Page 42 of A Thief Among Fae

“We’ll see.” Desmond studies me as if I’m a puzzle he intends to solve. “If she’s not strong enough now, I’ll get her there.”

I snort. “You might as well tell me what your ‘little’ problem is.”

Desmond smirks. “We’ll discuss it after I evaluate you.”

My heart skips a beat. I wonder what he’ll ask me to do to prove my worth here, and the anticipatory thrill inside me is impossible to quiet. “Evaluate me how?”

He’s infuriatingly silent as he leads me into the hall. We pass several doors that Desmond disregards, and I notice they have brass knobs instead of iron. Then we enter an enormous kitchen.

The ceiling is painted with an intricate damask pattern, and two wax candle chandeliers light the room. Violet gemstones hang off of the chandeliers’ green metal arms like a grapevine. Pots, pans, and serving trays dangle from racks hung around it. Yet what stuns me into breaking my stride are the dark walnut cabinets that cover two of the walls, enough storage to feed Nettlerock through the winter.

A delicious, herby scent wafts from a pot over the hearth. Beside it is a clay wood-fired oven, and the aroma of freshly baked bread lingers.

An orc sits on the butcher’s block counter, swinging her legs as she munches on an apple. Her outfit is the same color as Finnian’s, but the tunic is longer and sewn to fit her boxy curves. Only a few stars decorate her upper sleeve. “Who’re you?” she asks.

“Cyn,” I answer, then hold my fist to my heart. It’s an orcish gesture for respect that I learned from Seb, often used as a greeting.

She mirrors the gesture. “Maeve.” Her hair is tawny, and her skin is paler than most orcs, a light pear-green with freckles across her cheeks. What strikes me the most are her lavender eyes. “There’s cake in the icebox,” she says. “Eat some. A strong breeze would be enough to knock you over.”

Orcs favor robustness amongst themselves. It could be discerned as gluttony, but it really has to do with bulkier frames being advantageous in brawling. Every few decades, there’s a dispute between their clans in the west. The rumors that travel to Nettlerock say they’ll drink and sing with their enemies on full moons, only to wage battle again in the morning.

“I baked it myself. Baking is a lot like mixing poisons,” she says. “And explosives.”

“You’re an alchemist,” I realize, remembering Desmond’s warning about the fungi.

She nods. “And one of the best poisoners around. But the cake isn’t poisoned. The color is from the blackberries.”

Poisoner? Why would Desmond need one for a tomb raid?

I shove the question down in favor of imagining a blackberry cake, tart and dusted with sugar. My family doesn’t pick them often because there’s a variety that’s known to drive mortals mad. An old story says a fae enchanted them after a spat with a human who picked from the fae’s favorite bush. You can usually tell them apart in direct sunlight; the enchanted ones have an odd sheen to them.

It’s so hard not to devour Evie’s tarts when they’re fresh from the oven. The memory hits me in the chest with homesickness.

“Rune’s going to be pissed that you didn’t consult him before bringing her here, Desmond,” Maeve says.

Desmond leans against the counter and insouciantly shrugs, but his brow furrows. “The tomb raid isn’t Rune’s mission.”

“You’re not in charge?” I ask. That surprises me.

“Rune runs the guild,” Desmond answers. “My associate, Aurielle, and I aren’t members. We’re contracting the guild’s services for this mission.”

“Desmond and Auri arrived here about a month ago to start planning everything out,” Finnian says, “but I’ve known both of them since we were wee.”

“So Desmond is your customer, like how people hire the adventurers’ guild to go on quests for them,” I clarify.

Finnian nods.

“You’re the first tomb-raiding guild I’ve ever heard of.” I smile at both Finnian and Maeve, glad to be with people I can finally relate to. Even if they have an ominous warning in their foyer, they’ve shown me nothing but amiability so far. “I’m assuming you don’t advertise your services since raiding is considered sacrilege, but don’t worry. Raiding doesn’t bother me.”

No one smiles back. Maeve’s next bite is as loud as thunder in the quietness of the room.

I wince. “So. . . You’re not a tomb-raiding guild?” Anything but a creepy cult, please.

“We’re something even better.” Finnian claps me on the back, his grin returning in full force. “We’re a band of thieves. Seekers of fun and fortune!”

My jaw drops open. I quickly close it, but it’s far too late to mask my shock. When I left home, I knew I’d be risking my neck each step of the way to Olin’s tomb. But for a moment, I had dared to hope that I’d found people I belonged with.

Instead, I’ve strolled into a proverbial den of snakes with no warning, no preparation, and no weapons on my person. Thieves are one of the greatest threats to people like me. Every item my family has purchased in the last few years has been for necessity, albeit a rare birthday present. If anything were stolen, no matter if it were a tool or a jar of pickled fish, the theft would cost us more than the marks to buy another. It would cost us time.