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No human should own a weapon. Only the blacksmith is allowed this privilege. All else face terrible punishments for carrying anything of the sort. Even at our home, we cut our bread with blunt knives that must pass random inspections when the guards come to check in on us. We all face the same policing as each other.
But that poor beggar...
I mean, he never had a chance to begin with, really. It was only a matter of time before the guards stole him away for being what he is.
Is this my future I’m facing? Will I be him in years to come, hugging a shawl around myself as I find a corner in a cage to sit and wait out the inevitable?
Maybe they won’t make him disappear, like the other lost souls. They might just torture and kill him for the knife and matches. And perhaps that’s the better fate.
It’s not like any of us really know what happens to the lost souls when they vanish.
And I’d like to never find out.
With a frosty sigh that swells cold air in front of my mouth, I turn back to Eve. She’s already forgotten about the beggar; she fusses about with the silks, setting them out just right to be most appealing to the dark fae when they visit her stall today.
And they will. After all, it is the Bounty.
I never stick around for the Bounty—the time when dark fae flood the village to collect what they are owed, whether by taxes or by bargains. They take fruits and vegetables and wood and grains and fabrics—and sometimes even labour.
In a silent goodbye, I smile tightly at Eve—a gesture she returns—and head on down the street, stopping at some other stalls as I go.
Then comes the dreaded part of the trip.
Head bowed, I climb the steps to the podium and stop at a square wooden table with a golden bowl sat on top of it.
“April, third daughter from the twilight apple farmhouse,” I announce myself.
The fae on the other side is unlike the guards and the trackers. She wears a tunic, plain black, with the silver-threaded emblem of the royal court on the chest. Leaning back in her chair, she doesn’t spare me so much as a glance as she scribbles down my name on a parchment scroll, then replies coolly, “Tax comes to six apples for this week.”
Nodding once, I am quick to deposit the last of the apples from my basket into the golden bowl. I saved the biggest, juiciest, and freshest ones for tax. It wouldn't do to serve up substandard apples. That would be a slight against the fae, and any good villager knows the consequences of that are lethal.
Once she inspects the apples and is apparently satisfied, she flicks her dainty hand and sends me away.
I fight every clenched muscle in my legs so that I don’t make a fool—or a target—of myself by rushing away from the podium. Respectfully, I walk down the steps until I hit the street. It’s then that my pace picks up.
Already, I see new and unfamiliar faces of dark fae starting to leak into the village. Already, they have come to collect on their bargains and so that must mean that the time of the prince’s visit is drawing nearer.
By the time I’m heading back to the hill, my basket is empty save for the fabric I traded for and some grains, and the Chill is starting to soften at the edges.
And sure enough, before I’ve reached halfway up the hill—paused to double over and heave up some blood on the frosty grass—the whistle of the First Wind calls out through the darkness. Now, I have to help Mother prepare breads and cheeses for the prince’s visit during the Quiet.
It won’t be long now. The prince will come.
And as always, I will hide.
2
The house is thick with the smog of steam coming from the hearth. On the fire, the crate holds black metal pots filled with boiling potatoes and oats. We might have a feast tonight, depending on how much the dark fae prince indulges before he takes his leave. Often, he just tastes an apple, but there are times that he stays longer, tasting his offerings in silence.
My family sit like statues. Of course, I haven’tseenthem around the prince, but I can easily summon the image. Amelia, with her hard-set jaw and squared face angled down at her thick lap, and Milan cowering in the corner chair closest to the window in case she needs to escape. Father would hover near the prince, ready to wait on him hand and foot, and Mother would keep herself in the kitchen, prepared to conjure up a tea or something should the prince ask.
Since I hide it out, I should be helping more in the kitchen in this moment. Instead, my poorliness has me tuckered on the lumpy couch, spread out with limp limbs, and my skirt pulled up to the knees, letting the hearth’s heat warm me to the bone. My lashes fringe over my sight, heavy from my meagre chores during the Chill and that I overexerted myself kneading dough when I came home.
Now, I need to rejuvenate that energy I’ve spent, so I stay flopped over the couch.
Mother doesn't bother me in my rest. She never does.
It’s Milan who throws me scathing looks and bangs down pots and plates too hard on the wooden bench.
