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Solomon beckons us in and leads us to a table at the far end of the hut. When I pull my chair out, cobwebs come with it, spiders scuttling about, angry I’ve disturbed them. There’s a sour scent to the house, like milk left out in the midday sun. I’m fairly certain it’s wafting off our father, though it’s difficult to tell when the scent is masked by several others in the room.
All the while, I can’t stop looking at Solomon. I’ve always been told Fin and I favor our mother, but I can see now that people only said this out of ignorance of our true father’s appearance. Solomon is spindly built, like Fin, and his ragged hair makes him favor my brother more than myself. As well as his eyes. His eyes belong to Fin. But his face, the set of his jaw, the firm bridge of his nose…they’re all mine.
He’s a good-looking male. I suppose that’s rather conceited of me to think, considering the resemblance between the two of us. But he has shadows forming under his eyes that age him more than is right for the fae.
“How did you find me?” he says, and though he watches us sit, he doesn’t. Instead, he stands, fingers working at his sides, ankles bobbing like he might bolt at any moment.
He keeps looking at my hands, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s because they’re famous for turning people into ash.
All of my magic I inherited from my mother’s side of the family, though Fin got none of it. I wonder then if magic terrifies my father, considering he possesses none.
“Oh, we just followed the trail of burglary, lies, forgeries, and illegally sold items,” Fin says, though there’s no accusation in his tone. Only carefully crafted amusement.
Our father glances between the two of us, his eyes wary. “Are you going to arrest me? I didn’t think you would have jurisdiction in Avelea.”
So he knows, then, who his sons grew up to be.
“We’re not here to arrest you,” I say. “We simply wished to find you.”
Solomon grunts, then gestures around the room. “Then consider me found.”
Silence befalls us, and I realize I’ve made no preparation for what I intended to say to this male once we finally found him. I look at Fin, but he seems equally unprepared as I am, which I find strange since he was the one who was interested in finding our father to begin with.
“When did you find out?” Solomon taps his fingers against his sides. When he breathes, he stinks of faerie ale, though it’s soured on his breath.
“A little over a year ago,” I say. “We found it in the vizier’s records. He swore a fae oath long ago to keep the birth records of the royal family, as well as their heritage, though he hid the records for a long while. I suppose to protect us from the king.”
Solomon grunts. “So she didn’t tell you, then.”
Fin and I exchange a look, and Fin says, “Our mother wished to protect us. She died when we were young. Before we could have been trusted with that sort of information.”
There’s a defensiveness in Fin’s voice, a strain I haven’t noticed before.
Maybe it’s just the flicker of a shadow, but I think I glimpse disappointment in my father’s face.
“You’re probably right about that.” He kicks at a glass bottle on the floor. It clinks as it rolls back and forth across a loose floorboard.
Fin and I exchange a look, and carefully, I say, “I imagine she would have told us, had she outlived our father.”
He says nothing in response.
Fin fills the silence. “So…how does one get into dealing in dark magic?”
“How does one get into royalty?” Solomon nods toward the far side of the room, where a portrait hangs, though its colors are worn with time. The portrait is of a male who must also be a relative, as he shares my and Fin’s nose and coloring. “The leeching business is the inherited sort. Always wanted to pass it down to my heirs, but unfortunately they were already occupied.”
He gives us the first hint of a smile I’ve witnessed yet, though he stares intently at his boots as he says it.
“Leeching?” I ask.
My father pulls a stone out of his pocket. It’s the color of the moon, smooth as a pebble lining a creek.
“You probably wouldn’t know, but magic is a coveted commodity around this place.”
Fin stirs. My brother was born magicless, and though he’s never shown any interest in it, I know he has to feel the lack of fairness somewhere underneath that carefree facade of his.
“Leeching is the process of, well, leeching the magic from a magic-carrying being into a calamite stone, or a leeching stone as we like to call it. It keeps the magic stable until it can be transferred elsewhere.”
“And I suppose that is also highly illegal in Avelea,” I say.
