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“Survival,” she mutters. “Buying time until I can figure out how to escape from here.”
“I thought you wanted a shot at the crown, but you want to escape? Why didn’t you say so before?”
“I thought it was heavily implied.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Could you do that? Help me get away?”
“Of course. Everything is possible with magic. But once I get you out of the palace, what’s your plan?”
“Leave the city, of course. And then… I suppose I’ll have to run.” Her face falls. “I can’t go back home to the mill, or the King will find me there and imprison me again. Everything I’ve worked so hard to gain—I can’t get any of it back, can I?”
“I suppose not.”
“I keep circling around and around in my head—coming back to the same horrible truth. I can’t accept it yet—that everything is gone. That I can’t undo any of this. That my life has changed forever, and I won’t ever be able to go home…” Her voice cracks and trails off.
I cock my head, my nostrils flexing in spite of myself. “Are you going to cry again?”
“You’re heartless,” she snaps, plucking the full bobbin off the spindle and setting an empty one in place. “And why are you so fascinated when I cry?”
“Elves don’t cry.”
She stares at me. “Really?”
“Really. We—they—don’t believe in showing too much emotion. In Elvish society, a stoic nature is perceived as attractive and admirable.”
“But I thought Elves were all about mischief, tricks, rhymes, laughter, music, and the enjoyment of nature,” Juliette counters.
“That’s how it used to be, I suppose. Since the Withdrawal, when we separated ourselves from human society, our Elders teach sobriety and stoicism. A bit of laughter is permitted—some minor expressions of happiness or disappointment—but anything deeper must be suppressed. We are encouraged to meet the most thrilling good news and the most dreadful tragedy with equal calm.”
“Sounds like apathy to me.”
“When you see the world spinning out of control, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it, you either drive yourself mad by caring too much—or you stop caring.” The last bobbin she placed is slightly off-kilter, and the thick, smooth thread is winding itself unevenly, so I reach out and tweak its position, still working the pedal with my foot. “The Elves saw how humans were spreading across the world, chopping down forests, hunting the noblest of creatures, razing wildflower fields to plant crops, pumping out smoke from new machines, and starting wars that soaked the soil with blood. It hurt them too much, so they withdrew. Washed their hands of it all.”
Juliette pinches off the gold thread, takes the full bobbin, and hands me another. I start winding the thread onto the new spool, conscious that my internal energy is waning fast.
“So full-blooded Elves never mingle with humans?” she asks.
“Some do, but they usually have to hide their ears and dim the glow of their eyes,” I tell her. “I know two full-blooded Elvish women who have lived among humans for years, in the town of Lensterhaven. A married pair, and the best Elvish cobblers I know. They made me these boots.” I nod to my right foot, which is pressing the pedal.
Juliette bends, inspecting the boots with interest and rewarding me with a delectable view of her breasts. But I can’t enjoy it to the fullest, not when I’ve spent so much magic already.
I can’t do this much longer, and there’s still a lot of straw in the room. Thankfully my link with the original Rupert will remain intact, since that spell is self-contained and already complete. Even if my energy is drained to the dregs, my disguise won’t fail as long as the tiny glass jar remains in my pocket or close at hand.
But I can’t leave this job partly undone. To thoroughly convince the King of Juliette’s ability, to spare her from his wrath, every bit of the straw must be converted into gold.
“We need to move faster,” I tell her. “My energy won’t last long, and when it runs out, the spell will end.”
“Will you be alright?” She frowns, gathering up another armful of straw.
When was the last time someone cared about my wellbeing? “I’ll be starved and weak for a while, but after a hearty meal I’ll be fine.” Unless I let things go too far.
“But you’ll have to fetch the hearty meal,” she says. “Will that be difficult if you’re weak?”
“I’ll manage.”
Her brow puckers with worry, and she gathers more straw, feeding handfuls into the wheel more quickly than before.
We continue working in silence for a long time. I barely know her, and yet I can tell that she’s stewing over some problem or question, something she’s aching to mention.
At last, she comes out with it. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
