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CHAPTER 1
The day my mother died, I was reading a book underneath her bed.
It was a favorite hiding spot of mine. The heavy oak four-poster bed was at least two feet off the floor. The perfect amount of room for a small child. I would lay on my stomach, chin in my hands, slowly flipping the heavy pages of a tome worth more than I could possibly imagine.
The pictures were what I liked best. Creatures were my favorite. The more frightening the better. On that day I had the famous traveler Lorea of Anselme’sBooke of Beastes, Marvelouse and Rarein my little hands and was perusing the illuminated illustrations. First came the fabled monsters–giant rooks, fenrirs, gelerts, exmoors, glatisants, and the like.
Next came the ones Lorea claimed to have seen with her very own eyes–and it was here I doubted her greatly while nevertheless devouring the entrancing images of the creatures from the realms of the fae. Each seemed more fantastical than the next. Nixies with their sharp green teeth who lived beneath the water, small but deadly. Handsome pucas with their thick dark fur. Spriggans with their sinister sprawling branches and gwyllions who walked through the mist and twilight, leading poor travelers astray.
And my favorite, the nuggle, a sly shapeshifting water horse that was somehow always depicted as male. In hindsight, it was probably the name I liked.
Some days my mother would lie on the floor beside me, reading the captions aloud. On other days, she would sit beside the bed with her own book in her hands and we would stay that way for hours, quietly content in one another’s companionship.
Still other times she would pop her head under the bed and lean forward to kiss my cheek, then vanish, busy with her own work in her suite of rooms or elsewhere in the castle.
On some sunny bright days, I would watch the sweep of her skirts as she moved around the tower and I would feel happy. She was my mother. She was everything beautiful, everything good. She was all I knew of that mystical emotion called love.
Less fortuitous were the days on which my father would appear. More often than not, I would smell the scent of liquor before I heard the heavy tromp of his footsteps. Next I would see his thick muscular legs come into view.
Then I would become uneasy. I would slide further back under the bed, pulling my book into the gloom with me.
My mother would murmur quietly to him, tug at his hand, and soon they would both be gone, closing the door as they moved into the nearby sitting room or disappearing for a walk in the gardens or a ride through the city.
She could disarm him, charm him, persuade him. Her voice was gentle, while his was loud and harsh.
I loved her. I feared him.
But both were my family.
Until that day.
The smell of mead entered before he did. I swear I could smell it before we even heard his knock.
My mother moved quickly towards the door. Did I imagine her heartbeat quickening? Sometimes I felt we were so attuned to one another that I could feel every sensation she did. Most times it was a comfort. Not today.
I heard their voices from the doorway and prayed he would go away.
Instead, the voices became louder. My father stepped inside.
