Page 92 of A Thief Among Fae

“He’ll have a scar. But nothing as bad as you or I would have,” she says. “He’s lucky that he’s fae in that regard.”

I don’t miss what she’s indirectly saying. He’s unlucky that he’s fae in so many other ways. “I’m glad that he’s healing,” I murmur, but guilt still rattles inside me. If I hadn’t gotten us caught, he wouldn’t have been bitten.

I gulp down both liquids, hoping the tonic will dull the tight ache across my back. Then I levitate the spoon from the pottage to my mouth, spilling only a little. It’s delicious, the carrots softened and rich broth spiced with thyme. I taste venison and pause. We couldn’t ever afford to add meat to our pottage at home.

Maeve watches me levitate another spoonful. “That’s one way to stay in bed all day.” She chuckles and fusses with my blankets. “Rune told me he’d still like to speak with you. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Oh, right. The celebration he mentioned.”

She straightens the tray on my lap and reaches for the door. “Eat.” Smiling, she leaves.

I finish the pottage, savoring the last creamy sip. Levitating the tray to the table, I notice a book that wasn’t there yesterday. The cloth cover is bare, but I recognize it from last night. It’s Desmond’s book of faery tales.

I flip through it, skimming the pages. Each tale is handwritten in his perfect cursive. He couldn’t have written this. He especially wouldn’t have left it here for me.

Intrigued, I begin to read.

One story is written in the perspective of a banshee who, offended by the human family who lived near her faery door, would foretell the death of every housefly in their kitchen with ear-splitting screeches. She drove the family mad until they drowned themselves in their well.

Another is told by an orc lutist. He claims that fae lured him to the Hollowlands with the promise of riches if he could perform at a revel without opening his left eye. Upon seeing a merrow so beautiful that he couldn’t help but admire her unobstructed, he fails. On his way back home, a crow pecks out both of his eyes. He bleeds to death, and the story ends with his lament that he never learned the merrow’s name.

I groan as I blink, adjusting to the dim light of the room. Desmond’s book is splayed on my belly.

Nog glares at me, then continues sweeping the floor with a broom.

“Did I fall asleep?” I ask her.

Her jet black eyes are cold as she glances at me. “I am not your keeper, girl.”

Fair enough. “How long has it been since sunrise?”

“Three hours ago. You slept yesterday away like that lazy cat.” She jerks her chin at Min, who’s curled up in the other bed, furry ears twitching in her sleep. Then Nog shuffles out of the room without another word.

Slowly, I slide out of bed and set Desmond’s book on the table. Steam wafts from the metal bathing basin; Nog must’ve filled it with hot water just before I woke. Either she hates me less than she appears to, or her hospitality runs that strongly. I wish I could thank her without offending her.

The tub is only half full, so my sutures will remain dry. I scrub two days’ worth of dirt and sweat from my skin and carefully rinse my hair. After toweling off, I look inside the armoire and find a cotton dress hand-embroidered with blooming flowers in vibrant hues, dainty butterflies flitting between them. It’s fit for a faery.

A loud knock shakes the door.

My pulse flutters. “One moment!” I step into the dress and button it up the front. Another kindness concerning my injury. “Come in!”

I already know what I want to ask Desmond. Was his book a hobby or a royal duty? Did he make up the stories, or did he actually sit and listen to these narrators yap? I can’t fathom him having the patience. And how could the orc tell the story of his own death? Maybe it’s a stroke of fae artistry.

The door swings open.

“Glad to see you’re still awake,” Rune says. He leans against the doorframe, dressed in dark pants and a white tunic that pulls tightly across his chest. His black hair is down today, glass beads threaded into several strands.

Disappointment tightens my chest, but I quickly smile to hide it. “I’m feeling better already.”

“Do you feel alright enough to join me in my office?” Rune nods at Min. “I wouldn’t want to disturb her sleep.”

I almost shrug, then think better of it. “Sure.”

Rune eyes Desmond’s book, but says nothing about it as he holds the door open for me.

We walk to his office, which he unlocks by pricking his thumb and pressing the bead of blood to the doorknob. “Ward magic,” he tells me. “Keeps Finnian out, not that his sticky fingers would dare rummage around in here.” Snapping his fingers, the mage lights flicker to life.

Rune’s sumptuous office is crammed with furniture. Two high-backed chairs with upholstered cushions face either side of a thick-legged desk, scenes from our pantheon’s scripture carved into the wood. The bookcases lining the stone walls boast more eclectic objects than tomes. A milky crystal ball sits on a velvet pillow beside a golden drinking horn adorned with a family crest that I’m sure isn’t Rune’s. On another shelf is a ring set with a cushion-cut ruby larger than my fingernail. My jaw drops as the light reflects on every finely cut facet.