Mary rose Morris's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Mary Rose Morris kept the iron arrow across her knees and watched the door of her cottage. Somewhere past the rose trees, at a revel she had not been invited to, a faerie was dancing in her brother's face. She had seen it twice now. The first time she nearly ran to him. The second time she nearly shot him. She could not tell the thief from the boy, and that was the whole problem. The cottage smelled of thatch and old smoke. Her brother's coat still hung on the peg by the blue door. He had walked out wearing it a month ago and had not come back. What came back wore his mouth and did not know how he took his tea. She turned the arrow in her hands. A traveling smith had made it for a bag of silver and a promise. Runes ran down the iron head. He swore it would bite only the shapeshifter, and pass through her brother like wind. She did not fully believe him. Belief was not the same as certainty, and certainty was what she needed before she drew the bow. She needed a way to see through the glamour. She needed it tonight. Mary Rose pulled on her boots and stepped out among the dark rose trees. Thorns caught her sleeve. Past the last hedge, the black dragon lay curled in the meadow where it had slept since she was ten. It opened one yellow eye when she approached. "I need the library," she said. "The one across the ridge. Tonight." The dragon lowered its shoulder. She climbed on. They landed at the stone steps of the faerie library before the moon cleared the towers. Ivy crawled the walls. Every window burned with candlelight. Inside, the shelves went up three stories and smelled of dust and cold apples. She walked the aisles until she found the section she wanted: records of faeries who had worn stolen faces. She read standing up. She read for hours. Most of the accounts ended in a funeral. One did not. A hedge-witch two hundred years ago had brewed a tea from black rose petals and iron shavings. One sip, she wrote, and the drinker's eyes saw through any borrowed skin for a single night. Mary Rose copied the recipe onto the inside of her wrist. Her hands shook. She had thorns in her garden and iron on her arrow. She could brew it by dawn. She was halfway down the library steps when she saw the figure waiting at the bottom. Her brother's coat. Her brother's smile. He lifted one hand in greeting. "You've been gone a long time," he said. "Come home." He did not know she now had a way to be sure. She kept her face still and started down the steps.