Foul is Fair Read online

  Foul is Fair

  Book One of the Fair Folk Chronicles

  by Jeffrey Cook and Katherine Perkins

  Cover by Clarissa Yeo of Yocla Designs

  Text Copyright © 2015 Jeffrey Cook and Katherine Perkins

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either imaginary or used in a fictitious manner.

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedicated to the late Sir Terry Pratchett, whose blend of nonsense and indignant good sense resonated both with a teenage girl whose e-mail he answered and with a guy who appreciated a good Blues Brothers joke. He certainly warned us that no one said elves were nice.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Attention

  Chapter 2: Transitions

  Chapter 3: Painted Lady

  Chapter 4: Bad

  Chapter 5: Busker

  Chapter 6: Family Stuff

  Chapter 7: Seasons of Change

  Chapter 8: Mazes of Words … and Ice

  Chapter 9: Into Faerie

  Chapter 10: The Queen and her General

  Chapter 11: The Gray Lady

  Chapter 12: Dining Room Blitz

  Chapter 13: A Semi-Restless Night

  Chapter 14: Venturing into the Wilds

  Chapter 15: The Unfordable River

  Chapter 16: The Hounds

  Chapter 17: Reunion of a Sort

  Chapter 18: To the Gates

  Chapter 19: City in Irons

  Chapter 20: Boy out of Time

  Chapter 21: Plans of Attack

  Chapter 22: The Sword is Drawn

  Chapter 23: A Clash of Swords

  Chapter 24: Escape from Findias

  Chapter 25: Regrouping

  Chapter 26: Much Obliged

  Chapter 27: Flame War

  Chapter 28: Over Lunch

  Chapter 29: Heading Home

  Chapter 30: Family Dinner

  Chapter 31: Back to School

  Chapter 32: Pre-Halloween

  Chapter 33: Inspiration

  Chapter 34: Implementing the Plan

  Chapter 35: Charge for the Sword

  Chapter 36: Quest for the King

  Chapter 37: The Dance

  Chapter 38: Return of the King

  Chapter 39: Resolutions and Revelations

  Chapter 40: Private Performance

  Chapter 1: Attention

  Lani may have been saying something about “a matter of life and death,” but Megan couldn't hear her for sure over her medical timer. Four o'clock meant the orange pills, 40 mg total. The multicolored ones in the other bottle were for the morning. She took 80 mg of those with breakfast. That was a different timer, of course.

  “Really?” Lani asked. “You're going to take that right now?”

  “Need to.” Megan downed them with a whole glass of water, as directed.

  “You need medication, yeah. You were already on medication before. Then she kept switching doctors until one would... you were doing better! Your grades were already going up on the old dose. Remember?”

  Megan supposed she did remember. 40 mg of the multicolored pills in the morning, 40 in the afternoon. Lani would generally remind her during the first break in their afternoon study sessions. The second break had been for art projects and stuff. Yeah, that had happened. The grades had gone up a little.

  “It still was hard. Still had symptoms,” Megan said as she picked up a composition book with just one streak of orange marker across the cover.

  “It's going to be hard. That's a thing that happens! And doodling is not a sym—” Lani sighed. “I'm sorry. Can we talk?”

  “Can't we just get on the phone tonight?”

  “When your Mom's home?”

  “She doesn't mind a phone call as long as I'm in bed on time. So we can talk then like usual.” Megan put pencil to paper. '[(x-h)2/a2]—[(y-k)2/b2]=1'

  “'Usual' has gotten really relative lately, Megan. And this is urgent, and ...” Did Lani normally stop in the middle of sentences like that? Megan couldn't remember. '[(x-h)2/a2]—[(y-k)2/b2]=1,' she wrote.

  “There's some things you just aren't supposed to hear first over the phone,” Lani said.

  “I've got a lot to do,” Megan said. '[(x-h)2/a2]—[(y-k)2/b2]=1' “That conic sections stuff for math.” Math had never been Megan's strongest subject. She'd always understood the basic concepts, at least once they were repeated for her, but little mistakes crept early into her calculation and threw everything off. Best way to fix it, she now figured, was repetition. '[(x-h)2/a2]—[(y-k)2/b2]=1'

  The upcoming conic sections project was a big deal. She might get her first A+ outside art or music classes in a long time, if she stuck to the plan and didn't blow it. Not that she'd gotten any + in art class this semester, what with whatever problem Mrs. Chang had these days that made her keep asking Megan if something was wrong, but that was beside the point.

  Lani was still trying to talk. “But—” but Megan was already getting to work. ‘[(x-h)2/a2]—[(y-k)2/b2]=1'

  * * *

  Lani stood there for a moment, in a room silent except for pencil scratches. She looked at the bookshelf. She looked at the bottle of multicolored pills. She looked at the neat little row of composition books, all of their covers drenched in various colors of marker. Lani knew the margins of every page were filled with drawings of trees and butterflies, rough doodles and intricate patterns. Even Megan's posters followed the theme, hand-drawn landscapes and blown-up photographs decorated every wall. None of them were new. All of them were made before Ms. O'Reilly had found a doctor willing to 'finally fix it properly.'

  Lani also knew that the composition book Megan was working in now had doodles only on the first two pages. Then the pencils marks were solely class notes, and the markers were only for highlighting.

  Lani looked at the bottle of orange pills. She looked at Megan, whose right hand occasionally rose to brush the long, auburn curls out of her face while she worked. Megan copied the same set of equations over and over and over again with her left hand, trying to commit them to memory through sheer mechanical tenacity.

  Lani looked at the clock. There was still plenty of time before Ms. O'Reilly came home. There was technically plenty of time to tell Megan what she needed to know. Part of Lani felt sure that if this emergency had arisen sophomore year, they'd already have a plan right now. Granted, it would possibly have been three half-plans and two intricately illustrated visual aids, but it would have been better than standing here knowing nothing important she said would be heard or recognized.

  Lani left the room. She left the off-white little house on 47th. Her own place wasn't a long walk, though the steep hills of West Seattle made for good exercise and the early evening air helped to clear her head. She checked in with her mother and made sure her little brother was too occupied with his LEGOs to come spy on her, though she intended to listen for any calls of 'Makani Noa Kahale, get back in here this instant,' just in case. Then she headed into the backyard. She spent the last minutes of proper daylight walking around the multi-tiered garden, passing through the pair of wooden trellises and archways that decorated the carefully laid-out path, before settling into the gazebo in the middle of the rock garden, next to the small decorative fish pond. The limited lots of the neighborhood didn't leave a lot of room, but, true to her family's usual style, every inch was filled with something, and somehow, they'd made it all fit.

  No strangers were likely to peek into the backyard. If they did, they wouldn't be likely to look into the gazebo, as they'd be busy wondering why such fancy garden structures were built for a bunch of pumpkins grown with more enthusiasm than skill. If anyone had looked, however, they might have seen
the short, stocky sixteen-year-old sitting on a bench and staring as a crow flitted down from above and landed on the railing of the gazebo. The bird looked at her quizzically, while Lani paid more attention to the butterfly perched on the crow's head.

  “We're out of options. If we're going to tell her, she's going to have to listen. Do it tonight. The orange ones, right side of the bookshelf.”

  The wind rustled through the trees.

  “Just the orange ones. I'm not going to get in the way of her being a functional human being.”

  Lani looked at the crow as it started to take off again. “You know what I mean,” she answered what no stranger would have heard.

  Chapter 2: Transitions

  Megan woke to her mother's voice. “Why is the window open?” Megan unburied her head from under her pillow, squinting at the light filtering in as the curtains waved erratically.

  “Don't know,” she admitted.

  “Well, try to be more careful. The rain getting in would be a problem. Rise and shine. It's the bus today. I can't give you a ride because of event meetings with three potential clients. Let's go. We've had a good schedule going for weeks, so let's keep at it.”

  When her mother left the room, Megan finished working herself out of bed, moving to the mirror and untangling her mop of reddish curls. She normally wouldn't wish her mother's hair, long since trained to her severe buns, on anyone, but some days, it'd certainly make brushing easier. As soon as she had her hair tied back, she checked her pills. Five minutes left on the timer meant five minutes to get to breakfast. Megan figured it was a good thing she'd finally adopted her mother's habit of laying her clothes out the night before, like she was supposed to.

  The timer went off just as she got to the kitchen table. There was no getting out of eating. Megan poured her cereal, added milk, picked up the spoon, and took a breath. Bite by bite, she shoveled it into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day. For one thing, the multi-colored pills functioned better with food. She wouldn't need a timer at lunch, at least. There was the school bell to remind her to eat then.

  Megan made the bus stop just in time. Lani was already aboard from her earlier stop. She got up to let Megan have the window seat, as always. Megan took it with a “thanks,” then stared ahead for a moment before remembering to get out her composition book.

  “So...how is…everything?” Lani asked.

  “Okay. I want to work on the next type of conic-section graph for math.” The new formula was [(x-h)2/a2] + [(y-k)2/b2]=1. Megan would need to keep straight which shape was which. She'd been thrown off so many times before. She started writing.

  “Okay, that's...okay. Need any…help?”

  “No, thanks.”

  School happened. Megan took notes. Her latest art assignment had not done well, and Mrs. Chang looked sad handing it back. Megan didn't know why. Her butterfly pictures had always gotten good grades before. For this one, she'd drawn a dozen identical butterflies, in even rows of four. Megan had no idea what Mrs. Chang's problem was.

  Lani's remarks as Megan raised and lifted the fork through lunch seemed awkward. So did their conversation on the bus that afternoon. Was that Lani's Guilty Face? It was hard for Megan to tell anything with Lani anymore, but there'd be time to figure it out later. '[(x-h)2/a2] + [(y-k)2/b2]=1.'

  Lani didn't get off at Megan's stop this time. Megan let herself into the little off-white house and poured herself a glass of water. She tried to work on the formula. [(x-h)2/a2] + [(y-k)2/b2]=1.

  The timer went off. She took the orange pills with her glass of water. Something tasted strange, but Megan tried to get back to work. She got out the graph paper with the coordinate system, plotted out the horizontal curves, and properly labeled it with the appropriate equation, double checking three times. Then it was time for the vertical oval. In the course of drawing it, Megan became aware of the fact that she had a headache.

  She got up to get herself another glass of water. Having drunk it, she was putting the glass away, intending to get back to her desk, when her stomach growled. It almost took Megan a moment to remember what to do about something like that. It wasn't even suppertime, and she was hungry.

  Half an hour later, Megan was on the couch with her third banana in one hand and a 2001 photo album in the other. She looked at the last photograph pasted into it, above careful calligraphy that read "Sheila, Ric, and Megan."

  Sheila O'Reilly looked tired, certainly, but there was still something in that tired smile that Megan never tended to see in her mother.

  Megan was newly two, her face covered in ice cream. Holding her was a lithe-looking man with long hair, and somehow she always knew he had a voice like chocolate: dark, deep, and rich. Megan had always told herself that she was silly, that she'd been too young to properly remember now what his voice sounded like. But she knew it all the same.

  Her mother's car pulled into the driveway. Megan put the photo album back on its shelf and hurried back to her desk. What had she been doing? Right, she'd been labeling the graph. Somewhere.

  In the morning, which seemed to come so much sooner, with much less counting sheep than usual the night before, the headache was worse. It was a good thing her mother could drive her, because Megan was just slightly behind schedule. During the drive, her mother occasionally glanced anxiously at her, asking after the headache, which Megan had not been able to hide. Megan shrugged it off. She looked at the charcoal pantsuit and pinned up hair, thinking of the green jacket and long flowing hair in the photograph. She looked at the anxious expression and thought of the smile. She didn't say anything, though. Some things they'd long since learned not to talk about.

  School happened again, fortunately on a Friday. They were reminded that their assignment on graphing conic sections was due Monday. At lunch, Megan bit into her sandwich and almost, for a moment, savored the peanut butter goodness before clutching her head a little. Lani really did look worried. She looked worried on the bus ride home, too, whenever Megan looked up from the circle equations, which were (x-h)2+(y-k)2=r2. But Megan almost thought that part of Lani's worried expression looked almost... hopeful?

  She got home, let herself in, got out the graph paper, and went for the water. When the timer went off, she took her pills. The taste was strange again—citrus, she decided—but maybe it was something to do with the headache.

  She checked over the listed equations. She drew a small circle to the left of the leftmost horizontal curve and carefully labeled its equation. Then she drew another on the right of the rightmost curve. Then an additional pair on each side. And two diagonal line segments, jutting out from the top of the oval. Megan had to eventually stop herself, go back, and check all the equations for each component before writing them. Then she sat for a moment, looked at the spotted butterfly on the carefully labeled graph paper, and got out her colored pencils.

  Chapter 3: Painted Lady

  After supper came chores, starting with the dishes. Then her mother retired to the living room to read the paper while Megan wandered out to get the mail.

  She supposed, at first, that it was her headache, but the world seemed brighter or more vibrant than usual as she made her way out of the house. Halfway to the mailbox, she found her eyes drawn to the Halloween decorations displayed up and down the block. Some were just lonely little cutouts taped to the insides of windows or the outsides of doors. More than a few houses had pumpkins, carved with varying degrees of artistic talent, laid out on their porches. A couple of the houses had gone overboard with orange lights or lawn ornaments.

  She didn't focus on any one setup, instead finding her mind wandering and trying to place when all of these had gone up. That train of thought led to her noting her own house, the sole one not decorated in the least for the holiday. She still had a few of her own decorations from past years, but it struck her as wrong, somehow, to just put them up without doing something new. Nothing was occurring to her, and, of course, she had some homework left
. Maybe she could make something once she'd finished and checked the equations, though. She was having trouble remembering them.

  She wasn't sure quite how long she spent outside in the fading light of dusk, looking around at the displays or lack of display. Shaking off the trail of thoughts, and hoping her mother hadn't missed her yet, if she'd been too long, she made the rest of the trip to the mailbox.

  Sitting on the mailbox, canting its head at her quizzically, was a crow. They were common enough in the neighborhood, but none of them had ever let her approach quite so close before without flying off. This one, however, showed no signs of moving. As she took another step forward, a splash of color on the crow's back became more evident.

  Megan blinked a couple of times, sure she was seeing things. Despite the efforts to clear her head, she became certain that, yes, in fact, resting on the back of the crow's neck was a butterfly. Its wings were black, white, and orange, but had somehow been ripped at the edges to more jaggedly reveal the pink-and-brown underside.

  As she was simultaneously trying to remember the type of butterfly and thinking how sad it was that something had happened to its wings, she came around to the thought that she shouldn't be seeing what she was seeing. As that thought hit her, she also noted that the crow was looking at her like she was the strange one. A bird was silently evaluating her while wearing a—Painted Lady! That was it. She knew them. They were so common throughout the world that they were also called Cosmopolitan butterflies. Despite that, they didn't get up to Seattle very often, though she'd seen a few before.

  "You need to talk to Lani."

  Megan blinked and looked around. She heard the wind whispering through the trees, which was odd, because the branches weren't blowing.

  "Over here. And you need to talk to Lani."

  Another glance around, and Megan shifted her attention back towards the crow. As she did, the light started to dim as the sun slipped below the horizon.