by Emma Hamm
For a moment, she heard nothing. Silence rang as loud as her words. She could only hope she had not offended whatever brownies or redcaps remained.
She twisted her fingers and listened. Her patience was rewarded. Soft chirping sounds heralded faerie movement. Pattering footsteps started towards her and she felt the slightest of nudges against her thigh.
Looking down, she saw that a line on the floor had smudged.
“Salt?” she whispered. Or at least something similar. The white powder now held a fingerprint in it, marring the smooth line.
When she looked back up, the room was no longer frightening nor haunted. It was merely a room to the naked eye.
“Thank you,” she said. “Your kindness knows no bounds. I will honor the words I spoke before entering.”
She made her way to the bed and dumped her pack on the ground. Her back groaned with the movement, balance shifting with sudden lightheadedness. She wasn’t done yet.
Her hands knew where the small jar of sugar was, even if her mind wasn’t entirely functioning. Sorcha rummaged through her pack and came up with the tiny clay jar. It always paid to have some kind of gift for the Fae. She’d learned this lesson time and time again until her pockets were always full.
For good measure, she also snagged a tiny coin. The dim moonlight gleamed off the edges, for she had polished it many times over. Sorcha called it her lucky coin, and it seemed appropriate to give away now.
“I will share what little I have with you,” she murmured. “They are small, but I believe I may find more tomorrow. Not as payment, I know your ways.”
Chairs screeched as she turned, rocking as they thumped onto the floor. Sorcha blinked at the table now clean of all dust and removed of dirty plates.
“Well, you didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”
A mug appeared out of thin air and plunked onto the table.
Sorcha was stunned. She wanted to hold the hag stone to her eye just to get a look at the hidden faeries. They couldn’t be more terrifying a sight than their master.
“You are too kind,” she breathed. “I will leave my things above the fireplace. Please enjoy them, and I’m sorry there’s not more.”
Hardly five strides carried her to the other end of the hut. She leaned, blew the dust off the hearth, and set her items down. The brownie in her small room at the brothel liked to climb. She always hid little gifts in the rafters just to give it a reason for adventure.
They were naturally curious creatures, something she always respected about them. Brownies, although sometimes a nuisance, were helpful. They wanted to do everything they could, and when they couldn’t, lost their minds.
Her brow furrowed. She hoped that wasn’t what she was dealing with here. House brownies easily turned to boggarts if they didn’t keep busy. And the room had been dusty…
She turned. “Are you brownies?”
There was no response.
“It will not make me think ill of you. It’s merely easier for me to know what you might like in the cupboards. The brownie at my home was fond of honey, but I met a boggart once, and he was much fonder of fresh bread.”
The cup on the table tilted.
Sorcha smiled. “A boggart then. I’ll do my best to steal something from that nasty Tuatha dé Danann’s kitchen. We’ll have this place shining and then I’ll bake fresh bread, as long as you don’t pull the covers off me.”
She watched the mug dance back and forth. Apparently, that was the correct thing to say.
The soft swishing sound of her skirts lulled her senses into a stupor. Sorcha stumbled to the bed and fell face down. It didn’t matter that cobwebs tangled in her hair or that the layer of dust was so thick it bounced with her and then returned to the mattress. She was so exhausted, she could even sleep through the boggart placing clammy hands on her cheeks as it checked to make sure she was alive.
She slept for the rest of the afternoon, through the night, and well into the morning. However, it felt only a few seconds until she was blinking her eyes at the dappled sunlight shining through the hut window.
Blinking, she groggily realized that a soft sound had awakened her. Tapping, like a spoon against ceramic, although that couldn’t be right. She remembered very clearly that she was in a hag’s hut which had seen better days. Even the boggart couldn’t have gotten a tea set in such a short amount of time.
Sorcha sat straight up in bed, the tangled mat of her red hair sticking out at odd angles. The room had completely changed overnight. The dust and dirt was piled in a corner, the floors revealed to be rich warm wood. The furniture gleamed and the fireplace was scrubbed clean of all grime and smoke stain.
Something clinked again drawing her attention to the kitchen table near another window. Two chairs framed it, one currently occupied by a short woman with a mop of white hair. An aged, though clean, kirtle touched the floor. Tiny pink flowers decorated the pale fabric, and must have been hand painted. Her white hair smoothed into a large bun, but strands of frizzy curls had freed themselves.
The strange woman set her spoon on the saucer and sipped at her tea.
Sorcha blinked. “Am I still in Hy-brasil?”
“I believe so. If I’m in Hy-brasil, then you must be here, too.” The strange woman had a nice voice. Comforting, like that of a warm blanket on a chilled autumn day. It was familiar although Sorcha couldn’t put her finger on why.
Large, brown eyes watched her every movement as Sorcha fiddled with the blanket covering her legs. “I don’t remember tucking myself into bed.”
“Oh, I assume that was the boggart, dearie. Although, I’d say she is well on her way back to brownie now, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me?”
“You gave her something to do, and that’s all brownies want.”
Sorcha’s mind raced, and realization dawned on her like a hammer. “You’re the voice I heard on the shoreline. You were with that gnome!”
“It’s a good memory you’ve got there.” The woman set her teacup down and smiled. “You can call me Pixie.”
“Is that what you are?”
“It is. Are you surprised?”
“I’ve never met a pixie before,” Sorcha said as she gathered the blankets at her chest. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”
Pixie chortled, the laugh booming out of her chest and shaking the table. “Oh, but you are a sweet little thing! So polite. Boggart, I think you were quite right. She’s a fair treat in this horrid place.”
“Boggart? Is she here?”
“Of course, dearie. She doesn’t want you to see her yet. She came all the way up to the castle, a rarity I might add, to tell us how pleasant you were. You’ve made her happy giving her something to do and a place to clean. Losing her hag was a terrible blow.”
“I—” her head was spinning. Sorcha couldn’t keep up with what Pixie was saying, let alone the strange turn this adventure had taken. “I apologize if this seems rude, Pixie, but what are you doing here?”
Pixie sat up straight, setting her cup down so hard the saucer chipped. “How presumptuous of me! Dearie, if I have frightened you in any way, do allow me to apologize. I’ve come to take you up to the castle, get you some tea, and then…” Her nose wrinkled. “Perhaps a bath if you are amiable?”
“I can honestly say that would be appreciated.”
Sorcha pushed the covers back and stretched her aching spine. The pain of her journey had dulled to a persistent stiffness, but it was significantly better than before. Her skin still felt like it was covered in a thin layer of filth, and her hair didn’t move when she shifted. Sorcha winced, she needed a bath as soon as humanly possible.
She looked down and frowned. “Who changed me into my underthings?”
“Boggart, dearie. Had quite the time of it as well. You’re much larger than she.”
“Yet another thing I need to thank you for, Boggart. I’ll be sure to cook two loaves of fresh bread for us tonight.”
A faint squeak from
the corner radiated delight.
Sorcha hobbled towards her pack. Muscles screamed as she bent down to find clothing, so much that a soft whimper escaped her lips.
“Oh, there’s enough of that,” Pixie grumbled. “We’ll throw a cloak over you and you’ll be covered to decency. We don’t have the same ridiculous restraints as humans. A body is a body.”
“And a body grows chilled,” Sorcha pointed out. The idea of leaving without having to tie up the back of her gown sounded lovely. Usually her sisters helped, and she had little reason to change clothing on a ship full of men. Here, she would need help.
“A body will last until it’s stuck in the bath.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she stood up only to groan again. “But I still need to find something to wear.”
“We have plenty, dearie.” Pixie stood up and hopped towards her, surprisingly spry for a woman who looked so old. “Let me help you put your cloak on. It pins at your throat now, doesn’t it? There. It’s lovely. We’ll get you warmed up and fed in a moment!”
Pixie planted her hands on Sorcha’s shoulder blades and shoved. For a glamoured being, her strength was impressive. Before Sorcha could blink, they were already outside and moving down the ramp.
Why was it that faeries dragged her around so much? Sorcha’s eyes watered in the bright sunlight. “What time is it?”
“Mid-day, dearie. You’ve been asleep for some time.”
“It was a long journey,” she said.
“I imagine it would be! Coming from the human world all the way here, you’re a brave little thing and polite.”
“No braver than the next person.” Sorcha tried to focus on the words, staring around her at all the new sights. There were people everywhere. Men and women, dressed in clothing styles from a hundred years ago or more, but still people. They tended the fields, drove herds of sheep out of their pens, laid in the grass, and pointed out clouds to each other. “Are these all faeries?”
“Indeed, they are!”
“Why didn’t I see them yesterday?” A man walked past them and doffed his shepherd’s hat. Sorcha nodded back politely and tugged her cloak tighter around her waist.
“We tend to be shy around humans. One never knows how they will react. Boggart was adamant you were kind, so the others were less hesitant to be seen.”
“Word travels fast around here,” Sorcha mused.
“It certainly does.”
Another man walked past them, his eyes lingering too long upon the gap at the bottom of the cloak which revealed the delicate lines of her ankle bones. Sorcha blushed, and Pixie smacked the back of the man’s head as he passed.
“Cretin,” Pixie muttered. “No respect for the womenfolk. Those selkie men need to be taken to task.”
“That was a selkie?” Sorcha spun to stare at his back. He glanced over his shoulder and winked at her.
“We’re not on a tour. Attention back towards the castle, please.”
“But—”
“No buts! You aren’t meeting a selkie today, or ever, if I have my say.”
Sorcha furrowed her brows. “Are they dangerous?”
“To a person’s sanity.”
“He didn’t seem all that bad.”
“None of them do!” Pixie guided her around the back to the castle, nudging her this way and that until she opened a small wooden gate. “The Fae are notoriously interested in humans. Far more than we should be, I might add. Stay away from faerie men, and you’ll be much happier.”
Sorcha stepped into the garden beyond the gate and inhaled the sweet scent of growing herbs. It was too early in the year for any plant to be bearing fruit, but tomatoes hung swollen and bright red. Basil spiced the air with a heady flavor while carrot tops tickled her toes.
“This garden is beautiful,” she whispered.
“I’m sure Cian will be pleased to hear that.”
“The gnome?” Sorcha skirted around a patch of turnips. “Cian is a gardener?”
“Most gnomes are. They’re good at it, too. The earth listens to them, you see, and that makes it a lot easier. Come on!”
Sorcha glanced up and realized she’d fallen behind. Pixie was holding open a plain brown door framed by gray stone. Steam billowed out in hot, rolling waves.
“Where does that lead?”
“To the kitchens, dearie.”
“I didn’t see the kitchens before.”
The cobblestone floor was cold against the soles of her bare feet. She curled her toes and held onto the door frame. The scent of pastries, bubbling stew, and strong tea made her head swim. Her stomach clenched in hunger.
Three women puttered around the kitchen. One leaned over a large cauldron, tasting the soup within. Another kneaded dough into a familiar shape while the last ducked behind a curtain. Trickling water striking a basin rained through her senses.
“Come on, dearie,” Pixie said. “We’ll get you all cleaned up and then fill that belly of yours.”
Sorcha tiptoed around the curtain and gaped at the large metal tub beyond it. “This is too fine for the likes of me.”
“Nonsense! There's nothing better than bathing in hot water. In you go.”
“I would be fine in a stream—”
“In.”
The steely order had Sorcha unclasping her cloak. The fabric fell to the floor with a heavy thump, followed by her white underdress.
“Should I even be here?” she asked. The hot water stung the scrapes on her knees but made her muscles loosen their tight knots. She hissed her pleasure as the steam coated her face.
“Why shouldn’t you be? Lean forward, and I’ll get your back.”
It had been a long time since someone helped Sorcha bathe. She remembered her mother scrubbing vigorously at her dirt streaked skin. She was always red for days after her baths. In contrast, Sorcha’s sisters were far less vigorous when she moved in with them.
“Your master didn’t seem keen on having me linger,” she said as the sponge slid over her skin.
“Yes, I heard he was rather…harsh with you.”
She snorted. “Harsh is one way to describe it.”
“He’s a good man, but he has a temper.”
“Was that his temper? I thought he was merely a brute, leaving little to make a good impression.”
Pixie grabbed another bucket of water. “The master can be difficult, but don’t let first impressions sway you. If you judge him harshly, he’ll do the same for you. Hold your breath.”
Water cascaded over her head and down her shoulders. Sorcha stared into the muddy water while clumps of earth swirled with her movement. Bubbles popped, releasing the scent of lemon into the air.
“Have you known him long?” Sorcha asked. The haunting vision of his marred face and electric blue eyes rose in the water.
“For as long as he’s been alive. The master was a handsome child.” Pixie paused. “And is still a handsome man.”
She wanted to disagree. The words were on the tip of her tongue to say he wasn’t handsome at all, that his exterior matched his interior, but she paused. Sorcha had always been quick to judge others. Perhaps now would be a good time to practice patience.
“I couldn’t say,” she said. “He didn’t seem interested in helping me. That didn’t add to his appeal.”
“Help you? Whatever could the master help you with, dearie?”
Pixie moved behind the tub and tugged Sorcha backwards. Her spine hit the warm metal, and a soft sigh slipped from her lips. The weight of her hair slid out of the water and dangled to the floor. A slight tug suggested Pixie planned to work all the snarls into smooth curls.
“My people are dying,” Sorcha said. “A plague is sweeping across our lands, and I can’t cure it. No one can. Our doctors are baffled, our herbalists are stumped, and even the mystics shrug their shoulders and say the gods are angry. There is nothing to be done.”
“And our master?”
“I was sent here by other Tuatha dé Danann. They said if
I brought him back they would give me the cure. My father is dying, and my sisters are likely to grow ill afterwards. I had to do something.”
The rasp of the brush lulled her senses. Her eyes drifted shut as the comforting rhythm reminded her body she had endured a significant journey.
“I’m sure if you told the master all that he’d help.”
“He’s already said no, but he doesn’t know how determined I am.”
“It’s a good trait to have.”
“Is it?” Sorcha laughed. “Perhaps I could bring you home with me, and you could tell my neighbors that. They only put up with me because I’m a healer.”
“A healer?” the Pixie’s voice sparkled. “We don’t have one of those.”
She wanted to reply, but her muscles were so relaxed that all she could manage was a quiet murmur. The bath was exactly what she needed, although she hadn’t known it before. Every ache disappeared, every worry dissolved. She focused upon the repetitive movement of the brush and let her mind quiet.
All good things came to an end. The water chilled and Pixie made it to the top of Sorcha’s head.
“Come now, let’s get you dressed.” Pixie passed a gentle hand over Sorcha’s head.
Tears pricked and water blurred the edges of Sorcha’s vision. She hadn’t expected to find people who were so genuinely good hearted. It was nearly her undoing.
“Thank you,” she whispered and stood. The water sluiced off her body, pouring in waterfalls from her breasts, lingering in the valleys of her hips.
Pixie tsked. “You need to gain weight, dearie. You’re positively thin!”
“I’m not from royalty. I’m working class!”
“That doesn’t make a difference to me. Come here.”
The towel in Pixie’s hands snapped as she held it out. Another strange moment. No one dried Sorcha off after her bath except herself. Even her mother had let Sorcha wrap herself in a towel before scrubbing her hair.
The soft towel dragged over every inch of Sorcha’s body with expert precision. Pixie didn’t hesitate as if she had done this her entire life.
“Pixie?” Sorcha asked. “What did you do before you came to Hy-brasil?”
