THE YEAR is 1877.
When Talia Rose steps into a fairy ring as a child, her mother, Tate Rose, an outcast witch, signs a deal with a dark fae to delay Talia's inevitable surrender until her eighteenth birthday. A deal that will allow Talia to be taken...
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THE LITTLE HOUSE WAS as much a sentiment as it was a solid structure.
A one-room cabin sprung from a well-worded wish; the four sturdy walls were rough-hewn, the bark scrapped loose in chunks that left gouges, like scars, some deep enough to notch a finger. Held together by thick, red mud, there were no elegant lines to look at, no educated curves or forethought symmetry aside from dull squareness. The front porch had shouldered its right side against too many wind storms, and the floor pitched that way, escorting mini dunes to the front door, only to have them shunted aside by the broom. A weary brick chimney sat center of the peaked, shingled roof, and four glass windows opened up on the canyon that shielded the house from prying eyes.
The canyon walls were a beautiful sight that exceeded the half-spun, undomesticated wooden house hidden at its sandy feet. The variegated pinks and reds, like slashes of textured paint on canvas, overwhelmed the Little House as they ascended. The flat tableland met the sky several hundred feet in the air, breeding vicious scrub brush that tumbled over the edge, dotting the confusion of rock with knotted, blood-tipped thorns.
At sunrise, the light dipped similarly into the narrow valley, crawling down the crevices and cliffs, pushing the nighttime shadows ahead of it like clock hands crossing their numerals until the canyon was a warm copper kettle. Colored bottles strung from the porch eaves in blue, green, and lavender hues caught the morning light, shedding rainbows on the dusty floorboards. The wind teased clunky and hollow music from the hanging glass, knocking them, big and small, together on ragged strings. And when the sun tucked itself behind the mesa, drawing in the dark blanket of night and trading with the moon, the bottles continued to sing—mumbling under a dome of bright stars.
These were the days, long and short.
Seasons in the canyon came and went, surreal. In the Summer, the heat bowed around the cabin, keeping the otherwise arid landscape tolerable. In the Winter, snow settled in drifts on the fringes, avoiding the yard and its outbuildings. Spring brought exponential growth, and in the Fall, apples appeared in root-woven baskets. The scent of cinnamon and baked fruit hovered above the chimney during the brittle weeks, leaving a sweet residue on the desert air come December. The gardens flourished without rain. Wild game arrived in processed slabs on the slanted porch at will. The well gave endlessly. And the livestock—what little was needed—lived sound and happy.
Held together more by veneration than penny nails, the Little House was a dichotomy, a fable, a was, and a wasn't, a fickle idea easily spoiled in the sun. The housing itself was conditional, the provisions a treat for a job well done, both subject to worth and whim. Life in the canyon was a knife edge, mattressed by cozy quilts and lacy curtains, and at the heart of it all...
