Elfhame: A Dark Elf Fairy Tale/Beauty and the Beast Retelling (The Darkwood Chronicles Book 1)

by Anthea Sharp

  The thought of her coming presentation to the Hawthorne Court made her stomach clench. Once again, she longed desperately to go home. Her life in Little Hazel might be boring, but at least there she trod upon sure ground. Elfhame was fraught with danger, and she was finished with this adventure.

  Unfortunately, it was not yet finished with her.

  “One thing,” Bran said, turning to her. “Do you go by any other name than Mara?”

  “My full name is Mara Geary. Why?”

  “For the court presentation,” he said. “Mara Geary will do.”

  She had a suspicion the Dark Elves had long, elaborate names, despite what Bran chose to call himself. It was another knot in her belly, another place she was judged and found wanting.

  “Go.” Anneth pushed her brother to the door.

  “Set the lock behind me,” he said.

  “Of course. Now, shoo. We have work to do.”

  He slipped out. Anneth shut the door, then turned to Mara.

  “Well,” she said, her berry-colored eyes glowing, “this is going to be fun.”

  Mara studied the Dark Elf’s eyes, trying to read the intent in that alien gaze. She couldn’t tell if Bran’s sister was mocking her, or was actually pleased at the idea of helping her. Though Bran had said Anneth was interested in learning about mortals. Perhaps her interest was genuine.

  And if not, there was nothing Mara could do about it, except hope she would not be made an utter fool of in front of the entire Hawthorne Court.

  13

  “First, I think, a bath.” Bran’s sister looked Mara up and down. “That is, if you agree.”

  “A bath would be nice,” Mara said, adding hastily, “I’m usually much cleaner than this.”

  She didn’t want Anneth to assume that mortals were some kind of inferior creatures, happy to wallow about in their own dirt. In truth, Mara wanted nothing more than to wash off the sweat and grime left by running for her life, falling down a hillside, and battling a frightful spider creature. Not to mention being scarred by vicious ichor, using raw magic, and being hauled about the countryside on horseback.

  No doubt her hair was in an equally dreadful state.

  “I’ll help you draw and heat the water,” she added. There didn’t seem to be many servants in the Hawthorne Palace, unlike her experience at Castle Raine.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Anneth said. “Come this way.”

  She stepped through the arched opening to the right of the sitting room, and Mara followed.

  More of the filigreed lanterns hanging from the ceiling winked on as they entered, shedding a dim golden glow over the room. Anneth raised her hand, and the light increased until the room was bright even by human standards. Mara’s eyes widened at the sight of the round stone tub filled with water in the center of what was clearly an elaborate bathing room. One corner of the room had a drain set into the tiled floor.

  A nearby shelf contained colorful bottles and small metal containers filled with aromatic powders. The long counter along one wall boasted a sink shaped like a flower, and held a pile of fluffy rose-colored towels. The far end of the room was a screened-off area that Mara guessed must be the privy.

  “I’ll prepare the water for you,” Anneth said. “Would you like me to stay and assist you in bathing? I’m unsure of your mortal customs.”

  “I don’t need any help,” Mara replied. She would feel far too vulnerable standing naked before any Dark Elf, with their sharp claws and fierce eyes.

  Anneth nodded. “The scrolls I’ve read tell of human women being aided in many aspects of their lives. Bathing, dressing, and the like. So I wasn’t certain what you expected.”

  “That’s for noblewomen,” Mara said, feeling self-conscious. “I’m simply a commoner.”

  Anneth shook her head. “Here in Elfhame, you are ranked above the nobility. You are the woman of the prophecy, after all! Don’t be shy about your origins. Now, let me tend to the bath.”

  Anneth stepped to the tub and waved her hand over the water. A faint glow hung in the air, then drifted down, infusing the bath with subtle light.

  “What’s that?” Mara asked.

  “I’m heating it for you. But before you get in, you must rinse yourself off.”

  Anneth flicked her fingers in a sharp gesture, and water began cascading out of the wall in the corner. The room was in no danger of flooding, however, as the stream curled easily down the drain. Seeming not to notice Mara’s awed silence, Anneth went to the shelf and pulled out a bottle filled with creamy liquid, and one of the metal tins containing a pinkish powder.

  “This one is for your hair,” she said, holding out the bottle. “And the other, your skin. I’ll just set them by the waterfall. Towels are on the counter. Come out when you’re ready. I’ll start laying out gowns.”

  Before Mara could thank her, Anneth was out of the room in a flurry of skirts and optimism. Well. She certainly was a contrast to her silent, dour brother.

  Quickly, Mara took off the long green cloak, laid her knife upon it, then stripped out of her once-favorite gown. She sadly regarded the tattered skirts and ruined sleeves. There would be no salvaging it, and she hoped Anneth could find her something suitable to wear.

  The water cascading over her head felt heavenly, and the soaps smelled like roses and starflowers. Though she could have spent hours under the waterfall, Mara made herself step out once she was clean. As if aware she was finished, the flow of water coming from the wall shut off.

  She eyed the tub a bit doubtfully. But Anneth had gone to the trouble of heating it for her, and there was no reason not to trust her good intentions.

  Mara sat on the wide rim and dipped her toes in. That was all she needed, and a moment later she was submerged to her neck in warm, silky water. She lay back and let out a contented sigh. The Dark Elf bathing customs were strange, but she could easily get used to such luxuries as waterfalls on demand and self-heating tubs.

  She was just drying off with one of the absurdly fluffy towels when Anneth called out, “Are you almost finished?”

  “Yes. I’m coming.”

  Mara wrapped a towel around her body, then draped another over her shoulders to absorb the water dripping from her hair. She felt awkward going before Anneth barely dressed, but she could not bear the thought of putting her soiled gown back on.

  With a deep breath, she walked into the sitting room. Anneth wasn’t there, but in the room beyond, and waved at her to enter.

  “Come see what I’ve selected.” The glee in her voice was unmistakable.

  Mara stepped into Anneth’s bedroom. She was dimly aware of a desk, tall shelves along the wall, and a pair of windows looking out to the dark gardens, but her attention was focused on the glimmering gowns spread across the wide bed. Peacock-blue silk and silver gauze like moonlight, scarlet velvet deeper than rose petals, satin studded with dewdrops. Tiny gemstones winked from the sleeves and necklines, and the scent of sandalwood hung in the air, as though the dresses breathed out opulence.

  “I can’t wear these,” she said, reluctantly joining Anneth beside the bed. “They’re far too grand.”

  Anneth made a tsking noise that was endearingly human. “Of course you can. All eyes will be on you when you’re presented to the Lord and Lady. We must give the court something impressive to look upon.”

  Mara privately doubted she could ever be made to look impressive, but there was no point in arguing with Anneth. And she had to wear something, after all. Appearing before the court draped in a towel would make an impression, but probably not a favorable one.

  “You don’t want to let Bran down, do you?” his sister asked. “Now, which one do you like the best?”

  Mara stared at the rich fabrics. Some of them were cut in such a way she did not quite fathom how they would be worn.

  “The silver one is very pretty,” she said at last.

  “It is. I thought we’d save that one for the ceremony.” Anneth gave her a conspiratorial smil
e. “For tonight, though…”

  She tilted her head, studying Mara with her dark eyes. It was difficult not to feel inadequate, but Mara lifted her chin. No matter which gown she wore, she would find a way to attach the kitchen knife. It might be silly, the blade next to useless, but now that she’d lost her cloak and ruined her dress, it was the one token she had from home. She refused to leave it behind.

  “How about this purple one?” Mara reached out and slid her fingers over a velvet-soft skirt the color of ripe plums. It seemed a little less complicated than some of the others.

  “Let’s try it on—and get you out of that towel. What was I thinking?” Anneth turned and hurried through yet another arched door, though this was smaller than the rest.

  She returned with something that resembled a chemise, made of silky, cream-colored material.

  “Put this on. I won’t look.” She handed the garment to Mara, then shut her eyes.

  Hastily, Mara shed her towels and pulled the silky cloth over her, grateful to find it had armholes and a place for her head to come out.

  “Done,” she said, plucking at the length of fabric.

  It seemed oddly twisted around her body, and she snuck a quick glance at Anneth. Dark Elf women did not seem to be made differently than humans. Other than her height, and claws, and slitted eyes, Anneth’s shape much resembled her own.

  “Let me wrap you.” Anneth took up the trailing piece of fabric and deftly draped it twice about Mara’s torso, tucking here and folding there.

  When she was done, the garment fit much better, and felt surprisingly comfortable. Mara shot the elaborate plum-colored gown a look.

  “I don’t suppose I can just wear this?” she asked, indicating the underdress.

  Anneth let out a peal of laughter. “Ooh, I’m tempted. But no. You would create quite a sensation, but I don’t think Bran would appreciate the joke.”

  “I don’t think he finds many things humorous,” Mara said. It felt generous to say even that much, but she could hardly tell Anneth that her brother was the most grim and taciturn individual she’d ever met.

  “Once you get to know him better, you’ll see his dry wit,” Anneth said. “He carries the weight of Elfhame on his shoulders, and it has taken a toll.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to imply—”

  “Oh, Bran can be a sour stone, we all know that. I only hope…” She gave Mara a look she could not interpret.

  Discomfited, Mara turned back to the purple gown spread across the bed. “Shall I try this one on?”

  “Yes.” Anneth shook her head, as if dispelling some melancholy thought. “I have just the gems to go with it, too. And we’ll have to spend some time considering what to do with your hair.”

  Mara tugged a strand in front of her face and studied it. “Does everyone here have black or silver hair?”

  “Yours is a most unusual color,” Anneth confirmed. “But I think the key is to play up the difference. Now, lift your arms. Bran will be back soon, and we want him to be stunned by your transformation.”

  Mara did not think he was the type to be easily stunned. But for the next little while, she would allow Anneth to do whatever she thought necessary to turn her poor mortal self into something worthy of the exacting standards of the Hawthorne Court. If such a thing were even possible.

  14

  Bran hesitated before Anneth’s door. He had set events in motion for the wedding on the morrow, and alerted his parents that the woman of the prophecy had arrived. The entire court was now waiting impatiently for him to produce her.

  What would they think of the bedraggled, mud-haired creature he’d rescued? For a moment he imagined the looks of shock and pity on their faces, and his stomach twisted. He’d spent his life making himself into someone that would never be pitied or looked down upon. Except by his mother, but there was no salvaging that relationship, ever.

  Wedding Mara was his fate, and he would accept it gracefully. He’d do anything to save Elfhame, and there were worse sacrifices than a blow to his pride.

  Bran squared his shoulders. No matter Mara’s appearance, he resolved to be stoic in his reactions. It would shame them both if he were seen to be a reluctant bridegroom.

  “Anneth?” He rapped on the door. “It’s me.”

  “One moment,” she called.

  He could hear whispering and the rustle of skirts. Then the lock chimed and the door swung open.

  Despite his resolution to remain unmoved, Bran was struck dumb at the sight of the mortal woman standing before him.

  She was gowned in a purple dress that emphasized her mortal curves. A half cape flowed from her shoulders, and amethysts sparkled at her neck and wrists. Her hair was woven with strands of glowing gold, transforming it from mud-colored to the dark amber of winter honey. Her round-irised human eyes were accentuated with purple gems affixed at the corners. Instead of drawing attention to her strangeness, they made her look exotic and mysterious.

  “Don’t just stand there like a lump,” Anneth exclaimed. She caught his arm and pulled him into the room.

  He could not stop staring at Mara. His woman of the prophecy. His soon-to-be mate. For the first time, the prospect did not seem a dreary one.

  She gave him a shy smile, and something strange happened to his heart: a sudden squeeze, and then surge of blood, similar to the battle rush he felt upon the field, yet different. His gaze went to the ornate gold belt at her waist, and he let out a surprised laugh to see her homely human knife hanging there.

  “By the bright moon, he laughed!” Anneth said. “Call the historians, quickly, so they might set it in the record scrolls.”

  “Mara.” He found his voice again. “You look lovely.”

  She smiled again, color rushing into her cheeks. He did not find it unbecoming.

  “You see.” Anneth sounded very self-satisfied. “I told you he’d be stunned.”

  “I am not,” he said. “Merely admiring your handiwork. Well done, sister.”

  Anneth raised a brow at him. “Afraid she’s going to outshine you now, aren’t you?”

  He did not bother to reply, only held his arm out to Mara. “The court awaits. Are you ready?”

  “I suppose.” She pulled in a deep breath. “Is it all right if I wear my knife?”

  “It is a blade that’s seen honor in battle. Wear it with pride.”

  Too, it was a reminder that she was not entirely helpless. He’d already spread the story about her wounding the spiderkin, and the knife added to the mystique that Anneth had woven around her.

  He had to admit his sister had worked wonders. And though he would never tell her, “stunned” was the perfect description of how he’d felt when he looked upon Mara’s transformation. Wedding her would be an honor, despite all their differences.

  It was not just the physical change that a formal court gown and well-dressed hair made. Her determination and bravery, her resilience, even the way she chattered on—all these facets were like a gemstone polished in a tumbler.

  She had been Mara from the first, but now something had shifted inside him, and, somewhat to his consternation, he could truly see her shine.

  Mara thought she saw a flash of approval in Bran’s eyes when Anneth opened the door. His sister seemed to think he was impressed, and he had told Mara she looked lovely. She didn’t think he was the type to give empty compliments. He’d also laughed at the knife tucked through her ornately woven belt, though it had been an approving sort of laugh.

  Why she was so worried about what Bran thought of her? She should be far more concerned about the Hawthorne Lord and his lady. Anneth had not said much about them, her expression clouding when Mara asked, so she hadn’t pressed the matter. She didn’t want to alienate the only other person she knew at court by insisting on speaking about what was a clearly a painful subject.

  As Bran led her down the corridor, thoughtfully providing a blue sphere of fire for illumination, Mara couldn’t help but fret. Anneth had evade
d her question about the rulers of the court. She could only assume that they were dreadful indeed.

  “Do not be afraid,” Bran said, as if sensing her thoughts. “No one will harm you, and if they try, they will have to deal with me.”

  It was a comforting thought, and she gave him a quick, grateful glance. She might be wearing her kitchen knife, but she noticed he had a bejeweled sword at his hip and a dagger hanging from his belt, as well as a second blade tucked into his boot. He had changed his attire, too, and was wearing a midnight-black tunic with gold embroidery around the sleeves and neck. His hair hung in thin, even braids on either side of his severe face.

  “You could go a little faster,” Anneth said from behind them. “I’m sure the court is in a frenzy by now.”

  “Give Mara a few moments,” Bran said. “This won’t be easy for her.”

  “I’ve no doubt she’ll carry herself well.”

  “I’m right here,” Mara said dryly. “No need to speak as if I’m absent—or hang back on my account.”

  The sooner they arrived, the sooner she could dispel her looming apprehension. Surely the reality of the Hawthorne Court couldn’t be worse than her fearful imaginings.

  Their footsteps echoed over the mosaic floor. Mara wore her boots, though Anneth had flicked her fingers over them, and they’d not only gained a high polish, but turned the exact hue of the gown she wore.

  “It’s a temporary spell,” Anneth had said. “A small glamour that will fade by tomorrow.”

  “That’s a handy bit of magic. Are you as powerful as your brother?”

  Anneth had let out a short laugh. “Not nearly. No one in all of Elfhame can match Bran—though don’t tell him I said that. He’s already too proud of himself as it is.”

  Bran did not seem overly prideful to Mara. Rigid and exacting, perhaps, but she’d wager he demanded more of himself than of anyone around him.