Fiona was out in the dawn-lit, dew-decked meadow, calling her cow for the morning milking, when the fairy queen stepped from the forest. She wore spring waters and budding leaves, with her hair tightly curled upon her head and dotted through with delicate, pale flowers. She strode across the meadow towards Fiona, wings folded, a breeze blowing around her. The flowers and grasses bent and swayed to let her pass. The morning sun rose higher with each step she took, wreathing her in gold.

Fiona’s blood ran cold.

A thousand tales told by the elders around the winter fires sparked in her mind: the fairies lured maidens to their deaths, they kept them as servants, they turned them into stone. Fiona knew she should run.

But she couldn’t move.

She lifted a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the piercing sun, wanting to see the fairy queen better. The fae’s beauty bewitched Fiona more than any spell could. Her heartbeat quickened in her chest and her blood thawed, running hot and right to her cheeks.

The fairy drew up in front of her, tall as a sapling with a year’s growth. Stunning. She didn’t look much older than Fiona, who was almost twenty.

“Have you seen a cat?” Her voice was deep and honeyed, with magic layered below the surface. And annoyance just below that.

“A… Cat?”

“Yes.” She crossed her arms and her dragonfly wings flicked in and out. Fiona’s gaze caught on her eyes, the deep brown of late autumn leaves damp from rain.

“What kind of cat?” Fiona finally managed to ask. There were lots of cats in the village, but she couldn’t imagine the fairy looking for any of those.

“A bad cat.”

“Any proper cat is a bad cat.”

The fairy laughed. “What’s your name?”

Fiona narrowed her eyes. “Tell me your name first.”

“Do you really think—” The fairy cocked her head to the side. “—that if I wanted to steal you away from here, I couldn’t come up with a better line than ‘have you seen a cat’? You can call me Zaubi, though.”

“I’m Fiona.” Fiona did a small curtsy, hoping Zaubi didn’t notice the flush on her cheeks. “Perhaps I could help look for your cat?”

“It’s not my cat. It’s one of Freyja’s damned ferals—Bee, she’s calling herself today. I was supposed to be watching Bee while Freyja’s looking for her husband.” Zaubi’s wings flicked.

“So you’re responsible for the cat?”

Her wings folded. “Yes.”

“And you’ve lost the cat?”

A heavy breath. “Yes.”

“Let me help you.” The words slipped out of Fiona, and she immediately wished she could swallow them back. No one offered to help fairies. They took whatever—

Zaubi smiled, warm as the rising summer day. “I’d really appreciate that.”

Before Fiona could convince herself that this was a terrible idea and that she was definitely getting kidnapped and taken away to fairyland, she found herself nodding and mentally running through all the places in the village that a cat might hide. “We have a number of cats hanging around, they keep the rats down. Maybe Bee fell in with them? I’ll go check behind the butcher’s, then down by the river. If all else fails, I’ll check the midden.”

Zaubi lifted her chin. “I’ll come, too.”

The fairy’s body blurred and her form changed. The sparkling dew dress shortened, turning into a linen shift. Her stature diminished and she became human. The flowers tucked into her hair no longer shone with enchanted starlight. She was still absolutely gorgeous, though. Fiona balled her hands into fists, fighting off the sudden image of putting her arm around Zaubi’s waist and brushing the red diamond patterned belt now wrapped there.

“And now for the finishing touch.” Zaubi plucked a strand of hair from Fiona’s head.

“Ouch!”

The fairy touched Fiona’s arm. A feeling like cold stream water rippled through Fiona’s blood, dulling the sharp pain. “I’m sorry.”

“What was that for?” Fiona asked.

Zaubi wrapped the strand of hair around her finger. “A charm. Now everyone in the village will think they know me.”

Fiona nodded. A small voice in her mind mentioning that if everyone thought Zaubi lived there, then Zaubi didn’t need to leave the moment they found her cat. She could stay for the midsummer’s dance coming up—Fiona shook the thoughts away, reminding herself that fairies were tricksters, at best. Even when they weren’t at their worst, they weren’t date material.

Off they went, cat hunting.

The cat wasn’t behind the butcher’s, but he told them to check down at the riverbank since the village cats sometimes clustered there, hoping for scraps from the daily fishers. Zaubi smiled and thanked him graciously.

Fiona licked her lips, toying with the thought of asking Zaubi if she wanted to take a break. They could sit and talk and discuss… Cats. Maybe something else if Fiona could turn the subject…

“To the river?” Zaubi asked.

“The river,” Fiona found herself saying, before she could say anything else.

It was for the best. Fairies were dangerous. No one with a lick of self-preservation would spend their morning trying to figure out how to flirt with one. Fiona motioned Zaubi to the path leading out of the village and towards the river.

“So what’s the party for?”

“Huh?”

“I noticed the pigs hanging in the butcher’s. Seems like a lot for day-to-day life in a small village like this.”

Fiona nodded. “Our midsummer festival starts in two days.”

Zaubi ran her hand along the yellow flowers bobbing along the river path. “That sounds like fun.”

I looked up from my green tea and she was there, standing in the doorway of Marek’s Café with long fair hair plastered to her head by the rain. A puddle formed beneath the hem of her dripping coat as she folded her futile umbrella. Her eyes flickered around the dim light of the café searching, searching.

You might say I was surprised. It isn’t often the woman of your dreams walks into your life.

I mean that literally, I’d never seen her before but I’d been dreaming about her for two weeks. I knew that face, knew how the corners of her mouth creased when she smiled, how she pulled her fingers through her hair and tucked it behind her ears when it fell before her eyes.

She took two paces into the café, pulled the fingers of her left hand through her dripping hair and tucked it behind her ear. Her face turned towards me in the shadowy alcove at the back. Two seconds, then she marched up and stood facing down at me over the table.

“You’re Erica Fallon.”

I nodded. She pulled out the chair and sat. Marek appeared at her shoulder. “Espresso,” she said without looking up. “They say you’re good at finding people.” Her gaze held me with an intensity that might have been intimidating, from anyone else.

I steadied my breathing. “Who have you lost?”

“My brother.”

“When did you last see him.”

“Fifty-seven, but I don’t remember it.”

“Twenty-three years ago.” The sea was where it was supposed to be, the bio-war was at its height. “You must have been very young.”

“They thought six when they found me.”

Marek ghosted silently to the table and placed the small cup before her.

“CM-2057-phi-kappa?” I tapped my phone to pay.

She grimaced and nodded. That was one of the nastier of the weapons deployed in the war, went straight to the brain. Ninety-eight percent of infected adults died. Survivors, mostly kids, suffered total amnesia.

“They found me on a street corner. No idea where I came from, so they gave me a name and put me in an orphanage.”

“So what is it?”

“What?”

“Your name.”

The briefest of smiles flashed across her face, creasing the corners of her mouth. “Rosemary Baker.”

That jarred. It didn’t sound right. “And your brother was with you?”

“No.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

Her fingers stroked the handle of her cup. “Not much. He’s about six years older than me.”

“Does he have a name?”

She sipped her espresso. “Everything else I know is… unreliable, more likely to mislead you, like it has me.”

A brother she couldn’t remember, no evidence he ever existed. Her story was like something from a spin dream.

“I know that look,” she said. “You have a healthy scepticism, Erica. But put aside your preconceptions.” She took out her phone and flipped me five hundred picos. A generous fee. “That’s for trying. Double if you succeed.” She downed the remainder of her coffee.

Dad takes you to the Tree when you turn twelve years old.

“We’re leaving,” he says as he wakes you, a shadow of a man standing tall over your bed. The world is gray outside your window; the air is frigid, unpleasant. He does not speak as you untangle yourself from your blankets, eyes heavy with sleep. He does not say happy birthday.

“It’s cold,” you try. You are barefoot, dressed only in plaid pajama pants and an off-yellow shirt, but he does not let you change. He only stares—dark eyes, dark, graying hair—before he turns and walks away.

There’s nothing to do but follow.

Down the stairs, past family photos of that all-American dream. A mother with laugh lines, a father with a strong, angular face. Two little boys, glowing and laughing with youth, next to a dog with floppy ears. Turn the corner. You drift through the kitchen, past threadbare, empty sofas and a fireplace, unlit.

The front door is open when you get there, and the wind bites your skin. Dad does not shiver. He is already grabbing the keys to the truck, breezing out the door. The swing hung from the tree in your yard sways piteously back and forth. Wood creaks. Leaves ripple.

You spare a glance back at your home–dim and foreign and weary. Your teeth chatter, and there is something coiled and heavy in your gut. Something that yells at you to turn back, to run, to burrow under blankets and away from the chill. But you are twelve years old, now, you remind yourself. You’re not a little boy anymore.

Dad starts the engine; it sputters before roaring to life. You hurry toward him. The darkness prickles at the back of your neck, and the pavement digs harshly into your bare feet. You shake, as you pull on the handle and haul yourself in.

The truck’s moving before you even shut the door.

Dad does not turn on the radio. Dad does not say anything–still does not say happy birthday–as he peels out down the road. Words are stuck in your throat. The silence weighs down on your shoulders, makes you curl in on yourself, sinking into the musty leather of the seat. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear your mother’s laugh in the rattle of the exhaust system. You can almost see your younger brother’s gap-toothed grin, feel his sticky fingers on your face.

The truck jerks to a stop, and Dad grabs your arm. “Come on,” he says, and you follow.

You always follow, and so you step out, blink your eyes open, and–

There’s the Tree.

It is a goliath of wood, a monster of sickly, brittle leaves. The smell of decay is heavy in the air, and flies buzz gleefully around its trunk. One tries to get in your mouth. Gagging, you stumble back, and something squishes underfoot.

You look down. There is a heart on the ground.

There is a heart on the ground, with twine hooked in its muscle–with red staining the grass. You are frozen, wordless, and as you tear your eyes away, the Tree greets you again. Only this time, you can see the shapes hanging from its boughs, swaying gently with the wind. Dozens, hundreds of hearts.

“Family tradition,” Dad finally says. “My father took me here when I turned twelve. His father took him. On and on–all the men in our family, far back as anyone can remember.”

Your breathing is coming out too fast, too harsh. Blood is soaking into your sock.

“You’re scared,” Dad notes. “But you won’t be. You’re not a little boy anymore.”

Dad unzips his jacket, pulls the collar of his shirt down. And right over his chest, is a jagged, ugly scar–puckered and red. A missing piece, as he pulls out a piece of twine from his pocket.

He clamps a hand on your shoulder and smiles. “It’s time to become a man.”

Lynne Inouye is a young, queer fiction writer who lives in Minnesota. Her work has been previously published in Blue Marble Review and Pyre Magazine, and you can find her on Twitter @liinouye.

The naked man, washed up from the sea, watched Misaki from a crouch on the snow-covered shore. In the gray light of early evening, she thought he looked like Michelangelo’s David, carved from obsidian.

Misaki’s breath steamed from her hike down the rocky shore to the harbor. Beside her, her dog growled.

The man’s breath didn’t frost in the air. His naked black limbs didn’t tremble in the cold wind off the sea. Misaki’s hope of companionship withered.

And Man created android in his own image.

Behind him in the harbor, seawater surged over drowned piers. The derelict remains of the island’s defense platform were no more than a breakwater now. Waves crashed against the slagged framework, revealing no hint of its iceberg-like bulk in the depths.

“Calm, Akira,” whispered Misaki, her gloved hand trembling on the dog’s back. She felt the rumble of Akira’s growl, but wind and surf snatched away the sound.

The android’s eyes held hers. She bowed, a useless gesture. How had he gotten here? The only boats were her yellow kayak, dragged up on the harbor shore, and storm-smashed boats on the rocks behind her. She couldn’t outrun him.

Her dog slipped free, advancing toward him, fangs bared.

“Akira!”

She caught up, pulled off her glove, and grabbed a handful of dark fur. She forced Akira to sit, kneeling beside him in the snow.

The android was only a few arms lengths away. His head tilted slightly, studying the dog, not Misaki. Above high cheekbones, the android’s eyes had internal facets like liquid origami. Snowflakes danced over his dark skin without melting. The skin had no cuts, no bruises, no abrasions of any kind. Misaki’s long hair was going prematurely gray, and she had more scars than she could count. Most were from the past two years, since the Singularity had left her alone on the island.

“Sorry for my dog,” she said. Even as she said it, she realized how futile that was. He had as much in common with her as a submarine had with a shrimp. And was just as dangerous.

“Dog,” he repeated, mimicking her voice exactly.

She shuddered, remembering deceptions during the war. “Yes, this island is our home.”

Maybe he came from the west and only knew Russian. No, he must be networked, fluent in every language. And he certainly wasn’t here by accident. She had a good idea why: the island’s lighthouse. That didn’t bode well.

“Why are you here?” She kneaded her hand in the nape of Akira’s neck, trying to calm him and herself.

The android turned his attention back to her.

Instantly she regretted speaking. He was handsome and powerfully built, a foot taller than her. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry.

She stood, pulling Akira back, fighting the instinct to run.

He stood as well.

“We won’t bother you,” she said, trying to sound calm.

“You,” he echoed.

An accusation or a question?

“Misaki. And my dog, Akira.” She wondered if he’d been damaged by the recent storm. Could he be offline? A disconnected fragment of the AI hive mind?

She retreated up the shore, head turned to watch him. Her pulse raced as she dragged Akira by the scruff of his neck.

The android followed like a wolf stalking stragglers of a herd. Akira’s head was turned like Misaka’s, growling. Misaki breathed shallow and fast. She fervently wished she hadn’t come down to the shore. But it had been over two years since the Singularity. She’d grown complacent. What could she do now? It wasn’t safe to lead him to her cottage, but was anyplace safe? She couldn’t outrun him, couldn’t hide. Her only hope was that he’d think she was like the birds on the shore: harmless wildlife. She tried not to think about the weapon in the lighthouse, afraid her body language would give her away. The weapon was as likely to get her killed as save her. She’d be like a garter snake attacking a mongoose.

She walked up the shore stooped over, afraid to release her grip on Akira to put her glove back on. The wind was cold on the back of her hand, in contrast to her fingers warm in his long fur. She sang to him, voice threatening to crack. She didn’t dare let go, or the fool dog would get himself killed. The path rose toward her cottage overlooking the harbor.

She’d moved in after the last refugee boats had left and the island was abandoned. At the time she’d been too sick to leave. Afterwards she’d been alone until she found two other left-behinds: Akira and a starving cat, Mao.

And now the android.

She glanced behind. He still followed but wasn’t looking at her. His focus was on the houses up the hill. Most were storm-damaged. After two years, hers was the only one in good shape. She’d replaced windows blown out by storms, cannibalizing other houses. It was a good cottage. It was her cottage. She cursed the android, working swear words into the song she sang Akira.

When she reached the door to her cottage, she unlatched it, pushing Akira inside. She considered darting in after him and locking the door. Pointless. The android could rip it off its hinges as easily as she could close it.

She stepped inside. He followed, and she shivered at the danger of this naked man in her refuge.

The cottage was a single level: one main room, two smaller ones and a bathroom. She had running water from a gravity tank and a system of pipes she’d built. There was a fire pit in the center of the main room, with a wide-flanged stove pipe suspended above.

Mao came over, purring against her leg. Unlike Akira, he didn’t recognize the android as a threat.

“Mao,” she explained. “My cat.”

“My cat,” said the android in her voice.

She could lead him out now, leaving Akira and Mao here. Lure the android to the lighthouse where the weapon was. Destroy him. But if he defeated her, what would happen to Akira and Mao? She wasn’t brave enough. Here, she had the comfort of her companions. Perhaps the android would lose interest and leave.

Mao, still rubbing against her, meowed.

“Are we starving, poor thing?” Her voice shook. She rubbed under the cat’s chin.

She glanced at the android. Behind him, the windows looked out on the harbor. The light had faded enough that she could just make out the beam from the lighthouse sweeping out to sea.

Akira settled onto his bed by the fire pit, watching warily.

“I make a fire every night,” Misaki said to the android. She wondered if he understood anything. Was talking to it good or bad? “I found a wood stove in another house but couldn’t loosen the bolts to take it. An open fire isn’t very efficient. You know all about that, don’t you? Efficiency.”

She watched his handsome face and those liquid origami eyes that she couldn’t read, wishing he were human: kind and gentle. Not a killing machine. She turned away, kneeling by the fire pit. Her shoulders tensed, knowing he was behind her. She brushed the old ashes aside and picked up her knife and a stick, whittling a pile of wood shavings.

While royal blood soaked into the whitewashed planks of the gallows, I ran.

I didn’t bother to pack up my cart. Leaving it in the palace courtyard meant losing my good shovel, ten sacks of fertilizer, and the half dozen mulberry sprouts I’d hauled all the way up here. But hanging around in the aftermath of an assassination would be much worse for me in the long run.

I hurried towards the gate as quick as my weak knees and heavy work boots would allow, waiting to hear cries of “Stop, Master Acton!” or “Seize that gardener!” from behind me. Luckily, the red-cloaked guards hadn’t noticed my exit. Even at the best of times, a worker from the lower boroughs wasn’t worth a second glance from them or any other Perch-dwellers. Now, with the sovereigns dying at their feet, I might as well have been invisible.

Fine by me.

Before I slipped out of the courtyard, I chanced a look back. There, King Phillipe and Crown Prince Rillin Verling were splayed out in the hooked claw shadow of the gallows. Crossbow bolts stuck out from their bodies, and my stomach twisted. Grief and confusion won out over my desire to run. Were they dead? Was the assailant still here? Was the princess the next target?

I scanned the parapets lining the courtyard, searching for unseen villains. Nothing.

Then, a flash of movement to my right, a shadow disappearing into an alley. Was it the killer? Maybe. If I took the main street, I could head them off at the intersection, tackle them, bring them before the Royal Guard, and–

Stop.

I gripped the cold metal of the courtyard gates. I didn’t know who wanted to murder the two most important men in the city, but it wasn’t my responsibility to find out, much less track them down. This wasn’t my world anymore. I’d left the upper borough years ago and returned today for a job. That’s it. And I wasn’t even staying to finish it. Whatever came of this morning, it didn’t concern me. I needed to cut my losses and let the shrikes up here deal with it.

I turned my back on the courtyard and started the long journey down from the Perch.

I find hidden worlds everywhere. Tiny ones in tea cups, spelled out in bloated leaves to weave fortunes. Quiet ones under bridges, whispering riddles and bubbling bargains. Some I discover beneath the thunder of crashing waves, seeping into porous cliff faces. Others are plain as day, staring back at me through reflective glass.

The only one I wanted to find was the one that took you away.

No matter how many worlds I discovered, that one eluded me.

I paced around the ancient oak in rings, just as mom taught me, murmuring the ‘right’ words to coax out hidden depths within the brittle bark. My eyes traced the rotten crack splitting the trunk in a long, vertical fissure. I could imagine stepping through.

Mom had warned us not to enter other worlds. Gazing was safe, but trespasses rarely ended well.

My ringed steps tightened their circuit around the oak, heart fluttering in my chest as browned leaves crunched to dust under my toes. This was surely the world you inhabited now. I whispered the final phrase, hand grazing the rough trunk, thumb curling just inside the deep crack.

Whispers deep within the tree answered back; far deeper than a tree ought to be.

Holding my breath as if ready to plunge into the ocean, I stuck my head into the fissure.

A shiver ran down my spine as if someone dumped a bucket of warm water on my head. Stars rained down like flakes of snow, sparkling tails hissing as they passed my ears. I couldn’t tell if I was too big for this world, or if the stars were just that small.

A golden carp swam by as if the black void were nothing but ink in water. Its tail trailed streams of gold like honey, and a strange buzzing filled the air. The longer I stayed, the stronger the buzzing grew. It grew and grew until the fish itself seemed to vibrate in my wavering vision, my eyes watering as I strained to see more in this world of ink and fallen stars.

Something hot leaked from my eyes, but it was too thick to be tears. The popping in my brain turned to crackling like it was cooking.

Strong hands on my shoulders yanked me out, and I gasped and sputtered, coming up for air I hadn’t realized I needed. Still, my heart beat more from exhilaration than panic.

“What are you doing?”

My brother’s deep voice was laced with more than irritation. Now that you’re gone, there’s always a touch of fear in Samuel’s tone.

“Looking for dad,” I said.

“You aren’t going to find him in a tree.” Samuel reached out to wipe my cheeks. His hands came away red. “You were supposed to be helping me check the traps.” He was trying to hide that he was worried, as if I wouldn’t see. I always let him think he succeeded.

“Better to look there than nowhere,” I muttered.

“One day, you’re going to peek in a crack and fall straight through the center of the world.”

Anger prickled at the back of my scalp, white-hot and indignant. Samuel didn’t have the right to lecture me. He gave up looking into other worlds when you left. I didn’t understand why; he was better than me at finding hidden places, other realms. If I had his help, I’d find you in no time. I think he likes being in charge now.

After promising to do something productive with my day, I climbed our cabin’s steps as Samuel trudged back out into the woods with his bow in hand, quiver slung over his shoulder. Your flannel shirt hung on a nail just inside the door, breeze flapping the red and black checkered sleeve in greeting. I took it down and pulled it on, hugging myself and inhaling pine and cedar, imagining it was your arms embracing me.

The pockets were deep enough to use for pine nut picking. There was a section of the woods to the west where I usually found a decent amount. The fact that the disappearing hut was in that direction was just a happy coincidence.

Months had bled by and I had already searched all the worlds we used to peek into together. None of them held your buttery laugh or your strong, broad frame. I tried to swallow the burning in my throat. The emptiness in my chest cavity grew more cavernous by the day and I feared examining it too closely. Samuel called it denial.

Maybe Nona would have some advice.