The Masked Fae (Royal Fae of Rose Briar Woods Book 1)

by Shari L. Tapscott

  My eyes move to the wagons, and my heart leaps when I realize what’s under those heavy covers.

  “Come in,” I say quickly, throwing the door open. “Forgive my appearance, I…”

  Unsure how to finish the sentence, since I can’t admit I ran away from the queen of West Faerie last night, I let the words trail off.

  As I watch the men carry settees, sideboards, chairs, tables, and more into the house, a public coach pulls into the circular drive.

  A man and woman exit, both bundled in heavy cloaks. The man is tall, with a somber look about him. He speaks with the coachman, presumably about the trunks on the luggage rack.

  The woman has soft, rounded features, with bright pink cheeks and graying hair that used to be a fiery orange shade of red. When she spots me, she lets out a muffled cry and runs across the snowy entry. The baskets and bundles she carries swing and bobble as she trots, and I laugh even as hot tears stream down my chilled cheeks.

  “Mrs. Fletcher!” I cry, clutching the quilt as I meet her.

  “Alice!” She pulls me into a tight embrace, accidentally cuffing me in the head with one of her packages. “Where have you been? You vanished. No one knew where you were or when you were going to return—if you were going to return at all. We were all terrified the Fae—”

  She cuts off abruptly, sending a suspicious look in Wallen’s direction.

  He speaks with one of the auction house men in front of a wagon. I’m not sure whether he heard Mrs. Fletcher or not, but either way, he doesn’t seem to be paying attention.

  She drops her voice to a whisper. “We were afraid they’d kidnapped you, that perhaps Gustin somehow roped you into servitude.”

  “I was in Faerie, but I went freely.” When my family’s housekeeper's eyes widen with horror, I quickly assure her, “I’m all right. And I’m so glad to see you, but what are you and Mr. Fletcher doing here?”

  “We received a message from a courier a few days ago, asking us to return to our posts. I’m not sure how Lord Ambrose found us. We’d been staying with my sister in Foxglen, but then Shirley asked us to spend the holiday with her family, so we traveled to Farhaven.”

  “How is your daughter?”

  Mrs. Fletcher beams. “Oh, she’s just fine. Had another baby boy last spring, you know—he’s going to be a wild one, he is. I can already tell.”

  “You didn’t have to rush back before Year’s End,” I say, realizing how close we are to the holiday. “You and Mr. Fletcher always spend the week with Shirley and her husband.”

  Mrs. Fletcher waves her hand. “Nonsense. I needed to come back and make sure the news was true. Imagine you returning to the house, Miss Alice. You must have worked some magic to make that come to pass.”

  She gives me a pointed look, silently informing me we will be having a long chat later.

  “I’ll tell you everything,” I promise, shivering when a cool gust of wind blows snow in our direction. “But let’s go inside first.”

  Mrs. Fletcher frowns as if finally taking a good look at me. “Good heavens, you must be freezing! Inside with you. Go along.”

  She lets out a small gasp when she sees the accumulating pile of furniture in the entry.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t try to sell the drapes,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Nasty wretch of a—”

  “Lord Ambrose let me return to the house,” I point out gently. “And he gave me room and board this last month, asking for nothing in return.”

  “Why did you go to him?” she asks, looking like I’ve ripped out her heart. “Mr. Fletcher and I talked—we were going to take you with us. I would have had you married by now, but you disappeared.”

  “I’m sorry for worrying you,” I say with a catch in my throat, not realizing how much she cared. It eases some of the sadness that’s nestled itself in my heart, the one that’s buried so deeply, I don’t even realize it’s there most of the time.

  Mrs. Fletcher’s eyes soften, and she scrunches her face. “Now don’t you go and start crying again, or I’ll start too, and the men will come in and find a blubbering mess, and everyone will be uncomfortable.”

  I suppress a laugh, nodding toward her parcels. “I don’t suppose you have food in one of those?”

  Her mouth falls open. “How long have you been here alone, starving to death?”

  “Just a night.”

  She bustles toward the kitchen, muttering about wretched Fae men. When we walk through the swinging doors, we both stop short.

  The kitchen has been stripped clean.

  “Oh,” she says with a soft exhale. “Have you ever seen a more depressing sight?”

  “They’re bringing everything back,” I try to say brightly, but the truth is she’s right. The kitchen was once the liveliest room in the house.

  Mrs. Yaley always kept hard candies in a cut-glass jar on the counter, different types for different seasons. There would be peppermints now, each wrapped in tiny squares of white paper and twisted at the ends.

  There was always bread in the oven, and I can’t remember a time when there wasn’t a cake under a dome on the glass stand.

  But mostly, I miss Mrs. Yaley.

  “I don’t think Nancy is going to come back,” Mrs. Fletcher says as if reading my mind. “She found a little cottage near her son by the coast. The weather is more temperate there—you know how she complained about the cold.”

  I try to smile. “I’m glad she found somewhere nice.”

  “I’m not a terrible cook.” Mrs. Fletcher gives my arm a nudge. “We’ll make do until after the holidays, and then we’ll find someone proper.”

  I smile. “You should probably speak to Lord Ambrose before you begin making too many plans. The house is his property, even though he’s been kind enough to let me return.”

  She gives me a sideways look. “I’m not sure I care for the way you say that man’s name.”

  Laughing softly, I motion again to her packages. “Am I going to have to snoop through them myself?”

  Making a tsking noise, she sets her things on the workbench and produces half a dozen scones. “I bought them at a bakery in Bailen. I remember pumpkin has always been your favorite.”

  I gratefully accept one and breathe in the aroma, savoring it slowly. “You have no idea how lovely it is to eat without worrying if the food is laced with Faerie magic.”

  Mrs. Fletcher’s approving smile becomes a scowl. “What were you doing in West Faerie, Alice?”

  I pick at tiny pieces of the scone, eating it slowly. “I had hoped to bargain for Gustin’s freedom—a portrait in exchange for his release.”

  “I don’t see your good-for-nothing brother, so I assume you were not successful.”

  “I was attacked by goblins on the way to Lord Ambrose’s estate. They destroyed my painting supplies, so when I arrived at the marquis’s house, I was destitute, without a way to even earn my keep.

  “Lord Ambrose agreed to take me in and let me work to buy new supplies. He never said he’d free my brother, but we had an arrangement of sorts.”

  “What kind of arrangement?” she asks darkly.

  Laughing, I wave away her concern. “Not the kind you’re worried about. It was all very right and proper.”

  “I still don’t like it.” Then her face softens. “But I’m glad you’re home.”

  “He’s been nothing but kind to me,” I assure her. “Wallen and the housekeeper as well.”

  “And the rest of his staff?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Let’s not talk about them.”

  Mrs. Fletcher laughs, shaking her head as if it’s all too ridiculous to contemplate, and then she nudges the scones my way. “Go on, have another. It sounds like you’ve been starving this whole time. You can tell me more as you eat.”

  I don’t mention the loophole Brahm discovered in Gustin’s wager, or that my heart has gotten far more involved than is safe. I don’t tell her about the queen, or the fact Lord Ambrose is
actually the eldest prince of West Faerie. But even with omitting all that, Mrs. Fletcher’s scowl becomes darker as I continue my story.

  Deciding it’s best to change the subject, I direct the conversation back to her grandchildren, where it stays until Wallen clears his throat in the doorway.

  “The wagons are unloaded, Miss Gravely,” Brahm’s valet says solemnly, his expression cooler than it was when he drove Brahm and me into Kellington. Perhaps he’s uncomfortable on this side of the bridge. “We’ll return shortly with another load. The transfer will take the better part of the day. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” I say quickly. “I’m so grateful.”

  With a grim smile and a nod, he leaves the room.

  Mrs. Fletcher produces a rag from her bundles, and she begins bustling about the kitchen, dusting the workbenches as if desperate for something to do. “So, tell me, when will I meet this Lord Ambrose? Surely he’ll want to introduce himself to his staff.”

  “I’m not sure.” I grow worried as I think about Brahm returning home last night. “It might not be until after Year’s End.”

  I look out the window, toward the back of the estate. In the distance, past fields and small groves of dormant trees, the thick, tall conifers of Rose Briar Woods rise toward the gray sky.

  Never has the river that separates our world and theirs felt so vast.

  18

  ALICE

  I wake on the morning of Year’s End with Brahm’s promise heavy on my mind. But I know he won’t be able to spend the day with me if his mother is still staying with him.

  I convinced Mrs. Fletcher to visit her husband’s sister for the holiday, feeling guilty that she and Mr. Fletcher would be away from family out of pity for me. But now I’m not so sure about my goodwill gesture.

  I wander the manor as the sleepy sun slowly creeps over the horizon, feeling a bit like an untethered ship floating wherever the waves take me.

  Soon, the sun shines on the newly fallen snow, catching the tiny crystalline flakes and making them sparkle. A storm came through last night, leaving a thick blanket on the frozen ground.

  The sound of harness bells catches my attention, and I stand by a front window and watch a sleigh pass on the distant street at the end of the lane. The merry sound cuts through the hushed silence, dredging up memories of holidays long past.

  If the furniture hadn’t been returned earlier in the week, the men would have to wait until all this melted. It could be days, or it could be weeks—it’s impossible to know this time of year.

  Despite the trouble he caused, I think of Gustin. Does he even know what day it is? What must it be like in a debtor’s prison in Faerie?

  Does he miss me at all?

  I shake away the thoughts, knowing it will do me no good to dwell on them today.

  Continuing my aimless tour of the house, I end up in the doorway of the upstairs sitting room. The furniture has been returned, including Grandmother’s piano.

  But there is still no tree in the corner. Mr. Fletcher said the cut trees in the main square had been picked over, and all that was left were scraggly, browning things that were only suitable for kindling.

  Last year, Gustin and I took a wagon to a heavily wooded area in nearby Calsaund and cut our own, but I certainly didn’t feel that ambitious on my own. Nor do I have a wagon at my disposal.

  The room fills me with memories, most of them too painful to face alone, so I continue down the hall.

  I end up in the kitchen, loitering near the heavy cast iron stove.

  When Grandmother was alive, she always sent the staff home to be with their families for the holiday, and she’d bake yule cakes for breakfast, just as her mother taught her. It was a family recipe, passed down from generation to generation. I’m not terribly gifted when it comes to baking, or cooking for that matter, so I didn’t attempt it last Year’s End.

  This year, however, I feel the need for family tradition. Maybe baking the festive tea cakes will make me feel as if I’m not so alone.

  As I try to remember the recipe, I find Grandmother’s old apron on a hook in the pantry, just where it belongs. It must have been overlooked in the initial sweep of the house, first ignored and then forgotten.

  Seeing it there, hanging by itself, steals my breath.

  Suddenly overwhelmed, I clutch it in my hands and sink to the wooden floor, crossing my legs under my skirts. I wrap the apron around my hand, trying to swallow back the emotion building in my chest.

  I’m not sure how long I remain on the kitchen floor, and when the door opens, it scares me half to death.

  “Alice?” a male voice calls from the entry.

  “Brahm?” I stumble to my feet, nearly tripping over my skirts as I rise.

  My breath catches when I find him in the doorway, looking every inch a prince of Faerie in a fine jacket and waistcoat. My eyes move to the festive sprig of holly pinned to his handkerchief pocket—a very human tradition.

  My throat tightens.

  “You’re here.” I blink quickly, chasing away tears that try to spill onto my cheeks.

  Brahm crosses the room, concerned. “Why were you on the floor?” He gently tugs the apron from my hands. “And what’s this?”

  I give him an airy smile. “That? Oh, just an old apron.”

  Slowly, he meets my eyes and quirks a questioning eyebrow, seeing through my lie.

  “My grandmother’s apron,” I admit, turning quickly. “Forgive me. I’m feeling emotional today.”

  Brahm steps up behind me. He carefully places the crumpled apron on the workbench and then sets his hands on my shoulders. “I have something to show you.”

  “Something?” I ask, dabbing away the lingering moister with my knuckle.

  “A surprise.”

  I look over my shoulder, intrigued by his tone. “Is it safe for you to be here?”

  “My mother left with my sister and brother this morning,” he says. “And I believe I promised you we’d spend the day together. Did you forget?”

  I shake my head.

  “Good.” He laces his fingers through mine and then leads me out of the kitchen.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, my eyes focusing on our clasped hands. The connection chases away the last of my sadness.

  Brahm is here, just as he promised.

  We pause outside the sitting room, and he turns to me. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Cover your eyes.”

  “What?” I ask with a laugh, startled by this light side of him.

  He steps close and lowers his voice. “It’s a surprise.”

  Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I slowly close my eyes, holding a hand over them to prove I cannot see. Brahm guides me inside the room, holding onto my shoulders as he stands behind me.

  “Okay,” he says near my ear, the words tickling my skin. “Open.”

  Slowly, I flutter my eyes, unsure what to expect.

  It’s a tree, but it’s not lit with candles. Hundreds of shifting, ethereal fairy lights twinkle from the boughs. Instead of glass balls, short red roses in tiny glass jars hang from the limbs. Their velvet petals sparkle as if dusted with powdered mica.

  “It’s…beautiful,” I breathe, though the word feels insufficient. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.

  “Do you like it?” Brahm asks, unsure.

  I turn to face him, laughing. “Of course I like it. It’s amazing.”

  “I didn’t have time to shop for…whatever the bobbles you put on these things are called.”

  “It’s perfect,” I insist.

  “I’ve brought gifts, too,” he says softly. “Regina bought you a cloak, and she packed the rest of your things. I have a few packages for you as well.”

  “You’ve done enough for me already.” I look at the tree, overwhelmed by the sweet gesture. “And I have nothing for you.”

  Brahm shrugs, nodding toward the two packages by the side table near the tree. “One is a selfish gift,
more for me than you anyway.”

  My curiosity piqued, I cross the room and pick up the larger of the two packages. “May I?”

  “Not yet. Open the other first.”

  I set the package down and turn toward the small tubular case that’s bound in brown leather. I expect to find paintbrushes, or something of the like, but the gift holds a rolled piece of parchment.

  It’s yellowed with age, and the paper is thick. My heart beats too quickly as I slide the paper out. “Brahm.”

  “The house is now in your name,” he says, standing with his hands behind his back. “It belongs to you.”

  A lump forms in my throat. “But all that money you paid the bank…”

  “Was worth it.”

  I blink quickly, wondering if my heart can handle so many emotions in such a short time. Carefully, I slide the precious document into the case and then clutch it to my chest. “Words don’t seem sufficient, but Brahm—I’m so grateful.”

  “Now you may open the other.” He sits on the settee and motions for me to join him.

  Carefully, I set the package on my lap and untie the cheery red satin ribbon. When I pull back the brown paper, it reveals a wooden box. It’s wide and only a few inches tall, about the size of a large legal document.

  “Open it,” Brahm coaxes.

  I smile at him, wondering what could be in such a flat package. When I pull away the lid, I find my reflection staring back at me.

  Carefully, I pull out the rectangular mirror, running my finger over the silver edging. It’s Fae crafted, intricate and rare. Brahm has included a stand as well. The highly polished hickory is shaped like two identical flourished Ls, and they’re hinged on the long side. When opened, the stand will cradle the mirror, allowing it to rest on a table or vanity.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say quietly.

  “I want to commission you for a painting, and I hoped it would be useful.”

  Intrigued, I turn to him.

  “Instead of painting me, I want you to paint a self-portrait.” His smile flickers. “So I can remember you.”

  Immediately, I set the mirror back into the box. “Remember me?”