Page 36 of A Thief Among Fae

“Guess I’ve learned something about you already, then.” I wait for him to meet my gaze. Then I tell him exactly what I think. “You’d rather act mysterious than open up to anyone.”

His eyes narrow with a ruthless frost, a glimpse of the darkness that lurks within him. “Your hour is running out. Perhaps you should explore the festival instead of regaling me with your supercilious insights.”

I roll my eyes at his dismissal. As I turn to leave the crowd, my bow whacks an older man, who mutters a string of expletives at me. “Sorry!” I exclaim, and he trudges away with a huff.

Desmond extends his hand to me with a grimace. “Your bow sling, before you poke someone’s eye out with it. I’ll watch your pack, too.”

I hesitate. If he planned to run with my things, he would’ve done it last night. I hand over both my pack and bow sling. “Your hood makes you look like a criminal.”

“Noted, and disregarded.”

Heading off into the square, I relish the break from his sarcasm. The music reaches its finale and ceases as the bards prepare for another song. Instead of dancing, I approach the royal dais that runs along the northern edge of the square. Maybe I can glimpse the royal family and determine if it was Eldon that Desmond spoke with in the inn.

A shimmering protective ward around the dais refracts the sunlight. Mythos guards in mail armor and red sashes patrol; no assassin stands a chance against them.

“We should join the deployment to the Hollowlands,” one guard says to another. “Better pay, I hear.”

“D’you know why they’ve doubled recruitment efforts? Go there, and you’ll disappear forever. . . or return mad as a rabid dog. Don’t be a fool,” the other rebukes.

I shudder. The situation there must be tenser than I imagined.

The onlookers part, revealing Queen Orla Meirden. Atop her gathered black hair rests the Crown of Avedor. It’s supposedly enchanted so only the Meirden line can wear it, but that’s the sort of legend royals would want someone to believe.

Sitting beside the queen is Prince Eldon. His hair is auburn like the queen’s first consort, and he’s around ten years older than I am. He doesn’t look it. A surplus of meals and leisure indoors shaves years off someone’s face. The thought sours me.

He’s definitely the man who spoke with Desmond. The same gold signet ring shines on his finger. Yet, his broad smile and merry laugh are so different from how he acted last night. I’d bet my marks that the real Eldon is the one I saw in Hawthorn Inn.

Further down the dais, Prince Ronan sits half-asleep, his chin resting on his palm. Princess Cara, the final Meirden sibling, arches a brow at him in withering judgment. Rumors say Ronan dismisses every potential betrothal. I’d tease Evie if she were here.

The bards break into a lively song for couples’ round dancing. Accordions mingle with fiddles and tin whistles, a frame drum keeping time. Excited denizens gather, grasping hands as they race to the center of the square. I know this one. It’s popular in Nettlerock.

I meander toward the other hopeful singles, scouting them out as they likewise scrutinize me. An orc winks, his dark hair dashingly pulled back into a low ponytail and pectorals straining against his thin, white tunic. I wave back, but someone grasps my elbow and spins me around.

“May I have you for this dance?” a human male asks me, sweeping into a bow. When he straightens, familiar teal eyes smile at me.

The last time I saw him, he slipped his hand into my sister’s pocket in the draper’s shop. Days have passed, and yet my anger burns just as hot.

“You,” I seethe. My fist clenches as I weigh the satisfaction of punching him with the risk of arrest for assault. A common thief is despicable enough, but I remember the draper’s warnings about him. How can he walk in broad daylight through a festival teeming with guards and not face arrest himself?

“That’s not the warm greeting I anticipated.” Guildmaster Erickson’s broad hands guide my arms into position, then his feet effortlessly join the steps of the dance. “Animosity will only serve to make a scene.” He nods at the clapping children who watch us from outside the ring. “Surely I’m not so disagreeable that you can’t bear my presence for a single dance.”

I join the steps, if only to confront him. “You owe me five silver marks.”

We spin. Erickson shrugs as our hands let go. “I owe lots of creatures many things. If I repaid them all, what would I be left with? The trick is to outrun your debts, my dear.”

I scoff. “I am not ‘your dear’.”

“That remains to be seen.” He winks. The charm oozing off him is odious.

“If I take five marks from you, you won’t mind so long as I outrun you?”

He laughs like the metaphorical snare I’ve set for him is nothing more than another step in the dance. “I suppose not,” he says, dodging it. “Tell me, why are you back in Mythos so soon? And with the high fae prince, no less.”

“How did you—” I look into the crowd as we cross the ring in timed diagonals, but Desmond is nowhere in sight. I don’t know why I expected him to be, with how much he loathes being here. With the hood hiding Desmond’s ears, there’s only one way Erickson could know who he is. They’ve met.

“It’s part of my occupation to know everything and everyone,” Erickson says, confirming my suspicion. “I have to warn you. That fae is rather unscrupulous.”

“Like you’re not, guildmaster of thieves?” I counter. “You racketeer innocent shopkeepers and flirt more shamelessly than a streetwalker.”