Page 14 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Chapter Four

“Pippa, do hurry up!” Tegwen called over her shoulder.

Pippa was frozen in the doorway, the Library looming behind her.

She had traded her ruined pelisse for a shawl and mechanically made her way past the circulation desk, between the statues of the seven librarians of Alexandria guarding the front entrance.

And then she just…stopped.

The Library was home. She had lived here longer than anywhere else. She knew the crooked staircases, the drafty hearth in the main lodging’s common room, the kettle that would only boil if you sang it a song. The taste of flower paper, printed with words in other languages, eaten to commit them to memory. Cheese, the cat on the first floor who liked to chase her moth.

The thousands of books, all waiting to share their secrets. The privilege of caring for them and finding the perfect match with a professor or student or visiting scholar or an ordinary witch with a hunger for stories.

The fire burned behind her back teeth, inside her bones, flickering in her pupils.

The smell of charred paper, burning vellum.

She had been a Librarian for thirteen years. She had arrived in Hallow at sixteen, full of excitement and determination. She had spent hours in the middle of the night, just walking between the shelves, the light of the moon at the stained glass windows, the perfume of paper dust in the air, that busy, perfect silence between every breath.

“Pippa, you are distracted tonight,” Tegwen complained. “It’s solstice. Come and have some mulled wine.”

Pippa dutifully joined the other Librarians walking to the town square because she did not know what else to do. If she gave in to the tears, she might not be able to stop. She might dissolve altogether.

Apple cider simmered in a giant cauldron over a cheerful fire. Families gathered closer in matching mittens and scarves, toasting the return of the sun.

Pippa did not mention her conversation with Mrs. Pettigrew. Kindly, neither did Mrs. Pettigrew. Pippa only accepted a pewter cup of cider and drained it. Tegwen’s eyes widened. Pippa wiped her mouth.

The solstice tree in the center of the square was bedecked with glass witch balls and rock crystals on gold thread, every branch glowing with candles. The flames flickered high when she approached to take a white ribbon from the basket, to tie her wish on a branch, as was tradition. An owl perched at the top of the tree, violet eyes gleaming. Someone murmured about omens.

The mulled cider was warm in her belly and bright in her skull. Cinnamon chased nutmeg on her tongue. And she was a witch at the foot of the solstice tree on the longest night of the year. No longer a Librarian. Just a witch. Just Pippa.

But the Wishing Well whispered to her of other possibilities. Of other wishes that might be made.

Pippa could use her white ribbon for a regular solstice wish, which was a powerful thing. As powerful as birthday wishes.

She was now twenty-nine years old and had yet to pass the Librarian Trials. She had already tried twice. The first time she had set fire to the floor and roasted all of the raw chickens in the butcher’s case three streets down. On her second attempt, she had burned down the wooden statue of a ship in the courtyard. Not her best work. Even if the ship was atrociously ugly. Everyone thought so.

She had one more attempt left to her, and then the ranks would be closed.

And then she remembered they were already closed.

There were no attempts left for her.

Something very close to a sob tried to force its way between her teeth. She refused to let it. She might be years behind everyone else and no closer to controlling her fire, but she could control herself. Would control herself.

The only thing worse than being relieved of her post was standing in the middle of a solstice crowd with everyone staring at her as she wept.

Decidedly, no.

She lifted her chin. It wobbled, but no one was paying attention to her.

The Wishing Well beckoned.

A thousand years ago, the Fae stole children and midwives and fiddlers, humans and witches alike. They were taken beneath the hills to Elphame to dance until their feet bled, play music until their fingers broke, to be pets and sweethearts and canny opponents in complicated games.

Mortals learned to circle the house with salt and rowanberries, to hang iron scissors over the crib, never to walk in a ring of mushrooms.

Never to make an idle wish.