Chapter 3 3- Fae Lie Less Than Humans, And Deceive More.

LOTTIE

I decide to write on his leg because it’s really hard to write small when using mud on my finger. His arms are tucked awkwardly under his pillow, and one is half-hidden beneath him anyway. His legs, though, are bare where the blanket has kicked down around his knees. It’s the easiest place. The flattest stretch of skin.

I shift closer to the bed, careful not to let the mattress dip too much. Every movement feels amplified in the silence. I go slowly, trying to be careful not to wake him up. My finger trembles slightly as I dip it back into the paste, gathering enough to make the lines thick and visible. The mud is cool against his skin. He stirs faintly, and I freeze. But he doesn’t wake. I start with the A.

It takes a couple of minutes because I’m going so slowly and carefully. The letters are uneven and larger than I intended, but there’s no fixing that now. The paste drags slightly, gritty against his skin. I concentrate harder than I have in months, focusing only on the shape of each letter. 

Alexander.

I pause to gather more mud before continuing. 

Robert. 

Another careful breath. 

Laurel. 

Seeing it written out like that, his whole name, makes something tighten painfully in my chest. He and I both took our mother’s name. I don’t know who Zander’s dad is, and mine hasn’t called in years. I don’t even know if he would recognise my voice if I rang him now. Laurel is the only thing tying us to anything solid. I don’t love that it’s Mum’s name. But it’s also my grandmother’s. And she had it first. So I guess it’s not so bad.

The full name sprawls across his leg in thick, muddy letters. It looks ridiculous. Childish. Impossible to take seriously. I sit back slightly and stare at it, half-expecting to feel foolish. Nothing happens. Right. It has to dry. I carefully set the bowl aside and go fetch a damp cloth from the bathroom while the mud dries. My footsteps feel too loud on the hallway tiles. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. I don’t know what I’m expecting. Pink, I suppose. Pink would be fine. Pink would mean I can laugh at myself later. It doesn’t even occur to me that nothing might happen. I guess I trust my grandmother more than I thought. 

I return to the room and kneel beside the bed again. The mud has darkened as it dried, cracking slightly along the edges of the letters.

“Please,” I whisper, not sure who I’m speaking to. I carefully wipe it away. The cloth smears brown across his skin at first, but underneath… I thought it was supposed to take a few minutes. The change is almost instant. As the last of the mud clears, the letters remain. Not faint. Not imagined. Clear. Sharp. Alexander Robert Laurel. Etched across his leg in grey. Not pink. Grey. The colour isn’t bruised or irritated skin. It’s dull and lifeless, like ash pressed into flesh. Like something written from the inside outward.

My breath leaves me in a broken gasp. I fall back in horror, my hands scrambling against the floor to steady myself. The world tilts for a second, the room spinning around the small, sleeping figure in my bed.

The name doesn’t fade. It doesn’t blur. It just sits there. Grey.

“No no no… This can’t be happening!” The words tear out of me before I can stop them, raw and shaking. My brother- no, the changeling, stirs at the sound of my voice. His eyelids flutter open slowly, heavy with sleep, completely unaware of the horror carved into his skin.

“Lott?” He says sleepily, his voice small and confused. The sound of it hits me like a physical blow. I choke out a breath, half sob, half gasp. That voice. That exact voice. It’s the same. It sounds like him. It sounds like Zander when he wakes from a nap and doesn’t know where he is.

“NO!” The denial bursts out of me. I scramble forward and grab his arm, my fingers wrapping around the familiar warmth of his skin. I yank him around to face me harder than I mean to, desperation overriding gentleness. 

“WHO ARE YOU?” I demand, my voice breaking on the last word. He just stares at me, eyes wide and startled. Then he shakes his head slightly, like he doesn’t understand the question. The confusion on his face only fuels my panic. I shriek in frustration, the sound loud and jagged in the wrecked bedroom. “SHOW ME WHO YOU ARE!” I demand, shaking him once, not enough to hurt but enough to jolt him. There’s a sudden flash of light. It’s blinding and immediate, like someone has detonated a camera flash directly in front of my face. I’m thrown backwards by the force of it, my grip torn away as my body slams into the floor. Pain flares along my shoulder and hip, but it barely registers over the shock. White spots explode across my vision. For a moment, I can’t see anything except brightness and the afterimage burned into my retinas. My ears ring, a high, disorienting sound that makes it hard to think.

When the stars finally begin to fade from my eyes, and the room swims back into focus, I force myself upright on trembling arms. The creature sitting on my bed looks nothing like my baby brother.

The creature sprawled out on my bed is about half the size of Zander. His limbs are thinner, more delicate, and his skin has a faint greenish tint that almost shimmers in the dim light of the room. His ears are long and sharply pointed, protruding through messy tufts of hair, and two little fluttery wings tremble behind him, catching the light like thin sheets of glass. I’m fairly sure the creature is a pixie.

He stares at me in shock for a moment, blinking rapidly as though he can’t quite believe what’s happened. Then a giant grin breaks across his face, stretching almost too wide. Before I can react, the pixie launches himself at me. I flinch hard, instinctively raising my arms to shield myself. I expect claws. Teeth. Some kind of magical retaliation. Instead, he collides with me and wraps his small arms tightly around my shoulders. He’s hugging me.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Lottie! You freed me! I don’t know how, but you did it!” His voice is high and bright and overwhelmingly excited. I shove at him reflexively, trying to create space, but he just clings harder, his tiny fingers gripping into the fabric of my shirt. His wings flutter erratically behind him, brushing against my arms. I think he might be crying.

“Wh-who are you? Where’s my brother?” I manage, panic rising all over again as I try to pry him off my arm. After another second, the pixie finally releases me and hops back a few steps. I remain sitting on the floor, breath uneven, surrounded by pretty much everything I own, which is still scattered across the room from earlier. Clothes, books, toys, my life in chaotic disarray.

“You can call me Pik.” He says, puffing out his chest slightly. “I’m a pixie, obviously. I was grabbed off the street, and when I woke up, I had been transformed into your brother. I don’t know who did it, but I’ve wanted to be myself again this whole time. The magic wouldn’t let me tell you! That’s why I was acting so crazy. I hoped you would realise something was wrong. You’re obviously a witch. Your magic is so pretty and shiny.” Pik stares dreamily at me, or more accurately, at the centre of my chest. His eyes are unfocused and glassy with admiration. If it weren’t for the dazed, almost reverent look on his face, I would think he was staring at my boobs. They might be good boobs, but I doubt they’re impressive enough to warrant that kind of reaction. 

“You can see magic?” I ask carefully, still trying to steady my breathing. He nods quickly, wings flickering behind him. 

“All pixies can see magic. Better than all but the more powerful fae. We like to collect magic things, rocks, and shiny bits and pieces.” He explains. I nod slowly, trying to absorb that without spiralling. A pixie. Fine. Apparently, that’s where we are now.

“Okay…” I say carefully. “Do you know where my brother is?” I ask. Pik’s expression falls. He shakes his head slowly. “Out loud, please.” I insist, forcing my voice to stay firm even though my stomach feels hollow. “Fae can’t tell lies, but shaking your head doesn’t count.” I point out. With a grumpy and vaguely offended huff, Pik crosses his arms over his bare chest, thank goodness he’s at least wearing pants, and glares at me.