The Folk Keeper by Franny Billingsley

wizards dipped their torches in the flames and fell into a blazing orbit behind her.
    I hung back until only Sir Edward and I stood before the fire. “Off you go, little Samson, and don’t you fall.”
    That was just like Sir Edward, attending always to the business of the estate, organizing a mass of fire into a tight ring around the Manor in order to trap the mischief of the Folk in the Caverns.
    I dipped my torch into the flames. “Do not fall!” I told myself, for any break diminishes the circle’s power, and I joined the fiery constellation.
    I usually despise crowds, all that senseless jostle and laughter, but now there was only the rustle of silk, the whisper of velvet. How could it be that I didn’t even stumble? I flowed into that silent, blazing stream, running faster, now faster still — me, the slow after-thought of a star!
    The crowd was dissolving into shrieks and laughter when I rounded the last wing of the Manor. Sir Edward and I stood a little apart from the others, watching them toss their torches into the flames; and when the clamor had organized itself into a chant, he tapped my shoulder and said, “They’re calling for you.”
    “For me?” The words came clear, but not their meaning.
Jump!
A great shout.
The Folk Keeper shall jump!
    “What does it mean?” I cried as the crowd split from itself, forming a long, snaking path to the fire. “What do they want!”
    “You must leap the bonfire,” said Sir Edward. “The Folk Keeper always goes first.”
    “Me?” They wanted me to run down the path they’d made and jump the flames? “I am too clumsy.”
    “It makes the strongest charm against the Folk,” said Sir Edward. “The Folk Keeper must go first.”
    The crowd had found out my name.
Jump, Corin! Jump!
    “I’ve heard of no such thing,” I said. But I didn’t add it was most likely because Midsummer is not celebrated on the Mainland.
    “It is time,” said Sir Edward.
    His hand was very tight on my elbow. Sir Edward, implacable about matters concerning the estate, steering me rather roughly to the head of the path.
    The fire burned bright and hungry, licking its lips with a yellow tongue. “I shall fall into the flames,” I said. Why did they keep feeding it old torches and armfuls of heather? “Even if I do not die, I shall be useless as your Folk Keeper.”
    “Then we shall find another.” Sir Edward smiled to take the edge off his words, but he meant it, I could tell. I did not like him any the worse. You have to be ruthless to care for what you love.
    Jump! Corin! Jump! The Folk Keeper shall jump!
    I wrested my elbow from Sir Edward’s grip, but he swung me back, lifting me half from my feet. A jeweled button raked my cheek. My breathing was trapped in a bubble of pressure. My arms were trapped, I had only my teeth. I snapped out, they sank into something soft. And then there was air and solid ground and the metallic taste of blood.
    Most people would have cried out, but there was silence first, then Sir Edward saying, “That costume cannot disguise what you really are.”
    I had not thought it possible to be so afraid. My hair — could he tell it wasn’t a wig? But a pair of canvas shoes moved into my ant’s-eye view through the grass. He meant Finian, the fisherman.
    “You know I love to argue with you, Edward.” Finian lifted me from the ground and set me on my feet as though I were an egg. “But let’s leave my costume for another day. I don’t like these rough games with our little Folk Keeper.”
    “A true Folk Keeper,” said Sir Edward, “would not hesitate to jump the flames.”
    The Folk Keeper shall jump!
    Finian held out his hand. “I carried you from the Cellar the night the Storms began. You’ve grown a bit since, but no matter. I can surely help you over the flames.”
    “The Folk Keeper must go first,” said Sir Edward.
    “I promise,” said Finian. “Our Folk Keeper shall be first over the flames. And Samson, I promise you’ll clear the