What she means is,Stupid?
I slap fruit from her grip. It shoots across the room, splatters against the nearest wall, and dribbles down the stone while squirting a cringe-worthy glop of slime. Tempting on the outside, cruddy on the inside.
Moth hisses. On instinct, I reach for the whip still blessedly attached to my hip. I bolt upright—and immediately regret it. My skull pounds, a motley jumble of spots bursting behind my eyelids.
The nausea ceases right quick, but I clasp the cot’s frame for balance. Everything hurts like a son of bitch. My skin chafes from a dozen wounds, dried crimson speckles my arms and limbs, and my dress and cloak have disintegrated into muck-stained rags.
My stomach howls. For a malnourished second, I wonder if that prickly mutant fruit had been safe to eat. If so, I wouldn’t be starving right now, and Moth wouldn’t be about to say—
“You bitch of a mortal,” she trills. “I shall pick the petals of your fingernails one by one, fashion them into charms, and string them around my throat.”
I keep my hand braced atop the whip. “Keep talking, whippersnapper. Just keep talking, and someday, that’s not all that’ll be wrapped around your throat.”
“I am not a whippersnapper!”
Regardless, my pain seems to appease Moth because she backs off and squats on the floor. Other than the cot, I doubt she’s interested in supplying me with creature comforts, much less bandages or a swig of water
Moth flicks another threat my way. “If you value your tongue, do not call me names, other than the one I give you. Understand?”
“You helped me,” I blurt out.
This earns me a scowl, distorting the raccoon-like stripe of nutty brown skin marching across her pale face. “Not out of pleasure. You should have eaten my offering. The pome would have cleared your mind and given you stamina.”
“So I can put up a worthier fight?”
“Precisely.” Her wings snap, flaring with a boastful slap of sound. “That way, you’ll feel acutely the injuries I inflict upon you. I’ve always loved the sight of humans weeping their hearts out.”
Why do I get the feeling she’s all bark and no bite? Nonetheless, I scoot farther into the cot, not because I’m keen to show fear but because I don’t like merging with her shadow.
It’s a relief to see my pack on the floor beside the cot. I snatch the bag and rummage through its innards. The last of my offerings are gone, which is Moth’s fault. She’s decorated herself with the trinkets Juniper had stuffed into it: a jute bracelet wrapped around one wrist; a string pouch of stones wrapped around the other; a rope necklace of chestnuts; and pressed flowers that Moth’s pasted to her arms.
My sisters and I used to decorate parchment with similar dried blossoms, using a sticky combination of flour and water. The florals trickle up Moth’s elbows. The ribbon sash she’d accepted from me at The Black Nest slumps around her waist, the knot beginning to loosen.
Correction. One object remains safe in my pack: the blue feather, stored in the fabric. That’s one item I won’t give up without a catfight. The feel of it against my fingers saves me from attacking Moth and getting my neck broken.
I’d make a fuss about the baubles she took it upon herself to steal, but that’ll rile her up. Plus, she hasn’t demanded payment for sheltering me.
Still, I need information. “An answer for an answer. And I won’t mince words, so long as you don’t twist ’em.”
Moth fondles her new treasures. “You think it’s that simple, do you?”
“Unless simple’s too difficult for you.”
Her hackles raise. Since there’s no way I’m doing this while bedridden, I hobble to my feet and settle into a chair before the fireplace. Moth crawls near and crosses her arms over the coffee table. I used to love sitting like that for breakfast, lunch, and supper.
An arched hallway connects the living room to a kitchen crammed with hanging dried herbs and a circular dining table with curved benches. Despite the fruit incident, a famished part of me wouldn’t mind trading a couple of fingernails for food and water…maybe ointment, too. But I can’t trust anything she provides until we’ve had a chat. Or until I’ve got no choice about quenching my thirst and stuffing my belly.
I change my mind and hunker beside Moth. The runt balks, flashing a set of incisors that have probably severed a few pinkies in her lifetime. Like their ruler, she’s got teeth made of ivory, so damn clean and straight. Privileged choppers that only immortality can achieve, that no commoner in Reverie Hollow has ever flaunted.
And Moth’s fingernails? No signs that dirt’s ever clogged the crevices.
Juniper once read aloud how the Folk groom like felines. Sure looks that way.
The Fae huffs. “Ask, but don’t expect me to be forthcoming.”
“Where am I?” I ask.
“I should have known. Mortals and their constant need to orientate themselves. You’re in The Watch of Nightingales, and this is my family’s cottage. You’ve been snoring for a full day.”
