Page 46 of The Fox Heir

Beyond a mountain of broken relics lies a collection of paintings and books piled to a precarious height. I pick up a book whose cover is so faded the title is long gone. The spine cracks when I open it. The title page is lettered in loops and curls: Fae Ladies and Their Lovers.

I lift an eyebrow. “This one looks like it’s been read sometime this century.”

Elisandra gives me a sly smile. “I have no idea what you’re implying.” She nods toward it. “But you’re welcome to borrow it anytime.”

I grin. “Maybe another day.” I set the book aside for another. “The Horticultural Wonders of the North.”

Her face brightens. “The summer gardens here were legendary. Visitors came from as far away as the western deserts to see it.”

“I didn’t even know there were deserts in the west.”

Elisandra gives me a long-suffering look. “That’s because you grew up in Llwyn. Your people can’t see past their own noses, let alone to the lands beyond the Spires.”

“I suppose that’s fair.”

Elisandra sighs deeply. “Annwyn, on the other hand, cherishes its vast and dramatic landscapes.”

“I’d love to see it someday.” I’m surprised when the words leave my mouth, because they’re true. I would like to see more of Annwyn. It can’t all be crumbling castles and impenetrable mountains.

“Me too,” Elisandra says.

I blink at her. “What do you mean?”

She trails a finger through the dust on top of a curio cabinet. “I’ve never been anywhere but Gwyllion. On account of the …” she gestures toward her blinded eye.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugs. “We all have our fates.”

“Maybe yours will change someday.”

“Maybe.” Her voice is sad, and her gaze is far away.

I lean down to pick up another book from the ground. “The Faerie King and His Brides. More than one bride?”

Elisandra shrugs, the light returning to her face. “The fae had a very different culture. More … open to experiencing all the delights life has to offer.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps longer lifespans meant they needed a bit of excitement.”

We share a grin.

“As lovely as the old books are,” she says, “these are what I really wanted to show you.”

She leads me to the stacks of portraits. Some remain in gilded frames; others are canvases nailed to rough boards. I lean close as she flips through them.

Families in grand attire gaze back, their beauty still ethereal even after all these centuries. Flecks of gold foil cling to the edges, and the paint remains impossibly vivid, as if fae magic still lingers in the pigment.

“But the fae haven’t lived in Annwyn since before the human kings,” I say, bewildered.

Elisandra nods. “These portraits are thousands of years old.”

“It’s not possible.”

Her voice softens. “You’ve been in Gwyllion long enough to see what remains of fae magic. Protection from winter storms. Ancient castles that refuse to collapse. Anything is possible.”

As I gaze down at the faces of long-dead families, something about the portraits unsettles me. Their eyes gleam in unnatural shades of violet, blue, and green; their skin glows faintly, like moonlight trapped in paint. I trace the jawline of a woman with silvery hair. Her posture is regal, her gaze proud and unflinching. Though she’s been dead for thousands of years, she feels alive, made immortal by paint and fae magic.

I exhale. “They’re remarkable.”