“Don’t dump me with the rest of ’em. Understand?”
“That’s your request? You could bend or twist any rule to your advantage. Yet you would ask that I don’t mislabel you.”
“Schemes abound when it comes to rules, especially where you’re concerned. I want something rarer: your word. And if you ask me, maintaining my integrity is plenty. Same as my name. It’s Lark.”
The Fae stares at me, bewildered. Hasn’t anybody in this cursed land ever bargained for their honor before?
After a moment’s pause, his body unwinds into the chair. “Done.”
“Deal,” I agree. “I’m ready for some grub now.”
Almost. He almost grins.
Almost. That grin almost strokes between my breasts.
Cerulean gives me a prolonged once-over that would make a bat blush. Without looking away, he waves an arm toward the kitchen. “Be my guest. Restore yourself and give me something to work with.”
He gains his feet, picks his javelin off the fireplace wall, and strides across the cottage. Swinging back the curtain, he steps into a green-blue glare of moonlight. A speckled beam catches the rims of his shoulders before he disappears, blending with the tinkling chimes drifting from outdoors.
When he’s gone, I’m not thinking about what’s beyond that threshold. All I’m thinking about is that Fae standing briefly in a radiant shaft. All I’m thinking is how far the moon hovers from this place. All I’m thinking is how far its light had traveled to touch him.
Then I’m thinking, maybe nothing’s ever as distant as it seems. If moon rays can strike a Fae’s shoulder, and if a bird’s call can travel a great distance, and if a girl can find herself galloping from one world to the other, maybe that same girl can reach the top of a mountain.
14
Because I’ve slept plenty by now, food is the next order of business. That I haven’t expired from hunger is a marvel.
In the kitchen, Cerulean’s untouched feast crowds the table. The roasted partridge and pears, the seeded bread, the cheese wedge, the date cake, the canister of chimera berries, and the assortment of drinks.
None of this atones for everything he’s done. The Fae are made of fifty percent magic, fifty percent ulterior motives.
That doesn’t stop my stomach from gurgling. I tarry beside the table and nibble on the cheese…then munch…then gobble. I avoid the berries but shovel the rest of the banquet into my mouth, so famished that I don’t give a shit anymore. I clear most of the table, guzzling milk from the jug and topping it off with draughts of coffee, then sagging with a belch that would annoy Juniper and horrify Cove.
Stuffed to capacity, I migrate into the living room, where the fire pops. One of the curtains dances with the breeze, and a whistle skips through the cottage from outside, which reminds me of the animals back home in our sanctuary. My heart twists as more lilting whistles sneak into the dwelling. I approach the arched window, inch the drapery aside, and peek through. In the woodland, shadows cross the ground, scurrying too swiftly to identify.
As a tyke, I remember curling my body in the attic chair and gazing at the shrouded view of this mountain—daydreaming about the dangers of Faerieland, spooked and beguiled by its lore. Until collapsing in front of this cottage, I’d barely had time to breathe, much less to look closer.
I throw on my dress, pad barefoot to the threshold, and whisk open the curtain. “Fables eternal,” I gasp.
Beyond the flagstones, nighttime submerges the mesh of woodland in shades of dark teal. Gnarled trees huddle together, green podlike vegetables bud from vines coiling through the undergrowth, and frothy blooms purse, their trumpet petals encrusted with dew.
From the branches, gilded wind chimes dangle like lanterns, drizzling mellow light into the wild. Their clinking melody practically sparkles, a mirthful sort of music spilling from them.
But it’s the shifting forms that get me to move. I trot across the walkway and then stop, because they could be deadly, salivating creatures. On the other hand, they’re small and fringed, and after spending nine years communing with animals at home, I trust my instincts.
I tiptoe down the path and tuck myself behind a trunk. The sources of those lilting whistles make an appearance. Nightingales!
Of course! Moth had called this place The Watch of Nightingales.
In my world, they’re pecan brown, the shade flat and earthen. In this domain, the color is richer, as luminescent as a gemstone, and swims within brilliant turquoise plumage. The combination creates whorls of pigment, the avians’ slender beaks painted in the same turquoise.
And their birdsong! The vibrations harmonize with the chimes, recognizable yet spectral.
They flap at ground level, serenading the jade canopy in search of mates. Mesmerized, I inch from the tree, afraid to spoil the moment. They spot me and launch from the green, their wings opening and catching the air. In unison, the assembly spirals around my waist and then flits away, baiting me to follow.
I give chase. Grabbing my skirt, I dart after the Watch. The illuminating wind chimes drip from the leaves, pouring a faintly jolly music into the grove. I swerve around trunks and caper after the birds. They peel off through the creepers and brush the chimes, a metallic chuckle skipping from the mobiles. Doubling back the way they came, the Watch leads me to the spot where we began.
A grin splits my face. But in a trice, they break away, splintering along the ground and returning to their nests. One of the chicks remains behind. It flutters by my ear, its beak poking playfully at my hair. I take a chance and run my finger across the cutie’s wings, which rustle with glee.
