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A tiny, barefoot girl appeared from behind the dusty bookcases. She had the appearance of a startled duckling, wide-eyed, streaked with dirt, with feathers in her tangled hair. Aoife.
Abandoned as a small child on the borders of Faerie, Aoife had a wild, impish look. Her parents had mistaken her for a changeling child and left her for the faeries to claim, although she was as mortal as Juliana was. They’d grown up together in the castle, although Aoife had never cared for bloodshed or knighthood, preferring books and quiet. It was her lifelong goal to read every book in the library’s vast collection, and whatever she read, she remembered.
“Morning,” said Aoife cheerily, picking up a loose feather and slotting it carefully back into place. “How’s His Royal Pain in the Arse?”
“I think you answered your own question there.”
“I’m good at that. Here for a book?”
“Maybe. Got anything on, ‘how to keep tabs on a wayward prince?’”
“Oddly specific,” said Aoife. “Maybe in the romance section.”
Juliana groaned. “I need something. A spell. A way to keep track of him.”
“Spellbooks, I have,” Aoife said, “the means to cast them, though…” She leant against one of the shelves, eyes flickering, as if skim reading some great invisible tome. “Market day today.”
“Come again?”
“You need a witch.”
“A witch?” Juliana grumbled. “Must I?”
“Best option.”
Witches were mortals learned in magic. Although they could not do what faeries could—casting glamours and manipulating elements—they could spin potions and enchantments with the right equipment and ingredients. Although some witches were benign, most dealt in stolen years and bottled dreams, and the general view was that they were not to be trusted.
“Second weekend of the month,” Aoife continued. “Mabel will be there. She’s… knowledgeable. Fair.”
“If you say so.” Juliana kept her dealings with witches to a minimum, and kept her sword with her just in case. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Any time. Pick up a book next time you’re here. Best way to have a very safe adventure.”
“Safe isn’t exactly my style.”
Aoife sighed. “Of that, we are all aware.”
Juliana turned to go.
“Juliana?”
“Yes?”
“Is he worth it?”
Juliana frowned. “I’m not doing this for him.”
“What are you doing it for, then?”
“I don’t know. Honour, glory, riches?”
“You sound unsure.”
Juliana tensed. “I have no other reasons,” she declared. “I’ll see you later.”
Faerie markets, like the markets Juliana had heard existed in the mortal realm, sometimes dealt in coins. Some stalls were full of mundane wares; slabs of meat, wheels of cheeses, baskets and ribbons and trinkets. Other stalls held fabrics cut from night, glass slippers forged from mortal tears, vials of luck, charms to bring about love, pockets of rain, cloaks of fire, chickens that belched bubbles every full moon, small flying reptiles like miniature dragons, unicorn hairs, bottled dreams and just about everything else under the sun.
For many items, money was never enough. Merchants wanted blood or tears, dreams or years of your life. Mortal years were worth a lot to them, but Juliana had never bargained hers away.
