The Lord of Autumn

The woman leaning against the nearest oak has hair the color of rosehips, braided with tiny silver bells, and freckles that are not freckles. They're gold. Actual gold, flecked across her nose and cheekbones like someone flicked a paintbrush at her.

She's grinning at you the way a cat grins at a mouse it hasn't decided whether to eat.

"Where's my brother?" you say.

"Oh, good, straight to business." She pushes off the tree. She's wearing a green coat that fits her like a secret and boots that make no sound on the leaves. "I'm Bramble. That's not all of it, so don't bother trying anything with it. And you're the sister. He said you'd come."

"Davey said?"

"No, darling." Bramble's grin widens. "He said."

She doesn't explain who he is. She just turns and walks into the burning trees, bells chiming, and after a second of standing alone in a forest that shouldn't exist, you follow.

The path is lined with lanterns made of hollowed gourds. A fox with a white-tipped tail watches you pass and says, quite clearly, "Huh." You don't look at it again.

"Rules," Bramble says over her shoulder, as if she's reading off a menu. "Don't eat anything unless he hands it to you. Don't drink anything unless he hands it to you. Don't tell anyone your whole name. And don't ever, ever thank anyone. Got it?"

"My grandmother used to tell me that."

"Smart grandmother."

"She's dead."

Bramble glances back, and for one second the grin goes. "Sorry," she says, and then, quickly, "That one's allowed. It's thank you that gets you."

The trees open.

You've seen pictures of the giant sequoias. This is bigger. The oak in the clearing is as wide as a barn, its bark ridged like the side of a mountain, and somebody has built a hall into it and around it, galleries and balconies and staircases of pale wood curling up into its branches like ivy. Light pours from a thousand windows. At its heart, where the trunk splits, a fire burns inside the hollow of the tree. It roars gold and red and doesn't blacken the wood at all.

"The Hearth Oak," Bramble says. "Welcome to the Hall of Leaves. Try not to stare. They like it too much."

They're everywhere. The fae. On the stairs, in the galleries, gathered around long tables heaped with apples and pears and bread and things you can't name. Velvet the color of pumpkins, gowns stitched from real leaves, crowns of wheat. Some have antlers. All of them are beautiful in a way that makes your teeth ache.

And all of them, as you walk in wearing your birthday jeans and your cardigan with the coffee stain on the cuff, go quiet.

Bramble leads you down the length of the hall. The silence follows you like a train.

At the far end, in front of the fire, is a throne.

It's woven from living branches, still growing, still sprouting red leaves. And on it, sideways, with one booted leg slung over the armrest, sits the most beautiful man you have ever seen.

You don't mean that as a compliment. It feels like an injury.

Copper-dark hair falls past his collar, a little wild, like he's been running his hands through it. His face is all edges: cheekbones, jaw, the faint sharp points of his ears. A crown of thin gold oak leaves sits crooked on his head, forgotten. He's wearing black velvet with the sleeves shoved up his forearms, and he's turning a red apple in long fingers, and when he finally lifts his eyes to you they are the color of honey held up to a fire.

He doesn't stand.

"Lord Faolan," Bramble says, bowing low. "The sister."

"So I see." His voice is low and warm and amused, like a cello someone is teasing. "You're in my house without an invitation. So was your brother. It runs in the family, apparently."

You plant your sneakers on his golden floor. "Give him back."

He bites the apple. Chews. Swallows. The whole court waits while he does it.

"I didn't say I wouldn't," he says. "I said he's mine. Those are different sentences, and you'd do well to learn the difference before you say anything else in this hall."

"He's not yours. He's a person."

"He's a person who walked into my ring." He tilts his head. "The ring is my door. Anyone who comes through it uninvited belongs to Autumn, by right, until Autumn decides otherwise. I'm Autumn. That's the whole of the law, and I didn't write it, but I do enjoy it."

A ripple of laughter runs through the court. You feel your face go hot.

"Then decide otherwise," you say.

"Why would I?"

"Because he's twenty-four years old and he makes the best hash browns in Vermont and he's all I have." It comes out louder than you mean it to. Your voice echoes off the living wood. "Because I'll stand here until you do."

Something shifts in his face. It isn't softness. It's interest, which is worse.

"You'll stand here," he repeats. "In the Hall of Leaves. In front of the Hearth. Until I give you what you want."

"Yes."

"You understand that in this court, a sentence like that is a kind of promise."

You hesitate. Bramble, beside you, very slightly shakes her head.

"I understand," you say carefully, "that I'm not leaving without him."

"Better," he murmurs. "Much better." He tosses the apple from one hand to the other. "What's your name?"

"Ava."

"And the rest of it?"

"That's all you get."

The smile that crosses his face is slow and real and devastating. Several people in the gallery sigh out loud. "Oh, I like you," he says. "That's going to be inconvenient."

He swings his leg down off the armrest and leans forward, elbows on his knees, the firelight sliding along his cheekbones.

"Here is the truth, since you'll find my kind can't tell you anything else. Your brother is unharmed. He's been fed nothing and promised nothing. He's sitting in a room upstairs being extremely rude to a hob. And I'll give him back to you." He lets that land. "For a price."

The relief hits so hard your knees go weak. Davey's alive. Davey's here. You open your mouth and the words are already rising, automatic, the way you'd say them to anyone who told you your brother was okay.

"Oh my God, thank y..."

Bramble's heel comes down on your foot like a hammer.

You choke on the rest of it. Your eyes water. The court makes a sound, a long collective hiss of disappointment, like a crowd watching a ball roll just past the hole.

Faolan Ashmere watches you swallow it. His eyes glitter.

"Close," he says softly. "Very close. Bramble, you'll ruin my evening."

"Somebody has to, my lord."

He laughs, and it's a real laugh, surprised out of him, and then he raises one hand.

A door opens in the side of the great tree. A tiny man with a beard like a thornbush and spectacles perched on his nose stomps through it, and behind him, held by the elbow by two tall fae in bronze, comes your brother.

He's in his T-shirt and jeans, no jacket. His hair is sticking up. There's a leaf caught in it. He's alive, he's whole, he's Davey, and you take one step toward him before he sees you.

His face drains white.

"Ava," he shouts, wrenching against the hands on his arms. "No. No, no, no. Go home! Don't make a deal with him! Whatever he offers you, don't you dare say yes!"