Nothing Gold Can Stay

 Emery, the human girlfriend of the Autumn Queen, discovers that her life with Wren in the Amber Lands isn’t as perfect as she believes.

A lone autumn leaf drifts past the fogged window, bright and fleeting like a fox between trees.

Another follows, and another, and soon a wash of copper rain surrounds my cabin. The leaves gather faster, too many for my brown eyes to catch, falling in a whirl of dreamy reds and golds. They fall, and then just as swiftly rise into the sky again as if buffeted by the sigh of a forgotten god. They dance and hang in the air, unbound by gravity or reason, forming strange papery paintings in the dusk 

I suppose I should be used to these occurrences by now. Still, firefalls always leave me a little breathless. Years in the Amber Lands have yet to diminish their thrill.

Window still hazy with the kettle’s steam, I reach towards the glass and draw an absent-minded love heart in the dew. Perhaps when Wren boils the water again for her nightly infusion of marigold and mugwort, the heart will appear again and make her smile. Love does make us fools. 

I slice a few slick lemon wedges and plonk them into a chipped mug, followed by a teabag, a dollop of honey and – finally – a long sluice of hot water. A flick of a teaspoon brings it all together and I leave the cup to steep, the steam making lazy curlicues in the air. 

The fire shifts in the grate behind me and I pad to it, throwing another log on. The flames catch at the wood’s gnarled edges, coaxing its sweet green scent into the air. Wren likes the cabin steamy when she returns from her work, hair trailing foliage and the smell of rain. 

When your girlfriend is the Autumn Queen, the days are long.

Tea in hand once more, I stall a few moments in the quiet. The cabin usually feels serene, but something is itching at my mind today. Some sort of lingering restlessness, like a dream that evaporates upon waking and defies remembrance. Without the whistle of the kettle or even the rustle of leaves against the windowpane, the air is stagnant with silence. 

I need a book. I could bring so few things from my world, and yet I could not bear to part with my stash of beaten up paperbacks. Most are dog-eared, spines broken beyond recognition. Many still have the pencil scratches of those who owned them prior. 

Wren is forever rolling her eyes at my insistence on reading and re-reading my collection. “Is this re-read 64 or 65?” she asked last night on the couch, feet warm in my lap. “Don’t you get sick of that Wuthering Heights or whatever it is?” 

I let her laugh, let her tease. I don’t ever tell her that the reason I read my books is to hold onto my life before. A life, for all its worth, that’s faded as old paper. A life I barely remember. I flick a finger over the rows of books. Narnia, Lord of the Rings, Alice in Wonderland. If only young Emery knew that one day she would not only love fairy tales but live in one too. 

I pull out a battered edition of A Wrinkle In Time and something shifts in its now-empty space. A piece of crumpled paper, shoved in behind the tome as if in a moment of haste. I pluck it out. The paper is oddly cold to the touch.  It feels all wrong in the cosy cabin, and suddenly the itch in my brain rolls over, seeking purchase. I shouldn’t read it, I know that. 

Wren, for all her warmth, has secrets. Her work in the mysterious goings-on of the seasons is something we rarely discuss. And yet …I unfold the paper. The letters are graceful, looping and deepest blue. My eyes catch the words, and before I can question my actions, I am reading. 

Dearest Wren.

I pray this missive finds you and the Amber Lands well. All is stable in the Ice Isles, as in the Pale Keep. Our solstice preparations are in full swing and we hope to be ready by next week. I cannot wait for the change. Liliana keeps pestering me about her perennial bulbs, saying that my Winter’s are too cold for her precious daffodils to survive into Spring.  It seems almost like a challenge. 

Nevertheless, peace must be kept. On this note, I wanted to invite you and your human friend to our Solstice Eve celebration. It’s been too long since you and I shared a glass of elderberry wine, and I am yet to meet your little companion Emery. Thank the seasons you decided to take her on, for I have no patience when it comes to the treaty. 

Send a messenger bird with your reply. 

Yours always, North

The fire pops loudly, startling me. The room is suddenly stiflingly hot, and a slick of sweat has formed on my temple. I fold the letter again and stuff it back into its hiding place just as the windchimes outside signal the arrival of Wren. She has her own special way of returning home. The leaves twirling in the falling night whizz into a sudden frenzy, and through the eye of the golden tornado steps a girl. 

Her long auburn hair hangs in two braids through which a garland of small rowanberries is weaved. She is the picture of home, of evenings curled up by the fire, of hot chocolates and morning frost that catches the rising sun. 

A sick wash of anger curls in me, the little itch growing ugly and cankerous. Wren opens the door, already pulling her boots off, but I speak before she can utter a greeting. 

The words that slip from my mouth surprise even me.

“Who is North?”

Chapter 2

My half-laced boot falls off my foot and lands on the floor, puncturing the tense silence. 

“You found the letter.”

 It isn’t a question. It had been stupid of me to hide it in the bookshelf where Emery was bound to find it, but she had been coming around the corner as I’d finished reading and I just panicked. Stupid, stupid. Even now, her dark eyes are shadowed with doubt and the beginnings of hurt. What had the letter said? It had mentioned her and, worse, the treaty. 

“Em,” I said, walking towards her, but she takes a step back. 

“Who,” she repeated, “is North?

I cast around the cabin for an answer that will not break her. Our cabin. A place where we have built a life; a life that might very well shatter in my hands.

“North is the keeper of Winter. He’s a … coworker. Nothing more.”

That was a lie, but Emery’s spine is already too curled with betrayal to bear the truth. 

“And do you share glasses of elderberry wine with all your coworkers?” she questions, tongue acidic. Damn North for penning those words, soaked in memory and sentiment. I can almost taste the wine, on his breath, on his lips. Emery can never know. 

“I have to keep the peace, Em. The seasons must coexist in harmony, you know that. Having a few carafes with an arrogant boy-king is just part of the job, as is listening to Liliana prattle on about the subtle variations in cherry blossom blooms or helping Soraiya clear the Midsummer Temple’s recent scorpion infestation. It’s work. Just work.”

I try to keep my words cool, dismissive, but a note of pleading creeps in and Emery pounces upon it. Jealousy makes her voice ugly, rough.

“Fine. If it’s just work, then take me to the Solstice party. I want to meet this North for myself.”

And just like that, my elaborate web of secrets and carefully maintained lies silently, surely implodes. 

North will tell her everything.