Chapter 20: Interlude: The Folio of Threads – Page 87

🕯️ THE FOLIO OF THREADS – PAGE 87

As Retold (with questionable theatrics) by Wickham

Filed under: “Things You Shouldn’t Do Unless You’re Very Pretty, Very Brave, or Very Stupid”

----------------------------------------

Right then, my darlings. Pull up a stone, pour something strong, and try not to blink too much. I’ve got a tale for you. It’s an old one. Older than moss on a gravestone, older than the stones themselves if you believe in that sort of thing—which I do, because I’ve tripped over most of them.

So. Once upon a Beltane morning—or maybe it was Samhain, or Tuesday, no one quite agrees—there was a girl. Sharp laugh, sharper eyes. The sort of girl who doesn’t listen when the wind says don’t. You know the type. Brave. Or cursed. Possibly both.

She lives in some quiet village full of quiet people who know better than to peek under stones or whistle after dark. But she’s got curiosity tangled in her hair and stubbornness in her blood, and so—of course—she finds a path that shouldn’t be there. Paved in bones. Or silver. Or teeth, if you’re feeling poetically inclined.

At the end? A glamour. Not one of the grand ones—no arches of pearl or singing vines. Just a bent rowan tree with ribbons hanging like secrets. Seven of them. Always seven. There’s a reason, and if you ever find out what it is, don’t tell me. I like my teeth where they are.

Now here’s the bit where any normal soul turns around.

But darling—she looks. Just a peek, mind. Just long enough to see the edges fray. And oh, what sights the Fae gave her. A man made of ash and velvet, playing harpstrings strung with breath. A woman with moth wings, drinking the stars like wine. A child with no mouth laughing like thunder.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

She blinks. The glamour closes. But the damage is done.

Now here’s where it gets chewy.

She remembers.

Not just remembers—carries. The things she saw cling to her like shadow to fire. She can’t unsee. She can’t unknow. Glamours break around her. Mirrors twitch. Salt won’t stick. Her neighbours look at her like she’s humming a tune they’re too afraid to name.

So what does our girl do?

She writes. She carves truth into bark and bone. Bakes warnings into bread. Leaves sigils in the mud behind her boots and murmurs old names into the steam of her tea. Like a trail of breadcrumbs for anyone else foolish enough to look.

And the Courts notice. Oh yes, of course they do. They don’t send blades. They send kindness. Soft voices. Sweet dreams. Offers of forgetting. One kiss on the brow and poof—gone. Wrapped in peace and a story no one quite remembers.

She says no.

And they? Well. They turn her into a tale.

So if you're ever walking through hills that don’t have names, and you see a girl with ribbons in her hair and no mouth to speak with—keep walking. Don’t ask what she saw. Don’t ask what she knows.

Because darling, if she gives it to you…

The Veil will take something back.

And it’s never what you expect.

----------------------------------------

Wickham’s Notes in the Margin:

* Maerlowe says this isn’t historically verified. Maerlowe is also tragically boring.

* "Velvet man" might be the Seelie King. Or a metaphor for fashion crimes.

* This story makes an excellent cautionary tale if you’re trying to dissuade someone from marrying a Fae prince or opening mysterious doors. Trust me. I should know.