I followed Callon down a high-ceilinged hallway of stone. Massive arch windows sat framed by billowing gossamer curtains. This place looked expensive. My gossamer nightgown also billowed. I wondered where a girl could get a good solid pair of trousers around here. I was tired of being whisked about and waited on like a little waif.

In between each of the windows sat grand wooden doors, and Callon stopped at one. I leaned over to look out the window next to it, and strangely, there was no protrusion indicating any room could possibly be behind that door. All I saw was daylight and the treetops of a beautiful courtyard. 

“Stand back,” said Callon. “Just need to take care of a few wards.”

He pulled out his little whistle and gave it a peep. I felt a chill of panic. Was he going to make me shit myself again?

But instead, he spread his hands out, appearing to concentrate deeply on the door. Between his lips the whistle went peep peepeep peeeeeeep and I could see spittle come out the end as the rhythm came to a fever pitch. Suddenly a gust of air burst from under the door, and the intricately carved wood began to glow in spider-thread lines. The wood groaned as the doors unlatched and slowly swung open.

My eyes widened and my jaw fell slack at the sight before me. In all my wildest mathematical calculations I could never have dreamed of such a place. 

It was a market of sorts; ornate wooden tables and shelves displayed baubles of glass and precious stone, jewelry more delicate and more chunky than I had ever found rummaging through my mother’s creepy old wooden boxes.  

There were tiered displays of foods I couldn’t place. Ocean colored pudding and slabs of meat that steamed and shined with oily iridescence that reminded me of the sky at sunset. What must have been sugar was spun and shaped into glassy flora that filled my nose with a gentle, sweet scent. 

There was a stage lined with unbelievably gorgeous weapons. Gleaming swords, gnarled staffs, and bows. Bows! My mouth watered. My legs quivered. My digits itched to finger those strings. 

Callon noticed my shivers and treated me to a casual half smile. 

“Be not afraid, my dear damsel.” He coddled. “It is but the Night Market of the Fae.” 

I wasn’t sure why he was talking like a weirdo, but I liked it. I also wasn’t sure why there was a night market happening during the day, but that wouldn’t have been the most glaring inconsistency I’d encountered since the night of the Cauldrons. 

“This is your surprise. You may pick one treasure of your choosing. Anything you’d like. But only one.” 

“Eeeeeee” I shook my fists like an excited baby and darted through the doorway. 

The air felt different here. It was warm and humid, but delightfully cool breezes graced my fevered-with-excitement brow. It’s hard to have a shopping spree when you’re never allowed to leave your cursed family manor. 

We were inside what must’ve been the great hall. The walls were impossibly tall, topped off with yawning buttresses supporting an arched roof. The floor unraveled into intricate mosaics of creatures I could make neither head nor tail of (what was that stupid looking thing with the face of a man peeking out from beneath a long tail and between two equine butt cheeks?). All of this was carved from marble, which ranged in colors across the spectrum. Red, blue, orange, and some I couldn’t name. Spiraled pillars held earth from sky and impressive plants in pots that could’ve been used to serve wolf-soup to giants, stood as markers between booths and tents and stages. 

A gentle din of conversation, threaded with song, punctuated with occasional laughter, drifted just above my head. They were speaking the Fae tongue. 

Warm morning light poured in through tall leaded windows. 

The cauldrons. I had to get back to them. I had to finish what I had started!

 I pushed that thought away. Mama wants a bow. 

I went straight past rows of beautiful gowns and sparkling crowns. I didn’t spare a passing glance at stuffed casings of meat (despite the protest from my empty bowels), roasting over blue flames, ready to burst their steamy insides into my open gullet. I hardly lingered at the birdsong coming from a gilded cage of tiny golden canaries. 

I stopped only before the stage of weapons. The bows were each so unique and wonderful, I wanted to cry. They were made of wood varieties I could not identify, bones I didn’t want to identify, and inlaid with shells and bits of gold and obsidian. They were expertly carved into swirls resembling smoke or sea foam. One looked like a giant schlong (not that I had ever seen one aside Andromeda’s crude drawings). 

As I blushed and looked away, my eyes found her. She was small and simple, like me. Carved from a single piece of ivory, she was the graceful curve of my upper lip. The tense posture of my maiden’s heart. No ornaments graced her mantle. Aside one. A violet stone placed where the arrow would be nocked. 

I pointed and stomped my food. 

“That one.”

Callon’s finely sculpted brow riseded. 

“You want that? Of all the Fae treasures I’ve offered you, you want this child’s toy bow?” He half turned to the market and swept his arm out. 

A handsome, though wrinkled, old Fae had appeared before us. “It’s carved of pure sea-dragon bone. Heh heh heh” He was dressed finely, though not quite so stately as Callon. Though age had bent his spine and clouded his eyes, he still boasted an impressive set of pecs and a show of bulging triceps brachii. Anatomy had been the one place  I had felt safe. Hours I had spent pouring over diagrams of the skeletal and muscular systems of all sorts of creatures. 

“Common.” Callon sniffed and waved his hand in dismissal of the merchant. “Archer, wouldn’t you prefer an emerald brooch that smells of fresh rain? Or perhaps a pair of glass slippers that will never cause you blisters? What about this book, always pictures changing so you can look?”

I wasn’t like other girls. I had spent my life being teased and made to feel ugly and small. My fingers fumbled when I tried to braid mother’s hair, and half chewed food fell out of my clumsy little mouth when I tried to eat petit fours during Little Lady practice hour. But when I held a bow, when I laid the arrow and let it whisper against my wretched cheek, and when I let go and it hit the target (usually a sketch of Andromeda’s tatas), I didn’t feel stupid, and didn’t feel weak. I felt the opposite. I felt strong and clever. Archery, like my name sake, was the one place I felt safe. And I was good at it. The pervert master of bows, who was allowed on our manor for some reason, to train me in something that you’d think my entire family was against, would clap and dance in praise. He’d try to catch me and to kiss me in admiration. He had no teeth. 

“She’s the one.” I stated. Not taking my eyes from her. 

“She?” Callon cocked his head. 

“I’ll call her Stacey.” 

The merchant Fae rubbed his hands together and tenderly picked up the bow. He placed it on my palms and bowed, as if he was bestowing me a great honor. 

“My name’s Dilf.” He winked. “Greatest weapons smith in the kingdom. My wife, Milf, does all the carving. This bow was carved for our son.” His expression fell, his eyes darkened. “Our son was killed in the Fae war. He was our only child. Everyday is torment. But I’m glad it’s going to a fine home.” 

“It’s a she and her name is Stacey.” I corrected him. “Mine.” I snatched it away. 

Little did I know…Stacey would be the undoing of us all.