I stared wide-eyed out the car window as my father pulled into the gravel driveway of the huge house. Surrounded by sprawling, manicured grounds, it was beautiful in that way old houses have, with brick steps leading up to a raised porch, complete with a gently rocking porch swing, and large windows that held soft white curtains. White columns led from the edges of the front porch up to a balcony that I could imagine the heroine of some fairytale standing on, awaiting her forbidden love Romeo-and-Juliet-style, so storybook it was hard to believe it was real. Despite its age it was well-kept, from its polished glass to its pristine white shingles to its redbrick chimneys. It wasn't flashy or over-the-top in its design but still carried an air of grandeur, like it was made for somebody of wealth and power and was proud of that. I knew my family had neither wealth nor power, but at one point they had.

"What do you think?" Dad asked, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. "Isn't it incredible?"

"It's been in the family for over a hundred years," Mom added. I nodded mutely, grabbing my bag as I stepped out of the car. It was incredible. Much better than I'd imagined. "My great-grandfather built it himself. His two children were born here, and their children, and so on. I grew up here."

How I wished I had grown up here, instead of in a cramped city apartment.

Before I could say anything the front door opened and a shout reached us. "Sandra!" a woman called, hurrying down the steps. "Sandy! It's so good to see you. How have you been?" She stopped in front of my mother, clasping her hands and grinning as she spoke. She was a stick-thin woman, now old and frail but obviously once beautiful, with a puff of white hair pulled back away from her face and a warm, crinkle-eyed smile. Before she gave my mother a chance to respond she turned to my father, shouting, "Jacob! You were just a gawky seventeen-year-old the last time I saw you. And this must be your daughter."

I forced a smile as she studied me, her blue eyes gleaming. "Yes, this is Cassie," Mom said, putting a light hand on my shoulder. "Cassie, this is Mrs. Thurston. She's Aunt Julia's caretaker."

"Nice to meet you," I said softly. I didn't really know anything about what was going on with Aunt Julia but the idea of her needing a caretaker—and one who had to be twice her age—made it seem a lot more serious.

Mrs. Thurston shook my hand, her grip surprisingly strong given her thin hands. "It's wonderful to meet you. Come in, come in. Julia's asleep right now, but I'll make tea and we can catch up, and when she's awake you can go up and see her."

I trailed after her and my parents as they entered the house, which was equally amazing on the inside. The floors were shiny, dark wood, the walls a cream color decorated with framed paintings. A small table in the entrance held a pot of fresh yellow flowers—irises, I thought—among several framed photos. Most were of who I assumed were my mother and Aunt Julia as children, a pair of pretty redheaded little girls smiling for the camera over the years. Several showed my grandparents as well, who I had only met a few times before they'd passed away. In my faint memories they had been kind but strict, always concerned with appearances. They'd humored my 5-year-old fantasies only reluctantly.

"I was about to take those up to Julia," Mrs. Thurston said when she caught me looking, nodding to the flowers. "They arrived just before you did. Would you like to take them up while I make the tea?"

"Go on, Cass, it'll let you get more familiar with the house," Mom encouraged me. I suspected mainly because she wanted a chance for just the adults to talk about Julia. Ever since we'd gotten the news my parents had kept hush-hush about it around me, as if I was too young to understand illness or death.

I shrugged and lifted the pot carefully, seeing no reason to argue. Besides, I was eager to get a better look at the house. "Sure. Where is she?"

"Just up the stairs there, turn left, and it's the second door on the right. Please be careful not to wake her, she needs her rest. She'll be happy to get those, though. They're from an old friend of hers."

"Got it." The staircase was set just outside the opening into the living room, hugging the wall. It was the same wood as the floors, long and elegant, and seemed to go on forever. The vase was heavy and my arms ached by the time I reached the second floor; the ornate glass was thick and the water inside weighed it down even more.

I expected the upstairs to match with the beautiful, inviting, open air of what was below, but I stopped dead on the top step. The walls were lined with doors, all of which seemed to loom over me and stare down disapprovingly. Each was the same off-white color, set in dark wood-paneled walls. Only one window lit the hall, letting in dull sunlight. Its pane was clean and dust-free but the light that came through was still somehow less than cheery.

I shivered at the sudden change and took the left hall. It seemed to get colder with each step, the shadows growing longer. I stopped at the second door down, ready to get back downstairs as quickly as possible. I knocked without thinking, and only after, remembered that I wasn't supposed to be waking Julia up. Hoping I hadn't, I held my breath as I waited for a moment and listened. When I heard nothing I tried the doorknob cautiously; it was unlocked, so I opened it as quietly as I could and slipped inside. Its hinges squeaked and I winced. Hopefully the sound wouldn't wake her.

I quickly realized that there was nobody in the room to wake and stopped in the doorway. The room was obviously lived in; the bedding was crumpled, books were piled high on the bedside table, and clothes hung in the open closet. The walls, lighter than those of the hallway outside, were hung with paintings of forests and seascapes. The window was cracked, two panes opened outwards like double doors, and white curtains fluttered in the breeze from outside. The floor was oddly clear, given the hectic state of the bed and table—but then, I had been warned that Aunt Julia was too sick to get up and move around much.

Which only made her absence more unsettling. For a moment I wondered if I had gotten the wrong room, perhaps Mrs. Thurston's, but I knew I had chosen the right door. Maybe she was in the bathroom.

Not wanting to sit around and wait to see, I crossed the old carpet to place the flowers on the bedside table between the stack of books and a dark lamp. I couldn't help but study the cover of the top book, curious. It was an old, thick, leather-bound volume with yellowed pages, Arcatraissa written across it in gold lettering. I didn't understand what the word meant, and when I flipped the book open I found it was written in a foreign language. It wasn't something I'd seen before, like Spanish or French, but languages weren't my strong suit. I hadn't known that Julia spoke anything other than English, but all I knew about her were from the few brief times my mother had mentioned her. I moved it aside to study the book below it, a journal filled with drawings of plants and animals. Several pages showed the same curly-haired boy from different angles. I wondered who he was; he had obviously been important to Julia, or whoever the journal belonged to. I didn't know enough about my aunt to venture a guess.

The next book was an anthology of fairytales, ones I'd never heard of before. Fira of the Night, The Sea Prince, Robin and the Glass Heart. I skimmed the pages, marveling at the intricate illustrations that accompanied each story. They were done in brilliant color, depicting fairies and witches and dragons. Though handwritten, each letter was crisp and exact, the ink unmarred by time. A folded paper fell from between two pages as I turned them and I retrieved it from the floor. As soon as I touched it I could tell it was old, thin and fragile. I hesitated only a second before opening it, unable to help my curiosity.

Juliaesa

I am sorry for leaving, but it cannot be helped. I must do my duty. I will be back in four months' time. Though I'm sure you'll finish it long before my return, I've left you a book of the stories you mentioned you would like to hear. Since I cannot tell you them myself, I've translated them for you. I will visit as soon as I return.

Kaesha'a marrik yil esancarrah.

T

It was written in the same careful script as the storybook and I couldn't believe the idea of somebody hand-writing an entire book to give as a gift—the time and work it must have taken. Who was T? Surely somebody special, to have put in all that effort for a gift. An old friend to my aunt, or something more? Was he the boy in the journal? And what was the strange writing at the end? It looked like the same language the old leather-bound book was written in but I couldn't be sure.

"What are you doing in here?" a sharp voice asked behind me and I dropped the note and whirled around, heart in my throat. The woman in the doorway had to be Aunt Julia; she shared my mother's sharp green gaze and curly auburn hair, but hers was limp and thin. She was bony beneath the thin white gown she wore, her skin pale and her eyes sunken. She was obviously not well, but she stared at me like a territorial dog might stare at an intruder. I could only stare back, wide-eyed and frozen.

After a still moment heat rushed to my cheeks and I looked away, embarrassed to have been caught going through her things. "I—I'm sorry, Mrs. Thurston asked me to bring you these flowers and I was just looking at your books. I mean, they're really interesting and I'm kind of a bookworm and..." I trailed off, since she looked like she didn't care.

"Who are you?"

I licked my dry lips. "Um, Cassie."

"Sandra's daughter?"

"Yeah."

She said nothing, just strode across the room to the books and began stacking them the way they had been before. I moved out of her way, hovering near the bed. I knew I probably should just leave, but something kept me. I couldn't help but watch the careful way she handled the books, as if they were her most valuable possessions. She picked up the note, read it, her lips moving softly as she did, and placed it back between the pages. Her hand remained on the cover for just a second after she closed it, as if she wanted to keep it open, but she quickly pulled it away and turned to face me again.

"You said you like to read?" she asked. I nodded. "Good. I thought all your generation liked to do was sit in front of a screen letting your brains melt. Children used to enjoy reading, and playing outdoors, and inventing their own entertainment."

My generation? She made it sound like she'd been around before there were TV screens to sit in front of. She was only in her late thirties. "I never liked video games or anything like that much," I murmured.

She nodded once and then turned away again to pick up the book of fairytales. "Take it," she said, holding it out to me. "Lord knows I won't be around much longer to enjoy them, and stories are meant to be enjoyed. Maybe you'll learn something from them."

I wasn't sure whether to take offense to that or not—was she implying that there were things I needed to learn from kids' stories? —but I took the book and plastered on a smile. "Thanks."

She just sat down on the bed, absorbed in one of her many books, and I took it as my cue to leave. I backed out of the room carefully, closing the door behind me, and flipped open to the first story as I headed back downstairs.

The girl was very pretty. She had creamy fair skin and a curious, intelligent glint in her eyes like her mother and aunt, but her hair was black as coal, not red. And her eyes—he hadn't dared get close enough to see their color, for fear that he would be noticed, but he thought they were brown instead of Sandra and Julia's bright green. But she still looked like them somehow, though if you just looked at her you wouldn't see it. Something in the way she walked, the way she looked at the house like it was something out of a dream, made him think of them.

He'd known they were coming, but he hadn't truly expected much to come of it. What were a few more human adults wandering around? It wasn't as if they were bringing children with them, so he hadn't thought to worry.

But there she'd been. Not a child, but different from the others.

He should have stayed away, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted to know if his suspicions were true.

He crept closer to the window, his bare feet hardly brushing the grass with each feather-light step. The others would never see him, he knew that much, but he wasn't sure about her. She wasn't a little girl—she must have been fifteen in human years, perhaps older—but she didn't have the look that most her age did. She didn't look blind to the world around her. She paid attention.

It was strange and wonderful and terrifying, all at once.

His sensitive ears perked as somebody thumped down the stairs just beyond the wall closest to him. He could hear voices but not make out words. Without warning a curtain was gently pushed aside and the girl peered out, still talking to somebody else in the room. The fae jumped in surprise and darted upwards, wings fluttering madly to keep him aloft and out of sight. He waited, breath held, until she let the curtain fall back into place and turned away from the window. Finally, he let out a sigh and darted away. He had work to do yet today; he couldn't dawdle.

There would be time later for the humans.