Creatures spun on the earthen floor, some with long-limbed, liquid grace, others tromping or gamboling. Small faeries flitted through the air on tattered moth wings, baring their teeth at Hazel. Short folk in heath-brown clothes, with hair that stuck up from their heads like the pistils of flowers, played at dice games and drank deeply from ornately blown glass goblets and wooden cups alike. Tall beings, shining in the gloom as though they were lit up from the inside, whirled in their dresses of leaves, in cleverly shaped corsets of bark, in exquisite silvery mail.

Other creatures, far less human-looking, walked among them on stilt-like legs or loomed over them with faces as gnarled as the knots of trees.

They were terrifying and beautiful and horrible, all at once. All of them.

In their midst, seemingly oblivious to the danger, were people she recognized. People from Fairfold. Ms. Donaldson, who taught kindergarten, dancing barefoot with an owl-faced creature. Smiling Nick, a long-haired guy who did odd jobs like sharpening knives door-to-door, stumbled among the throng, dressed in black silk scarves streaming behind him. Beside him was a young guy whose name Hazel didn’t know but whom she’d seen before. He worked at the general store in town, mostly stocking shelves. She had once seen him juggling apples in the produce aisle. Not many humans, but here and there she spotted human clothes, even if she couldn’t see faces in the crowd.

Were they really human, though? Or were they faeries who went among humans and wore their shapes? And if they were human, did they know they were here, or would they wake with muddy feet, as Hazel had, and no memory of the night before?

It wasn’t just humans she recognized; she knew one of the creatures, too. Sitting in a corner, overgrown with hair and munching on golden beetles, was an ogre called Rawhead. She’d heard of him, heard of his taste for human flesh, and even figured out where his lair might be, back when she was a little girl with a big, sharp sword. Rawhead grinned in her direction with his red smile as if maybe he recognized her, too.

Move, she told herself. Don’t just stand there gaping. Move.

Hazel started walking in a random direction, just putting one foot in front of the other, propelling herself along without any sense of quite where she was going. She didn’t see Jack yet, but he had to be somewhere close by—and as frightening as it was to move through the revel without him, as shaky and scared as she felt, she had to find out what she could about the horned boy and the monster and the mysterious messages from the mysterious Ainsel. Otherwise, all the terror and danger were for nothing.

Trying to stay far from the dancing, she made her way through the hollow hill. Gillyflower, roses, and sage scented the air, making her dizzy as she went.

“Will you take a drink?” asked a small, long-nosed creature with a stubby tail and eyes that were black as a crow’s. It held up a small tray of tiny, carved wood cups with some liquid inside, barely a thimbleful in each. “I swear by the corn and the moon that you’ll never taste a sweeter drop.”

“No, tha—” She stopped herself from thanking another one of them, shaking her head instead. “I’m okay.”

It shrugged and kept moving, but the encounter had given her the jitters. Hazel knew all the rules, but obeying them was turning out to be hard. It was so easy to do the wrong thing automatically, way easier than she could have ever guessed.

A laughing woman with thick plaits of russet hair paused as she went past with a goat-headed companion. “Didn’t you sketch me once?” the woman asked Hazel, surprising her.

For a moment Hazel didn’t know what she could possibly mean. Then suddenly the old story came back to her, the one that had always been about Ben. “You’re thinking of my mother.”

The woman frowned, looking puzzled. “Can it really have been so long? Why, you must be my musician, then, grown! Will you give me a song in recompense for my blessing?”

Hazel shook her head. “That was my brother. I wasn’t born yet and I’m awful at music. You wouldn’t want me to sing.” She wondered if she should tell the faerie woman how little joy Ben had gotten from her gift, but Hazel suspected that would violate those rules about politeness. “But, um, I’ll tell Ben I saw you.”

“Do,” she said. “Tell him to come and play for Melia and I’ll make rubies fall from his tongue.”

That sounded more like a threat than a promise, but Hazel nodded and, not sure what else to do, made a little bow before backing away. Then she walked fast, elbowing through the merry crowd; past pipers and fiddlers; past stick-thin faeries with powdery wings; past willowy green women with black mouths and tongues, wearing dresses fine as mist; past long-fingered girls with crowns of twigs woven into the nimbus of their loose hair; past sneering boys with the feet of lions; past crow girls laughing all together; past large, misshapen creatures with moss growing on their massive limbs and mouths full of teeth that appeared to be more cracked rock than bone.

Someone grabbed her arm. She wheeled around with a cry, pulling against his grip, before she realized who was holding her.

“Hazel.” Jack looked out of breath and a little panicked. “I didn’t know where you were.”

“You left me.” Her voice came out more sharply than she’d intended.

“You were right behind me,” he insisted. “I thought you’d just follow me through the way you’d followed me up the path.”

“Well, I couldn’t,” Hazel said.

Someone was with Jack: a tall and spindly faerie woman with skin the silvery brown of bark. Her eyes changed color, lustrous gold igniting with green.

She couldn’t be anyone but Jack’s elf mother. Her eyes were just as they’d been in the stories.

“Red hair,” she said, turning Hazel’s head from side to side, observing her. Plucking up a lock, the elf woman gave her hair a sharp tug. “They used to say that meant you were a witch. Are you a witch, child?”

“No, ma’am,” Hazel told her, remembering, at least, the value of politeness.

“And what brings you here? Or should I ask who?”

“Ainsel,” Hazel said, hoping the name would mean something.

“Well, aren’t you a wit?” the elf woman said, scowling.

“So you know who that is!” Hazel exclaimed, barely able to breathe for eagerness. “Please, tell me.”

“How can it be that you don’t recall?” Her frown seemed to signal Hazel to silence. Then she turned, pointing a long finger at Jack. “And I think that this is the boy who brought you. This boy, and this boy alone. He was very wrong to do so. Whatever you’re looking for, this is no place for you.”

Hazel wasn’t sure how to answer that without referring to Fairfold, when Jack had warned her against it, not sure how to direct the conversation back to Ainsel. “Jack? Sure, he brought me, but…”

The faerie woman circled them both, and Jack moved close to Hazel, as though ready to impose his body in front of hers if the woman grabbed for Hazel again. His mother’s voice rose. “Jack? Is that what she calls you? Jack of what? Jack of Hearts? Jack of Diamonds? Jack of Weeping? Jack of Woe?”

“I don’t bother with all that fancy stuff—I just go by Jack, these days,” he said, and Hazel laughed—a short, awkward bark that she instantly regretted. It had just been such a surprise, his casual, quotidian response to her anger.