Page 50 of A Thief Among Fae

And no wonder. I don’t have to share it with anyone; I’m free to sprawl out as much as I want. The mattress is plush, bouncing underneath me as I stand. I drape the throw around my shoulders. It would take a hunter weeks to hunt the hundred rabbits needed, and weeks longer for a furrier to craft the throw. It’s worth a fortune, something I wouldn’t dare to even touch at a market. I wonder who Rune’s guild stole it from.

Nog harrumphs as I examine my new room.

The bedroom has no windows, but the stone walls are painted a creamy gold that alleviates the feeling of being underground. Rose-pink tasseled banners stretch up the vaulted ceiling, and from a chandelier of candles, lilac-scented wax drips onto the stone floor. I take it in with an awed smile. Even though it’s small and cozy, it’s fit for a noble compared to Hawthorn Inn, and a queen compared to home.

My gut says to thank Nog, but I remember not to say the words outright to a fae. It would be foolish to offend her, especially on my second day here. “I’m grateful for the breakfast.”

Nog grunts. “Prince Desmond thought you might need a waking up. Dawn is in twenty minutes, after all.”

“How long has the guild lived here?” I ask her.

“Humans have lived in this cave for centuries, and my line has just as long. We tend to it until the humans offend us. And then we eat them. Don’t look so surprised. I’m sure your kind has devoured its fair share of ours.”

“I’m pretty certain we haven’t.” I stare at her, wondering if she’s ever eaten one of the thieves. Suddenly, I feel very protective of my toes, remembering a story the elders told about a redcap fae who thought human toes were a delicacy.

Her sneer reveals teeth as sharp as knives. “You think too highly of yourselves. Human folly.” She pulls out a measuring tape from the pocket of her tattered apron, then uncoils it. “Over here,” she commands, climbing atop a chair. I hesitate, then comply. “Arms out.” She measures me from shoulder to shoulder, my chest circumference, waist, and continues on. Her disgruntled expression tells me that she’s enjoying this as much as I am.

“What is all this for?”

“To even the odds,” Nog says. “How well do you think this flimsy thing will defend against a weapon?” She pokes my tunic, her nail scratching me through it. “You need armor. What’s your choice of weapon?” Finished, she coils the measuring tape.

“Bow and arrow. And daggers.” Not that I’m proficient with either, as I painfully learned yesterday.

She nods. “It will be accommodated. There is a gambeson for you in the wardrobe. You’d be smart to wear it during training. It will be replaced with a more form-fitting one by morning.” Then she jumps off the chair and waddles toward the door, her gait short and limping. “Also, you smell like a sudoral sock.” With a final grunt, she leaves.

I sniff myself. She isn’t wrong.

A wooden tub sits in the corner of the room, its water steaming. Hung over the side is a terrycloth towel embroidered with silver thread. As soon as I’m finished with breakfast, I’ll wash off.

And it’s too bad that I have to be in such a rush. Just smelling the smoky tang of the venison strips and the sweet aroma of the freshly baked bread roll makes me want to savor every bite. I salivate as I sit at the table, looking from the vibrant berries that glisten with morning dew to the egg yolks, fried to a perfect sunset-orange.

I devour the roll first. It’s as fluffy as a cloud, and I can’t stop myself from moaning.

Once not even a crumb of breakfast is left, I wash off in the basin. It’s a far cry from the cold, earthy spring water we bathe with in Nettlerock. We’re one of the luckier families, with Mom and Evie able to draw fresh water from underground instead of using the lake water.

After washing off, I check the armoire for my things. My rucksack is here, the clothes already unpacked and hung. Everything else I brought is still inside it. Good. It appears Nog is the only honest soul here.

Along with my clothes, two humanoid-sized Aedrosian orange robes hang from the rack. Below them is someone else’s rucksack. Unless there’s a lynx-sized robe in it, the fur on the bed across from mine would be the only sign that one lives here.

There’s no way twenty minutes haven’t already passed, so I quickly dress in clean clothes and lace the gambeson vest over my tunic. Then I race into the hall.

Names are carved into the other doors, each in a different style as if the room’s owner cut their own name into the wood. Two rooms have plaques that read “Guests,” and one is locked with a deadbolt—from this side. A lock placed there wouldn’t keep someone out. It would keep someone in.

The other guest door swings open, and Auri steps out. She’s dressed in an embroidered evergreen tabard, the front and sides slit open and connected with crisscrossing gold cord. Beneath it, she wears a form-fitting black tunic with bishop sleeves and matching pants, elegant yet sharp. Her lip curls at the sight of me, but that’s the only greeting I get before she strides to the deadbolt and unlocks it.

It opens from the inside.

“I wondered if you had forgotten me,” Desmond says with a teasing lilt. He steps into the hallway, sees me, and stills. The smile vanishes, replaced by an impassive mask.

I clear my throat. “Good morning.”

Auri doesn’t even glance at me. “I had hoped you slept in,” she says to Desmond. “Seeing as you’re ready for our morning spar. . .”

He closes the door. “When was the last time I ‘slept in’?” Then he follows her down the corridor, toward the training room.

Ignored by both of them. My mood sours. And why did he tell me we’d train at dawn when he’s left to train with her?

“Cyn!” Finnian calls out, barrelling into the corridor. “Got a new bloke to introduce you to!” He waves for me to follow him.