The small white dish vanished into the deep pocket of the canvas jacket with a dry scrape of pottery against coarse fabric. Bri stayed frozen in the dark hallway, the cool air smelling of old cedar and damp floorboards while the afternoon heat pressed hard against the locked door. For ten years she had measured safety by the thickness of her deadbolts and the silence of her rooms, but the stranger's thumb was even now brushing against the rim of her grandmother's porcelain. He turned the saucer over once in his palm, his gray eyes scanning the dense leaves of the apple tree as if he could smell magic the way a hound smelled fox.
She should have bolted the inner door, drawn every curtain in the parlor, and waited for him to grow tired and leave her alone with her dust. Instead she stared at the gap beneath the threshold where a thin blade of golden sunlight cut across the floorboards right toward her shoes. A floorboard creaked beneath her stockinged foot, a tiny betrayal in the quiet house, and she clamped her teeth together to keep her breathing steady. Outside, the man let out a short, nasal hum that sounded like dry paper rubbing together.
He took a slow step backward toward the fence, his heavy boots crushing the dandelion heads she had spent all spring ignoring.
“Looking for something, mister?” she whispered to the empty air, her voice sounding small and brittle even to herself. He didn't answer, just tilted his head up toward the high branches with a sudden, twitchy sharpness. High above him, nestled in the dense crown of green apples and dusty leaves, a pair of marigold wings twitched against the bark. Bri watched through the distorted ripples of the old glass as Pip leaned out from a hidden fork, her tiny hands straining around the stem of a fallen, worm-eaten fruit. The fairy's face was flushed a furious, dusty pink, her mouth set in a hard, straight line that brooked no argument whatsoever.
With a fierce little grunt that drifted down through the leaves like the hum of an angry bumblebee, Pip let go of the stem. The rotten apple dropped straight as a plummet, hitting the center of the man's flat cap with a wet, heavy thud that sprayed brown pulp across his collar. He cursed, dropping his hand to the wrench at his belt while his head snapped up toward the branches.
“What the hell is that?” he roared, swatting furiously at his shoulder where the gooey remnants of the fruit had soaked through the canvas.
Pip vanished deeper into the foliage like a drop of water sinking into dry wool, leaving only a faint rustle of leaves behind. The stranger spun in a complete circle, his boots kicking up clods of sun-baked dirt and clover as he searched the lower branches with wild, bloodshot eyes. He grabbed a low-hanging limb and shook it with enough force to send a shower of green fruit pattering down onto the grass like large, hard raindrops. Bri felt her stomach tighten into a hard, cold knot as she watched him reach up and grab handfuls of leaves, tearing them away to expose the empty hollows.
He wasn't just a casual trespasser looking for scrap metal or a lost calf; he had the methodical, unhurried cruelty of a man used to hunting things that couldn't fight back. She thought of the tiny saucer tucked into his coat pocket and the way his fingers had stroked the rim with greedy familiarity. If he found Pip hiding in the upper forks, there would be no second chance, no quiet corner of the yard left to hide in.
She let go of the doorknob, her palm damp against the brass, and took two steps forward toward the bright glare of the kitchen.
The kitchen was hotter than the hall, smelling strongly of the jar of strawberry preserves still open on the counter. Bri reached for the window latch, her fingers slipping twice against the rusted iron before it finally gave way with a sharp, protesting screech. She pushed the sash upward, letting the heavy scent of sun-warmed grass and horse manure rush into the room to chase away the smell of stagnant water and old wool. Outside, the stranger was swearing loudly, his voice echoing off the high wooden fences as he kicked the base of the apple tree with the heel of his boot.
“Come on out, you little pest,” he muttered, his hand reaching into his pocket again to pull out a thick leather strap with a heavy brass buckle. Bri didn't think about the judgment of the town, or the way the villagers used to stare whenever she walked past the church green with her head down. She hoisted herself up onto the wide wooden sill, scraping her hip against the peeling white paint as she squeezed her shoulders through the narrow opening. Her bare feet touched the warm, dry clover of the backyard, the sensation so sharp and startling that she nearly lost her balance.
The man spun around at the sound of her clothes rustling against the siding, his gray eyes widening in genuine surprise as he took in her pale skin and tangled hair.