Page 32 of A Thief Among Fae

“Wait,” I call out. “Please tell me this shithole has a washroom.”

“With water as black as tar,” he answers with a foreboding smile. Then he leaves.

I shudder, and then shut the door. He’s not giving me time to run to a bathhouse. There are a few in Mythos, run by families with water-wielding Gifts like Evie and Mom. Guess I’ll have to choose between tar or the dirt caked under my nails until we arrive at wherever we’re going. It occurs to me that I should ask.

He left his book on the nightstand. What is it? Could it reveal his motives?

I open it to a dog-eared page. The scrawled, handwritten text is in a language I didn’t expect to see outside the barrows. Old Avedoran. Two lines are underlined, with a translation in common script over them.

Where the one-eyed sleeps

So does the arrow that reaps

No one has used Old Avedoran for centuries, but that’s not the only sign that this book is ancient. The leather cover is cracked and faded, the pages are yellowed, and it has a slight mildew scent. I flip through the other pages and look at inked illustrations of forests, moon cycles, and strange beasts. Some pages are full of text, while on others the lines are organized in stanzas like poetry.

There isn’t another translation, and I’m not proficient enough to read the book without pausing to parse every word. So I close it, change, and lock the room’s door behind me before heading downstairs.

I meet Desmond at the tavern counter. He nods to a bowl of lumpy porridge as he wolfs down his own. Behind us is a couple feasting on boiled eggs and sliced goat cheese.

“We could be eating that,” I gesture toward them, “but you bought us this?” When I lift a scoop with my spoon, it oozes down the sides. I shoot him a look. “I bet women regret you the morning after.”

“And I pity the men who suffer through your snores.” Desmond’s glare has enough of a warning in it that I don’t retort. But I definitely don’t snore. He slides two silver marks toward me like they’re lint from his pockets. “Buy whatever you want.” Then he takes off, going up the stairs two steps at a time.

Did I strike a nerve? I spin the marks on the counter, waiting for the kitchen boy to finish serving another customer. Maybe it’s hard to bed women when you have to tie yourself to a chair all night. Surely, some would still be into that. Or maybe I’m so ‘stubborn’ and ‘disobedient’ that he can’t stand to be around me any longer than necessary.

Either way, why be so liberal with his coin purse for me? Unless the marks aren’t real, just clay or stone enchanted to resemble them until sundown. That’s something fae do in the stories.

The kitchen boy takes my order. As soon as my breakfast is served, I start devouring the over-easy egg with sprinkled herbs and a handful of wildberries.

The unseelie fae with the ram horns clops behind the counter with a stack of dirty dishes. When he heads into the back room, I lower my voice and ask the kitchen boy, “He’s a servant?”

The kitchen boy is human, maybe thirteen years old. His dark eyes narrow, and his black hair sways as he plants his hands on the counter and leans toward me. “The innkeeper’s ancestor fought in the War of Burning. He spared the fae’s great-grandmother in exchange for four generations of servitude. Fae live a long time, you know. And that one may look friendly, but sometimes when he looks at the innkeeper, I think he’s gonna—” he traces his finger across his neck, his expression macabre.

Four generations? How deplorable. My stomach turns. If it were me in the fae’s place, I’d resent the innkeeper, too. That poor fae will never know freedom.

I continue eating as the kitchen boy darts away, but every mouthful tastes like ash.

When I return to Desmond’s room, he opens it as I raise my fist to knock. “Get your things ready,” he says. “I was starting to think you were too enamored with breakfast to return.”

Scoffing, I charge past him. “What did you do to the chrysanthemums?” The white flowers on the nightstand have wilted. They looked freshly cut last night.

He shrugs. “All flowers wilt. All trees wither. That’s the nature of mortal existence—impermanence.”

“You’re all sunshine and rainbows today,” I mutter. I levitate Desmond’s flask to me and sniff it. It’s just water, but it made him scowl this morning. I pour some into the vase. Then I untether the window’s latch and shove the hinged glass aside. Music and laughter flow in along with a fresh breeze.

Desmond glances out the window. “Norwynhald is starting,” he says with gravity like he’s spectating a funeral procession.

“What’s the matter? Not in the mood for merriment?”

A dark aversion flashes in his eyes, gone in a blink.

“I’ve never been to a festival in Mythos.” I don my pack and weapons, then look out the window with a pang of longing. “We’re missing out. I’ve heard the sweet rolls are delicious.”

Desmond says nothing as he packs up. Instead of a sling against his back, he fastens his sword’s leather sheath to his belt. The pommel is a black metallic skull, something I’d expect an orc to own, not a fae.

I follow him downstairs to the tavern counter. The fae servant glances up from the pot he’s scrubbing. Desmond hands him two gold marks. “Two apples.”

“Are you crazy? Apples don’t cost that much,” I blurt out. My family would make less from selling a bushel of apples. Yet Desmond glares at me as if I’ve said something asinine.