The Watchtower

which gods these were she spoke of—were they another species of fey or some higher power?—but we were interrupted by a trilling voice that seemed to come from the trees above us.
    “What a lovely story, Octavia. And told with such emotion ! To think some say the mer fey are cold-blooded! But then you’re only half fey, aren’t you, ma chère. Your molluscan father must have been quite passionate.”
    I turned to find the source of the voice—and to turn away from Madame La Pieuvre’s inky blush—but nothing was behind us but a stand of slender poplars swaying in the breeze. But one, I noticed, was swaying in a different direction from the others. I stepped closer and stared at the slender, silver-barked form until a silver-skinned face emerged from the bark and slim arms twined out of the branches. The tree woman stepped forward gingerly—I would almost say woodenly if she hadn’t had such an air of refinement about her—on long, bark-sheathed legs. Her feet were covered in roots, and leaves sprouted from her fingertips. Instead of hair, long branches swayed from her scalp, polished green leaves quaking as she laughed at the expression on my face.
    “Have you never seen a dryad, human?” the tree woman asked in a tinkling voice that sounded like wind rustling through leaves.
    “I’ve met a number of fairies, but never one like you,” I admitted. “And one man who’s been turned into a tree.”
    “Ah, you must mean Jean Robin. He’s a different sort of thing altogether. He was once human. I, I assure you, have never been human.” She pronounced the word human with a distinct curl of her full, resin-slick lips, making sure to distinguish herself from a race she clearly thought little of. She needn’t have bothered. Although she shared the same barky skin as Jean Robin, no trace of humanity was in this creature—not in her willowy movements or almond-shaped eyes, which glistened with sap. As she walked past me, the leaves in her hair and on her fingertips trembled like castanets. I smelled the sharp tang of resin and chlorophyll in the air. She seated herself in the grotto on top of the statues of Acis and Galatea, nestling herself snugly into Acis’s lap (and rather smothering Galatea).
    “No one would ever accuse you of that, Sylvianne,” Madame La Pieuvre said smoothly. “Although I see you still keep human companions.”
    Madame La Pieuvre looked pointedly toward the trees. Following her gaze, I realized someone was there. I hadn’t seen him at first because he wore a dark-colored sweatshirt, the hood pulled low over his forehead. His skinny, jean-clad legs were pulled up to his chest. Without looking at the boy, Sylvianne extended her long, silver-barked arm and crooked a leaf-tipped finger. As if pulled by a string, the boy unfolded his long legs, rose unsteadily to his feet, and stumbled jerkily toward the dryad. As he passed by me, I smelled the same bitter smell I’d detected in the glasses of green liquid set before the statues. Absinthe, I realized. The boy reeked of absinthe. He was so unsteady on his feet that he would have fallen headlong into the fountain if Sylvianne hadn’t grasped him roughly by the arm and pulled him into her lap. He collapsed spinelessly into her embrace and looked up into her face with the devoted eyes of a poodle. I noticed that his sweatshirt had the words BARD COLLEGE written across the front and he had exactly the type of hipster goatee I’d imagined earlier for the pagan worshippers.
    “He’s sweet, isn’t he?” Sylvianne said, stroking the boy’s silky hair. “I found him sketching Polyphemus late one evening and invited him to stay with me for the summer.”
    “And then you’ll let him go?” Madame La Pieuvre asked. “He must have a family—”
    “I’ll give him back when I’m done with him!” Sylvianne roared, the leaves in her hair thrashing. “You are not one to speak, Octavia. You have kept your own human pet for over fifty years.”
    “She’s not a pet and she’s not bewitched like this boy is,” Madame La Pieuvre spat back, her own appendages bristling. Her skin appeared mottled and darker than before.
    “Far worse for her then! When I am done with this boy, he will go back to his pathetic little life with only the vaguest memories of a misspent adventure abroad. Your concubine must spend every moment of her life knowing that you will survive her by thousands of years … and thousands of lovers.”
    “Not everyone