Grim Lovelies (Grim Lovelies 1)

“Witches don’t get deliveries.”

“How does she get toilet paper, then, genius? She’s imprisoned here by decree of the Royals.” Cricket shoved him, and he shoved her back.

Exasperated, Anouk couldn’t think about anything but the tick-tick-tick of the black-cat clock. She pushed her way between the two of them, stabbed her thumb against the intercom button, and rattled out with barely a breath, “Hello? My name is Anouk. I don’t have a last name. I guess if I did, it would be de Vittora. That’s who made me. Made us, I mean. There are three of us and we need your help because our mistress is dead and we don’t have much time. We’re desperate.”

She let go of the button.

Beau and Cricket had stopped fighting.

The intercom was silent.

Anouk stared at it, chewing her lip. “I thought we should be honest,” she said to them by way of explanation, but now that felt foolish.

“This is wrong,” Beau blurted out. Although the sun was setting, he was sweating badly, slapping at gnats. “I don’t like the feel of this place. If we do ever find our way in there, we might never find our way back out. We should leave while we still can.”

He tried to herd Anouk back to the car, but she shook her head. “Just wait.”

She stared at the intercom, willing someone to answer. She’d convinced them to come here, to spend precious hours on the drive. If t

hey were turned away, where else would they go?

Laughter, a little husky and a lot amused, came from a copse of trees on the far side of the car. The intercom was suddenly forgotten. Blades appeared in Cricket’s hands, drawn swiftly from the mysterious folds of her clothes. Anouk fumbled for her own knife, realizing too late she’d left it in the glove box.

A girl who looked around eighteen years old came out from the copse carrying hedge clippers in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She was lanky and all angles, like a marionette hinged with too many joints, and strawberry hair pulled into a knot. She wore ripped jeans and a white cashmere sweater two sizes too big for her.

She dropped the cigarette in a patch of mud on the road and stomped it out beneath a black combat boot.

“Doesn’t work,” she said, nodding toward the call box. “Can’t use that kind of technology here.”

“Told you,” Cricket growled at Beau.

The girl observed them coolly. “You’re the beasties everyone’s looking for. Every order of the Haute is searching for you, did you know that?”

Anouk bit her lip. “We didn’t kill anyone.”

“Oh, that.” The girl waved away any concern. “Mada Zola doesn’t care if you killed Vittora. All the better if you did. We got word a few hours ago that she was dead and we’ve been celebrating ever since.” She motioned to a wheelbarrow full of recycling that held more than a few empty champagne bottles.

“I’m Petra,” the girl said. “Mada Zola’s daughter.”

She held out a hand to shake, the hedge clippers dangling carelessly from her other hand. Her sweater looked expensive, but threads were plucked lose and snagged, and a few thorns were tangled messily in the seams. The slouchy collar exposed a bony bare shoulder.

None of them took her extended hand. Cricket eyed the girl’s boots enviously.

“A witch’s girl?” Anouk said. “There aren’t any witch’s girls. Only boys.”

Petra let her hand fall and raised a thin, unimpressed eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, for what it’s worth, I didn’t start out a girl.” She put down the hedge clippers, dumped the barrowful of recycling in a bin by the gravel drive, turned back around, and took a closer look at Anouk. “Is that a Faustine jacket?”

Anouk nodded.

Petra made an approving sound. She grabbed the clippers and headed toward the hedge wall, combat boots crunching over the gravel. “You all look terrified. Come on inside. I’ll make you some cocoa.”

Anouk glanced at Cricket and Beau, who both looked as bewildered as she felt.

“Didn’t start out a girl?” Anouk whispered.

“Transgender,” Cricket whispered back. “Like in Luc’s fairy tale.”

She meant “The Swan Mirror.” It had been Anouk’s favorite. She could almost hear his soft voice now: Once upon a time . . . It was about a king who possessed a mirror that showed the heart’s true desire. When the king’s youngest son peered into it, he saw his own face reflected but changed—?a young woman looked back, not a man. His heart’s true desire was to be a princess, but such a wish seemed impossible. His footman, the son of a seamstress, observed his master’s sorrow and offered to help him dress as a lady in the privacy of his chambers. Each night, the footman snuck into the laundry rooms to borrow dresses from palace courtesans, and he taught his master how to sit and stand and dance in the beautiful clothes; each morning, he returned the dresses. And though the prince treasured these secret evenings, he was not content with merely dressing the part. He sought out an enchantress, who told him that only true love’s kiss could grant his desire. But the prince had no true love and returned to the castle in despair. His footman overheard his sobs and boldly kissed his tears away. The prince realized that he’d had his true love before him every night, the man who’d danced with him in his borrowed dresses and filled his heart with delight. He kissed his true love and transformed into the young woman he’d seen in the mirror. You were my prince, the footman said. Now you are my princess. In any time, in any shape, you’ll always be my heart’s true desire—?I need no mirror to show me this.