The Book of Faeyore

The Book of Faeyore

Published by THE EDGE

THE EDGE is an imprint of Sparklesoup Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Kailin Gow

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Do NOT post on websites or share this book without permission from copyright holder. We take piracy seriously.

All characters and storyline is an invention from Kailin Gow. Any resemblance to people alive or dead is purely coincidence.

For information, please contact:

THE EDGE at Sparklesoup

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Irvine, CA 92604

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First Edition.

To all the authors who came before me, who made me believe in worlds beyond our own.

            Thank you for purchasing The Book of Faeyore.   This is the prequel novella to the Bitter Frost Series and takes place when Breena Malloy is twelve, about five years before Bitter Frost begins and at the same time as The Fairy Rose Chronicles, a Prequel Frost Series featuring Rose.

I wrote The Book of Faeyore as a response to readers’ wishes to see more of Breena before her adventures begin in Feyland. I hope you enjoy seeing Breena and Logan at twelve, and later at age sixteen in Bitter Frost. 

I appreciate hearing from you and welcome your comments at info (at) theEDGEbooks (dot) com.

Sincerely,

Kailin Gow

         
I
was twelve the first time the book spoke to me. I was too young to know what I know now – about the secrets of Feyland, about its beauty and its power. I had not yet learned about the Twin Suns that dazzled the sky with their brightness, nor about the gleaming orange-blossoms that perfumed the gardens of the Summer Palace, nor about the wolf-blue eyes of an arctic Prince whose heart was as warm as his lips were cold. But somehow, even then, I could feel Feyland in my bones. I could sense it in my blood. I didn’t belong in Gregory, Oregon. I didn’t belong in a world of shopping centers and giggling high school girls, of grey skies and the unremitting dullness of small-town life. I had always felt like an alien among my own people – the girls at school, the well-intentioned shopkeepers always asking me why I didn’t smile more. I had always felt as if I were destined for something more, something different. Something not of this world.

          I had only two respites in those days. The first was to walk with my best friend Logan through the back woods near our houses, feeling the crisp pine needles crunch beneath our heels. There was something about those woods that felt different – almost magical – as if the reality that we shared in those idyllic afternoons was somehow stronger,
truer
than the life we spent in Gregory. The second respite – and often the more easily accessible one, given Gregory’s notorious weather – was books.

          My mother worked for a children’s publishing house, designing cover illustrations for fairy tales. As a child, I could think of no more glorious occupation. I would bury myself for hours in her gorgeous, brilliant designs – closing my eyes and pretending that
I
was the beautiful fairy princess on the cover of
The Swan Princess
, or that
I
was the noble knight my mother had depicted as saving Rapunzel from her wicked tower. The images I saw in my mother’s books sparked my fancy and haunted my dreams; night after night I dreamed of a beautiful country, of a far-off land, where all the kindling of my imagination gave rise to a burning fire of passion and adventure. All throughout my childhood, I looked forward to bedtime – I never resented it or protested the way other children did – for I knew that my dream-life was more thrilling, more filled with spectacle and excitement, than my waking one. Dreams were where I could be most myself. Where I could be a fairy princess, after all.

          I dreamed of a library in a great palace – a library that contained more books of fairy tales than I could read even in a thousand lifetimes. I dreamed of a grand ballroom where I could dance the fairy waltz with a handsome prince. I dreamed of towers higher than skyscrapers and horses with enormous wings. I dreamed of magic.

          Sometimes I dreamed of my father. I didn’t know who he was, of course – my mother and I had always been a solitary pair, even if she hadn’t quite gotten around to explaining the concept of “one night stands” to my twelve year old self – but I liked to imagine that he was a fairy king, like the fairy kings in my stories. I liked to imagine that he was watching over me from some distance and mysterious place – his gaze powerful but kind.

          I liked to dream of him.

          I didn’t know then, of course, that my dreams were inspired by far more than my mother’s stories – or that even my mother’s drawings were inspired by a real place, a place of such great majesty that no mere concoction of pen and paper could even begin to capture its fantastic power. But I knew that there was something special about my mother’s books. I hungered for each new instalment as it came out – often sneaking into my mother’s room to take a look at the galley copies she was sent, pre-empting her.

          But on that cold October day, when I was twelve years old and still not a day too old for fairy tales, I found something more than an ordinary book.

          It was sitting on my mother’s table – a heavy, ponderous tome, with a leather cover that looked far older than the shiny hardbacks my mother’s company usually put out. I tiptoed nearer, craning my neck to see, hoping that my babysitter Annie wouldn’t catch me rummaging through my mother’s things.
Why did that book look so old?
Had my mother designed it to look like that? But when I came closer, I could smell the musty age of the book from halfway across the room. It wasn’t a new edition, that was for sure. It had dark burgundy binding with gold trim that shone brightly, seeming to draw me closer. Its glint beckoned me forward. I felt a sudden chill – almost as if a wind had passed over me. I stopped and looked up, confused.

          But the book was still sitting there, just as it had done moments before. Perhaps it was just cold in here. But something still seemed strange…

          I told myself not to be so silly – my mother had all kinds of books in her room; why should this one be any different? I shook the fear from my feet and tiptoed even closer, reaching out to touch the crinkled spine…

          “Faeyore!”

          I jumped back in shock. The book had spoken, a deep, unearthly voice rising up from the depths of the pages. I clapped a hand over my mouth before I let myself scream. I wouldn’t want Annie to find me up here. I turned and ran out of the room as quickly as I could.

          “Faeyore!” The book had said. But – talking books? I looked back at my mother’s room with trepidation.
Books can’t talk, Breena! You’re being silly.
But I couldn’t deny that I’d definitely heard it – a voice that was nothing like a human voice, a rumbling, powerful voice. Full of magic.

          I ran downstairs to find Annie in the process of closing the front door. “Bye!” she called out, a blush and a giggle on her face. She turned bright red as soon as she saw me.          “Package came,” she explained – although the definite embarrassment on her face suggested it was the carrier, rather than the package, that so interested her. Annie was fifteen, who helped watch me when my mother worked, although she was only three years older, and had just discovered that boys were inherently exciting; the slightest hint of romance thrilled her. “Kind of  funny-looking, isn’t it?” She handed it to me. “Well, you like that kind of thing.”

          It was wrapped not in the nice, neat cardboard packaging my mother’s galleys came in, but rather in what looked like enormous banana leaves, tied together with pliable twigs.

          “You like nature, don’t you, Breena?” Annie laughed and tweaked me lightly on the nose. She’d known me since I was four years old and occasionally baby sat me since she was seven and had gotten used to my eccentric ways. While, since she’d hit her teens, she’d despaired of the fact that I hadn’t yet gotten excited about the prospect of lipstick or mascara, she nevertheless seemed to enjoy having me around. She was, I thought, the closest thing I had for a big sister. Though if it was true, we could never pass for it, with her hair the color of raven’s wings and skin olive tone, and my hair being honey color with natural copper highlights enough to make it look almost brown, and my skin golden tan. Then there were my eyes, a color that was violet or lavender, a color I have not seen in anyone else before.

          “Should we put it in Mom’s room?” I asked, shuddering to myself. I wasn’t exactly excited about going back in there.

          “It’s actually addressed to you, Breena. Look!”

          And it was true. My name – BREENA MALLOY – was written in intricate gold letters on the package.

          “Who dropped it off?” I put the package down on the kitchen table.

          “He didn’t say…” Annie furrowed her brow. “The guy didn’t say. Or maybe he did – I’m not sure. I was pretty distracted.” She giggled. “He was awfully cute.”

          Every boy looked cute to Annie, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.

          “Oh, you should have seen him, Bree,” Annie sighed, sitting down on the sofa. “Perfect golden skin – these bright blue clear eyes – his hair bleached by the sun. There was only one thing about him that was weird, though. His clothes. I thought he’d come from a Renaissance Faire or something – they were definitely not what you’d expect from a delivery-boy uniform.” She sighed to herself. “Weird. But he didn’t look shady or anything.”

          “Did he ask you out?” I sat down next to Annie.

          “No,” Annie sighed.

          “Did you ask
him
out?” I turned to her.

          “No…” Annie looked a bit miserable.

          “Why not?” At twelve, the insecurities involved in teenage relationships hadn’t quite been made clear to me yet. “Or at least – ask him to hang out with you. Like – casually. See if you get along.”

          All this seemed perfectly sensible to me. Then again, if my nemesis Clariss and her minions were anything to go by, I apparently had a sore lack of understanding about anything where boys were concerned.

          “I didn’t get his number,” said Annie.

          “Find out his name and call the delivery company – ask if there’s supposed to be a return address on this thing. Maybe he left the label in the van.”

          “There wasn’t a van,” Annie said. “And besides – I already know his name. I asked him.” She shot me a mischievous smile. “Alistair.” She sighed. “Alistair – I think it suits him.”

          “I’ve never met an Alistair before.” It was an old-fashioned name, I thought. Like something out of one of my mom’s books.

          “Well, maybe you’ll get to meet one soon –
if
I’m lucky.” Annie walked over to the freezer to grab some ice cream. “Chocolate or vanilla.”

          “Chocolate, please! And get a whole pint for me!” I laughed. “Logan says I’m a bottomless pit, but I told him – I’m growing!”

          “
Logan
?” Annie was on me, eagle-eyed, as she filled a bowl of ice cream and added chocolate syrup. She walked over and placed the bowl in front of me. “Is he that boy who’s always hanging around here?”

          “Uh-huh,” I was too busy shovelling chocolate chip ice cream into my mouth to notice the subtlety in her question.

          “He’s pretty cute. For a twelve-year-old, I mean.” Annie thought about it. “When he grows up, he’ll be a heartbreaker.”