“I thought I was free to do my own thing until lunch?” Bran asked. He’d been given surprisingly free rein of wandering the estate grounds, always with a guard, but he’d walked the area to know it. He’d never been allowed past the estate walls, though. He half wondered if it was some psychological test.
“I am taking a trip into town today. You will join me,” Ainmire said, holding up the leash.
Bran’s entire body recoiled at the implication. “I’m not wearing that.”
“Oh, but you are. Damarus?”
“My lord?” Damarus said.
“Is the carriage ready?”
“Yes,my lord.”
Bran glanced from one to the other, trying to come up with any excuse to stay. “What will your people think about a witch keeping you company?”
“That you are a pet who doesn’t know their place and is in need of instruction,” Ainmire said.
The flush of anger and humiliation that came to Bran’s face was difficult to ignore. “I’m not your?—”
“Oh, but you are, and a pet you will remain if you want to keep Cillian safe. That was the bargain we made.” Bran snapped his teeth together, cutting off what he wanted to say in favor of silence. Ainmire smiled indulgently at him and stepped closer. “Good. You will enjoy this outing with me. I intend to show you that we Fae are not the monsters you think we are.”
“And you think a trip through some Faerie town will get me to change my mind? Are you forgetting what the lights are? What the wyrding is? What your kind did to my mother?”
“We were not the ones who created the wyrding.”
Bran snorted his disbelief. “And the lights? Are you going to say you didn’t create those?”
Ainmire laughed, the sound richly amused as he reached for Bran’s collar, clipping the leash to it. “Far be it for us to not take advantage of what you witches carved into being between our worlds.”
Bran stared at him, trying to steady his breathing. “The wyrding is Fae doing.”
“And history is always so terribly one-sided.”
Ainmire tugged on the leash, forcing Bran to follow. Bran’s face burned with every step as Ainmire led the way through the mansion to the front door. An enclosed green-and-gold carriage waited for them outside, a pair of chestnut-colored horses harnessed in place. A driver sat on the outside bench, long whip in hand, while another servant in uniform held the carriage door open for them. Ainmire entered first, and Bran was prodded by Damarus to follow after. He would have sat on the opposite cushioned bench if the Fae lord hadn’t ordered him otherwise.
“You will sit beside me,” Ainmire said, leash held in one gloved hand.
Bran grimaced and did as he was told, digging his fingers into his thighs. Damarus took the other bench, and the servant closed the carriage door behind him. The windows were slid down on either door, allowing for a breeze to blow through, which Bran appreciated. What he didn’t appreciate was how bumpy the ride was on cobblestones. He had to brace his feet against the floor of the carriage to keep from sliding off the bench. Both Fae didn’t seem bothered at all.
The discomfort soon became ignorable, mostly because of what he could see outside the carriage windows. The quiet street the mansion was located on opened up onto the bustling ones he remembered from their arrival. The wooden structures of houses and shops reminded him uncomfortably of human establishments.
While there weren’t any motorized vehicles, there were plenty of other carriages and horses on the road. Bran stared at the Fae on the street, with their varicolored hair and skin tones and their clothing that ranged from coveralls to courtly outfits similar to what the Fae in the carriage with him wore. The only thing Bran knew for certain was that Ainmire and Damarus were probably the highest-ranked in town.
He had questions—so many questions—but Bran didn’t want to ask them, even though he knew he should. The more knowledge he had of the area, the better, but neither did he want to seem too interested. He didn’t want to give the Fae lord any more of an opening to engage than he had to.
He didn’t want to owe them.
“Where are we going?” Bran finally asked.
“Pets don’t question their lord,” Damarus said, not looking up from the small book in his hand he was reading.
“Training takes time,” Ainmire said.
“You’ve a soft hand with this one.”
“Perhaps. I have my reasons.”
Bran bit back a grimace, not wanting to know what sort of punishment he was dodging because the Fae lord thought he’d get more out of Bran with the carrot rather than the stick. He honestly didn’t know why the bargain he’d made had worked, not when it seemed the Fae thought so little of mortals and witches alike.
