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Keeping my head down, I do my best to feign ignorance of their watchful stares as I make my way down the main street—really, theonlystreet in the village. If one doesn't live in the hub of it all, then they live out on the fae-bargained farms further out like my family.
The thought invades my mind that once there were cities and towns spread out across the lands, now there are only villages and farms tucked tightly against the doorways to the heart of the dark realm.
Technically speaking, we are a part of that realm, even if it’s at the very bottom of the food chain. All the lands are ruled by the dark fae now—the ‘dokkalves’.
And the dokkalves only allow us to live to serve out a purpose that they created for us. A form of slavery, if you will. I think it to be so, at least.
We live with skills and purpose. My family for instance, we farm and harvest twilight apples from the seeds first brought to our world by the dark fae after they conquered us.
Every family in the village has a trade, a skill,somethingto offer the dark ones when it comes time to harvest. They come at harvest each year to take their bounties and taxes from us. We are left with the scraps and a twinge of hope that we can survive on them if we ration.
Skills and trades are abound as I stroll down the street. Boots padding against the cold, hard dirt, I wander my weary gaze around me, pausing on the blacksmith, Lawrence, whose silvery-blond hair matches the shade of my own, but whose bright green eyes are such a contrast to the ordinary brown ones that run in my family. He beats hot metal on an iron block, nearby candlelight crawling along the feminine lines of his jaw, and I fleetingly think we could pass for siblings.
Amelia—my eldest sister—has her eyes on him. A blacksmith is a good skill to marry into. Especially Lawrence, who has apprenticed in the fae’s mysterious black metals, so he can sell some knives and daggers to them on the cheap.
Since I have little use to trade for a weapon, I pass Lawrence by and fleetingly wonder if Amelia might ever manage to snare him as a husband, since he is used to working closely with dark fae, our family’s bargain with a dokkalf prince shouldn’t shake him too much.
I head straight for the market stalls down the soggier-soil end of the street. My boots start to sink into the dirt, making those horrid squelching sounds, and I begin to slip the basket handle from my arm.
As I round on the first stall, the shawl slips from my shoulder and lets the Chill prickle my flesh all over. With a shudder that I snub, I roam my gaze around the piles of fresh grains, skimming over dozens of types of bread.
I eye up a fresh loaf of rye, my mouth watering, and I’m tempted to reach for the pile of rye kernels, but Mother prefers flatbread, so I force myself to order the ordinary grains.
The trade costs me three twilight apples, glittering blue on the skin, but pearlescent white on the inside.
Still, I have more trades to make before I can return to the warmth of the farmhouse with the roaring hearth in the small kitchen-lounge space. With everyone else out tending to the harvest, I can stretch out on the lumpy couch and rest for a beat. A stolen moment beforehecomes.
I hide when he visits for his bounty. No dark prince can tempt me into their presence. My sickness is my excuse each year that he comes to our home, sits on our furniture, and tastes the apples. I hide in the bedroom that I share with my sisters, and rest on the coarse, scratchy blankets that we lay out over the floor. I’ve gone my whole life without seeing him even once.
A plan of hiding for his visit during this bounty starts to form in my mind as I pass by the spices—those aren’t meant for us. Imported from the dark lands for the fae who dwell here.
I pause at a stand that draws me in each time I see it. Fabrics.
A familiar face beams at me from the lantern light above, all freckles curtained by burnt-orange hair.
“Hiya, Ril,” Eve greets me. Her parents weave the fabrics for the village. Finer things like spider-silk are reserved for the fae, of course, but the usual ones (cotton and wool) are available for trade for the likes of me.
I smile at the nickname she has adopted from my sisters. April is my full name, but I’m far more used to hearing the shortened version around here. I know that when my parents call me by my full name, I am in trouble, so it comes with a touch of dread.
“Eve,” I say, the sleep I not long left still clinging to the hoarseness of my tone. Maybe the cough fit I had on the hill might also be to blame for my scratchy voice.
Clearing my throat, I reach out my icy fingers for the nearest woollen stretch of material laid out on the market stall. This one has already been woven into a lumpy brown shawl, much like my own. These are the colours we all wear here—brown and beige. No other shades are allowed to cover us.
Amelia once told me that the dark fae dress us in the colours they see us as—the shades of mud and dirt. I’m not certain she’s entirely wrong, either.
Eve, the closest thing I have to a friend in this village, swats my hand away from the shawl on the kiosk. Instead, she guides my attention over to the brown cloth, a few touches darker than wet mud, and straightens it out.
“Just finished this one last Chill,” she tells me. With a quick glance up at me, one fuelled with knowing, her sharp sensing that I am too tempted by finer fabrics that I cannot afford, she adds, “One twilight apple per half-metre.”
My mouth tilts into a flat line. For a beat, I consider the offer.
Mother did give me an extra apple to buy something for myself, and I can make a bodice or a shorter skirt with a whole half-metre. It would give me something to do when the prince arrives tonight, too. But then, a half-metre isn't enough for a whole dress, and I have nothing spare to attach it to. Maybe I could keep it for repairs? Already, the skirt that covers my legs now is so worn out that small tears are starting to appear at the front.
Then again, it’s my beige underskirt that is near absolute ruin.
“What about linen?” I ask of the cheaper fabric. At least with linen, I can repair my underskirt. My fingers dance over to the creamy-brown spread on the edge of the kiosk. Soft enough to the touch, so it won’t irritate my bare legs when I make the walk into the village when the Chill breaks.
“One apple, one metre,” she says, eyeing me up.
