Heart of the Fae

by Emma Hamm

  Right. Sorcha wasn’t supposed to insult the customers, or they’d leave. She puffed out a breath that stirred the red curls in front of her face, conceding. “I’m a healer, Fergus. I don’t partake in your festivities, but a man certainly can dream!”

  He let out a hearty laugh, his cheeks stained red. “Ah, and dream I do, my lovely lass!”

  She raced up the rest of the stairs. Her skirt whirled in an arc behind her, the blue plaid fluttering with her movements. The last thing she wanted to hear was that Fergus, of all men, dreamed of her.

  They all slept on the top floor, away from the rooms where they brought clients. A place they could call their own was important. Although, the more women they brought into their family, the less room they had.

  Sorcha didn’t work in the brothel, so her room was the smallest. It had once been used as a storage closet, but now held a small cot and stacked chests. Books, herbs, and all manner of magical objects were scattered around the room.

  The first chest creaked as she opened it. She reached into the dark depths, her fingers skimming over well-worn objects, until she closed her fist around her greatest treasure.

  Her mother had passed down her knowledge along with sacred objects. Many feared Paganism, considered the work of the devil, and named those who practiced it witches. Sorcha knew better.

  She pulled out a stone carved with a white dove. Pressing it to her lips, she whispered, “Good morrow, Máthair.”

  Not a day passed when she didn’t miss her mother’s laughter, her calloused hands, and the scent of cinnamon in her hair. She hadn’t been a witch, just a healer who knew how to ask favors of the Fae.

  Sorcha dropped the stone back into the chest and picked up a ceramic pot. Her mother had lovingly painted tiny flowers all around the edges, each stroke created with care and precision. She measured out a small bit of sugar and scooped it onto the windowsill.

  “Share a taste of sugar with me,” Sorcha said, “in celebration of our dutiful work.”

  Like her mother, Sorcha respected the old ways and the Fae. She believed in them where others did not. Her room was always clean, and her books always neatly packed away, all without Sorcha touching a single item. The brownies took care of her, and she took care of them in return.

  She scooped up her medical notes and tucked them into a bag she slung over her shoulder. Patting her hair, she gave up on tying it back. The nest of curls would be free before she made it to the guild.

  Tugging hard on her bodice, she pressed her hand against her chest. A hag stone, with natural holes bored through it by running water, hung around her neck. Another gift from her mother so she could always see through magic.

  She turned and made her way back down the stairs.

  Rosaleen was already exiting her room, closing the door gently behind her. Her hair stuck up in all directions, like a dandelion puff. She glanced over her shoulder and shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting that one to be so quick. He paid for a half hour, so I suppose he can sleep it off.”

  “Someone new?”

  “He wouldn’t say who he was. Looks like a nobleman; his clothes are too fine to be working class.”

  Sorcha pulled up her sister’s sleeve which was dipping dangerously low on her shoulder. “Fancy catching this one for good?”

  Rosaleen blushed. “Oh, he’s much too fine looking for me.”

  “And you’re a rare beauty. He would give you a good life, away from working so hard.”

  “I couldn’t leave all of you.”

  “None of us would think less of you for it. You’d be safe, well-fed, and you could visit. If he’s kind, think about it.”

  “He was certainly kind,” Rosaleen tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And I can appreciate a man who doesn’t take much work.”

  Sorcha chuckled and touched a finger to Rosaleen’s chin. “Think about it, little chick. Go get yourself cleaned up.”

  “The tea is downstairs?”

  “Ask Briana. There’s a few tonics left, and I’ll bring back more.”

  They walked down the stairs together, giggling as Rosaleen told stories about the customers she’d already that day.

  “Will you be gone all day?” Rosaleen asked as they reached the ground floor.

  “Briana’s asked that I make myself scarce. It’s a busy day, and I don’t need to be underfoot.”

  “We might need you if anyone gets too rowdy.”

  “The men don’t pay for healing anyways. I’d rather find customers who will at least trade.”

  “Not Dame Agatha?” Rosaleen’s eyes glinted with mischief.

  “You were listening!”

  “Just through the grate while he was getting ready! I haven’t heard a single rumor about Agatha being pregnant again, so what are you really going to do? Are you hiding a man?”

  “Not everything is about men, Rosaleen.” Sorcha lifted her bag and pawed through it. “I’m just visiting the shrine, that’s all.”

  “I thought you were done with the faeries?”

  “No one can be done with faeries, Rosaleen. They will always be there, and someone has to leave offerings.”

  They had argued about this since they were children. Papa and his girls lived in the city where people had forgotten their ties to the land. Sorcha had grown up on the moors. She knew will-o'-the-wisps by name and had spied on goblin markets. She left offerings for brownies and whispered secrets to the Tuatha dé Danann.

  If she had never seen these things, she might have questioned whether faeries were real.

  Shaking her head, she pushed her way through the crowd of men in the front room. Briana hadn’t been kidding. They were unusually busy, even for this time of year. Perhaps someone had spread word of the mysterious brothel filled with golden women.

  Rumors said that Papa's daughters came from a line of goddesses. They were all unnaturally pretty with milk-pale skin and heart-shaped faces. Their full lips were always red and didn’t leave berry stains on men’s skin. Loose blonde curls never needed a hot iron, and they were graceful as dancers.

  There were some who wondered about their odd duck of a sister. In comparison, Sorcha was a startling red rose among daffodils. She was taller than her sisters, with waist length red hair and tight ring curls that billowed around her like a cloud. Freckles dusted her skin from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. And everyone found her slightly pointed ears to be unnerving.

  Faerie touched, the villagers used to say. Her mother must have had a changeling child she refused to give back. Or perhaps that was just a sign she was touched by the devil, like her witch of a mother.

  Whatever the reasoning, Sorcha was odd, strange, unusual.

  She pushed past the last man and stepped out onto the streets. A horse and buggy waited out front, the emblem of an eagle painted on its side in gold. She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small shriveled apple.

  Soft velvet lips plucked the fruit from her palm, and the horse groaned with happiness.

  “You’ll be waiting for a while, my friend,” Sorcha said with a grin.

  “Hey! Woman!” A whip cracked over her head. “Ain’t nobody ever told ye not to touch a stranger’s horse? Get out of here!”

  She ducked away and disappeared into the crowd.

  It was market day. The teeming mass of people all seemed to have something to sell. Unwashed bodies pressed against her, but all she could smell was fish, meats, and fresh fruit.

  “Eggs for sale!”

  “Flowers for your lady?”

  “Fabric in every color!”

  Sorcha kept her bag close to her side and tried not to make eye contact. She didn't need any trouble from the suspicious villagers who made the sign of the cross when she passed. Stalls lined the streets with food, billowing cloth, even jewelry from the far reaches of the land. Some vendors she recognized, others she did not.

  A minstrel played his flute, filling the square with a jaunty tune. Sorcha recognized the song and cov
ered her grin. The words were highly inappropriate. His hat on the ground overflowed with coins, so others must have appreciated the jest as much as she.

  He winked at her when she placed a single coin with the others.

  A woman selling dried herbs caught her arm and pressed a small jar of honey into Sorcha’s palm. “For Danu.”

  “I will leave it in the forest,” Sorcha tucked it into her bag. “For anything in particular?”

  “Good health.”

  Nodding, she continued to push through the crowds of people. It wasn’t the first time someone asked for a blessing. They weren't willing to follow the old ways themselves—that was too risky—so they’d ask Sorcha to leave them for her. If she was caught, she'd be burned at the stake by the same people who handed her gifts to take to the Fae.

  A few others passed her bits and pieces to leave as offerings. A small packet of sugar, a dried bunch of lavender, a tiny jar of fresh cream. Little things that the faeries appreciated, and might leave blessings for in return.

  That was the deal with faeries. Their favors could not be bought or bribed. One had to continue leaving gifts and someday, maybe, the faeries would gift them a blessing.

  Another woman grabbed Sorcha’s arm and pulled her away from the crowd. A dirty kerchief covered her head and a moth-bitten brown dress hung from her thin frame. “My daughter won’t stop crying. She’s screaming the nights away, and my husband plans to leave her on the hill tomorrow night saying she’s a changeling. Is there another way?” Her swollen eyes brimmed with tears, cheeks scrubbed raw and nose stuffed.

  Sorcha patted her hand. “Bring her to the river and hold her in the water. No need to put her underneath it, just her legs will do. If they look the same, then she’s no changeling. If they look like birch branches, then you know you’re housing a faerie under your roof.”

  “The river?”

  “Faerie magic doesn’t work under flowing water and the glamour will break. If she’s no Fae, then bring her to the brothel. I’ll have a good look at her and see if I can give you something to help her, and you, get some sleep.”

  “Bless you, lady. We have nothing to pay you.”

  “I don’t ask for payment. Leave an offering for Danu when you can and apologize for blaming her children for your child's illness.”

  The woman wrung her hands. “And if it is a changeling?”

  Sorcha frowned. “Then you’ll leave it in the woods and hope they bring your child back.”

  She pulled away and continued her journey with a troubled mind. Many families thought their sickly babe was a changeling, but rarely was it true. There hadn’t had a changeling in this area for years.

  Yet, offerings to the Fae had diminished in the past years. With the blood beetle plague, the rising of other religions, and more outsiders in their lands, faerie stories faded into myth.

  The people forgot the shrines. Cattle and lye tainted the holy waters. Many people didn’t leave cream and sugar on their doorsteps. No one remembered the old ways, and they were paying for that.

  Sorcha shook her head. She hoped it wasn’t a changeling. Often, the Fae swapped out children for a reason. It was an unwanted, ugly babe, or it was an ancient faerie who needed a quiet place to die. Neither of those were a fair trade for a human child, and leaving it on a hill didn’t result in gaining their child back. The faerie would die alone on the hill, cold and unwanted once again.

  But it was the only solution she knew.

  She tried not to let her eyes linger upon the shadows at the edges of the street. Families cast out the infected from their home, fear of spreading the blood beetles giving way to panic. She couldn't stop her eyes from searching for them at the edges of the crowd.

  Her gaze caught on a painfully thin man. He scratched at a bulge on his cheek which shifted every time he touched it.

  Sorcha shivered and hurried along her way.

  The Guild building loomed at the end of the street. It looked nearly as impressive as the church. Imposing and tall, the walls stretched so high she had to shade her eyes to see their peak. One of the more prestigious patrons had paid for full stained glass windows. On one side, a healer looked down at her with disapproving eyes. On the other, a priest held his hands solemnly before him.

  Taking a deep breath, she hiked the bag on her shoulder higher. Noblemen worked here, their fine velvet clothing easily ruined by her dirty touch, their jewelry blinding her with its opulence. She was not a welcome visitor.

  She walked up the steps, counting each one as she went. By the time she reached thirty, she was at the front doors.

  “This time will be different,” she told herself. “They will listen to you. You'll make them.”

  Sorcha pushed the doors open and stepped onto the marble floors. Her footsteps echoed, those closest to her glancing up at the intrusive sound. She didn’t let herself meet their gaze. She knew from experience their expressions would turn to shock and then anger. How dare a woman tread among their favored kind?

  Confidently striding to the end of the building, she halted in front of a bespectacled man peering at ledgers. He didn’t look up.

  Sorcha cleared her throat.

  “What is it this time, Sorcha?”

  “I’ve come to speak with the healers guild on the matter of blood beetles.”

  He didn’t argue. They’d fought enough battles that minstrels should sing of their war. He lifted a hand, sighing. "Third hall on the left."

  “Thank you.”

  She told herself to stay calm. Yelling at these men would only make them dig their heels in further, and she wanted to help. The blood beetles weren’t going away, but maybe, just maybe, she could help the infected survive longer.

  Her stomach rolled.

  There wasn’t any reason to be afraid. They couldn’t lock her up or call her a witch. That would mean admitting they believed in magic, and these were men of science. The worst that could happen was that they laughed at her.

  It shouldn’t bother her as much as it did. Her pride had always been a personal weakness, and one she had yet to tame. Sorcha wanted them to say she was right. Just once.

  She pushed the door open and stepped into the hall.

  A group of men gathered around a body laid out on a long table. A blanket draped over the dead man’s legs, but that modesty seemed unnecessary when they had his rib cage cracked open.

  “Gentlemen,” she called out, “another blood beetle victim?”

  The man standing at the head of the table raised his gaze. “Sorcha. I thought we threw you out last time.”

  “You did! And yet, here I am again. I have information on extracting the blood beetles I thought you might find helpful.”

  “I doubt anything a woman has to say would be helpful.”

  The room was as cold as his voice. She swallowed her anger and stilled her shivers. “I have taken detailed notes, as you requested last time, including drawings of my findings. As you have one of the afflicted before you, I would be happy to perform a live demonstration.”

  “Child, I appreciate your dedication, but you were never formally trained. We have no need for a midwife’s opinions over the domain of man.”

  “Are women not afflicted as well?”

  “I fail to see how this improves your argument.”

  “You dismiss me because I cannot understand the domain of men. However, it also affects the domain of women. According to your logic, I would understand that far better than you.”

  He sighed, bowed his head, and braced himself on the table, clearly taking measured breaths. “Sorcha. I should not have to explain this to you.”

  “What is there to explain? I have information that may be useful. You should listen.”

  Their collective gaze burned. She had known they wouldn’t want her in the same room while they studied. It still frustrated her to no end.

  “Why won’t you listen to me?” she asked. “It’s not a difficult thing to do. I am certain you can hear me as none o
f you are so advanced in age that I must shout.”

  Her eyes strayed towards the corner of a room where a handsome man stood. Geralt. His ink dark hair glinted blue in the strong light trickling through the glass ceiling. His lips quirked to the side in a smirk, and his cobalt eyes sparkled with humor. Supple breeches hugged his well-shaped thighs, a white linen shirt billowed at his elbows, and a green brocade vest hugged his broad chest.

  He swaggered forward. “If I may, gentlemen?”

  Sorcha held in her snort of displeasure. She had been the one speaking, yet he did not direct his question towards her.

  The doctor took off his glasses and snapped his handkerchief in the air. He pressed it against his nose, as if Sorcha brought with her a rancid stench, and waved his hand. “Please do.”

  “Sorcha,” Geralt said as he strode forward. “It’s not that we don’t value your opinion, we certainly do. It’s just that we are very busy and on the brink of great discovery.”

  “That you can remove the beetles? I’ve told you this every time I walked in.”

  “No, we have found a way to prevent them from breeding within the human body.”

  She ground her teeth together, so hard her jaw creaked. “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s not. I understand how badly you want to help us, and we appreciate it. But I am begging you,” he held his hands clasped before him. “Give us more time. More uninterrupted time.”

  “I don’t have time,” Sorcha growled. “And neither do the rest of our people. The blood beetle plague gets worse with every season. You and your fellow ‘doctors’ hole up in this room day after day and you never find any kind of resolution. You take bodies like you’re one of the dullahan! All for nothing!”

  Her shouts bounced off the high ceiling and struck the men like falling arrows. Some had the decency to flinch, others remained stoic. Geralt’s eyes narrowed upon her and, for once, Sorcha thought she had finally angered him.

  The spark of fire disappeared.

  “We are doing the best we can,” the cajoling tone returned to Geralt’s voice. “You are the bravest, most daring girl I have ever met. I appreciate your tenacity.” His hand pressed against her spine and turned her from the room.