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Watching them caused the same kind of creeping horror as watching a sweet old lady in a lilac-covered housecoat slowly strangling a small animal to death. Until I quickly looked away, and continued to rummage. Hey, I had to sleep upstairs, okay? If the house wanted to murder some pecans, that was its business.
A moment later, I’d gathered everything up and set a line of creamers in front of the fey. There was everything from peppermint mocha to caramel macchiato, because Claire is a flavored-coffee nut. He just stared at them, apparently overwhelmed by the choice.
I pointed at the coconut crème. “That one’s good, and the amaretto. I’d stay away from the butter pecan.” I glanced at the hall. “At least right now.”
The fey eyed the little bottle warily, as if I’d told him it was poisoned. And opted for the coconut. “That’s nice,” he said, looking up at me in surprise.
I nodded. “Claire really likes that one. I use her for my barometer on all things fey.”
“Your . . .”
“Gauge? Measure? Test?” I guess they didn’t have barometers in Faerie.
He nodded. “Thank you. I’m supposed to be improving my English, but there are many words I don’t know.”
“That’s why you’re here? Other than to guard her, I mean.”
“I don’t think she needs much guarding!” he blurted out, and then looked mortified when he realized what he’d said. “I—I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
“No! No, you—” He stopped, realizing that he was halfway off his stool. And with a hand reached out as if to touch me reassuringly, which he quickly drew back. Because the fey are famously lacking in the whole touchy-feely department.
Well, except for Caedmon.
But he was a rule unto himself on a lot of things.
“I’m sorry.” The young fey sat back down. “I’m also supposed to be working on my . . . my ability to speak as though I had thought about it beforehand.”
He sounded like he was quoting. “Caedmon told you that?”
He shook his head. “My father. He is one of the king’s chief counselors, but I . . . just say things. I don’t mean offense, but—”
“But people take it that way.”
A miserable nod. He had a longer-than-usual neck, even for a fey, and was drinking coffee while we spoke. He was starting to remind me of those mechanical drinking birds. Nod . . . sip . . . nod . . . sip. It was kind of hypnotizing.
“Don’t worry. I do the same thing,” I said. “Only I usually intend to piss people off.”
The kid just sat there, clutching the coffee cup in his hands, and looking unsure of himself. As if he was trying to parse both the language and the humor, and was having a problem with it. He didn’t seem to multitask well.
Or maybe it’s your “humor,” Dory, I thought wryly. Stop teasing the infant.
But he recovered pretty fast. “I . . . just meant that she’s so powerful. And she has you. And the jötnar. She is well guarded.”
“Then why are you here?”
Again a pause. “Me or . . . everyone?”
“Both. Either.” I didn’t really care that much, but I was enjoying the cookies.
“Well, we’re here—the group of us, I mean—as . . . I suppose you would call it . . . an honor guard?”
I nodded, since he seemed to like that gesture.
“And because, well, you’re not powerful just by having power; you must know how to wield it. And the king says—”
“Claire doesn’t know how yet.” He nodded, looking relieved. Maybe because I’d said it, so he didn’t have to. “And you?”
