Holly Black - The Darkest Part of the Forest

“That’s what I’m going to tell them,” he said, and started out of the room and down the stairs.

“I’m going, too.” Hazel grabbed for her boots, not bothering to put them on. She turned to Ben. “You keep him here. You have to keep him here until we get back.”

She ran down the stairs, Severin’s voice following her. “I think I’d rather come. I tire of people talking about me as though I am still asleep.”

But by the time she got out to the lawn, she saw Jack starting her brother’s car. He must have known where Ben kept the spare key. She barely had time to get in on the passenger side before he pulled out onto the road.

The Gordon house—cream with white trim and no peeling paint anywhere—was a shingle-style colonial in perfect condition. It sat on a slight hill, overlooking smaller and shabbier houses. It was big, old, and lovingly restored—big enough to entertain half the town, which was good, because, from the look of it, half the town was inside.

Cars parked along the side of the driveway had dug tire trenches in Mr. Gordon’s grass. She’d seen Jack’s dad out there all through the summer, mowing and watering and seeding, the skin of his brow shining with sweat. No one crossed his front lawn, not the mailman, not Carter’s or Jack’s friends, not even the dog, who knew to stay in the backyard if he wanted to run. Muddy grooves slashing up all Mr. Gordon’s work unsettled Hazel. It was as though the rules had suddenly changed.

Jack’s hands curled into loose fists as he walked—faster and faster.

Yanking open the front door, he stepped into the hallway. Inside, all the woodwork was painted a crisp, shiny white. It gleamed in the sun-filled rooms where people stood around or sat on folding chairs, balancing Styrofoam cups of tea on their laps. Ottomans and chairs had clearly been brought from all over the house to accommodate the sheer number of people. No one seemed to have noticed their entrance.

Mrs. Pitts, who worked at the post office, was shaking her head at Jack’s mother. “Nia, it’s not as though anyone prefers things to be this way. We can’t help thinking that—well, what you did, it strained our relationship with the forest people. It’s not a coincidence that they got worse around the time you stole Jack from them.”

Was that true? Hazel had been a child herself then, barely born. When people said things used to be better, that the Folk had once been less bloodthirsty, she thought they’d been referring to decades back, not the short length of her life span.

When had things started to go bad?

“We need to put things right,” said the sheriff. “In the last month, something has been going on in the woods. Some of you might have heard about a few incidents that didn’t make it into the paper and probably everyone heard about what happened at the school. Amanda Watkins wasn’t the first person we found in a coma. There was a drifter kid near the edge of town a month back. The place was overgrown, vines so big they practically covered his car. And Brian Kenning two weeks later, while he was playing in the woods behind his family’s place, found curled up in a pile of leaves. They’re moving against us, the faeries, and if anyone hoped that that horned boy waking up meant he was going to save us, I think it’s clear by now that he’s not.”

Hazel thought of the Alderking’s promise—if she brought him Severin, things in town would go back to normal, would be as ever they were . As if that were a generous offer. She’d believed she knew how bad things were in Fairfold, she’d believed that she knew all its secrets. But it turned out she’d been far from right.

What would I do if you gave me leave? The little faerie had said. What would I do if you gave me leave? What wouldn’t I do?

“We can’t trust the boy,” said Mr. Schröder. “Even if they don’t want him back, I don’t want him here. It’s too dangerous.”

All through the summer she worked at Lucky’s, Hazel had liked Mr. Schröder. Now she hated him.

“Jack is friends with both of my kids,” Mom said. “I’ve known him all my life. Blaming him, just because he’s the only one of the Folk most of us have ever met, is wrong. He’s been raised here. He’s a citizen of Fairfold, just like the rest of us.”

Hazel felt a profound sense of relief that her mother had spoken, but she could tell the others weren’t convinced. They’d already decided.

“The Folk were good to us in Fairfold,” put in old Ms. Kirtling, standing underneath some Spanish-American War sabers, looking particularly indomitable. She’d been mayor many years ago and had, as much as anyone could recall, been decent at it. “We had an understanding. Something scuppered that.”

“They haven’t always been good to us ,” Jack’s mother said in a quelling tone. “Don’t you try to rewrite history just to make what you’re asking easier. No, it’s no coincidence they got worse around when Jack came to us—if you’ll recall, they didn’t used to take our children the way they took Carter.”

“Well, maybe good’s too strong a word,” Ms. Kirtling said. “But you can’t deny that living in this town is different from other places. And you can’t deny that you like it here, because you dragged that man of yours back from that Ivy League school instead of going off with him. If normal was what you wanted, then you’d be living in Chicago. And there would never have been a Jack anyway.”

Beside Hazel, Jack tensed.

“Now, you got your son back from Themselves and you even got to raise one of theirs for a good long while, despite having no claim on him except the poor judgment of his mother. But you can’t have thought you’d keep him forever.”

Hazel had seen the college brochures on the Gordon sideboard. His mother had absolutely been planning on forever. Looking around the room, Hazel identified teachers from school, shopkeepers, the parents of people she’d known her whole life, even a few kids. Most of them nodding, acting as if handing over Jack to the faeries was more than just the means of assuaging their fears.

After all, in Fairfold, the Folk only hurt tourists, so if you got hurt, you must be acting like a tourist, right? You must have done something wrong. Someone must have done something wrong. So long as there was someone else to blame, no one ever had to admit how powerless they were.

“It’s like when you find one of those adorable little buzzard babies,” said Lexie Carver, Franklin’s sister and one of the youngest women there. Her family was infamous in town for eating roadkill and—if rumor was to be believed—had a bit of troll in their distant bloodline. “You want to take it home and take care of it and feed it little bits of steak, but if you do, you’ll drive the hunting instinct right out. It won’t be able to survive on its own later, when it needs to. He doesn’t belong here, Nia. It’s not good for him. It’s not right.”

“Well, don’t you think it’s a little too late for that metaphor?” Carter said, unfolding himself from where he’d apparently been hiding on the stairs. “The damage is done. She already fed him the little bits of steak or whatever. What you’re really saying is that Jack won’t be able to survive if we send him back.”

“ Carter ,” Jack’s mother said, her tone indicating that he wasn’t supposed to have spoken.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, about to swing back to his spot on the stairs, then he startled, noticing Jack and Hazel standing in the hallway opposite him.

“We’ll take all you’ve said under advisement, but I hope you understand that this is a decision for the family and—” Jack’s mom began, but when she followed Carter’s gaze, her whole body went rigid. All around the room the buzz of conversation flared up and then went silent as townsfolk slowly realized that the person they’d been discussing was standing there, listening to every word.