Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback(93)

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The Hush of Feathers,





the Clamor of Wings


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A. C. Wise


It’s Liselle’s pain that brings me back.

I’ve been gone a long time. Sky-drunk, back to belly with the clouds, it’s easy to forget. With the city all small and gray, laid out quilt-wise below me, why would I ever touch the ground?

For Liselle. Because her pain smells of nettles, pricked fingers, and blood. Because it sounds like patience and silence. Because it feels like ice forming a skin across the pond, like winter coming too soon.

And I’m afraid I’m too late.

“What do you want more than anything in the world?” the witch asks.

She plants a foot on my shoulder, holding me at the bottom of the bed. She told me to call her Circe, and said it wasn’t her name.

“You.” I try to move, but she shifts her foot, ball planted against my collarbone, toes curled to dig in.

“Too easy.”

Light slants across the bed, pools at her throat, slides between her breasts, and drizzles, crisscrossed by shadow, over her belly like honey.

“Can’t you tell?” I grasp my cock, grin.

Just the edge of a frown tries her lips. They’re dark, darkened further as she sips wine from a goblet by the bed. Her eyes are the ? 287 ?

? The Hush of Feathers, the Clamor of Wings ?

color of lightning-struck stone, ever watchful. I can’t tell her age.

Maybe older than the world. She is beautiful, and terrifying, and if I don’t give her the answer she’s looking for, she’ll burn me to ash without ever raising her hand.

She pushes me back, setting me off balance. “Try again.”

Bells chime at her ankles. She swirls the wine in her glass, never taking her eyes from my face. She dips a finger into the glass, sucks ruby droplets from its tip, then slides it between her legs.

Blood pounds, deafening me; my cock aches. I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Freedom?”

“Hmm.” The witch arches an eyebrow, weighing me.

The words tumble now, a babble that may or may not be a

confession. I don’t know what I want; right now, I can’t think past desire.

“I’m sick of George controlling the purse strings. Our parents left the money to all of us, but he acts like he’s in charge.”

I’m breathing hard, harder than I should be.

“Seven brothers in all, yes? And you’re the seventh?” Even phrased as such, it’s not exactly a question, but I nod. “And a sister?” I nod again. I haven’t told her anything she doesn’t already know.

At last, Circe relents. She lowers her leg, tracing her toes down my chest, and through the hair on my stomach. When she plants her foot on the bed, her legs are slightly parted, welcoming.

I crawl to her, ashamed of myself, and not caring. Thirsty, hungry, eager, I suck the lingering ghost of wine from between her legs. Her sex tastes of cinnamon and copper—a penny placed on my tongue for silence. The witch winds her fingers in my hair.

“Interesting,” she says. “When I asked your brothers the same question, they all wanted power.”

Folding wings tight, I dive, trading the clean smell of cloud and wind for smoky, roasted nuts, horse shit, and overflowing trashcans.

Whatever else I may be, whatever else I’ve done, there’s always this: I ? 288 ?

? A. C. Wise ?

will come when she calls. What kind of brother would I be otherwise?

Not the brother she deserves, certainly. I took her gift, and threw it back in her face. All because I fell in love with the sky, and when she came to save me, I refused.

Just before I hit the ground, I pull the trick the witch taught me and change. It’s not a rational thing; it’s just a different way of thinking— trading feathers for skin. But it gets harder every time.

It hurts more each time, too. Bones splinter and twist, going from hollow to full. Feathers draw blood, pulling out of my skin. The weight of my body nearly crushes me. Then I’m standing, panting, in gray clothing the same color as pigeon feathers. Which, if you look at them just right, are so many colors it will break your heart.

“Hi, Sis.” I lower myself to the bench beside her.

My voice is rough. It cracks on human sounds, my lips, too, and I lick blood.

Liselle doesn’t say anything. She hasn’t spoken in at least fourteen years. Maybe more.