache for all the devastation I see. With a heavy sigh, I open my arms wide and spin in place, my gown—a glitter of petals and ivy leaves—whipping around me at each turn, stirring up dust and debris. A whirlwind forms, capturing the detritus. All the fallen fragments, all the busted parts, funnel upward then explode: a reverse rain that rebuilds the hollowed space in a matter of moments. The tulip reassembles, shredded pieces twined together into creamy furls then folding closed as if on hinges, fisting around a Heart that doesn’t beat, but instead hums with life.

And with the Heart’s awakening, I’m omniscient.

I wink a sunrise, an eye placed in the sky. Fringes of light splay long and luminous from the edges, lashes of apricot and pink wrapping around the moon and dragging it to slumber beneath a horizon mended by a wave of my arm. Hundreds of occupied preservation bubbles glimmer in the atmosphere, their casings reflecting the dawn.

The king steps forward and offers me his golden palm, specked with orchard seeds.

I nod and cup the seeds lovingly. Looking down on everything at once through my sun’s fixed stare, I raise my hands. The screen opens, and the petals on the back of my gown elongate and spread into wings. A gust of wind lifts me, as if I were a kite, and sends me sailing across the panorama.

I marvel at the blissful freedom, breathing in the scent of damp soot, fallen rain, and sodden leaves.

The air currents carry me to the royal orchards, where I release the goblin fruit seeds proffered by the king, letting them fall from the heights in a blinding snow. They scatter—instinctively finding their given season in which to propagate. I blow across the hinterland to summon a cleansing fog. The orchards disappear from sight, buried under heavy mists. I swoop within and spin the haze around me—absorbing all the ash, embers, waste, and gloom—into a cape of woolen clouds. Unhindered, the trees resurrect from the ground, sheathed in healthy bark. Their canopies swell with leaves and bloom with fragrant, jeweled fruits.

Above the orchards once more, I spin the opposite direction, discarding my cape of clouds, adorning the bright blue sky in cottony grayish-white festoons.

I hover over the crumpled castle. With a clap of my hands, I summon the black and jagged bits—vicious and biting—to deliquesce and rush into puddles of shimmery night. Out of their depths, waves rise and spike upward to meet in the middle and harden in slabs of tungsten. With thunderous shifts and clicks they form chambers, walls, battlements, roofs, and turrets.

All that’s left is the town. I soar over the ruins, envisioning the splendor it once was. It takes only a tap of my finger, a wisp of a word, to put it all back to rights: the buildings, bridges, trees, streets, and sidewalks popping up in perfect symmetry. Only the sooty stains remain as proof of what transpired.

I nod, and they lift off into bands of smoke that dissipate into the sky, joining the clouds already in place. I grab hold of one and give it a shake. In response, all the clouds shiver, and sheets of rain begin to fall, a cleansing purge that leaves everything—bricks, cement, graffiti art, bark and leaves, asphalt and rooftops—gleaming, fresh and new.

Once the rain stops, Perish drifts upon the scene encapsulated by a protective casing, his subjects trailing him in a parade of matching bubbles. His own bursts the instant his feet touch ground. He waves me down and I alight next to the sign that reads Mystiquiel.

Perish stands there already, looking lovingly upon a statue. I only scarcely notice the citizens of the world and a human boy bursting out from their bubbles to gather around. I’m too intrigued by the girl of golden stone—from another time, another place. With the king standing beside her, shimmery puddles reflecting the sky’s white clouds across their feet, it’s like looking upon a bride and groom atop a wedding cake.

I would think her me, but for the fairy wings and goblin ears. Her dress, chiseled of flowers, also differs from my own with the addition of dragonfly pinions and dandelion fuzz. I trace the long flow of her stony hair in wonder, trailing a fingertip across a wreath of ivy, realizing I carved all these lines. She was crafted by my hand.

More of our fey populace have appeared—some brought here by the trolley, others having arrived by foot. There’s even a man, covered in sand and smelling of the ocean, alongside a woman scented of tea, and a furry beast with four legs . . . one of which appears to be made of metal—led into the crowd by the Goblin King’s owl and its inky shadow. The two newly arrived humans look on with awe and deep concern magnified by the tears and glassy spectacles over their eyes. The man puts one arm around the woman and another around the boy, whose shoulders slump beneath the same anxious weight as he strokes the head of the four-legged beast. Their group stands back from the eldritch as if not of their kinship—here only by invitation. The king nods to them, confirming his blood brought them across the veil. The humans seem as captivated by the statue as everyone in the audience, and their beast whimpers as if even it understands something I’m missing.

“Why did I cast such a strange likeness of myself?” I direct my query to the Goblin King. “Is she a trophy, meant to guard the entrance?”

“She’s my beloved queen,” the king answers, his voice grinding with anguish. “Trapped inside an enchantment gone terribly wrong.” He places his left hand upon her shoulder, and I see a ring of red thread encircling his finger. “You created this likeness of her. Now I need you to make it a home for her spirit. Wake her from her slumber . . . breathe flesh, blood, and bones into this shell. I’ll do the rest.”

I don’t even hesitate. I’m the Architect, after all. Giving life to my creations is my calling. “Breathe and be born,” I command, and touch the wreath at her forehead.

It takes less than an instant. Her golden lashes flutter, her nose twitches, and then she blinks her eyes wide, revealing irises the color of plum wine. Dual pupils dance across each one, glimmering white like diminutive moons. Her skin softens, glistening with each movement as she tests out arms, legs, fingers, and toes. The goblin girl spins, her gown as real as her, still bearing the residue of rain glittering on pink, orange, and yellow flower petals. Her wings, translucent at her back, are twins to the dragonfly appendages stitched into the seams of her dress, though a filmy dusting of gold catches the light as her own flap open and closed. She turns her head, left to right, taking in her audience, but there’s no recognition on her face. Instead, there’s horror.

Her dark, full lips gape, and she wails.

The Goblin King steps up, hope bright in his matching eyes. Snarling like a feral beast, she jerks back a hand to slap him. He catches it and slides the threaded ring into place on her finger. It melts into her skin, and immediately her expression changes from confusion to adulation.

“Perish.” She recites his name as if it were poetry and throws her arms around him.

“Larkling.” He lifts her in his powerful embrace, her toes leaving the ground, holding her up so he can kiss her soundly.

“It worked,” she mumbles against his lips through tears, her fingers weaving through the burgundy-and-white strands of his hair.

His antlers and crown light up in response. “Nothing has ever tasted so sweet as your happiness,” he answers.

She hugs him tighter as he nuzzles her golden hair; then he places her gently on the ground.

I watch them both—and the obvious love between them—bewildered yet intrigued.

The human boy, man, and woman wind their way forward with the four-legged creature, taking turns greeting the goblin girl, each one crying as they hold her close. Then, all turn to look at me, eyes wet and expectant.

“Your turn, Phoenix,” the Goblin King says to me, joining the quartet. He holds a bouquet of wildflowers he must’ve gathered from the ground—those oddly patterned genera that looked so out of place. The only ones left untouched by flames and destruction.

“Phoe-nix?” I sound out the syllables. The word is vaguely familiar, a human term for a bird who rises from the ash. “Is that what these flowers are called?” I ask, thinking it a fitting name for something so beautiful yet indestructible.

The goblin girl takes the bouquet from her king’s hand. “It’s what you’re called.” She lifts the flowers to me. “Breathe them in, and remember.”

Eyebrows crimped, I press my nose into the flowers. With just one breath, I smell the salt of the ocean, wet dog, and the dusty grit of sand, autumn leaves, marshmallows and campfires, cookies and cupcakes baking in the oven, honeysuckle vines and floral tea, spray paint and pen ink, machine oil and gum paste—and last but not least, the scent of fresh rain. Petrichor. The word jostles loose in my head.

I draw in a deeper breath, wanting more, wishing to inhale everything. The brilliant colors of each wildflower liquidize to a flood of images that seep into my mind and heart: sand castles; Halloween costumes; spelling bees; trolley rides; holidays and school activities; a loving uncle, always there; classes and friends; a flower boutique owner, so like family but yet much more; a boy and his border collie who are both mine in every way that matters; a picture book bequeathed by a loving, absent mother; a father’s pocket watch that tells time only in an alternate world; sketches and robots; two sisters linking pinkies, sometimes competing yet still grounded in love; a Goblin King; an enchanted bakery; a rusting fairyland brought to rights—each melting petal ushering in a lifetime of memories.

When I look up, I’m holding nothing but stems and leaves. Uncle Thatch, Juniper, Clarey, and Flannie are in my peripheral, but all I see is my sister’s beloved face and new body—both glazed in gold. She’s forever changed, yet breathing and alive.

I yelp and catch her in my arms, snuggling my nose against her neck. Tears made of flower petals drain down my face and saturate her hair with rainbows. “Lark,” I whisper, relishing the feel of her soft warmth and strong heartbeat against me. “I’ve missed you! I love you so so much.”

She embraces me back, weeping. “I love you, too, dear sister. Always.”

Our bodies shake on a shared sob, and we stand back to join pinkies. So enthralled with sharing memories—both lost and found—in a silent conversation, we barely hear the clamor all around us as voices, human and eldritch alike, along with the lone excited yip of a dog, rise together in joyous celebration.

21

putting down roots

Nix

Lark and I hold hands as our boggle escorts lead us down the corridor toward the gala Perish has planned for Lark’s coronation. It’s also to be her first formal appearance as Architect, although unofficially, she’s already taken my place.

Before we returned to the castle some seven hours ago, Lark swallowed a handful of goblin fruit seeds and took several sips of Perish’s royal blood supplied in a goblet; the plants of the world instantly welcomed her as one of their own, rooting her deep into the infrastructures. Simultaneously, at Perish’s command and with my consent, my roots withered and withdrew, leaving me nothing more than a guest.

Oddly, I don’t feel sad at all. I glance at the black mirrored walls in passing, seeing myself anew. No longer lacking parts of me, feeling whole and complete for the first time in my life. A bustier bodice with a mermaid skirt—both of white lace—shimmer fluidlike in my reflection. Animated brushstrokes of paint swirl across the lacy canvas with each step I take, alternating shapes, lines, colors, tones, and textures to generate a variety of abstract portraits. It’s an artist’s dream gown, crafted at the hands of a goblin-fairy girl.

“How’s the dress fit?” Lark asks.

“Like it was made for me,” I answer, grinning.

Lark, being already tied to the world’s Heart through the magic she shares with Perish, didn’t need anything more than a thought and a snap of her fingers to coax it into being.

“Your hair looks great, too,” my sister offers.

“Right? Surprisingly, it’s no different than pruning trees.” I smirk, thinking of how, just before we dressed for the party, Angorla stopped by the room Lark and I have been sharing to offer a cut with her shears—an effort to mend all fences between us, and to make my reentry to the mortal world easier when we leave later this evening. I opted to keep the ombre-pastel dye job, having grown fond of it, but the strands are now pixie-short with a skimpy bang that highlights my widow’s peak.

“But we both know I can’t hold a match to the Goblin Queen of the hour,” I tell Lark without a hint of envy. She smiles beatifically, her white fanged teeth against her gilt complexion still striking awe and wonder in me.

Lady Glacia was true to her word, and her starlit robe trails the floor behind Lark, hiding her wings and casting dazzling-bright pinpricks all around us. Snow crystals, shaped like celestial bodies, unmeltingly spangle the braids at Lark’s temples, where they blend back into her long golden waves to reveal the points of her ears.

“Do you think she’ll really give you her matching crown?” I ask.

“The famed permafrost tiara? Huh. I think she fears my wrath enough to uphold her word.” Lark lifts a honey-glittered eyebrow and claps her hands together, causing the walls to tremble and crackle before smoothing back to flawless glass. The gown underneath her robe drums ominously in accompaniment.

I snort. “Fear can be a powerful motivator.”

“But not nearly as powerful as sisterly love,” she amends. Then, after clearing her throat, she chants, “For there is no friend like a sister, in calm or stormy weather.” She glances sidelong at me, her thick amber lashes shadowing wine-dark eyes, an obvious invitation for me to join in.

“To cheer one on the tedious way,” I say with a singsong lilt.

“To fetch one if one goes astray,” she adds, her voice gruff and sinister.

“To lift one if one totters down,” I continue, swishing my arm upward.

And together we recite the final line with the full potency of our combined voices: “To strengthen whilst one stands.”

That favorite stanza from the Goblin Market picture book Mom left us—the entire poem, in fact, about two sisters almost torn apart by goblin men but who found strength to fight back through their unconditional love for one another—will forever be our anthem now.

Lark draws me into a side hug, and her gown releases the soaring birdsong of a violin. She formed her dress of music—the one talent she wished for that always alluded her as a human. Crystal beads drape the tiered skirt, bell sleeves, and sweetheart neckline. They produce a different musical tone with every minute movement or emotion she feels: a harp’s nostalgic cascade, a cello’s mournful sigh, a flute’s perky trill, a guitar’s solemn strum. The options are as endless as the instruments played by every past Architect who gave the fey a setting to stand on.

These new talents resulted from her technically being born on eldritch ground. In the absence of an earthly body, she had no hobbies or interests that she physically or mentally already knew by rote, no muscle memory to eclipse or crowd out other gifts. As her Architectural roots reached deep into the fathomless depths of Mystiquiel’s foundation, they drank from the founts of each virtuoso who proceeded her—an expansive elixir of any landscape ever woven, sculpted, sung, written, sewn, carved, baked, or performed into place.

Upon testing her skills, Lark found herself capable of creating things with whatever talent she wished to utilize at any time. Perish was thrilled, as were the rest of the fey. She’ll be able to achieve an endless pastiche of settings, such as no other Architect in the history of the eldritch has been capable of supplying. Not only that, but her roots reached so deep, they tangled with the origin goblin fruit tree. Now every feeling she experiences feeds into the fruits. For the first time, the fey populace will find sustenance in their own harvests, and will no longer need to venture out in search of human emotions.

As for me, I retained the abilities and passions for sketching, painting, and robotics, and just the thought of getting back to the mortal world and stretching them to their full potential is finally enough to satisfy my artistic cravings. That insatiable hunger to create has been quenched, and now resides only in Lark. I’ve lost nothing, but have gained a magical sister who will never age and who will eternally remake and rule a fairyland beside her Goblin King.

The eternity beads pulsate on her neck, looking more at home than they ever did on mine. While we were celebrating at the entrance of Mystiquiel, after she and I recouped our memories and had a tearful reunion, the first thing I did was gift the necklace to Lark; it was easy to lift off my neck and place on hers with the entire fey populace applauding. Claws, wings, paws, fins, hooves, and misshapen hands alike gave their unanimous approval of the exchange.

Considering everything Lark did to save Lady Glacia, Perish, and his subjects from the dangers Scourge unleashed, the eldritch no longer feared her or doubted her dedication to them. And since then, they’ve witnessed her Architectural capabilities firsthand. Now, at last, they adore her as much as she does them, and are already treating her like the sovereign she’s about to be—the first ever Architect/Queen of Mystiquiel. And of course, Lark being Lark, she’s already coined her royal appellation: ArchMajesty.

What I love most about her choosing her own title? It’s proof she hasn’t changed. She’s still my twin, with all her human eccentricities and characteristics intact, at least on the inside, where it really counts. And the fact that Perish cherishes those parts of her as much as I do makes it easier to leave her here under his protection.

I smile and pull her closer as we turn down an adjacent hallway.

The corridor echoes with more footsteps as Uncle Thatch and Juniper join us from their rooms.

“Merry Christmas!” Uncle hollers heartily.

We return the sentiment to them both while Lark’s dress tinkles a festive “Jingle Bells” solo.

“Clarey and Flannie are waiting in the ballroom,” Juniper reminds us, and Lark and I nod simultaneously.

Just the sound of Clarey’s name makes my heart flutter. I haven’t had a chance to spend time with him alone since our initial hugs and hellos. For the first two hours in the castle after our reunion on the border of the parallel Astoria, Perish left the six of us and Flannie in the banquet hall so we could eat, relax, and catch up as a family. Once everyone had gone to their rooms to sleep, Lark and I huddled under blankets in front of the fireplace in our chamber. Lark recounted the many memories she’d absorbed from Dad’s ring, sharing lovely details of our parents’ epic love story that no one else will ever know. Then we cried over their incredible sacrifice for us. And as our tears ran dry, we discussed all the things we’d missed experiencing as sisters over the last three years, and all the things we’re looking forward to sharing in the future.

Lark can never return to the mortal world; Perish had her try to cross the veil with just the tip of her foot, and when her toes hardened to stone, it validated his concern. Because her body was born of magic, she has to reside on grounds built by magic or she’ll return to being a statue. When she drew her foot back into Mystiquiel, we all gasped in relief as she became flesh and blood once more.

Since she can’t leave, the rest of our family—me, Clarey, Uncle, Juniper, and even Flannie—are planning to make as many trips to Mystiquiel as possible to visit her. It will be no different than if she lived in another town, were the other town a substratum fairyland filled with goblin fruit and enchanted creatures.

“Still can’t believe the fey orchestra wanted Clarey to teach them that jazz number,” Uncle Thatch says, laughing.

We all exchange grins at the thought of Clarey training the royal orchestra with his harmonica. It’s both endearing and flattering to know that the entire populace has come to enjoy the fresh scent of rain. Lark has even taught them the word “petrichor,” so they can refer to it properly.

That’s why Clarey’s song “Feels Like Rain” was requested in prep for the coronation ceremony. Their intent is to varnish the floor in petrichor-scented kaleidoscopic puddles that Lady Glacia will turn into ice that neither slips nor slides but instead casts up waves of shimmery light like an aurora borealis, amid which everyone can dance during the celebration following the ceremony. And for the humans in our group, Perish will release a parade of hollow bubbles to float along the high ceilings, each the size and color of glass Christmas balls, in honor of our holiday.

“Songbird,” Uncle says to Lark as he and Juniper keep pace, “you look downright regal.” He grins when her dress answers with the metallic titter of a tambourine. “And Nix, wow!” His glasses reflect the latest masterpiece dancing across my dress. “That’s some dress, too.”

“Yep, Lark’s four for four so far,” I respond, admiring Uncle’s white tie-dyed tux Lark crafted in tribute to his bakery. The purple clusters of wisteria making up Juniper’s flowing gown appear to wave, perfuming the air with the gentle fragrance of vanilla.

Juniper beams, tucking a few stray salt-and-pepper curls back into her updo. “Pinch me. I still think I’m dreaming.”

“You’ll get used to it,” I answer. “But pretty sure Uncle wouldn’t mind pinching you, if you still need it.”

Juniper blushes adorably and chortles her goatlike bleat. Uncle glances my way, somehow managing a wink that’s both scolding and teasing.

I’m just grateful we don’t have to hide our otherworldly activities from Clarey’s aunt any longer. It was always hard on him keeping things from her.

When Uncle was left stranded outside Haystack Rock with Clarey and Lark already across the veil, he raced home in hopes of finding Tat, praying the inkblot would have enough residual royal blood so he could follow behind them. Uncle left the front door unlocked, too preoccupied to think straight. Since it was almost midnight, Juniper showed up with Flannie at the house looking for Clarey, who hadn’t been returning her texts. She and the dog found Uncle chasing a living tattoo through the branches of the Christmas tree. Flannie joined the pursuit, ultimately knocking the tree down and shaking loose a mess of sticky pine needles all across the floor.

After an abbreviated explanation, Uncle convinced Juniper to make the trip back to Haystack Rock so he could prove the existence of a fairyland she’d only ever heard of in the Goblin Market poem. But they didn’t even get as far as his Chevy Bolt before Filigree showed up with a note from Perish. Then, with Tat at her side, the owl led Uncle, Juniper, and Flannie through an opening to Mystiquiel within our own backyard, surreptitiously put in place by Perish himself three years ago when he carried Lark away.

Their small group arrived in Mystiquiel only moments before I breathed life into Lark’s goblin statue.

“So, I was trying to explain to Juniper about those wildflowers growing where the bakery was. We’re thinking of renting that property ourselves, and making that a botanical garden so she can keep the boutique’s courtyard for tea. But I told her we need to make sure the power they wield won’t be harmful. One of you guys want to take it?” Uncle asks.

Lark nods. “When Perish picked me up in the lair after I passed out, he told me the truth about his father’s enchantment over me and Nix. I saw the ring on his finger, then saw Nix across the way with the screen behind her, showcasing all the wildflowers that wouldn’t burn. I recognized them as the ones that sprang up from my blood in the ashes. Then it all clicked into place.” Lark squeezes my hand, and I lace our fingers tighter.

Uncle nods. “That the ring your mom made for your dad while she was Architect magically absorbed your memories when you put it on your finger,” he says. “And Nix had poured her memories into the enchanted flowers she created as Architect.”

“Exactly,” Lark answers, her dress underscoring the word with a trumpet’s authoritative blare. “Remember, Juniper? When I was sampling the cookies with the candied petals at Thanksgiving? My mind flooded with Nix’s memories with each taste. I couldn’t tell anyone because I was trying to keep so many secrets. But it came back to me the instant I saw those flowers on the screen behind Nix. So I told Perish about that and the ring, and he said we had all we needed except—”

“A body for your spirit,” I finish for my sister.

“And gobsmacked if you hadn’t already made one, without even realizing it,” Juniper chimes in with her charming British accent, catching on surprisingly well now that she’s had some time to wrap her head around things. “So are the flowers still serviceable for public tours . . . for coloring our meringue cookie marzipans, or putting in bouquets? Or will they ill-affect our clients?”

“Not at all,” Lark answers. “Perish says the petals will only affect me and Nix with memory rushes. For anyone else, they’ll just hold a tincture of the emotions encapsulated by the memories. At most, they will make people feel nostalgic for their own past experiences . . . mainly happy, sometimes pensive or thoughtful. But not emotionally overpowering or erratic like the goblin fruits were. It will be just enough to give people a taste of a feeling sweetened by a touch of magic.”

Juniper claps happily. “Splendid! So Wisteria’s Enchanted Tearoom & Arboretum will still be a fitting name!”

“And our New Year’s Day grand opening can go on as planned,” Uncle adds.

We’re all still chatting excitedly when we arrive at the ballroom and the scent of candied fruit, wine, and petrichor drifts out from a wide entrance garlanded with goblin fruits and berries. Inside, the aurora borealis already shimmies from one side of the expansive room to the other, changing the colors of every fey in attendance in fluid glimmers, while ornamental bubbles of red, blue, green, silver, and gold sparkle high above.

Flannie greets us with a bark and I lean down to nuzzle her fur and inhale that doggy scent I’ve missed so much, allowing her to lick my ear in return. Juniper captures her collar so she and Uncle can step inside ahead of us to find their seats. Flannie’s leg clicks and clacks in the resulting silence as all heads turn to the entrance.

Lark and I pause at the threshold while the orchestra commences playing a traditional fey anthem. Upon the first note, Clarey and Perish stand at attention, observing us from the dais where two thrones sit waiting to be occupied. Lady Glacia poses gracefully between them, holding a silvery glistening tiara on a pillow.

The Goblin King’s intense gaze locks on Lark, his crown and antlers flashing in time with the thunderclaps captured inside his storm-cloud royal robes. As for Clarey, he nervously smiles at me, straightening his gilded tinsel tie then tucking it into the lapels of a green velvet suit—both pants and jacket embroidered with real holly leaves and berries that disappear and sprout anew at intervals, another Lark Loring original.

Exchanging glances, Lark and I link pinkies then step inside, and we both agree in our silent speak: devotion and love are the two most beautiful expressions on any man’s face, be he human or goblin born.

epilogue

Ten Months Later, October 31

Nix

“Okay, next set,” Carl says from his perch on the rolling scaffold ladder situated at one corner of the ceiling, working a swag free from its hook. A few inches above him, a series of fresh air skylights spans the entirety of the roof. Since the day is off to a clear start, they stand open to invite afternoon light and a cool breeze into the tearoom.

The scent of autumn leaves mingles with the perfume of flowers from Juniper’s adjacent boutique. Combined with the aromas of hot tea and baked goods from our present locale, I feel simultaneously hungry and nostalgic. Although Juniper and Uncle’s joint shop has already added seasonal tea-dainties to the tearoom menu and striking fall arrangements in the boutique, we closed the tearoom early today to decorate for my school’s Halloween fundraiser.

After the blackout on Cannon Beach last year disrupted their carnival and affected funds, the PTA decided that for this year’s event, they would do something closer to home and enlist local shops along the historic district to take part in a block party. All participating owners will hang special jack-o’-lantern banners in their windows to announce complimentary bags of candy and Halloween-themed gifts—jewelry, soaps, candles, T-shirts, home goods, toys, and greeting cards, all crafted by students—will be included with each store-bought purchase by patrons in costume. In turn, the shops will donate a percentage of their profits from the evening back to the school. Wisteria’s Enchanted Tearoom & Arboretum was one of the first shops to sign up.

Things have changed from this time last year . . . honestly, from my entire childhood. No more fear of Halloween for me or my family—ever.

I can hardly contain my excitement for what this season entails: masks, trick-or-treating, costume parties, haunted houses, cheesecloth ghosts, jack-o’-lanterns, and monster movies galore—give me all of it! I’m almost sad I won’t be here to attend the block party, considering Clarey and I are seniors and it’s the last year we’ll get to participate before moving next year to California. Clarey didn’t hesitate altering his original plans to move to New York once we both earned scholarships in LA—Clarey to the MUD campus for SFX prosthetic design, and me to the School of Visual Arts and Humanities. But since tonight we’re slated to attend a very special All Hallows’ Eve/birthday masquerade in my honor, the regret of missing this last hurrah with our classmates is more than bearable.

Overhead, Carl releases twin swags of sheer pink-and-cream chiffon from their hooks after unplugging their corresponding strands of white fairy lights. The panels and tiny corded bulbs fall, sweeping down to the center of the room, still strung up by a hook on the other end.

A dozen such sets of streamers hang festoon-style across the ceiling of the fifteen-hundred-square-foot tearoom, so during the day sunlight can filter through the colors, warming the expanse to a soft pink haze. When it’s overcast or evening time, the light strands serve the same purpose.

Dahlia and I sit at one of the patinaed-copper bistro tables, twisting together twelve sheer orange-and-black panels around ghost-shaped light strands to replace the usual Victorian motif.

Life-size murals in rose, cream, and caramel sepia tones, illustrating scenes from the Goblin Market poem, stretch across the white stucco walls, seamless along all four sides, painted by my hand in stages over the past ten months. Now that they’re finished, the stumpy, beak-nosed goblins and anthropomorphized beasts climbing on two Alice in Wonderland–esque girls and tempting them with salivating fanged fruit—depictions more in line with my mother’s picture book than the eldritch creatures of real-life acquaintance—serve not only as decor, but also as a private reminder of where I came from and where a part of me will always belong.

Carl wheels the ladder to the other side of the room and climbs up to pluck the remaining end of the set free so the swag drapes half across a table and the brick floor. “Number five. You gals going to be done anytime soon?”

“You still have a few to go, mister,” Dahlia teases, gesturing toward the remaining seven.

He huffs. “When did interior designer become part of my job description? I have baking to supervise.” A strand of sunlight pierces an exposed skylight pane, reflecting off his bald head.

“No problem,” I tell Carl, cocking a pierced eyebrow at the sixth swag he’s now removing. “Lydia and Joel are using the cookie carousel to save time. They’ll likely be done preparing tonight’s inventory before you even finish here.”

I snort at his disgusted expression, full knowing that my renovated cookie-press conveyer belt is a subject of contention for our head baker. The other cooks appreciate the tool, but Carl’s an old school artisan, and pastry is his medium of choice.

Since our grand opening back in January, business has been booming. Uncle and Juniper have hired over thirty new employees between them—cashiers, servers, bussers, bakers, flower arrangers, and gardeners. Since I’m associate manager, Uncle asked me to pitch in some names, so I added a few responsible people from school to the flock who were seeking part-time jobs to save up for college, Jin and Brooke among them.

Once Uncle announced that the garishly colored wildflowers growing inside our botanical garden—which seem immune to both withering and weather—were in fact exotic classes of peonies, elderflowers, nasturtiums, pansies, and dandelions provided by the same supplier who once kept Eveningside Enchanted Delights stocked with fruit for our defunct Goblin-Roonies and Fairy-Cakes, people came in droves to sample the new products.

Although the tearoom itself provides meringue tea-dainties in a variety of colors and flavors alongside specialty teas served in pastel striped plates and cups shaped like daisies and tulips, the boutique side provides gifts to take home, the most popular being the Wistfulness Mixed Bags. Each one is made fresh to order and contains cut flowers, loose tea leaves, and marzipan-embellished dainties—arranged beautifully in a compartmentalized white cardboard box, which is bagged in tissue paper and tied at the top with bright ribbon curls. The mixed bags are set apart by the various color patterns of flowers, teas, and dainties chosen for each theme: Circus Visit, Building Sandcastles, Ice Cream Truck, or Trip to Aquarium—to name just a few. They’re local favorites because people adore the feeling of childlike nostalgia they experience when they take them home and place the long-lasting flowers in a vase, brew a cup of hot tea, or indulge in a melt-in-your-mouth dainty.

“Ready when you are!” Dahlia teases her husband, who’s taking down swag number seven. She and I exchange a grin then tie off the fabric on both ends of our final panel, leaving the ghost lights free on the plug side so it can be lit upon hanging.

“Doddie!”

A yip and an infectious giggle burst through the room as Dahlia and Carl’s one-year-old daughter, Calandra, totters through, chasing Flannie’s wagging tail. The dog and child duo duck clumsily under the swags scattered on the floor and tabletops. Then, with a clickety-clack, the border collie’s mechanical leg shifts gears, giving her the speed to escape into the courtyard out back. I smirk, having made the adjustment to her prosthesis a few months ago for this very reason. Now that we have a toddler about, Flannie needs a superpower so she can escape if she ever feels cornered.

“Doddie, c’mere!” Calandra starts to follow, the catlike makeup on her face making her look even more mischievous than usual.

“You come here, my itty little girl.” Dahlia captures her daughter and spangles her whisker-chalked cheeks with kisses.

“I’m a itty kitty! No girl!” Calandra sputters as her mother kisses her triangle nose.

“Then where are your ears and tail, huh?” Carl asks, having climbed down the ladder to gather up a few orange-and-black swags. He kneels by his daughter, holding her palms and frowning in amusement. “And cats don’t have thumbs, do they?”

Calandra attempts a meow, which collapses to a snicker when Carl gathers her into his arms for a daddy-bear hug.

Clarey steps in from the courtyard with pink pawprint mittens, ear headband, and tail belt in tow. His sharply pointed SFX teeth stretch on a wide grin upon seeing the tot with her parents. Once he catches my eye, his dimples deepen to frame full lips I’ve become very accustomed to tasting, making me ache to be alone with him now so I can sample the flavor of the ebony-frost balm staining them.

His costume is almost complete. The pencil-striped gray suit, with metallic silver shirt, navy tie, and asphalt-black ankle boots, fits his sleek, toned body like a glove. His dual-toned eyes glitter from inside the silvery-chiseled cheekbones wrapping them in a craggy half mask. Once he finishes applying the glisten-gray makeup, draws fissures into the stonelike visage, and glues his pointed ears and horns in place then adds the mechanical large-span bat wings I engineered for him, he’ll be the hottest gargoyle this side of Astoria.

He hands the cat costume remains to Dahlia. “She ducked out before I could finish.”

“Well, her makeup looks great! As does yours! Anyway, Nix and I are done here. I can help my itty kitty finish dressing for trick-or-treat.” Dahlia takes Calandra from her husband. “See you at home soon?” she asks him.

He squints upward at the empty ceiling. “Hope so. If I’m late, you gals start without me. Be good, silly bird,” he says to his toddler, tweaking her nose.

“I’m a kitty-snat ’at chase doddies!”

“Uh-huh. You can chase the doggie tomorrow. Tonight, we’ll be chasing monsters around the block party.” Dahlia winks at me on their way out.

“Bye, Calandra!” I call, unable to contain my smile. When I first learned that Carl and Dahlia had named their daughter after a special kind of lark with an unusually strong bill, a pale eyebrow, and an almost otherworldly wingbeat that gives it the appearance of a much larger bird, my heart swelled with gratitude. They couldn’t possibly have known how fitting a tribute it was to my twin—whom they’d never met. Dahlia and Carl simply wanted to keep my “deceased” sister’s memory alive for Uncle and me out of kindness and respect for us.

But it reached beyond that, because every time I see their small, dark-eyed girl, with the black curls and impish grin, I can’t help but think of my twin who was also born on Halloween, some nineteen years ago, and how grateful I am that she’s actually still living, even though only three other people in this world will ever share that knowledge.

“Nix, since you’re done, we should head to your place so we can get your costume ready for that thing tonight,” Clarey suggests. He captures my hand, latching us together. We still have several hours until it will be time to go, and since the entrance to our destination is in my own backyard, it’s obvious Clarey wants some alone time with me as much as I do with him.

I tighten my fingers through his so his wrist presses to mine. His soft brown skin and the heat of his pulse point beating against my own loosen a swarm of expectant butterflies through my gut. Hopefully he won’t mind reapplying his lipstick.

I turn to our baker as we’re headed toward the front exit. “Carl, as soon as you finish the swags, please clock out. The baking’s under control and I scheduled Jin, Brooke, and Pete to staff the fronts. Also, Uncle and Juniper will be back after their break.” Our guardians were both invited to come with us to the masquerade but opted to let it be a night for the “young couples,” in Uncle’s words. He and Juniper felt they should stay behind since it would be a busy evening for the shops.

“This is Calandra’s first Halloween.” I wrap up my request to Carl. “You should be there for every second of it. Make it a treasured family tradition. Okay?”

Carl offers me a kind, sad nod, obviously thinking I’m missing my sister. I am, but not for long. “You got it, boss. You two have a good time yourselves.”

Clarey and I exchange knowing smiles.

“You bet we will.” He answers for both of us, wrapping his arm around my waist as we step out the door into the crisp autumn breeze.

Lark

“ArchMajesty, I would be a harpy—if it would please thee.” Angorla bows her ram horns low and I smile at the hobblegob’s request, my fang tips pressing into my lower lip. With just a tilt of my head, her form shifts from goatlike to a half-woman and half-bird creature with storm winds fluttering the feathers of her wings.

Screeching in delight, she takes to the soaring heights of the ballroom ceiling already aflutter with pack rat fairies, piskies, and sprites in the guise of miniature basilisks, fire-breathing dragons, Pegasuses, and eagle-beaked griffins, among others. Along the floor beside me, an eerie, glowing mist swirls at the feet of our remaining denizens, whom I’ve altered at their request to the forms of terra-bound beasts of lore: cyclopes, hydras, mermaids, and minotaurs, to name but a few.

“That was the last one,” I say, turning to Perish, fondling the pulsing beads at my neck. “Now for me.” With a slow blink of my eyes, my long gilt hair twists into braids, hardening to scales of jade. Awakening on the ends, serpentine heads strike out in all directions.

Perish’s fangs shimmer with a smile. “A gorgon. What a perfect choice for one once made of stone herself. You’re both terrifying and exciting. Although that’s nothing new.” He clasps my hand and kisses my fingers where brassy talons have materialized, basking in the intimacy that was never allowed between an Architect and Goblin King before his reign.

Historically, Architects were revered as untouchable to any of the eldritch, as their bloodline was to be preserved for purity’s sake. An Architect had to be born human, through and through, to retain talents and imagination. But with me, having a body forged and rooted in Mystiquiel paired with a human’s mind and spirit makes me a new creature, blessed with the inheritance of both worlds.

So with me, the rules no longer apply. And Perish and I have been taking full advantage. Ten months ago, upon the placement of the permafrost crown atop my head, I became his partner in every way. Queen to his king, bride to his groom. And if I have any say, the honeymoon will continue well into our eternity together.

His lips climb my wrist—warm breath and a scintillating nibble of fangs. His knowing touch melts through me, a delicious heat that tingles all the way to the tips of my wings—which upon remembering, I form to angular appendages sprouting forth from a gown and robes of gilded gold.

I pull my hand free of his with marked reluctance. “Stop distracting me. They’ll be here before we know it, and you still haven’t decided what you’re going to be.”

“Who says I haven’t? I’m simply holding off till the last minute, for dramatic effect.”

I glare at him teasingly.

He smirks back. “Let’s see how the guest of honor is faring.”

I hold up a brassy fingertip. “Wait, we need to let them know we’re looking. Privacy is paramount.” Perish nods, and I beckon the living tattoo over. Filigree accompanies her companion and perches on Perish’s forearm, watching the serpents weave along my head as Tat settles atop my wrist. “Okay to open a window?” I send the question into the inky bird.

Since Clarey’s BAHA already picks up the tattoo’s transmissions, I tweaked Tat so we could also receive messages from Clarey. We use the system as a walkie-talkie of sorts, so as never to infringe on any private moments taking place in the mortal world.

Clarey’s response travels through Tat’s beak a few minutes later. “All clear here.”

Perish and I stand back as he beckons a viewing window into place along an empty space in the mirrored wall. Clarey and Nix appear. She looks stunning in a wig of long fiery-red waves. A form-fitting bodysuit adds heat, with tiers of sequined feathery flames hugging her curves and a set of matching mechanical wings flapping behind her shoulder blades.

Clarey leans over her, tilting her chin up as he contours shades of burgundy and orange over her face, slanting her eyes to the angular sweeps of a bird’s and her nose to a long, thin beak. He adjusts the feather neckband that matches the plumes of her lashes—glittery orange and red bright. When he finishes, the two of them turn in our direction, giving a thumbs-up, letting us know they’re on their way.

Perish vanishes the window. “So, the phoenix is ready to rise.”

“Yes, which means you need to get ready so we can meet them at the entrance.”

Perish lifts a white-and-burgundy brow, his golden forehead glistening in the orange moon I hung in the domed slope of the ceiling, to set the perfect mood for my sister’s birthday festivities.

Since I was technically reborn on Christmas Day, Nix and I no longer share a birthday. So tonight is in honor of her alone. When she told me she wanted to have Clarey make her a flaming feathered phoenix costume so she would become her namesake upon stepping across the veil, it inspired me to have a mythological-beasts themed party, and to allow all our subjects to become any creature of human lore they wished to portray for this one night. I’m thinking we might make it a tradition here. Our own version of All Hallows’ Eve.

In turn, Perish opted to string the antiquated masks taken from our historical hall—worn by the humans from centuries before who were tempted with goblin fruit to serve here as Architects—along the sconces, in tribute to their service, and to honor my family’s sacrifices over the years.

With the mirrored effect of the tungsten walls, the masks appear to multiply, as if an infinity of disembodied trick-or-treaters are looking down upon us—a truly macabre spectacle, ideal for a Halloween night spent in Mystiquiel.

Nix and Clarey will love it.

“Well?” I ask Perish. “Are you going to glamour yourself, or should I do it?”

He taps his strong chin with a razor-sharp fingernail. “Much as I like to feel your magic crawling through my blood, reshaping my flesh and bones, I’ll do this one myself.” Fingers of lightning spear across his antlers and crown as he alters his form.

The second he’s done, I double over, laughing. “Santa Claus?” I snort, taking in his rotund belly under the red suit with white-fringed cuffs and trim. His head remains the same—antlers, crown, and beautiful gold-gilded feral features—but he did manage a white-and-burgundy cottony beard that matches his hair, and a complementary moustache to cover his fangs. “You’re kidding, right?”

He shrugs broad shoulders. “You said any creature of human lore.”

“My-thi-cal,” I enunciate the syllables between snickers.

“What could be more mythical than a good-natured human who gives presents without expecting anything in return? Now to practice my catchphrase. Row row row.”

“Ho, not row.” My eyes water with blissful tears.

“What, doesn’t he fly a magical galley ship? And he’s named all his oars. Things like Vixen and Nixon, and Prancer and Necromancer?”

“Please stop!” I struggle to catch my breath. “You’re killing my snakes.” The serpents hang limp from my head, hissing with laughter as they feed off my glee.

Perish’s belly shakes against me when he pulls me close for a hug.

I snuggle into him, inhaling that sweet scent of beast and man, then let my gaze rove above and around us, admiring what we’ve wrought together: a weird, wild, and healthy populace, and a world ever changing at our fingertips.

Life with my Goblin King is already everything I ever hoped for—and I’ll never have to question where I belong again.

acknowledgments

Much like the twins in this duology mirror one another, Seasons of Flesh and Flame bears likenesses to its sister-book, Shades of Rust and Ruin—most notably in the body of people who helped this final installment find its voice.

First and foremost, gratitude to my husband and children: Vince, Nicole, and Ryan. I love you dearly, and can never thank you enough for your ever-present support and patience over the past decade as I’ve worked toward deadlines and balanced everyday life with online and in-person promotions. Also, to my critique partners, Jessica Nelson and Bethany Crandell, who have kept me afloat amid a chaotic sea of mental blocks, publishing reformations, and self-doubts, and continue to this day to hold my hand and read chapters, seeing me through every manuscript. All of you together—cherished friends and family—are my fixed beacons in an unpredictably fickle business that can at times feel dismal and disenchanting. Thank you for believing in me and the stories that live inside my heart, and for offering hope when mine is depleted.

Appreciation to my brilliant agent, Jenny Bent, who has advocated for the publication of my books since 2011, and for finding homes for eight titles along the way. Thank you for the tireless efforts you offer each of your authors, always there to uplift or give guidance during submission, editorial, and promotional hurdles. I’m so grateful to have you in my corner, and I hope for many successful sales to come!

Thank you again to Cindy Loh, for bringing the Shades of Rust and Ruin duology into the Bloomsbury fold. Also, much appreciation to my editor, Camille Kellogg, as well as to the copyedits, proofreads, and promotions behind this book, including Marcela Bolívar’s atmospheric and beautiful cover and the in-house designer’s contributions to the interior.

Ceaseless gratitude to all the vloggers, booktokers, bookstagrammers, and booktubers—for all you do to help authors promote their books—and to the inexhaustible souls who champion literacy on every level at book cons and fairs, book clubs, libraries, and schools. And most of all, to every person who reads for pleasure or escape, thank you for giving my stories the opportunity to carry you into magical new worlds. You’ve made all my writing dreams come true!

Also, a nod of recognition and respect to both the poem and the movie that inspired this duology. Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market along with Jim Henson’s Labyrinth each played their own distinct roles in lending surreal coming-of-age moments and dark, mystical imagery that sparked the beginnings of Mystiquiel in my mind.

And last but never least, a humble thank you to God, for giving me the passion and ability to write. May I always honor the light you sparked inside of me.

BLOOMSBURY YA

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This electronic edition published in 2024 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

First published in the United States of America in September 2024 by Bloomsbury YA

Text copyright © 2024 by A. G. Howard

Illustrations copyright © 2024 by Marcela Bolívar

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ISBN 978-1-5476-0812-6 (hardcover) • ISBN 978-1-5476-0813-3 (e-book)

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

prologue

1 jack-o’-lantern smiles

2 princess of urban decay

3 cupcake wasteland

4 smoke and mirrors

5 puppets and pork grenades

6 bubbles, blank canvases, and blood like rain

7 graffiti paradise

8 candied-flower angel

9 jolly old st. krampus

10 a window to the souls

11 winter bird

12 volte-face

13 jigsaw hearts

14 gingerbread and monkey wings

15 a very fairy christmas

16 tickety-tock, tinker and rot

17 sibling rivalry

18 tongue-tied and tie-dyed yuletide

19 the inevitable, regrettable nature of reality

20 rebirth

21 putting down roots

epilogue

acknowledgments

eCopyright