Chapter 1
It is perhaps in the smallest of towns where the old sort of magic tends to linger. In the places where very few eyes might see them. In places where folklore is breathed from every mouth of the living, and where all expectations of the natural come to die.
The town of Hawthorn Vale was no exception.
It was entirely unremarkable in nature; the houses plain and worn by weather, nestled into the English countryside and so thoroughly isolated from any other civilization that travelers were surprised when they came upon it-- wondering how anyone might live so far removed from general society.
Yet it was not the town and its dreary inhabitants that made the Vale outstanding beneath its rugged exterior, but rather the very magic that flowed through the hills. Magic that had long been forgotten under the streets of the larger cities, and yet here it still moved. Still breathed.
It was something perhaps only the children believed in, their minds filled with stories of fairies, ghosts, and spirits that dwelled in the woods that lay beyond the last path of the Vale. And nearly all of them believed that everything in the town held some magic within it.
It was why, at at the age of nine, Lucien Caramonte knew her grandmother was a witch.
There was, perhaps, no factual evidence for this. Yet Lucy could think of no other explanation for the strange things her grandmother did; speaking almost entirely in fables and riddles, telling Lucy to never give away her full name, and that secrets were worth more than she could ever imagine.
Yet the strangest of her behaviors occurred only when the carnival came to town; for in the nights when the veil between worlds thinned and the magic in the air grew.
Tents in bright and merry colors appeared without warning-- seemingly overnight in the space where the town ended and the forest began. And when at last the sun would set Lucy would watch as the withered old woman locked every door and window, pulling the drapes tightly shut around them, her face pinched in a look of concern.
She would distract her then for the rest of the night with riddles and puzzles. And though for a time Lucy was content with this, with each time that the carnival appeared her curiosity grew.
“Why can’t we go see it?” Lucy had asked one evening whilst the merry tunes and laughter floated in from beyond the shuttered windows. “So many others in town get to go.”
At this, her grandmother had gone silent, her dulled eyes fixated upon the window as though she could see what lay beyond them. Yet finally she answered, though her words were not what Lucy had hoped for.
“There are some things that still hold to them their old magic in this world, child. And though it may seem bright it is but a mask that hides the darkness beneath. It is no place where the living ought to wander.”
Lucy dared not ask anything further after that. But in the years to follow that music would continue to haunt her, calling her ever closer to the brilliantly colored tents and the magic that lay within them...
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It was at the age of nine that Lucy had first begun to steal.
With hands delicately small, an innocent demeanor and brilliant, charming smile she found that it came with a natural cadence. For it seemed as though she were aided by some manner of magic herself-- the shadows cloaking themselves around her, the soles of her shoes softening themselves so that her footsteps might not be heard.
To be sure, it wasn’t as though she needed to steal; she had everything her heart could have desired. Fine dresses, the most beautiful of dolls and other handcrafted toys. Everything, that is, except for a sense of adventure.
And that was worth far more than anything she could have stolen.
At first, her thievery was the sort that involved little risk; berry tarts that had been left to cool on window sills with none around to see them disappear and small trinkets left unattended. Yet as her skills increased so did her need for a true challenge, and thus sprung a love within Lucy for pickpocketing.
It had been her glorious little secret-- her escapades hidden under the guise that she was merely going out to play with friends. Her grandmother never suspecting that by the end of the day when she had returned home her pockets were filled with all manner of coins, rings, and once even a bracelet studded with various precious stones.
What was more, she had only ever been caught once, and upon giving the individual the most innocent of smiles she had stated that it was only a game and was quickly forgiven.
For very few found that they could remain angry with such a child of such angelic appearance.
Now, however, as she made their way through the street market she hoped she would be as lucky in this instance as well. For today would be the day in which she set their sights upon Sir Marcus Billingsly.
His house was like an open wound upon the countryside, perched high upon a hill that had once been home to many aspects of the local forest and was now leveled entirely to display his acreage.
Some of the magic in the land had died that day, Lucy knew, and with such thought in mind it made it far easier to do what she did next.
Creeping forth nearly on all fours she stuck to the shadows, her feet nearly silent upon the cobblestones, her eyes locked upon the man and, more precisely, his pockets.
He stood before a market stall, yelling something about the price of eggs, wondrously paying no attention to the child hidden by various crates and the corners of buildings, his gaze turned away from her.
Thus, with baited breath she stretched out slender fingers, her skin brushing ever so slightly against the satin lining of the man’s pocket, searching. And there! Something cold and metallic reached her grasp and she clasped onto it, a delighted sense of elation coursing through her as she pulled her hand away.
Then her fingers slipped.
With a sharp note of metal striking stone, the thing that she now saw was a pocket watch fell to the ground below and all at once she heard the yelling stop.
Her body froze in place, her heart seeming to be the only part of her that moved, beating wildly till she felt it might flutter out of her chest. Then all at once something within her screamed a primal message, and as Sir Edward drew in breath to continue his bellowing-- this time directed at her-- she snatched up the pocket watch and began to run.
She did not need to glance behind her to know that Sir Marcus was barreling on in tow. And while a fully grown man might easily have caught up to her, the strange luck that had always been on her side was with her that day. For Lucy veered suddenly to the left, leaving the streets behind entirely and running towards the trees that stood like dark sentries on the edge of the horizon.
For the forest, and all that dwelled within it, belonged to the children.
Across the stretch of field between the house and the trees she crashed, the shouting of Sir Marcus growing far more distant till at last it could scarcely be heard over the crackling of dried leaves beneath her feet and the howl of autumn wind over head. And at last, when his voice could not be heard at all, she allowed herself a pause to regain her breath.
For a moment, she simply stood amidst the quiet, listening for any whisper of the magic her grandmother had told her about.
And there! Upon the wind a new sound danced-- something other than the rustling of dead leaves or the distant call of a bird. A series of notes, high in pitch and merry in demeanor, rising and falling like laughter among the trees.
And there, nestled into the countryside in a flurry of colored tents who’s hues looked as though they had been plucked from the finest of gems, lay a sight that sent a shiver coursing down Lucy’s spine.
The Carnival.
It enticed her, pulling her closer till at last she could see the small troupes of people who entered through its silver gates, their lips pulled wide in smiles that did not quite reach their eyes. Yet among these she saw others whose expressions remained far worse; weeping, anger, dread. All manner of features that she felt one must not have when walking into a carnival.
Yet what had caught her attention then was not the sights that lay beyond such people, but rather the thing that stood directly before them; a dark haired young man with eyes as pale as fragments of the moon that seemed to shine in the half-light.
He was perhaps a decade older than herself, dressed in a waistcoat of black velvet, a masquerade mask in the likeness of a crow clutched in his right hand as if he had been meant to wear it yet couldn’t be bothered.
It was his expression, however, that unnerved her and brought rushing back all the terrible stories her grandmother had told her about the carnival; it was something dark and dreadful. Something she couldn’t quite read.
He frightened her, and though she could not have been certain, she felt as though he came from another world entirely.
She paused, her thoughts trailing off as the pale eyed boy looked suddenly up, his gaze seeming to lock with her own. Then, very slowly, she watched him put a finger to his lips. And in that moment, that was when everything had changed...
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