I’ve lost an entire day sleeping? Shit. No wonder Moth didn’t rouse me until now, because a delay puts me at a disadvantage.
And this is where she grew up? I ponder if she has siblings, since offspring are rare amongst her ilk. Breeding doesn’t come easily to them, despite their fated mating tradition in which, typically, a force of destiny unites them. Either that or…instantly, I’m back in the wagon with my sisters, trying to reciteAn Owl Meets a Lark. That Fable talks about the second way Faeries mate, through some kind of special kiss.
Never mind. That’s neither here nor there.
The cottage is large enough for a family. A ladder appears to climb toward an upper loft, presumably the sleeping quarters, and baskets cluster near the fireplace. The woven containers hold bolts of airy fabrics—lace, gossamer, organza, filmy cotton, and a hoard of textiles I don’t know the names of, either because they’re too fancy or otherworldly to identify. The latter panels are translucent and vibrant, like shavings from a rainbow or samples of a thunderstorm.
Ruffles, embroidery, and other trimmings embellish the vivid blue, green, brown, yellow, and white dyes. Some of the frills remind me of hail while others resemble yarns plucked from the clouds.
One of the squat baskets contains draperies. Another consists of gemlike thread spools and elaborate animal masks, including the likeness of a raven.
“My parents were expert tailors,” Moth brags. “They supplied the Solitaries with the finest garments and linens, entwined with magic for the right price. Sunlit chiffon that sustains your curves for a lifetime. A scarf dipped in the hues of dusk, which renders you immune to anything you eat, be it poisonous, rotten, or raw—it comes in handy when you’re visiting the Unseelie Courts. Or perhaps a raindrop-beaded bag that produces whichever item you desire whenever you dip your hand inside.”
And probably won’t release your hand once it’s submerged. Not that I say this aloud.
“See anything like you like for a trade?” Moth coos. “There are many fine specimens that might tickle your fancy, in exchange for your darkest secrets.”
“I’m as open as a pair of thighs,” I say. “I’ve got no secrets.”
“That is one critical lie.”
“Then call me easy to please. I don’t need much, which is just as well since you already stole whatever I had to offer.”
She sits back, petulant. “I’ve answered your question. It’s my turn to pick up where we left off. I was able to glamour you before a congregation, however you withstood our ruler’s music. That hardly aligns. No mortal has ever resisted Cerulean’s flute, yet behold, a measly mortal covered in welts and contusions has succeeded. Moreover, you’re still in one piece.”
“This hurts me more than it does you, but it’ll take worse than a hunky Fae with an inferiority complex to knock me down.”
“Watch your mouth!” Moth scrutinizes me. “Then again, it shall be a wonder if you last beyond Middle Moon.” Whatever that means, the notion perks her up, the revelation bolstering her features. “Even if you do, the revels will provide a significant drawback. You’ll be increasingly invested in reaching the mountaintop by then, presumably depleted and in dire straits, which means your downfall shall cause greater suffering, which shall be lovely to witness. There, I feel much better.”
I open my mouth to give her royal highness the smart-ass reply she deserves, then think wiser of it. “What’s this Middle Moon business?”
“It’snoneof yourbusiness.” All the same, she inflates her chest. “It’s an annual revel when the moon’s center becomes a black circle. It marks the birth of our fauna, as it came to pass millennia ago. Each of the Solitary landscapes has its own way of celebrating. Here in the mountain, we gather for the Middle Moon Masquerade. It’s a night of many splendid pleasures, in a place where only Faeries are welcome.”
I know about Samhain, one of the festivals celebrated by the Court Fae. As for Middle Moon? That’s a new one.
Fine by me if I’m not allowed near the revels. I like a party, especially if there’s a pie buffet and a harem of strapping lads to pick from, but a spree crowded with monsters? Crashing the masquerade sounds like a great way to lose my liver.
I mock whine. “Aww, shucks. Now why did you have to tell me there’d be shenanigans? Guess I’m lucky, not being invited, since I haven’t a thing to wear.”
Moth calls my bluff. “Even if you did, it wouldn’t stay on for long.”
I hide what that statement does to my gag reflex. “There’s a second time for everything—or a third.”
“I repeat, only Faeries are welcome. And as I predicted, on the off chance you haven’t perished by Middle Moon, the revels will set you back, thus preserving my jovial mood.”
“Meaning what?” I demand. “Set back, how?”
“Enough. No human has ever resisted Cerulean’s flute. Why you?”
“So this is what happens to the humans who end up here,” I grind out, repulsed. “Cerulean beckons mortals with a jolly little ditty, pries them from their families, and makes them climb his mighty mountain. I got the gist a while ago. What I want to know is why this particular game? Is it for sport, revenge, or both?”
“You dare talk about being torn from families?” Moth hisses. “You had no qualms about tearing—” she bites her tongue, bunching her mouth into a prune.
At The Black Nest, Cerulean described the labyrinth’s makeup but not the Fae’s obsession with forcing humans to navigate the terrain. Based on Moth’s glower, I won’t get any crumbs about the maze from her, nothing that will help me understand what’s in store.
Not to mention, I recognize her bereft tone. And one thing’s missing from this cottage: a flesh-and-blood family. What happened to her parents?
“Back to my inquiry,” Moth says after composing her grouchy self. “I don’t like being sidetracked.”
