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Stepping into the lounge, I finally manage to yank my gaze away from his. Father hovers near the edge of the table, holding a bottle of wine (that we save just for the fae prince, never for ourselves), ready to refill the prince’s goblet should he click his fingers.
I spot my sisters kneeling with their backs to the simmering fireplace, their hands folded on their laps, and their heads bowed.
Mother draws away from me and slips back into the kitchen and she finds her spot near the bench, where wooden bowls and plates are packed-full of seasoned potatoes and cheeses and fruit slices.
I scurry over to my sisters before I slowly manage to sink down to the floor and tuck myself up just as they do. I don’t look up, but I canfeelice-cold eyes on me, like two dagger tips pressing into my flesh, wandering all around, ready to pierce at any given moment.
Bowing my head, I watch the movements of my father out the corner of my eye. With shaky fingers, he cuts a thin slice of twilight apple then sets it on a small wooden saucer for the prince. On the table, there’s also a too-full basket of twilight apples that looks about ready to spill all over.
The prince doesn’t reach for the apple slice yet. His fingers drum on the arm of the couch, and I still am too aware of his gaze stabbing into me. I don’t dare look up.
Finally, he shifts on the couch and reaches for the apple slice on the saucer.
Without his gaze on me, a sense of freedom tears through me. I loosen a tight breath from my chest, shoulders slumping.
I hear the crunch of the apple as the prince bites into the sample. It sounds crisper than what we normally harvest. Twilight apples should be like black plums—soft to bite into, juicy flesh.
The prince notices the difference, too.
He tosses the second half of the apple slice onto the saucer.
I can only see some of his movements from the waist down and his hands when they sneak into view, but I catch glimpses of him wiping his fingers on a handkerchief.
“Dry,” he comments, a detached tone. “Bitter. If I wanted that, I would have given your ancestor moon apple seeds.”
Father trembles noticeably. “I-I understand, Your Highness,” he stutters with a deep bow. “The chills have been lasting longer than normal,” he explains, his voice shivering like his hands clasped at his front, “and we had problems getting the right fertiliser these past few—”
“I am not interested in your excuses,” the prince cuts in as he leans back against the couch’s spine. “I am interested only in the quality of my bounty and the loyalty of our bargain.”
I chance another glance up but the moment I catch the prince’s eyes on me, I cut my gaze back down to my hands folded on my lap, shoulders seizing up.
My peripherals catch movement.
Father dips his head down. His voice is a quiet murmur when he replies, “Please let me offer another batch—”
The prince cuts him off with a simple, “This will not do.”
A shiver uncoils like unspooled rope down my spine.
We have not met the bargain to his satisfaction this Bounty. So what does that mean for us?
Never before has this happened to any generation of my family. The prince comes, tastes the twilight apple sample, takes them and leaves. A slight bargain. One that is outweighed in our favour, since all he gets are apples and we are afforded a moderate life on a farm.
Unless—
Did... did the prince set this up generations ago to secure himself another bounty when it suited him?
Because right now, I feel his gaze sliding over me to my sisters, then back again.
I go cold all over, despite the warmth from the simmering hearth behind me.
I suddenly feel ill to my stomach. Not the coughing kind of ill, but the bone-deep nausea swaying through me like the waves of the sea from the further villages and gateways.
A bolt of terror spears through me as the dark prince pushes up from the couch. His hands smooth out his button-up jacket, his eyes restless between my sisters and me.
“Rise.” One word, spoken from the prince in a harder tone than any word he’s spoken so far. It’s commanding, and fuelled by total power.
A shaky breath escapes me, unravelled from the tight space in my chest, as I start to push up to my feet. Movement ripples throughout the lounge. Father steps back against the wall, an uneasy look settled on his face. My sisters and I stand and Mother inches closer to us, her hands wringing together.
