by Emma Hamm
The other woman hesitated for a moment. “I was a lady’s maid to the most beautiful of Seelie women.”
“Who?”
“The Queen Neve, of course.”
“Queen?” Sorcha let out a long breath through her teeth. “That’s a high-ranking position.”
“Queen usually is.”
“No, I mean the Queen’s maid. That must have been an incredible experience, I envy you.”
Pixie looked at her with shock in her eyes and burst into laughter. “Dearie, you are a delight! I have never in my life had anyone envy me for being a maid!” She laughed so hard that she handed the towel to Sorcha. “High ranking for being a Queen’s maid. The thought!”
With a soft smile on her face, Sorcha finished toweling herself dry. “It’s a rather remarkable position, you must admit.”
Twisted shadows danced behind the blinds and between the maids drifting through the room. Sorcha tilted her head to the side and watched the wings, feathers, and misshapen forms revealed by their shadows. They likely weren’t aware she could see their true forms.
She hoped, someday, they might walk without the glamour in place. Their fear was warranted. Humans didn't react well to strange creatures. Sorcha refused to believe she would recoil from their appearances.
That would require she stay. She shook herself. Staying on this island wasn’t a part of the plan, and she had to believe the Tuatha dé Danann would at least listen. Her journey was of great importance. He had to see reason.
“Pixie?” she called out. “Where is your master today?”
“Training in the yard, I would suspect. That’s where he usually is.”
“Training?”
“Oh yes,” Pixie said as she returned. She held a pale green gown in her hands, the swath of fabric nearly touching the floor. “He’s a very impressive warrior, although I’ll let him tell you those stories. I believe this will look lovely with that hair of yours.”
She reached out and traced a finger across the dress. Velvet, the material of nobility.
“I cannot wear this,” Sorcha said. “I’ll ruin it.”
“No one else is wearing it. You might as well ruin it or the moths will.”
Yearning flooded through her, sparkling at the ends of her fingertips and she reached for the gown. She’d never worn such fine fabric before. Though the brothel prided itself on high class women, the velvets were saved for her sisters when important clients came to visit. Sorcha had always worn wool and cotton.
Her fingers trailed over the fabric, pulling it into her arms. “Thank you.”
“I enjoy decorating pretty things, dearie. Now put that on, and we’ll get you some food.”
Sorcha dragged the dress over her head and tied the towel along the wet length of her hair. Someone had set up a feast on the table. Fresh fruit, vegetables, lettuce, and bread overflowed their bowls. A jug of cold water sat within easy reach.
She fell onto her seat and stared in disbelief. “This is for me?”
“Well it’s not much,” Pixie sniffed. “But it must do for now.”
“This is more than I ever would have asked for! You should have sent me on my way with an apple.”
“We have better hospitality than that. Eat up.”
Sorcha shoveled food into her mouth and gulped glass after glass of water. Her stomach could rebel later, it didn’t matter. This was more food than she’d seen in weeks and the water tasted like the first snowfall.
When her belly ached and her throat closed at the thought of more, she pushed her plate back and sighed.
“I hate to be more of a bother,” she began, “but do you have extra flour and butter? I’d like to make bread for Boggart, but have no supplies.”
“For Boggart?” Pixie repeated. “Brownies prefer honey, dearie.”
“She’s not a brownie anymore and seemed very excited about bread.”
“Well, that hut has a kitchen… All right. We’ll give you enough to stock your kitchen and then you won’t be a bother here.”
The faeries filled her arms with everything she could need. So much food that Sorcha needed a pack which was quickly produced and stuffed to the brim.
They were kind and gracious almost to the point of suspicion. Sorcha’s brows drew together as she left the kitchen with a shaking head. It made little sense for them to change their minds so quickly. One day they were invisible, and the next, they were making friends? It all seemed rather odd.
“What are you doing here?” The grumpy voice was familiar.
Sorcha turned and met the gaze of Cian, the gnome. Not the glamoured human, not the invisible voice, but the short, squat gnome. Rolls of fat poured into the vague shape of a face. Two eyes, a nose, and a wide split mouth on pasty pale skin, all underneath the wide brim of a brown hat. He had shoved himself into clothing, buttons threatening to pop off under the stress. He wore no shoes because his toenails were so long they curled into the ground.
“Cian,” she said with a hesitant nod.
“You don’t even have the good sense to run screaming?”
“I have your name, why would I scream?”
“Gnomes are frightening creatures. We used to eat humans.”
“‘Used to’ is the operative phrase there I imagine,” she said as she nudged the fence gate open with her hip. “Thank you for reminding me that not everyone here is as kind as the faeries in the kitchen.”
“Brownies. They always want to take care of something. They’ll smother you to death if you let them!”
She had come to the same conclusion. The gate slammed shut behind her and she skirted back down the lane towards the hag’s hut.
The faeries were kind, but almost too kind. She didn’t remember the stories about brownies, but fully intended to put Boggart to good use. Plying someone with bread for information was easy enough though perhaps devious.
It would work out best for them both in the long run. She needed more information, and Boggart was the perfect person to ask.
Chapter Six
THE DINNER
“She asked for what?” Eamonn’s voice echoed in his chamber.
“The ingredients for bread, master.”
“She didn’t ask for the bread itself?”
“No. She said she wanted to bake the bread for Bronagh herself.”
He leaned back in the high chair of his desk. Steepling his fingers, he pressed them against his lips. “Why would she want to do that? The boggart is hardly something to waste her time on.”
“Perhaps she considers Bronagh worth her time, master.”
He hadn’t thought of that. Boggarts and those of the lesser Fae were traditionally beneath the Tuatha dé Danann. Their jobs were clear. Slaves, footmen, sometimes maids if they were pretty enough. Never in his life had he seen anyone take the time to treat them with respect.
The suggestion that the human cared was ridiculous. She had been so furious, charging into his throne room like she owned the place. Her eyes spat fire while her words seared his pride. He refused to believe her as kind as Oona thought.
There was a warrior in her.
Oona bustled behind him, cleaning every inch of his quarters. She was good at that. He had never seen another pixie so willing to do a maid’s job. She was the best, and the only acceptable maid to bring with him to this cursed place.
He much preferred the pixie without her glamour. The old woman’s disguise grated on his nerves. Pixies were lithe creatures, with a cap of flower petals instead of hair. Hers was a pale dusky lavender, matching the shimmering wings she wore draped around her shoulders.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“The same place as last night, the hag’s hut.”
“She went back?”
“Without complaint, I might add.”
Eamonn leaned forward and pressed his elbows against the desk. “Why?”
“To cook bread for Bronagh.”
“Yes, but why else? There has to be a reason.”
&n
bsp; Oona sighed. She crossed around to the front of his desk and knelt before him. “You will hurt yourself trying to understand the human. You know full well it’s impossible.”
“I cannot accept that as truth.”
“Then you will go mad. Let it go, master. Some things you will never understand.”
He couldn’t let it go. He closed his eyes and saw her flashing green eyes. Emeralds and rainforests hid in her gaze, equally dangerous and cutting. It was strange he would remember her eyes as the rest of her was unimpressive.
No self-respecting Seelie would ever entertain royalty while looking like they rolled in a pig’s pen. The woman had been disgusting. Seaweed stuck in her hair, clothing wrinkled and smudged with dirt. One foot bare, the other covered by a threadbare slipper.
Yet, she’d held herself with the grace of a queen.
Perhaps that explained how she’d bewitched him. She was an enigma, an oddity, a strange creature who made little sense. She shouldn’t exist, and yet, here she was.
“No human has ever come to Hy-brasil, have they?” he asked.
“Not that I know of, master.”
“So how did she get here?”
“I wouldn’t know. It’s not my place to question how people arrive, only to take care of them when they do.”
He snorted. “Cian made quite the impression.”
“That was my fault,” Oona winced. “I said his name in front of the girl. I didn’t think she could hear us while we held our glamours, but somehow she did.”
“He’s angry at you?”
“When is he not?” She stood up from his floor and scowled at him. “You’re stalling. What are you going to do about her?”
“Who?” Eamonn lifted an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. For good measure, he lifted his booted feet onto the desk.
“Stop teasing me! It’s bad for my health. You know full well who I’m speaking of! She’s a nice little thing, and it’s not settling well with me that you were so rude.”
“Did I ask for an opinion?”
“No, but I’m giving one. She is the sweetest little thing that has washed ashore in nigh two hundred years! You need to apologize to her—” Oona lifted a hand when he opened his mouth, “—apologize, and then invite her to stay here. It’s not safe to live in that hut.”
Eamonn wanted to fly across the table and strangle her. Apologize? To that miscreant who shouldn’t be on this isle to begin with? He had more things to worry about than the feelings of a silly little girl.
Memories of his brother flashed through his mind. His throat tightened as it had when the noose cinched tight across his Adam’s apple. The gems at his neck cast a dim glow across his clasped fingers.
Oona made a soft sound of distress and looked away. “I meant no disrespect, master.”
“I’m certain you didn’t. You have always been one of my favored servants, and for that I spoil you. Do not make me regret that.”
She bowed and turned to leave. He met her gaze as she hesitated by the door. “Master, if I may be so bold, perhaps we no longer wish you to see us as servants. We see you as family, my dear, and someday we hope you’ll see us the same.”
Her skirts swirled as she raced from the room.
He frowned. Was that how his people saw him? As a mysterious figure who cared little for them?
Long ago, when he was young and drunk on the idea of power, he had thought that way. Eamonn stood, clasping his hands behind his back as he wandered to the portrait of his mother. Her golden hair fell straight without a single strand out of place.
He remembered her like this. Always perfect, no matter what the situation. Even when they hung him.
“What would you do, Mathair?” he murmured. “The girl is a problem. A distraction.”
She was the last thing he needed. There were only a few more months to prepare, even then he wasn’t certain if he would manage. Eamonn walked a path leading only to death.
But a fair red-headed lass haunted his steps. She had only been here for one night, and already he had not slept. What more would she do?
“Perhaps she is a witch,” he said. “A temptress sent by my brother to ensure I never return home.”
The thought was likely. Fionn would do anything to keep the Seelie throne.
Growling, Eamonn spun on his heel. Long legs carried him to a wall carved with the image of a great bird. He pressed his palm against a loose stone, pushing hard until the wall gave and revealed a crystal embedded within the structure. Gem touched gem, and the wall shifted.
Beyond, a room filled to the brim with Fae artifacts glowed. Magic swirled in the air. It danced upon his skin, skittering across the crystals of his face and neck. He was not cursed; Eamonn had tested that immediately once the affliction made itself known. But magic enjoyed touching him all the same.
Brushing the dust motes aside, he reached for a small handheld mirror. Carved roses twined from the handle and bloomed at the top. He thought it rather frivolous. Magical objects always were.
“Show me the red-headed lass.” He leaned forward and breathed on the glass. The mirror swirled with mist and cleared. No longer reflecting the room, it revealed to him the interior of the hag’s hut.
“What?” he growled. “There must be trickery here.”
That was not the girl who had marched into his throne room with anger burning her cheeks. The beauty spinning in circles looked more like a Fae lady.
Her hair, which he remembered as matted and oiled, spun around her in a wide arc. Curls bounced with her movements as she hopped from side to side, arms held as if a partner swung her around. The green velvet dress hugging her curves spun in a perfect circle as she twisted and turned.
He recognized that dance. The humans practiced it at Beltane. The women bent and swayed with lively music.
She danced alone. Her hands clapped in time to music that did not play, and the smile stretched across her face spoke of pure glee.
Eamonn’s lips quirked to the side. She was a horrible dancer. Far too bouncy, no control over her limbs or facial expressions, and obviously untrained. Yet, there was still something compelling about her joy.
“This is not the muddy creature with the personality of a shrew,” he murmured. “What other secrets do you hold, little human?”
The mirror heard his request, and the image shifted closer as the woman stopped dancing. Her ears were slightly pointed, he realized.
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
The burning need in his stomach expanded, blossoming into a full-blown red haze of want and desire. He had to find out more about her. Where she came from, why she was here, what her plans were.
Eamonn brushed aside the wonderment of how she was raised, who had taught her the secrets of the Fae, and why her ears were tipped with faerie points. These were frivolous things which held little weight. They weren’t important.
She wasn’t important.
And yet… He lifted his head and shouted, “Oona!”
The pixie hadn’t gone far. He heard the door open and her voice call out, “Yes, master?”
“Invite her to dinner.”
“Master, she requested privacy tonight.”
“What?” He dropped the mirror and strode into his parlor. “She said what?”
“She requested that Bronagh and she have a quiet evening to get to know each other.”
“Why?”
Oona shrugged. “I would imagine she wishes to rest after her long journey.”
“No, she’s too smart for that.” Eamonn couldn’t imagine she didn’t have some kind of plan. She was far too dedicated to her cause. Perhaps he was thinking too much like a warrior, and not enough like a man. “How much does Bronagh know about the castle?”
“As much as anyone, I would imagine. She used to live here.”
“Would she remember many of its secrets?”
“Maybe?” Oona blinked and twisted her hands together. “You don’t think the girl has any ulterior motives? Ma
ster, she’s been very kind.”
“Even the kindest of people can be coy. I would like to be certain she isn’t plotting anything sinister.”
Oona threw her hands up in the air. “She’s the least sinister person I’ve ever met!”
“And that would make her an incredible spy, wouldn’t it?”
He lifted an eyebrow and reached for his cloak. He would find out just how dangerous this woman might be. Although his people might think him indifferent, they were all he had.
With an embellished swirl, the cloak settled upon his shoulders, and he strode across the battlements.
“You see, Boggart, it’s rather easy to make bread!” Sorcha said as she kneaded the dough into a rough shape.
The answering squeak made her smile. It wasn’t a very supportive squeak, nor did it sound as if the faerie believed her. No matter, the bread would taste wonderful.
Homesickness overwhelmed her as the smell of flour and baking bread filled the small hut. Her sisters loved fresh bread, and Sorcha always made certain it was ready for them at the end of the night. They never wasted a scrap. The scent made the brothel feel more like a home rather than a workplace, and giggles had lifted their spirits to the rafters for hours every night.
She missed them more than anything else. Her eyes drifted towards the moon peeking through the window, and she sent a silent good night to her siblings.
All her hopes and wishes lifted into the air and drifted out to sea. She prayed they were healthy and happy. She hoped Rosaleen had taken up that kind nobleman and now lived in riches, and Briana remembered to relax. Sorcha made the sign of the cross over her chest and breathed her worry into the moonlight.
“Please keep Papa alive.”
She couldn’t force those things to happen, not from here. Sorcha resorted to wishes and dreams. Perhaps the Tuatha dé Danann would hear her and see that her family would think kindly upon her choices.
A squeak interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh?” Sorcha turned and placed a hand on her hip. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
Boggart still refused to speak although Sorcha was certain it could. Soft chirps were its only form of communication, and it remained glamoured.
