A Ghost in the House of Iron

Chapter Two

SINDRED

"Sindred, look at their feet. Eyes down," Mama says softly, giving my hand a comforting squeeze. 

It's because of me we have to hide, can't stay too long anywhere we go. They don't tell me it's my fault, but I know. Mama reminds me to be careful not to look up at strangers, always keep my eyes down when they come too close. But I see her smiling at every stranger we pass on the road. And when we stop at a village and she puts on her nice dress to sing for a few coins and three bowls of hot stew, Papa tucks me in his arms all the way at the back of the crowd, making sure Mama's shawl is pulled up to cover my hair. I know how much he wants to be up there with her, strumming on his old lute, but he's afraid. He's afraid I won't hide well enough. That they'll see. So he hides with me, and in the morning we leave. 

It takes us many days to reach the little wooden cottage nestled in the farmland at the edge of the city. I'm not a baby anymore, but I got tired. Mama holds me against her chest, bouncing from foot to foot to keep warm. Her boots crunch into the snow, and layers of colorful skirts swish back and forth against her legs. I can see the fog of our breath in the air. 

My father bangs his palm into the front door three times. He steps back to wait, shivering even in his thick hand-stitched furs. There are little ice crystals in his beard, and his cheeks are wind-bitten red. 

The door cracks open and a man peers out at us. His skin is gray-tinged, eyes sunken with exhaustion. “Berl?” he says. “Is that really you?”

It's clear they're brothers: same broad shoulders, big hands, mess of dark hair. My papa is shorter, rounder around the middle. He's got a gentler smile. 

We are ushered inside, our outer clothes taken off and hung to dry, our frozen limbs moved close to the hearth for thawing. There is only one room in the cottage, with a loft above for the boys’ bed. “Did you come for the festival?” someone asks. “Because I’m afraid you just missed it. The parade was yesterday.”

Mama sets me down, despite my mewl of protest, and the other woman kneels down to get a closer look at me. She's got long stringy hair the color of straw and a pointed chin. 

“Mara,” the woman whispers. “Your child. Her hair. Her eyes.”

“Lin,” Papa says. “Shush.”

Lin continues to stare at me, and I stare back into her watery eyes, an unpleasant shade of yellowish brown. “She's a faerie child, Andor!” Lin squeels breathlessly.

At her words, Mama reaches down and pulls me back into her arms, wrapping me up in a protective hug.

Lin takes a couple steps away from me and Mama. She gestures at me with a panicked swing of her wrist, fingers twitching. “She shouldn't be in this house.”

Andor looks back and forth between his wife and my papa. His two boys hover behind him, one of them almost as tall as his father. “Explain, Berl. What is the meaning of this?”

“We need your help,” Papa says in that deep voice. “Please, Brother.” The words hang there in the air, humming.

The youngest boy speaks, breaking the tense silence. “One of Paulson's girls got taken by a faerie a month or so ago,” he says, his voice shrill. “A satyr, the ones with those horns. Seduced or something. I heard them talking. She disappeared into the Wood, just like that.”

Lin brings her hands to her mouth and whimpers, long and tremulous.

“Nonsense,” Mama says. Her voice is light, but there is an undertone of anger. “You know better than to believe such things, Edvor. Those who respect the Other Folk are respected in return. It's all a bunch of foolish talk, blaming the fae for failed crops and disappearing wives, collapsed roofs and spoiled milk.”