Page 93 of The Faerie Handmaid

“Your time in the White City was difficult, I think?” Niamh began.

“It certainly was not easy, neither for me nor for my handmaid.”

“I have never been there.”

“I would prefer never to return.”

“Ah. That bad, then.”

“The city is beautiful, but it is…” Morgana waved her hand, searching for the right words. “Lifeless. Colorless. Everything is perfect, and that is the problem.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. There is nothing left for the fae to do, and so they—some of them, the worst of them—alleviate their boredom by hurting humans. The ones I met who were like that profess to hate the people of Lloegyr, and in some twisted way, they blame us for the diminishment of their kind. It is my view that they are declining out of sheer boredom!”

Niamh pushed back the untidy strands of gray hair falling over her forehead and made a wry face. “Boredom sounds appealing to me just now.”

Morgana’s lips curved. “I understand that, too.”

Dafne appeared carrying a tray with a pitcher of cider, a half loaf of bread, and a small wheel of cheese. She set it between them, saying in her hoarse voice, “Anything else, Priestesses?”

“No, thank you,” Niamh said. “We will be late for dinner, though. Perhaps you could tell the kitchen.”

When Dafne had gone, the elder priestess poured a cup of cider for Morgana and set it before her. “In the end, I gather your mission was a success.”

“In the end, it was.”

“And now we need to talk about the Blackbird.” Niamh’s expression was grave, and Morgana’s stomach contracted. “You were wise to bring him here.”

“He has always wanted to retire on the Isle.”

Niamh lowered her gaze to her cup. “I think you know, Morgana, that this is about more than retirement.”

The omission of Morgana’s title gave an unusual sense of intimacy to their conversation. Morgana took a sip of cider to moisten her dry mouth, and she touched her sigil yet again, trying to prepare herself. “I do, Priestess,” she said. “I wish I did not.”

“There is a stanza that speaks to this moment. Do you remember?”

The sun rises,

and the flower rises to meet it.

They dance together,

but when the light dies, the dance is finished.

“Braithe would have thoughts about that,” Morgana said.

Niamh said, “We need to speak about your handmaid, too.”

31

Lancelin’s wound healed more swiftly than Braithe expected. On the day she told him he no longer needed to stay in his bed, she remarked upon the speed of his recovery.

“I think,” he said, as he eagerly swung his legs out of bed, “that my little priestess has used some magic on me.”

Braithe felt the blush that warmed her cheeks. “No, my lord, I have not.”

He smiled a little as he reached for his tunic. “Are you sure of that? Magic seems to spill out of Priestess Morgana almost without her intending it.”