3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Kat
That low, rumbling voice nearly sends me flying out of my skin. Who is in the room? I swear it was empty only a minute ago!
The small jar of ollea I found—and promptly dropped—rattles against something as I grab it. In a moment of pure desperation, I shove the jar into my mouth and clamp my jaws shut. The tiny object it rattled against remains in my palm. A lost button . Irrelevant, but I clutch it until it bites into my skin. I shove out from under the bed.
A fae towers over me. At first, his sheer size is the most terrifying thing about him. He has both brawn and height, strength emanating from the way he stands in the doorway. Then I lift my gaze past his dark, blood-streaked armor to his silvery-white hair, a hard brow hewn as though from granite, and a pair of black eyes colder than a frozen lake.
Those eyes, I decide, are by far the most terrifying thing about him.
It seems I am going to die.
I know who he is. I’ve never been this close to him, but anytime I come to the Nothril Court, he is my biggest fear. It is because of him that I covered myself in soot to hide my true scent. It is because of his piercing gaze, now, that I am endlessly relieved that my face is almost entirely covered in bandages.
Prince Rahk.
I stare up at him, frozen.
The tailor was right. Going back in, even for something as valuable as the ollea that clinks against my teeth, was a stupid decision.
I’ve always known I would die at the hand of a fae. I deserve to. One doesn’t run raids of Fae Courts for years and get away with it forever. I just didn’t want to die today .
“What are you doing?” Prince Rahk demands again.
Wait—does he buy my disguise? I fling myself to the ground in a prostrated bow. The ollea in my mouth prevents me from speaking.
“Answer me.”
My hand trembles as I point to my mouth and shake my head.
“You cannot speak?”
I nod quickly, keeping my head bowed.
“Do you know you’re not supposed to be here? Human slaves aren’t to be in my chambers.”
He thinks we’re so far beneath him that we cannot even have the honor of scrubbing his floors? I rein in the sudden flare of my temper. I shake my head in answer to his question—and then point at the tray of goblets I brought. Can I make him believe I’ve made a mistake, and that I thought I was supposed to deliver drinks to him?
Prince Rahk sniffs in the direction of the goblets. He winces. “Great Kings, what possessed you to bring such a violation to me? What is that, a mix of nectar and wine?”
I give him my best doe-eyed look of innocence and confusion.
“Did someone tell you to bring me that?” he asks.
I nod eagerly.
“A human slave?”
I shake my head. If wrath must fall, it will not be on one of my fellow humans.
“A fae?”
I nod.
“Slave or master?”
I lift my shoulders in a simple I don’t know . Maybe I will survive this. Maybe he will forget that I was under his bed and let me leave.
Maybe I won’t die today, after all.
He shifts his weight to one foot and narrows his frosty eyes in suspicion. “Show me what you were doing under my bed.”
Curse it all.
I cast desperately for an excuse. The goblets are all infuriatingly upright and unspilled, so I cannot use that as an excuse. That is when I become aware of the lost button that was under the bed next to the ollea . Slowly, I lift my hand and uncurl my fingers, holding up the button to him.
“You were getting this,” he states in a monotone of pure skepticism.
I nod. Bile builds up in my mouth from the jar I conceal.
He regards me dubiously. He doesn’t look like he is about to let me get off without a rational explanation of all this. Maybe I won’t make it out of here alive.
“Are you new?” he asks, his frown so deep it looks cut from marble.
I nod quickly and prostrate myself once more.
“Then take your tray and get out. You are not supposed to be in this room. If you ever return, the punishment will be severe. Understand?”
I nod, barely breathing for fear that if I make a single sound, he will change his mind and take one of those great swords—and lop off my head.
I sweep up the tray and scurry to the servant’s door. Prince Rahk remains standing, not moving a single muscle until I enter the tunnel and shut the door behind me. Even then, through the grate, his cold gaze remains fixed on me.
I turn on my tail and run as fast as I can. I spit out the jar, cradling it to my chest, expecting sudden pain to burst through my chest at any moment. Proof that the prince only meant to make me think I was safe, when in truth he just wanted to play with his quarry before striking with the killing blow.
But nothing happens.
No one stops me as I make my escape from the Nothril Court.
I catch up to the tailor just as the sun dips below the horizon, back in my own clothes. “I’m so late!” I whisper to him as I rush to my brown mare. She is hitched to the cart loaded with precious human cargo. To the horse, I give half a carrot wrapped in a calming herb and say, “You’re doing so well, baby girl. We’ll get you out of this wretched fae forest in no time.”
She nuzzles into my hand, her ears cupping forward at my voice. She eats the carrot and tries to spit out the herb, but she ingests enough for it to be effective.
“That’s it. Good girl.”
“You’ve got them now?” the tailor asks, glancing around the darkening forest.
I swing up into the driver’s seat of the cart and salute him. “Don’t give us a single thought. We’ll be safe from here.”
The tailor presses folded parchment into my hand. “These are the dates I will be delivering wardrobes around Faerieland. I’ve also included the details for our big raid. I am working to get you a liquid glamour to make things easier.”
I tuck the paper into my breast pocket and give it a pat. “Excellent. Be safe.”
“You, too, Kat.”
I hold his hard gaze for one second. Then I turn to the four people huddled in the back and grin. “Hold on! We move fast. Legend says the longer you’re in the Wood, the more of your soul it steals. We’re not about to give it any more than a pinky toe’s amount of soul!”
The girl sits closest to me, shrouded in the tailor’s own cloak. The other three—a couple with a seven-year-old child—stay close together. The husband gives me a nod, holding his son close to his chest.
I click my tongue and give the reins a gentle slap to get the cart moving. I guide us onto the Path, picking it out by the very faint sparks on its edge. It’s lethally dangerous to travel through Faerieland without a Path, as I learned very quickly when I was younger. But Paths don’t show themselves easily to me, and if it weren’t for the tailor teaching me the ones I needed, I’d be as useless as any other human out here.
I’m almost blind in the darkness, but I let the sparks and my horse guide us as I drive us faster through the depths of Caphyrl Wood.
A soft touch on my elbow startles me out of my focus.
“Is everything alright?” I ask, twisting my head toward Elizabeth even as I keep my gaze focused ahead.
“Yes—I just . . . What’s your horse’s name?”
My eyebrows rise. I clamp my lips together before a chuckle escapes me at the sheer randomness of her question. “Her name is Bartholomew. Don’t judge—I named her when I was a child and didn’t know how to tell the difference between a boy horse and a girl horse.”
She actually snorts, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Careful, you’ll hurt her feelings,” I say with a quick wink. “You’ll not find an animal as perfect as her. Strong, smart as a whip, brave, with just enough quirks to keep things interesting. Now, make sure you hold onto that railing there. We’re about to enter the willowwart stretch and I don’t want anyone getting pulled out of the cart.”
Willowwart cannot touch us while we’re on the Path, but she doesn’t know that and obediently ducks back down. Everyone stays low when the trees turn long and thin, their branches like whips that stir at our passing. Twice, one of those branches snaps overhead, and once they try to grab a cart wheel.
But we’re safely on the Path, and we quickly move past them.
“What are those voices?” the man asks from behind me.
His question startles me. I’ve learned to thoroughly ignore the voices in the Wood. I don’t even hear them anymore. Now that he mentions them, however, their whispers crawl up my spine.
“Come to me, my darling. I have loved none but you.”
“He never forgives. He will require your blood for what you have done to him.”
One quieter than the rest slides along my skin: “I know what you did, Katherine Vandermore. It will catch up to you some day. You know it will.”
“Ignore those,” I say briskly. “Some say they are the voices of those lost in the Wood. Others say it is the Wood itself, laying claim to the souls who traverse her Paths. Personally, I am convinced they are squirrels that have learned to talk for the sole purpose of spooking rational people like you and me. When you’ve been in the Wood as much as I have, you learn they cannot hurt you.”
At my words, all four of my passengers visibly relax—only to stiffen as a loud voice roars: “Who over yonder doth pass into Ymer’s dominion?”
I grin and wave. “Hullo Ymer!”
The old troll sits just off the Path, plopped on muddy ground. He is the size of a very large carriage and thrice as heavy, with thick, flabby arms, a rocklike hide, and tattered clothes that leave his rotund belly exposed. His face is gnarled, knobby, and arranged in a grumpy frown. In one hand, he grips a club bigger than me. “You again! You thin legged, disrespectful, toothy elf! Ymer has a boiling pot ready for you. Supper will be a delicious elf soup!”
Elizabeth draws back, a squeak escaping the hand she slaps over her mouth.
“You’re right,” I call back, keeping Bartholomew on the Path. “Ymer the Indefatigable, please pardon the disrespect. But you won’t be boiling me today—and I’m not an elf. Sorry if that ruins your plans for the evening.”
“Ymer will eat you raw instead!” roars the troll, surging upright and swinging his club.
It’s the child who screams now, practically splitting my head open with the noise. Bartholomew whinnies nervously.
“He can’t touch us,” I say quickly to my passengers. “Not while we’re on the Path. Go bother someone else, Ymer!”
“One of these days, you will be Ymer’s dinner!” he roars as we pass him, heading toward the border.
“No, I won’t!” I shout. “See you next time!”
We make good time, despite the dark, and the moment we spill out of the forest into an open field, my chest loosens a fraction. Enough that I can start to feel the exhaustion and weakness weighing down my muscles. But this night is far from over.
I pull the cart to a stop and motion for everyone to get out. I feed Bartholomew another carrot, rubbing her muzzle as I tell my charges climbing out of the cart: “This is as far as I can take you. There’s a bag of provisions for each of you. We are in the kingdom of Harbright, west of Aursailles and south of Osremer. If you walk straight from here for a few miles over the rise, through these farm fields, you’ll get to the city Ashbourne. You can go further west about fifteen miles to Shurtlon and the cheapest stages to the coast are there. I would recommend getting as far away from here as you can. Fae don’t like being in the human world, so the deeper into it you can get, the less likely they’ll follow.”
When Elizabeth turns pale with alarm, I add quickly, “I’ve never had anyone be followed into the human world before. I simply say this in an overabundance of caution. In each of your sacks, there’s enough food to last five days, if you ration it, and enough coin for one ticket for the stage. I wish I could do more, but—”
The older woman steps forward and immediately covers my fidgeting hand with hers. “You’ve done more than enough, dear. Thank you for giving us a future. You are a saint.”
My lips tighten. I look away as I scratch the back of my neck.
The man helps me hide the cart beneath its customary pile of brush at the edge of the forest while his wife speaks to Elizabeth, who nods and tries to fight back tears. I force myself to ignore the stab of guilt that traces through my blood. If only I could have gotten them all out faster. If only I could carry more refugees with me each raid, instead of leaving so many behind!
My mind immediately goes to the slave woman who was so afraid of what would happen if Elizabeth disappeared. The woman who reminded me of Mama.
I’ll get her out. I swear it.
I’m mounting up my horse, my usual hatred rising at leaving them here in this field with nothing but a little food and a shockingly pitiful amount of coin. If I had my inheritance, I could give them money enough for clothes, an inn, food, a comfortable journey to wherever they decide to go.
Instead, I lean in close to Bartholomew and kick her into a gallop.
This night is never going to be over.
I take my usual path to the city and then dismount to avoid straining my horse too much. “Good girl,” I keep mumbling under my breath as she sniffs my coat for more treats. I give her every last carrot I have. “Such a good girl.”
When I finally knock the special sequence on my home’s backdoor after handing Bartholomew off to Charles, the stable hand who doesn’t ask questions, it swings open so fast it nearly clonks me in the nose.
“Kat! Where have you been ?” Mary hisses. Her usually pristine red bun has a few loose, frizzy curls, her pretty face flushed like she’s been standing over a stove for the better part of the day. “Saints—look at you! You’re disgusting!”
“I have every faith in you,” I reply as she hauls me inside.
“Every faith in my ability to turn back time to avoid you being over an hour late to the ball? You’re going to get me dismissed!”
“I had to steal the ollea ! It was my one chance! I’m not going to be back at the Nothril Court for a month!”
“I should have known it would have been over something stupid.” She shoos me up the stairs and into my room. “Hurry! We’ve got no time at all!”
“Stupid? Ollea will be invaluable. Ever since I learned fae with sensitive noses use it to dull their senses, I knew I needed to steal some for my raids. I’ll be practically invisible with it. And besides, no one will care I’m late to the ball! I’m a walking fortune! I could come in a potato sack, and everyone would just say it adds to my mystery . I’ll start a new fashion trend.”
“You can think that.”
I roll my eyes as she helps me strip and step into the tepid water of the tub set up in my washroom. “It would probably be in my best interest to wear a potato sack. Some of these men are so insistent I’m not sure what they wouldn’t do for my fortune. And with Agatha working against me, I’m not sure I’ll manage to stay unwed before my birthday!”
Mary scrubs my skin until it stings and clucks over the sorry state of my hair. “Maybe if you would actually talk to the young men, you would find someone you liked who could help you.”
“Impossible.”
“Kat.”
“No, really!” I step into the towel she holds for me and dry off as fast as I can make my limbs work. Then it’s time to pull on the undergarments and lace up the stays. “These men want my money, and they will pretend they care about me and act like they’re in love with me until they have it.”
“Then just explain to your favorites that you need their help staying single until you’re twenty-one so you can claim the fortune for yourself and not have to hand it over to him. If he agrees and stays with you, you know he’s here for you, not your money. But if he tries to persuade you away from that, you know he’s only after your money.”
“That sounds like the perfect way to get the provisions of my father’s will into the paper’s gossip columns. Then it’ll be even worse as men flock to make their proposals before it’s too late!”
“You could manage. You always find ways to get out of your responsibilities.” She says this while shooting a dour look at me through the mirror as she picks dust and leaves out of my hair. “Your freckles are standing out especially stark today!”
I smile sheepishly at her. “I’m sorry I’m late, Mary.”
She pauses her work long enough to whack me with my comb. “You should be glad that I’m very good at what I do.”
“The very best.”
She rolls her eyes, and I try to help by applying my own cosmetics, but she bats away my hand and bids me sit still. I watch her working hands, then frown.
“Did you burn yourself?” I ask.
She immediately hides the hand. “No.”
“Mary! Let me see it!”
“It is fine . We have much more pressing things to worry about.”
“Well, since Agatha is gone, I’ll raid her creams before I leave. It will be healed by morning.”
“I dare not touch the mistress’s creams! She will have my head!”
“Yes, well, I dare,” I say—and before she can stop me, I leap up and rush to Agatha’s room. She keeps it locked, but I snuck a spare key years ago. It used to be my mother’s room, after all.
I work fast, checking the full drawers of Agatha’s vanity in the dark. I hate coming in here now and avoid it whenever possible. But I won’t let Mary suffer when the remedy is within reach.
It is only a few minutes later before I return, a large dollop on one finger, holding it out to Mary. “Suffer no longer, my friend!”
Her mouth thins as she looks at the glob. Then she swipes it off my finger and rubs it into her burn. “I shouldn’t let you do this, but thank you.”
It is a record-breaking forty-six minutes of preparation before I’m ready. The gown Mary chose for me is pale green with elegant half-sleeves trimmed in long lace. I glance in the mirror at the towering updo strung with pearls she managed. What a feat! Mary is unstoppable. “Am I ready?”
“Just one moment,” she replies, her lip caught between her teeth as she fusses with the back of my gown.
“I’m ready!” I declare and dash out the door.
“Kat!” she calls after me in pure frustration. But I don’t have time for her perfectionism.
“You’re incredible!” I shout from the stairs.
“I hate you!”
I’m still laughing when I climb into my waiting carriage and set off for the ball.