Page 21 of My Faire Lady

And if today was any indication, maybe that magic I’ve been looking for, the one that left with grandma, isn’t found in the routine and monotonous—but in change.

I return to the message from Scarlet, and read it once more before I lock my phone and setting it on the nightstand. Switching off the lamp, I burrow into my pillows and let my eyes slide shut.

My mind conjures up auburn hair against metal, but I don’t shove the image away.

Because if I can’t have her in reality, at least I can have her in sleep.

9

“It’s an hour until the faire opens,” Boden says from across the table, closing the book he spent the last three hours flipping through.

I scan the final few lines of the spell book in front of me, searching for any clue about how to restore the magic. There are incantations for growing healthier crops from the land, seances for revenge, but absolutely nothing about the one thing I need.

“How do we not have record of this?” I say, shutting the book. A plume of dust comes from between the pages.

Boden lifts his book onto his stack—the ones written in ancient, dead languages only he knows—and shrugs. “None of the Murrell witches ever discussed the possibility of magic leaving the land. They always made it sound like it was an infinite resource.”

I gnaw on my lip as he stands and rounds the table. He sets a hand on my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze as he walks out of the library. My gaze remains fixed on the roughhewn table—ancient runes drawn on its surface, some of it stained in blood. If the magic was meant to be infinite, there’s only one thing that could be making it disappear. Me.

Propping my elbows on the wood, I spear my fingers into my hairline and cradle my head. I didn’t even know the sprite’s name, not until Boden laid his unconscious body on the small cot in the infirmary. Eelroy hasn’t moved all week, and I’ve asked Dryden for daily updates on his condition.

He’s only getting worse. His pulse had slowed, breathing labored.

How long until his body gives out and he dies?

Out the cloudy, stained-glass window, Shadow stretches her wings—enjoying the freedom before she has to keep them tucked to her body for the jousts. Farther out, near the King’s Gate, the flock of phoenixes help untangle the ribbons on the maypole.

I scan the rest of the creatures who toil away, setting up the faire instead of living in the wilderness like they once did. Many of them were born onto these lands, unaware what the world looks like outside the tree line circling our border. I guess, in some ways, I’m the same.

How long until others get sick? How many days do I have until their magic is depleted?

A hollow pit pries at the curve of my ribs, and I wrap my fingers around the necklace resting between my collarbones. My thumb brushes over the blackbird—the crest of the Murrell witches. After everything they did to create this haven, I can’t let them down.

Blowing out a breath, I stand from the table and drag my fingertips over the laden shelves. There has to be an answer somewhere.

I lock the door to the library behind me—spell books are notorious for escaping, after all—and stride down the hallway toward my living quarters. From the ground, an enchantment makes this tower invisible, but from up here, I can see for miles across the horizon. I follow a turn in the hall, and at the other end, Frankie appears with her arms held behind her back.

Her tail flicks, and a smile raises the apples of her cheeks. “A sprite told me you lost a bet.”

She swings her arms out from behind her back, revealing a pile of folded clothes. A corset sits on top with deep purple lavender embroidered up the sides. Beneath it, rests a cream chemise.

I huff and snatch the clothes, pretending like I didn’t already spend an hour this morning deciding on an outfit, mulling over which overskirt Lottie would like best.

“Thank you,” I grumble, balancing the pile as I twist the knob behind my back.

The door to my quarters swings open, and she peers around my shoulder at the outfit slung over the back of the couch.

She gives me a knowing smirk. “Wear what I gave you. It’ll compliment your eyes better.”

“Go set up the bar,” I say, backtracking into the living room. “And put your damn demon wings away before a human sees you.”

With an exaggerated pout, she spreads them wide. “You don’t think Lottie would like them? I caught her staring at my tail more than a few times last week. She seems exceptionally perceptible to my seduc⁠—”

I slam the door in her face and ignore the chuckle that sweeps beneath the crack. Tossing Frankie’s clothes onto the couch, I make quick work of slipping out of my plain shirt and pants, and throw the chemise she gave me over my head. I study my reflection in the mirror across the room and slip into the corset, lacing it up in the front.

It doesn’t quite have the same effect on my breasts as it does Lottie’s, but I shrug and guide the forest green skirt over the chemise, the fabric matching the ivy twisting across the corset.

It lacks the weight the knight garb presses onto my shoulders and hips, but in its own way, it’s still armor. Another hiding place.