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I sigh. “I think we should all take a vacation to the winter realm as soon as possible.”
Her face falls a bit, my deflection enough to snuff out the small flame of hope. I’m sorry for it. But there’s no point entertaining a life free from this place. After all, I was dragged back, freedom snatched from my fingers. They would do the same to her, or worse. And now she has a babe on the way, one that I know she will love despite how it was created, and I don’t know if that makes me sad or happy. Emotions aren’t allowed here, either.
“I’ll return to check those bites in the morning.” She grabs the door handle.
My body will be cold by then. I scoot the small scissors she used to cut the stitching wire beneath me.
“Hey.” I try to sit up, then change my mind when agony tears along my throat.
“Yes?”
“Where’s Clotty?” Clotilde is the oldest changeling on the estate. She serves as something of a surrogate mother to all the human slaves and takes care of the newly-arrived exchanged children. But she is as ornery as she is soft-hearted, and many claim I inherited my sassy ways from her. Nonsense, of course. I’m as sweet as a daisy. “I haven’t seen her wrinkled face since I’ve been back, and she’s the one who usually patches me up. Is she busy with a new exchange or something?”
If I thought Taura’s face had fallen before, this time it’s like a landslide of despair.
“What?” I grip the sheet. “What is it?”
She inspects the splinter-filled floor, but her eyes glitter with tears. “When you escaped, Master blamed her. He said she filled your head with ideas, that she was the reason you had such a poor attitude. When the hounds began to wither, he beat Clotilde, demanded she tell him where you’d gone. She didn’t know. He beat her anyway. He wanted you back so badly that he hired the Catcher, but when he discovered you’d escaped to the winter realm, the Catcher refused to go after you unless Master gave him an easy way in and out.”
I swallow hard. “The portal spell.” I knew it must have cost a fortune.
“Master said no at first. But the hounds wouldn’t eat anything else. They were dying, and you know they’re his favorite. So. Master decided to …”
My lungs freeze, my mind going silent. “What? Tell me.”
“He sold two of his chimeras. But that wasn’t enough for the spell, so he…”
Everything in me has gone cold. “Clotilde. Where is she?”
She swipes away a tear. “He sold her to the mines.”
I can’t feel the pain anymore—at least not the physical kind. A howling rip opens in my heart, and I can’t seem to catch my breath. Taura returns to me and takes my hand.
“The mines.” The words are soot in my mouth. No one survives the southern mines, especially not a changeling as old as Clotilde. The high fae work the slaves down to the bone, then throw them into a mass grave at the bottom of a quarry. Life here is unbearable. Life there? Unsustainable. Clotty’s been sentenced to a vicious, ugly death because of me. Because I was selfish and thought only of myself, of my escape.
“We aren’t supposed to speak of her. Just like when he sent Silmaran three years ago. We weren’t allowed to speak of her, either.” Her voice is just the hint of a whisper.
“I remember.” I mourned Silmaran in my own way. She was the closest thing I’d had to a friend before I met Taylor. But Granthos never liked the lesser fae girl and eventually sold her to a slaver travelling to the mines. I remember the look in her amber eyes, the fear hidden behind her unyielding confidence. I still hope that whatever light burned inside her didn’t die in the depths of Arin, but, instead, rose to the heights of the Ancestors.
“Master whipped Emily for crying about Clotty.” Taura sniffles just once. “She’s only just now recovering. But there will be scars.”
“There are always scars.” I grit my teeth, resolve settling along my spine. Clotilde shouldn’t suffer because of my actions. My plans for the evening evaporate, my dance card becoming empty once again. I have far too much to do, and it appears killing myself is a luxury I can’t afford. Generally, I’m perfectly fine with taking the coward’s way out, but not when Clotty needs me. She deserves better than that. I escaped before. I can do it again. This time, I’ll head south, find Clotilde, and free her. An impossible task, one that has no chance whatsoever of coming to fruition. Even so, I must go, must try, must do something. And if I die trying? Well, that’s that. But I’ll go down with a fight, not a whimper. Dying as an outlaw changeling on the run from her master doesn’t sound so bad. Better than slitting my wrists in this dismal room.
Taura opens the door.
“Here. You forgot these.” I hold out the small scissors.
When she takes them, I clutch her hand. “Things will change. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But they will. One day, we will all be free.” I won’t be alive to see it, but it will happen.
She squeezes my hand. “I believe it. I have to.” She pockets the scissors, a hint of knowledge in the tilt of her faint smile. “And what’s more, I believe in you.” Passing into the hall, she closes the door behind her.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling. “Well, that makes one of us.”
10
Gareth
Wreth lies hogtied just behind the heavy hedge where I crouch. When I’m sure no one heard or saw the ruckus, I stride back to my fish cart and finish the walk to the kitchen door of the Granthos estate.
I rap against the wooden door with my knuckles then step back.
A wiry changeling opens the door, her dark hair peeking from beneath a cloth cap. “Well?”
“Fresh fish.” I tap my cart.
“Did you wrest them from the jaws of the Great Shark yourself then?” She eyes the slashes along my chest and upper arm.
“Minor run-in with some ruffians.” I shrug.
“Ruffians, eh?” Her small eyes narrow, but she steps outside and gestures to the cart. “Show me what you got.”
I pull open the lid, and she bends over to inspect the catch.
“Is this cod?” She taps the fattest one, its dead eyes bulging.
“That’s a …” I’ve only been ice fishing a few times, and certainly never braved the icy waves of the White Sea in the winter realm. No one sails there except the ghost ships of legend. So, my knowledge of fish is more than simply lacking. It’s non-existent. “Cod. Yes.”
She snaps upright, corkscrews of dark hair escaping her cap. “This is third rate pickings, at best. What do you think you’re doing bringing this dreck to Master Granthos’s fine house?”
I ponder whether I should just knock her out or continue the ruse. “My apologies.” I try to give her a winning smile.
Her frown deepens.
“I would be happy to demonstrate the best ways to prepare the cod in such a way as to please even the most discerning of masters, even those who don’t care for fish.” I don’t have time for this. Not with my mate so close. And I haven’t a clue how to prepare fish, but that doesn’t matter.
She laughs, the sound loud and raucous. “The high fae fishmonger cooks, does he? Oh, well then, come right in. Show us lowly kitchen changelings how it’s done.”
