Evie

After a long day of festivities, the town is surprisingly quiet. I thought there’d be more revelers about, but it seems everyone’s worn themselves out and turned in early for the night. But that’s fine with me. In fact, all the better.

Using a twig, I borrow a bit of fire from the street lamp to light the lantern I carry as I make my way to the well. It’s dark tonight without a moon, and I don’t know my way around town nearly as well as I do around the forest.

At last I come to the well. Holding the lantern over the top, I peer into its black depths. I shiver as I wonder just how deep it goes. Not just the hole, but the water waiting at the bottom. If I manage to climb down there, will I even be able to stand? Or will I have to dive for Mother’s brooch?

Does it matter? I ask myself, steeling my determination. I’m going to get my keepsake back. I’m going to save Mother; I don’t care what the dangers are. Even if it costs me my very life, I’m going to save her from that awful cold place.

My mind made up, I take off my shoes. Resting the lantern on the edge of the well and sitting beside it with my feet dangling over the edge, I consider the best way to get down. Really, there’s only one I can see. The well is narrow enough, if I put my hands and feet out in an X shape, I should be able to shimmy down to the bottom. Though it may be difficult to find purchase if my appendages get too cold, or if the wall proves too slimy.

Best not think about it, I determine, shaking my head. And that’s enough stalling. I’m going down.

Scooting my butt off of the ledge, hanging freely by the palms of my hands, I’m just getting my feet into position when a strong hand descends on the back of my collar and hauls me right up out of the well.

“Easy, now. Where do you think you’re going?”

The man sets me easily back on solid ground, and for just a moment I’m disoriented. Then looking up at him in the lantern light, I realize he’s a familiar face.

Closely cropped brown hair and dark brown eyes, his brow is severe and his mouth seems set in a permanent hard line. His forehead is tall and his jaw is narrow, and he has a mean, fierce look about him that makes me want to recoil out of sheer self-preservation instinct.

“I know you. You’re that mean looking bodyguard that was following Mr. Livingston around today.”

The man smirks. “I was born with this face; I can’t help if it’s mean looking.”

I don’t know why his words should strike me familiar, or is it the sentiment, rather? Yes, I understand what he’s saying. I didn’t choose my face either, though people often tell me I look too serious or cranky or just ridiculous. That’s just my natural expression…

“Well,” I clear my throat sharply, “now I look at your face more closely, I guess it’s not so mean after all.”

“Is that your idea of a compliment?”

“S-sorry,” I say, suddenly aware that I’ve probably offended him. I look up apologetically, and his face is so frightening, I really feel like he might knock me backwards straight into the well. I shrink back timidly, wincing as I await his reply, but time passes and he doesn’t give one. Instead I get the impression he’s shaking slightly. I look up again, confused, only to find him hiding a grin behind his hand, barely holding back his laughter.

“I thought this earlier, but you’re funny.”

“What’s funny? Who?” I demand, and he only shakes more with silent laughter. This guy—is he making fun of me right now?

“It’s not your fault,” he says. “It’s just your manners, everything about you, your face—”

“My face?” I demand, feeling my ears get hot. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“Nothing at all,” he assures me, sobering a little. “It’s just, you have a funny face.”

“A funny—” I stare at him, slack jawed, still processing this new insult. It’s one I haven’t heard before, so I don’t know quite how to react. But it seems my surprise and indecision have only amused him more.

“Why, you!” I slap his arm and he laughs harder. Incensed, I turn from him to get back to my business of going down the well.   

“Whoa now, Funny Face, that’s dangerous,” once again he hauls me off the ledge by the back of my shirt. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Who cares if it’s dangerous? Did I ask you to interfere? Evil Face?” I tack on the insult for good measure, and he snorts.

“First tell me what you’re up to. If you have a good reason for going down there, I’ll help you myself. Otherwise I’ll carry you back to your father’s house, and you can explain to him why you’ve been out spelunking tonight.”

“It’s none of your business,” I snap, and to my surprise his face comes within an inch of mine while his hand rests lightly on my shoulder, and he gives me a definitely evil smile.

“But it is my business, Miss Stuart. Because I’m here now, and I’m not going to just sit by and watch while a girl gets herself killed in front of my eyes.”

Before it was just my ears, but now I feel my whole face growing hot. I’ve never had a man look at me so closely, so directly, for this length of time. And the longer I look at him, the more I start to think his face isn’t scary at all, and that he’s actually really handsome.

“Oh yeah?” I say, and my voice warbles a bit. “Just who are you, anyway? What’s your name?”

“My name?” he says, and his hand tightens on my shoulder momentarily before he answers.

“Just call me Gil.”

Gil

This girl, I waited for her tonight. Something told me she’d be back.

She made an impression on me from the start, with her funny little face. All pointed and squinty-eyed with her bad haircut, she looked so Sylvan I could almost believe she was a pixie stepped right out of a woodland scene. Her crooked teeth are gleaming white, and on the one occasion where I glimpsed her smile, I thought her dimples were so deep they could easily swallow my finger down to the first knuckle.

But it wasn’t her funny face that captured my interest so much as her wild spirit. And when she became angry during the festival today, I couldn’t help but take her side.

Her sister’s accusation that she was jealous of her title made no sense to me. Even now, her words ring clearly in my ears.

Get it back, she said. You did it on purpose, no one is that careless. Get it back.

Those weren’t the words of a jealous person; it was the cry of a woman who was wronged. But no one would hear her side, and she left before anything could be properly resolved.

Though I know this woman not at all, I wanted to gamble that she really would return to the well to ‘get it back.’ And I’m glad to see it paid off.