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“What?” I ask, bewildered.
“Of course we can make things!” Destan splutters.
“But then why do we have the market in the human world? There’s fae furniture in the palace alongside the human, but it’s grown, not crafted.”
“Well, yes, that’s how we make a lot of things, but we have craftspeople too,” Halima grunts.
“You do?”
“Where do you think all the servants’ uniforms come from? The cooks’ knives and wooden spoons they use in the kitchens? Stars, who do you think makes our chamber pots?” Destan spits out the last question, and he and Halima descend into giggles again.
I don’t get annoyed by their amusement. Instead, I’m fascinated. About fifty new questions come to mind about Faerie, each one helping to open up a new world.
“I suppose I thought they were all bought or stolen from humans.”
Destan clutches a hand to his chest in mock indignation, “I’m offended. You really thought us so helpless? But to clear things up for you, we go to Styrland for the novelty, for the artistry. It’s something we can’t quite seem to replicate here.” He admits the last part like it pains him.
They’re right, of course. Once we arrive and tour the shops and businesses of the Low Fae, I discover it’s not so different from trading at one of the towns in Styrland. That is, despite the fact that the people we buy from often have eyes colored like gem stones, moss for skin, and flowers in the place of hair. The domestic dwellings often appear to be attached to the shops, where fae either sit out front with stalls displaying their wares or labor away as hard as the fae in the palace kitchens at their blacksmith’s forge or bakery. I notice Kaline, the servant who sometimes brought me things at the palace, coming out of a tailor’s, her seaweed hair shining in the sun. I hold up a hand to offer a little wave and she bobs a curtsey. I realize she probably got my night dress from a shop like this.
Despite her claim about Destan and shopping, Halima does plenty of the bargaining. The Low Fae respond to her in a way they don’t me or Destan. We’re stood by a blacksmith’s while Halima haggles over a pair of tongs with the owner when the resemblance hits me. To me the blacksmith looks almost like a tree that woke up one day and decided to start working, or maybe a nymph living within its walls, finally set free. Halima looks almost entirely High Fae, but her size, and the texture of her skin…
I turn to Destan, unable to quench my curiosity.
“Is Halima…is she like you? Like the rest of the Seelie Court or…?”
Destan is kind enough to catch my meaning.
“Halima’s parents are both High Fae,” he says, “but she believes she has some Low Fae ancestry somewhere.”
“That’s so interesting,” I say truthfully. Then the implications of it hit me, and I realize it must make things complicated for her. Unique and wonderful, but also maybe difficult to navigate, feeling like you’re straddling two different worlds at once.
“Indeed. If only everyone saw it that way.” Destan sounds genuinely sad for Halima, and my fondness for him grows a few degrees.
The town is obviously the trading spot for a lot of goods that go through the castle. I recognize some other servants from the palace picking up things for their masters and mistresses, and the imp that I saw arguing with the cook once is there too. I shouldn’t be surprised, then, when I spy a familiar head of brown hair down the street from me.
“Hey, you,” I say, touching Fiona’s arm in greeting.
“Eleanor! You’re out of the palace?” She looks around and sees Destan and Halima arguing over lead quality nearby. In the end they’ve taken on my list like a personal mission.
“With my escorts, of course.” I roll my eyes.
“Still, it must nice to get out for a bit?”
It’s wonderful to talk with another human who really gets what it’s like to be trapped in this place, so vulnerable and powerless. Even though I don’t mind speaking with Destan and Halima, it’s all so much easier with Fiona.
“It is. Are you shopping for Lady Rivera?”
“Just getting some jobs done.” She smiles, shrugging as if she has nothing interesting to add.
“What did you do?” I ask suddenly. “When you lived in Styrland? What did your family do?”
She looks pained by the question, and I immediately regret my insufferable nosiness.
“I’m sorry. That probably hurts to talk about. Sometimes I need to mind my own business.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “But yes, I don’t really like to talk about it. I had big dreams once, about my future, but life doesn’t always go as you planned.”
I laugh bitterly. “Don’t I know it.”
