He had a relaxed, loose-limbed way of moving that made Hazel think the exact sort of thoughts that had got her into trouble in the first place.
The grass unfurled easily, and the two halves of the walnut came apart.
Inside was a small scrap of paper, rolled up like a scroll.
“Let me see,” Hazel said, reaching for it.
Unfurling the thin piece of parchment, a shiver went up her spine as she read the spidery lettering, Seven years to pay your debts.
Much too late for regrets.
They were all silent for a long moment, and Hazel concentrated on not dropping the paper.
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Jack.
“It’s probably some old thing a tourist bought in town.” Ben’s voice was a little unsteady.
“Bullshit fake magic fortune walnut.” There was a shop near the end of Main Street called the Cunning Woman that sold souvenirs to faerie seekers.
Incense, bags of salt mixed with red berries for protection, maps to “sacred” faerie sites around town, crystals, hand-painted tarot cards, and iridescent window dazzlers.
Cryptic faerie notes in nuts was the sort of thing they might carry.
“What kind of fortune is that?” Jack asked.
“Yeah,” Hazel added, trying to sound as if her heart weren’t thundering, trying to behave as though she didn’t know for whom the note had been meant, pretending everything was still normal.
“Yeah.” Ben put the shell and the note back in his pocket with a little laugh.
“Creepy, though.” After that, Hazel could only pretend to be having fun.
She watched Ben and Jack, memorizing them.
Memorizing the people and the place, the smell of old books and the sounds of normal stuff.
Ben bought a polka-dot bow tie, and then they walked over to the general store, where Hazel picked up the carton of milk and loaf of bread.
Jack was heading back to his parents’ for dinner because they had a tradition of playing family board games on Sundays, and no matter how dorky Jack or Carter felt that was, neither was allowed to skip out on it.
Hazel and Ben went home, too.
Outside their front door, Hazel squatted to pour a little milk into the ceramic bowl Mom kept next to the stone walk.
Everyone in Fairfold left food out for the faeries, to show them respect, to gain their favor.
But the milk glubbed out in thick chunks.
It had already gone sour.
CHAPTER 4
That night, Hazel tossed and turned, kicking the sheets, willing herself not to worry about promises made and debts coming due.
She imagined them away, bound up in a hundred barnacle-encrusted safes, a thousand buried chests, chains tight around every one.
In the morning, her limbs felt heavy.
When she rolled over to hit the snooze on her phone alarm, her fingertips stung.
Her palms looked red and abraded.
There was a splinter of glass the length of a pin nestled under the swell of her thumb, and a few smaller shining splinters scattered across her fingers.
Her heart began to race.
She kicked off the covers, frowning, only to find that her feet were caked in mud.
Chunks of it dropped off her toes as she got up.
Dirt spatter clung to her leg all the way to her knee.
The hem of her nightgown was stiff and filthy.
When she pulled back the sheet, her bedclothes looked like a nest, with grass and sticks everywhere.
She tried to think back to the night before, but there were only vague dreams.
The more she concentrated on them, the more they receded.
What had happened? What had she done, and why couldn’t she remember any of it? Hazel forced herself into the shower, turning the tap to as hot as she could stand it.
Under the water, she was able to work glass splinters out of her hand, tiny beads of blood swirling away down the drain.
She was able to wash away the mud and to stop trembling.
But she was still no closer to having any answers.
What had she done? Her muscles hurt, as though she’d strained them, but that and the dirt and the shards of glass didn’t add up to anything.
She was breathing too fast, no matter how much she tried to tell herself to be calm, no matter how much she tried to tell herself that she’d known this was coming, that the hardest part was waiting, and that she ought to be glad that she could finally get it over with.
Five years ago, when Hazel was nearly eleven years old, she’d made a bargain with the Folk.
She had crept down to the hawthorn tree on a full-moon night, just before dawn.
The sky was still mostly dark, still dusted with stars.
Strips of cloth fluttered from the branches above her, the ghosts of wishes.
She’d left her sword at home, out of respect, and hoped that even though she’d hunted some of the Folk—the bad ones—they would still bargain with her fairly.
She was very young.
Keeping what she wanted in mind, Hazel crossed the ring of white stones and waited, sitting on the dew-wet grass under the hawthorn, her heart beating mouse-fast.
She didn’t have to wait long.
A few minutes later a creature loped from the woods, a creature she had no name for.
It had a pale body and crept on all fours, with claws as long as one of her fingers.
It was pink around the eyes and around its too-wide mouth, which was filled with jagged, sharklike teeth.
“Tie your ribbon to the tree,” hissed the creature, a long pink tongue visible when it spoke.
“Tell me your wish.
I bargain on behalf of the Alderking, and he will give you all that you desire.” Hazel had a strip of cloth she’d cut from the inside of her favorite dress.
It fluttered in her hand when she took it from her pocket.
“I want my brother to go to music school in Philadelphia.
Everything paid for, so that he can go.
In return, I’ll stop hunting while he’s away.” The creature laughed.
“You’re bold; I like that.
But, no, I’m afraid that is no sufficient price for what you want.
Promise me ten years of your life.” “Ten years?” Hazel echoed, stunned.
She’d thought she was prepared to bargain, but she hadn’t guessed what they’d ask for.
She needed Ben to be better at music.
She needed them to be a team again.
When she went hunting without him, she felt lost.
She had to make this bargain.
“You’re so very young—stuffed with years yet to come.