AI Rory’s boot catches on a thick, gnarled root, and she stumbles, catching herself on a pocked oak standing stone. The Heartstone Pendant, tucked under the frayed collar of her Golden Empress delivery coat, thrums so warm it seeps through the fabric, a steady thrum that matches the quick beat of her pulse beneath her ribs. The red dragon logo on her chest is dulled by frost, even though the grass at her feet is soft and green, dotted with yellow buttercups.
She’d been two minutes away from dropping off a late order of char siu bao to Mrs. Hale in Richmond when the pendant beneath her coat flared to life, warm against her skin. She’d pulled over, parked her beat-up Fiat 500, and left the sealed delivery bag tucked on the front seat, promising herself she’d be back in five minutes. Instead, she’d pushed through the brambles at the park’s far west edge and now stood inside a clearing that didn’t exist on any map. She’d looked up Isolde’s Grove three nights prior, after a crumpled, unlabeled delivery note turned up in her flat’s mail slot, and every local parks department had insisted no such spot existed within Richmond Park.
The stone beneath her hand is smoother than it should be, as if rubbed down repeatedly over centuries, and the air inside the circle of ancient oaks smells different, richer, than the park outside. She’d driven past row after row of bare oak trees, their branches crusted with frost, but here the foliage is thick and green, leaves unfurled even though the London air carries the sharp tang of fallen winter foliage. Bees hover in a steady, unbroken line around the clover patches, their wings buzzing at the same, constant pitch, never changing, never slowing. Not a single one moves away from its spot, as if glued to the air.
She checks her watch, the face fogged with faint frost. She’d noted the time ten minutes prior, when she parked the car: 11:03 PM. Now the display reads 10:49. She wipes the frost away with her glove, and the numbers flip again, skipping back to 10:48. She shoves the watch back into her coat pocket, jaw tightening. Time wasn’t supposed to slip like that.
She digs her phone out of her other pocket, fingers fumbling with the frost on the screen. No service flashes across the display, and the battery icon is at 67 percent, down from the full charge she’d plugged in an hour earlier. She points the camera at the bramble gap, where she’d entered just minutes before. What should be a narrow path is now a wall of dense, glossy ivy, thick and tightly woven, with no sign of the brambles she’d pushed through.
A high, tinkling laugh cuts through the quiet, light as broken glass, coming from behind the oak standing stones lining the grove’s boundary. She spins, hand flying to the stainless steel pocket knife clipped to her coat belt, but there’s nothing there, just the sway of wildflowers in a wind that doesn’t touch her skin. She shivers, even though the air inside the grove is warm, almost stuffy, and tugs the collar of her coat up higher.
She takes a slow step forward, the pendant thrumming louder now, almost painful against her chest. The buttercups spread further than she can see, and the air smells of wild blackberries and rain, nothing like the diesel fumes and burnt takeaway grease that fills the streets below her flat above Silas’ bar. She unclasps the silver chain, pulling the deep crimson gem from under her coat. It glows faintly in the dim twilight, and when she holds it in her palm, it warms so quickly she almost drops it.
The bees fall silent suddenly , their wings still mid-flutter, and the tinkling laugh comes again, louder this time, close enough that she can hear the sharp, almost metallic edge to it. A tall, gaunt figure steps out from the buttercups at her feet, its movements smooth and fluid, no bending of the knees like a human would. It wears a tattered blue wool dress, frayed at the cuffs and hem, its skin pale as chalk, its face featureless except for two deep, black holes where eyes should be. It tilts its head, as if studying her, and Rory freezes, the gem in her hand growing warmer by the second.
A second figure steps out moments later, shorter, wearing a faded school blazer and pleated skirt, its hands hanging too long at its sides, nails black and sharp. It hisses, a soft, sibilant sound, and the first figure reaches out a long, thin finger, pointing at the gem in Rory’s palm. The fae recoils, hissing again, and Rory realizes the pendant is keeping it at bay. She clutches the gem tighter, the warmth seeping into her skin, and the second figure falls silent, its black eyes fixed on the red stone.
More figures emerge from the wildflowers then, a half-dozen at first, all tall and thin, all wearing tattered old clothes, all with those same black, empty eyes. They circle closer, their whispers growing louder, so clear she can make out the words, sharp and cold: Guest. Pay. Stay. She glances down at her watch , and her blood runs cold. It’s 11:17 PM. She’d parked her car at 11:03. Fourteen minutes outside, but almost an hour inside. Time here moves backwards, or faster, or sideways, she can’t tell.
She turns towards the ivy wall, towards the only exit she can see, but the fae block her path, stepping forward in a silent line. She flicks open her pocket knife, holding the blade out, and the fae hesitate, but they don’t recoil like before. The metallic tang of old blood tugs at her nostrils, faint but impossible to ignore, and the wildflowers at her feet start to wilt, their petals turning brown and crumpling. One of the fae reaches out a hand towards her, and she swats at it with the knife, but her hand passes through its arm, the blade doing nothing.
She trips over a root, hitting her shoulder against an oak standing stone. Rough bark scrapes her left forearm, and she catches sight of the small crescent scar there, the one from her childhood accident. It glows faintly, matching the light from the Heartstone, and she freezes, realization hitting her. That’s why the benefactor gave her this. That’s why she was drawn here. When she wraps her fingers around the gem, a sharp static jolt shoots up her arm, and for a split second, she sees a flash of red hair, a woman’s voice whispering crescent before the vision fades. She blinks, shaking her head, her bright blue eyes scanning the clearing, and the lead fae steps a little closer.
The lead fae’s black eyes fix on her, and it reaches out a hand towards her throat. She swats at it again, but her palm passes through its cold, chalky skin, the pocket knife useless against the creature. The fae’s mouth opens, no teeth, just a black void, and it whispers her name, soft and cold: Aurora.