The Whatnot by Stefan Bachmann Page A

pool around them like a drenched cloak, and still others made them turn odd, shadowy, and gaunt and glare at one another with glinting eyes. But mostly Hettie learned to disappear. She sat on the back of the snowy-haired horse, trying to make herself as small as possible, trying not to make a sound lest one of those long, pale faces turn to look at her. In Old Crow Alley, she had barely ever left Mother’s kitchen; she hadn’t been allowed to be seen, because to be seen meant she would die. And now she was riding with an entire company of faeries into some strange country, on her way to some strange place. . . .
    It’ll be all right, she told herself over and over. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be a baby. But she was afraid. The faery butler had been her kidnapper. He had been a wicked, snappish creature who would never stop walking when she told him to, and—well, she had known him, at least. Back in England she had known him. He had been like a piece of that place, like a colored thread that coiled all the way back home. Now even that was gone.
    Hettie knotted her hands into her nightgown. The cottage. She wouldn’t be there anymore when Barthy came. He would call for her, but she would be far away. He would go into the cottage and find everything silent and empty. Perhaps he would see the blood on the snow and leave again, and not look for her any longer because he thought it was her blood and she was dead.
    Hettie sat up so straight her steed wrenched its neck about and glared at her. No, she thought fiercely. Not my brother. My brother won’t ever give up. I’ll get home one day.
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    After what felt like hours of riding, they entered a darker, deeper part of the wood. The great trees formed a tunnel around the company, the branches thick as chimneys. Hettie saw they were on the remains of an ancient road, bits of paving stones sticking up like broken teeth out of the snow. The ground became softer. The hooves of the horse-people sank in farther than before, releasing with a wet sound instead of a sharp one. And then, all at once, the snow was gone. The horses’ hooves were squelching through turf and moss, and the trees were no longer black, but green and leafy, their trunks rough with cracked bark.
    A faery riding close to Hettie let out a sigh. “Ah,” she said. “At last. We are out of Deepest Winter.”
    Hettie looked back over her shoulder. The snowy wood had simply ended. As if it were an entirely different world. As if there were an invisible line, and everything on one side was desolate and dead, and everything on the other side was alive and growing.
    â€œI do detest it,” the faery said to no one in particular.
    Hettie peeked at her. She was not as pretty as the fish-bone lady. She had a very round face like a moon, or a dinner plate, and huge watery eyes. Her dress was sewn from giant rose petals. Her skin was still deathly pale, but somehow she didn’t look quite as sinister as some of the other faeries. Hettie decided to ask her a question.
    Leaning off the back of her steed a little, she said, “What did you say? Where are we now?”
    Hettie had meant it to be so quiet that only the petal faery would hear, but she wasn’t so lucky.
    â€œWhere?” the faery repeated, so loud the entire forest seemed to echo the question. “The ugly one asks where! Why, in Brightest Summer, of course! Silly thing!”
    Everyone in the company turned to stare at Hettie. Then they started laughing.
    â€œHollow head,” said the old crone, her eyes glittering.
    â€œNumbskull,” said the lady in the book dress.
    â€œWhat a dimwit,” said the fish-bone lady happily.
    Hettie shrank into the streaming white mane of her steed and waited for them to be done. They were, after not too long. Hettie remembered how back home she had heard Mother sighing about how faeries had tempers like spring weather, always changing, never good,