The Story Sisters. Alice Hoffman

were already serving hors d’oeuvres, salmon and crème fraîche, blini with sour cream, stuffed mushrooms, crab cakes, sturgeon on thin slices of pumpernickel bread. The girls were insulted to discover they’d been seated at the children’s table along with a troupe of poorly behaved little boy cousins from New Jersey and California. At least Mary Fox was there. She was their favorite cousin, also fifteen, a month older than Elv. Mary was so studious that she made even logical Meg seem frivolous. She planned to be a doctor, like her mother, Elise, who was Annie’s first cousin. Mary didn’t notice the sisters’ glamorous dresses; she didn’t care about appearances. She had no idea that she was pretty with her milky skin and pale hair. For this festive occasion, she had on a plaid dress and her everyday shoes. Because she wore glasses she assumed she was ugly. Mary was honest to a fault and never bothered to be polite. Maybe that was why the Story sisters liked her.

      Natalia and Martin’s friends, including Natalia’s dearest old friend, Madame Cohen, who had flown in from Paris, were seated at the best tables, chattering away. They sipped mimosas and kir royales while at the children’s table root beer and Cokes were served. The boy cousins were slurping their sodas through straws.

      “Can you believe these morons?” Mary said to Elv. Mary had neither a censor nor a fear of adults. She was particularly ticked off that they were sitting with a bunch of ill-behaved little boys who had no manners at all.

      “They probably thought we’d have fun with all the cousins sitting together,” Meg said, reasonable as always. “There’s no one else here our age.”

      “They’re not our age,” Mary said. “They’re infants. In two-thirds of the world we’d already be married. Well, maybe not Claire, but the rest of us. We’d have our own children by now.”

      While the Story sisters thought that over, Elv asked the waiter to take the bread basket away. Mortals slipped slices of bread into their babies’ blankets to keep the faeries away. In most fairy tales it was the mortal child who had been stolen, but it had been the other way around on Nightingale Lane.

      The boy cousins were now situated under the table playing poker, betting with toothpicks.

      “Ugh. They are so gross,” Mary sighed. “And this party is such a waste of money.” She couldn’t tolerate the extravagance of the event. She’d spent her Christmas vacation working on a project in Costa Rica for Habitat for Humanity. “Your grandparents could have donated the money to the Red Cross or the American Cancer Society and saved lives, but instead everyone is dancing the cha-cha.”

      “I think it’s romantic,” Meg said. “Fifty years of marriage.”

      “I think it’s revolting,” Mary countered. “I’m never getting married.”

      The girls looked to Elv.

      “Love is what matters,” she said. “Real love. The kind that turns you inside out.”

      That didn’t sound particularly appealing—it sounded painful, as if blood and bones and torture were involved—but no one had the courage to question Elv further, not even the cantanker-ous Mary Fox. They stared at Elv solemnly, each of them wishing they knew what it was like to be her, for a moment, or better still, for a day.

      At the end of the meal, plates of iced petits fours were served in pastel colors, green and yellow and pink and a pale eggshell blue that was nearly the same shade as Claire’s dress.

      Mary turned up her nose. “Fat and carbohydrates,” she said, opting for frozen yogurt instead.

      Elv put her sweater on, even though the room was quite warm. The waiter had been skulking around, trying to get close to her, breathing on her hair, looking at her as if he knew her.

      “Did you want something?” Mary Fox asked him.

      “Don’t talk to him,” Elv said.

      Claire was busily collecting cakes in a napkin. The grown-ups had started drinking and dancing in earnest. Even Madame Cohen, who was so refined and scared the Story sisters with her direct questions, danced with their grandpa Martin. The boy cousins had come out from under the table and were smashing the petits fours to smithereens, using their water tumblers as hammers. Each time one crumbled they called out “Hurray!” in the most annoying voices.

      Elv didn’t pay them the least bit of attention, not even when they stole the cakes off her plate. In the faerie world, the old Queen was dying; she was a thousand years old. She had summoned Elv to her side. Which of the three is the bravest? She who has no fear of what is wicked is the only one who is worthy. She alone will follow me and be our Queen.

      The girls’ mothers were enjoying martinis while discussing their divorces. Why not be brave, indeed. It was the perfect time to sneak out. The city was waiting, and the Story sisters had the chance to be on their own in Manhattan, a rare circumstance. They let Mary tag along. She was their cousin, after all, even though she was so serious and dour. Now she endeared herself to them by saying, “Let’s split like pea soup.” She was so corny and honest, they laughed and grabbed her and brought her along.

      Once they got past the doorman, the girls made a mad dash for the park. They were all giggling, even Mary, who had apparently never jaywalked before. “We’re going to get arrested!” she cried, but she galloped across the street without bothering to look both ways. They all loved New York. The pale afternoon light, the stone walls around the park, the radiant freedom. They threw their arms into the air and turned in circles until they were dizzy. They shouted “Hallelujah!” at the top of their lungs, even Mary, who’d been an atheist from the age of five.

      When they settled down, the girls noticed that Elv had wandered off. She was walking toward the horses. Some of them had garlands of fake flowers around their heads. They wore blinders, and heavy woolen blankets were draped over their backs. They seemed dusty, as if they’d been housed in a garage at night rather than in a stable. The air smelled like horseflesh and gasoline. The other girls would have been happy to dart down the stairs and head for the zoo or the fountain, but Elv lingered, eyeing the horses. She had thoughts no one else had. She alone could see what they could not. When she narrowed her eyes, all that was wicked in the world appeared, exactly as the Queen had predicted. It was like a scrim of black ink spread across the earth and sky.

      Elv saw past the luminous now into the murky center of the what could be. Would anyone else at the party have seen how tired and beaten down the horses were? Most people looked at what was right in front of them. A glass of champagne. A dance floor. A piece of cake. That was all they knew, the confines of the everyday world.

      A couple got into the first carriage in line. They were on their honeymoon, arms draped over each other. The driver whistled, then clucked his tongue. He tugged on the reins. The horse, resigned, began to move. One of his legs seemed wobbly.

      “This is animal cruelty,” Elv said. Her voice sounded far away. She had the desire to cut off the hansom driver’s hands and nail them to a tree. That was what happened in fairy tales. Evil men were punished. The good and the true were set free. But sometimes the hero was disguised or disfigured. He wore a mask, a cloak, a lion’s face. You had to see inside, to his beating heart. You had to see what no one else could.

      The next horse on line looked the worst, old and dilapidated. He kept lifting one hoof and then the other, as if the asphalt of the city street caused him pain. He wore a straw hat, and somehow that was the saddest thing of all.

      “I don’t see why you’re so concerned about a bunch of fleabags,” Mary Fox huffed. “There are human beings starving to death all over the world. There are homeless people who wish they had as much to eat as these horses.”

      Elv’s beautiful face was indignant. She flushed. She spoke to her sisters in Arnish, something she rarely did in front of outsiders. “Ca bell na.” She knows nothing.

      “Amicus verus est rara avis,” Mary shot back. She was vaguely insulted that she hadn’t been included in the invention of Arnish. “That’s Latin,” she added. “FYI.”

      The old horse on line was foaming