Page 72 of Crown of the Courtesan

As we swing open the doors to the kitchens, the scent of fish pie wafts out. Servants bustle about, but we ignore the chaos, heading straight for the cook, who kneads dough at the central table.

“Agatha,” Valora implores, trying to sound as polite as possible, “have you ever heard of a rosemary plant that blooms under the watchful eye of the Spirit Goddess? Do you know what that could mean?”

She frowns, the wrinkles deepening around her guarded eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“We need some,” I plead, twisting my hands. “It’s important, or we wouldn’t ask.”

“Nay, now take your search elsewhere because I don’t have any. I used the last of it for tonight’s dinner,” she says matter-of-factly—almost too matter-of-factly—as she deliberately avoids our gaze and focuses solely on the dough ball she’s forming into a loaf.

“There’s absolutely none left?” Valora slaps her hands down at her sides.

Agatha punches a new lump of dough, deflating it. “Are you daft? I just told the girl no.”

I elbow Valora aside and stand directly in front of the old cook. “You do realize that if we don’t retrieve the rosemary, the Sea-Witch will most likely harm several men that she’s taken as slaves? Not only that, but she holds the Witch-King in her hut, probably doing wretched things to him as we speak.”

Her crinkled eyes grow narrow as if she knows I’m exaggerating, but her face softens slightly at the mention of the king. She’s silent for a long moment, her bushy eyebrows knitting together. Finally, she wipes her flour-crusted hands on her apron. “Meet me in the garden after sunset.”

* * *

Valora and I collapse into my bedchamber with steaming dinner plates of fish pie. As we wait for the sun to set, we try to figure out how to locate the last ingredient for the Sea-Witch. I’m impressed with how smoothly the hunt for the ingredients is going so far, but I know it’s folly to get comfortable.

“A letter between two bonded lovers means a Bonding Ceremony had to occur between them and a Bonded Matrimony is extremely rare compared to ordinary marriages,” Valora grumbles through a mouthful of flaky crust. “It’s more likely we’d find unicorn piss than this love letter.”

I chew my food, lost in thought. Lady Courtesans couldn’t get married, let alone have a Bonded Matrimony, so everything about it sounds foreign. “Are there any record systems in the Spirit-Fae Cathedrals that track these types of marriages? Perhaps a scribe’s list somewhere for the couples?”

“There aren’t any Spirit-Fae Cathedrals this far north. Most get married in a floweryard with their family and friends, and there wouldn’t be records unless the families kept them.”

“That would be our luck…” I huff, clenching my fork, trying to think of something that might lead us in the right direction. A dull ache latches onto the back of my head.

Valora’s eyes light up. “But sometimes they hire the blacksmith to make rings, and they might keep financial records.”

“Do you think they’ll be cooperative? Most Ashlanders want nothing to do with me.”

With the choices I’ve made, who could blame them?

“Relax. You’re with me.” Valora shoves one more oversized bite of pie into her mouth before standing. “It’ll all work out. Now, come on.”

* * *

Valora and I navigate the village streets until we arrive at the smithy’s entrance. Above us, a wooden sign bearing white lettering swings overhead: Eldertree Ironworks.

Steam billows out as Valora opens the door, and we step inside. A wave of blistering heat brings perspiration to my skin as hammers clash, sparks light the air, and bellows pump life into the fire at the heart of the workshop.

Across the room, a buxom and muscled blacksmith peers over her red-hot blade, her face tired as she sees us. With a few quick strides, she meets us at the counter. Her olive features soften beneath her sweaty black hair as she leans in to hear our request. She sets aside her tools, removing her gloves before rummaging through piles of deteriorating scrolls on a dusty shelf in the back.

Just as any hope fades, she reemerges with a twinkle in her eye and a smirk playing on her lips. “Aha! Here we are! Many couples come and go, purchasing common wedding bands. So I don’t normally keep track of receipts for more than a year, but it’s hard to forget this one. Very few have commissioned rings for a Bonding Ceremony. Most don’t want to take the risk if things end badly.” My pulse quickens as she shows us the yellowed and frayed scroll.

“Are their names listed?” I ask, my voice a high-pitched pipe. “Perhaps they still reside in the village…”

Another female blacksmith rounds the corner. This one is taller and lankier, yet her hammer is twice as big as her partner’s as she sets it next to the forge and joins us at the rear counter to examine the curling receipt. Pulling off her work gloves, she places a palm protectively across the other smith’s back. “Their names are listed, but I’m afraid you won’t be finding them.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“I’m quite sure, seeing as they are no longer with the living. The rings belonged to the late Witch-King and Witch-Queen themselves. May the fae guide their wandering souls.”

Valora’s hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes, however, meet mine, communicating a minuscule optimistic ray of hope.

“Thank you. This helps us greatly,” I say breathlessly as the forge’s heat begins to make me lightheaded. Valora slams a coin onto the counter before we rush out.