Chapter 30
Thirty
SENAN
Josie’s grin feels foreboding as she saunters into the dining room with a gigantic crockery dish propped against her hip. Who would’ve suspected such a jolly woman was actually a harbinger of doom?
“I hope you boys are still hungry. You look as if you could use a little meat on those bones.”
Exactly. Meat on my bones, not fucking vegetables.
If I eat one more leafy green, I might keel over and turn into one myself. The last few days, I have consumed more carrots and parsnips and cabbage and fucking sprouts than any person has a right to.
Not by choice, mind you.
Braith’s mother puts them in everything . And by everything, I mean desserts as well.
That’s right. I’ve had carrots in fucking cake—a place no vegetable has any business being.
And let’s not forget the sweet potato “pie” she served last night.
I ate all of it—wouldn’t want to be rude to our host—but I did not enjoy one bite. Pie should not be the color of mucky clay or the texture of cold mashed potatoes. Positively vile.
The problem with clearing your plate is that the cook mistakenly believes you enjoyed the dish and is prone to cooking it over and over and over again.
I’d kill for a steak right now. Or a juicy chicken, slow roasted over a fire, stuffed with sage and rosemary. Or a pig. Sausage, bacon, ham—I’m not picky. Give me any part of a pig and I’d be in heaven.
Aeron hasn’t grumbled under his breath or complained once tonight, and it is infuriating. Probably because he has been dining at the castle the last few nights and has been spared the worst of it.
Braith’s mother sets a dish between us, removing the lid with a flourish.
Another pie. How exciting.
Josie hums a happy little song as she cuts each of us a slice as big as our heads and flops them onto plates with a sickening splat . Aeron thanks her and collects his fork from beside his empty dinner plate. She cuts one for Braith as well, sliding the plate in front of her daughter. Braith’s face gives nothing away as she takes a small bite.
According to Josie, this dessert is Braith’s favorite.
Either the woman’s tastebuds are broken, or she is an excellent liar.
Allette was the only smart one of us, telling Josie she couldn’t eat sweet potatoes because of an allergy. I don’t have a clue if that’s an actual allergy but figured it would look a little suspicious if I revealed a fake allergy to the same thing. Last night I ate my pie like a polite guest, but tonight I just cannot stomach it.
Josie tells us to enjoy, collects a handful of dishes, and then leaves us to our delicious dessert.
Allette hides her smile behind her glass of mulled wine as she leans back against her chair.
“How can you eat that?” I whisper under my breath to my brother.
With his eyes narrowed on me, Aeron hacks off a huge bite and stuffs it between his lips. “What do you mean? It’s good.”
What a load of bollocks. He winces every time he swallows. The man went through at least four pints of water trying to choke down his dinner, for stars’ sake.
He makes it about halfway through the pie before finally abandoning his fork and guzzling what’s left of the water in his glass.
Good, my arse . “Then why don’t you finish it all?”
Braith smiles from her chair, seeming oblivious to the grief we’ve endured since she left us. The news at the castle is all sunshine, with Kyff set to return by the end of the week. Allette asked her about Jeston, and Braith said she heard he wasn’t feeling well but that his position as Head Master meant the king allowed him access to the royal infirmary.
We’ve decided it’s best to keep the truth of what happened to him a secret—for now, at least.
“Yes, Terrence,” Braith says. “Why don’t you finish it all?”
Turning his glower on Braith, Aeron abandons his empty glass and stabs another chunk. “I plan to.” Down the hatch it goes, followed by another gulp of water—this time from my glass.
He’s going to break. It’s only a matter of time before the potatoes turn to cement in his gut.
I nudge his plate toward him. “Go on, then. Still, a few bites left. Eat up.”
A humming Josie saunters back into the room. When she sees my untouched dessert, her smile falters. “Do you not like tonight’s pie?”
I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but if I try to take a bite of that, it’s going to come right back up, along with the salad greens and sweet potato cakes from dinner.
Aeron smirks at me, his jaw pulsing with each chew.
I can think of one way to wipe that infuriating look off his smug face. “The pie is wonderful, but my brother asked if he could have my slice. I’m full from dinner, so I’ve agreed.”
Aeron chokes on his bite, his eyes blazing like star fire. One of these days, his head is going to explode from all the pent-up rage. He really should find an outlet for it.
I scoot my plate across the table with a grin. “Here you go, Terrence. It’s all yours.”
Josie refills his water glass from the jug in her hand. “My, you’re a thirsty boy, aren’t you?” Smiling warmly, she pats Aeron’s cheek and then returns to the kitchen, probably coming up with a new recipe to torture us with for breakfast.
“You’re some prick,” Aeron mutters, fork poised as he stares down at the second helping of pie, his face downright green.
Allette and Braith giggle, while I sit back and watch him shovel in my slice as well.
For the first time since we arrived, I dare to venture outside the house. Without access to a glamour, I’m forced to hide beneath the hood of my borrowed cloak. No matter. At least I’m outside. The damp air down here isn’t fresh, but I have space to breathe.
That is until Aeron follows me out and sinks onto the stone ledge next to the house with a beleaguered sigh. “We need to talk.”
I fall next to him, just out of reach in case he plans on exacting revenge. “If it’s about the pie?—”
“It’s not about the damn pie,” he clips. “Have you given any more thought to what we discussed?”
If he hasn’t noticed, life has been a little busy of late. “No.”
“Senan, look at me. If Boris is allowed to keep the throne, there’s no telling what?—”
Braith’s father steps out of their burrow, a bucket and shovel in his hand. “Terrence? Would you mind helping me for a bit? I’ve to clean the grass from the gutters, and Jones took my damn ladder.”
I’m so happy for the interruption, I could kiss Harold’s balding head.
Aeron grimaces.
Biting back a smile, I give my brother’s shoulder a nudge. “Go on, Terry. The man needs help cleaning his gutters.”
Aeron levels a finger at me. “Don’t you fucking start.”
“Why not, Terry ? What are you going to do to me?”
“Remember the gift I bought for your seventh birthday?”
Not the fish in a box! I had nightmares about those bulging eyes for weeks afterward. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.” He pushes to his feet, dusts off his trousers, and heads up the hill.
Part of me is tempted to offer a hand as well—mostly to avoid the fish-in-a-box—but that part is overshadowed by the need to sit here and stew over what Aeron said.
I don’t want this kingdom to go down in flames, but I cannot fathom taking the throne for myself. Besides, who’s to say we would succeed? We aren’t the only people who hate Boris Vale, and yet he remains king. More than likely, we’ll all end up getting killed trying to remove him from power. What’s the point in joining a suicide mission? We have fought too hard to live to give it all up now.
“Heya,” a high voice trills, interrupting my spinning thoughts.
I glance toward the burrow below where I sit, finding a small girl peeking from a round window. Her silver ringlets remind me of tiny springs. Her eyes are so large, they take up far too much room on her dainty face.
“Hello,” I say with a small wave.
The girl drags a chubby fist beneath her nose, her little mouth turning down in a frown. “I never seen you before. What’s your name?”
Her lisp is the cutest I’ve ever heard. Reminds me a bit of Kyff before his elocution lessons. “My name is Simon. What’s yours?”
“Dahlia.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“I know.”
Modest. I like her already.
The longer she stares at me through those wide eyes, the more her little brow furrows. “Why did you let someone draw on you, Simon?”
It takes a moment for me to realize that she’s referring to the tattoos on my hands. “Because I wanted to.” I splay my fingers, giving her a better view of the words inked there, and shove up my sleeves so she can admire the moonflowers as well.
Her head tilts and springy curls sway. “That’s odd.”
Nothing like a child to give unsolicited, unfiltered opinions. Sure, the tattoos put some people off, but there is only one other person whose approval matters to me, and she loves them. “Maybe I think it’s odd that you haven’t let anyone draw on you.”
Dahlia’s pink lips purse into a pout before she ducks out of view.
“I was only joking,” I call toward the open window.
Her head pops back out the window a moment later. This time, she doesn’t stay inside the burrow but climbs out onto the rocky knoll and skips right up to where I sit.
In her grubby hand, she clutches an ink pen that she extends toward me. Her other hand lands on my knee with a smack. “I want a bunny.”
All right. That’s random. “I hear bunnies make good pets.”
“I can’t have pets because Mummy says they shite everywhere.” My startled laugh makes her smile, revealing two missing bottom teeth. “I want you to draw one. Here.” She taps the back of her dimpled hand.
I really shouldn’t…but this ink will wash off, right? Against my better judgment, I draw a bunny on her hand, not too large of course. “There you go. All finished.”
Her face falls. “What is that?”
“What do you mean? It’s a bunny.” Although now that I’m looking at it, he looks a bit rabid.
“Bunnies don’t look like that.”
“Fine.” I pass her the pen. “Show me what a bunny looks like.” I stretch out my hand, giving her free reign over my bare forearm. Her tongue peeks through the gap in her teeth as she focuses on her drawing, which is, admittedly, a hundred times better than mine.
“Dahlia! Time for your tea!” a woman shouts.
The little girl’s curls slap my cheek when she whirls toward the window. “Coming, Mummy! Goodbye, Simon!”
I wave goodbye, watching her disappear into that hole.
What would it be like to have grown up somewhere like this? Are the Tuath here happy with their lot in life or do they wish for more?
I glance back to where Aeron is shoveling dirt and clumps of grass from the gutters, Braith’s father directing him like a foreman on a building site. They seem to have their business handled just fine without me. Besides, I don’t have a lot of spare clothes, so I can’t afford to get covered in dirt.
Quietly, I rise and slip between two burrows, heading down toward the river.
The Tuath have everything here—everything except sunlight, that is. Their light comes from large clusters of fae lights attached to the ceilings and walls of the caverns. What I saw of the servant’s quarters beneath the castle during my escape is similar in that regard. There’s even a market selling fruit and veg, although the carrots are kind of puny. The potatoes look half-rotten as well.
I pick up an apple, its flesh pink and crisp on one side and mushy and brown on the other. “What’s wrong with these?” I ask the woman behind the baskets with her feet propped on a stone. “Why are they all brown?” Are those worms? Eew . I drop the apple back into the basket, scrubbing my hand down my trousers.
She lets out a throaty chuckle. “Have you been hiding under a rock? Everyone knows the apples on the trees go to the Scathian markets, and the ones that have fallen arrive here.”
That doesn’t sound fair at all. Then again, neither does the fact that Scathians live in the sunlight while these folks are forced underground. Although, if I’m being honest, I think I’d rather live here, together with my family, instead of having to fly from one balcony to the next to visit them.
Imagine growing up sharing a bunk with Aeron. The trouble we would’ve gotten into.
Maybe it’s for the best that we were separated. Our poor mother would’ve lost her mind otherwise.
Speaking of mothers, Josie must be exhausted from cooking for us. Maybe I can finally convince her to take a break. Heaven knows my stomach could use one. If I can find all the ingredients, perhaps I can cook dinner. And dessert. “Do you have any lemons?”
The woman points to a stall across the path. “Old Jonesy is the one you’ll need to see for the citrus fruits, but they’re usually the first to go.”
I thank her and head for Old Jonesy. He doesn’t have any lemons or limes, but there are a few oranges that have those gross brown patches on them. Not that I can make much with oranges.
I’ve only baked one apple pie but can probably remember enough to make it edible. Although if the last few days are anything to go by, something being edible isn’t a requirement for meals in the Nightingale house.
I return to the woman’s stall for a dozen of the least rotten apples available. “Is there a butcher’s nearby?”
The woman pauses. “For what?”
“For meat.” Obviously. What other reason would there be to visit a butcher?
“The closest butcher is in the city near the clinic, but they’ll fleece you for coins. My husband wanted to buy a leg of lamb as a surprise for Yule and they wanted twenty pence!”
Is twenty pence a lot? When I think of how much gold I’ve squandered through the years on the most frivolous things…
And these people cannot even afford to buy meat for Yule.
Do the Nightingales eat only vegetables by choice, or can they not afford anything else?
“How much do I owe you?” I ask.
“Two pence.”
That’s all? I mean, the apples are half-rotten but that seems like a steal. “Do you have change?”
“Of course.” From her pocket she withdraws a purse that looks as if it barely holds any coins at all. Aeron only gave me gold.
Gold I’ll probably end up squandering on something silly like new boots or shirts when the ones I have are perfectly fine. Unlike this woman, who would use it to buy her family dinner. In her face, I see the man I helped all those years ago. Why wouldn’t I help her as well?
“Here.” I take out two pieces of gold and place them in her lined palm. “Keep the change.”
She sucks in a harsh breath. “I couldn’t possibly?—”
“I insist. Get yourself that leg of lamb.”
I return to the elderly man across the way to buy some oranges and then I purchase a handful of carrots. Josie can use them to bake another terrible cake if she wants. By the time I leave the market, I have an entire basket full of produce. Don’t ask me what we’re going to do with it all. Maybe that little girl would want some apples—the ones without the worms, of course.
On my way back to the burrow, the sharp clacking of wood draws me off the path.
Two boys around Kyffin’s age spar with sticks in a dirt patch between a dress shop and a weaver. Their form is all wrong and if they keep hacking at each other like that, one of them is going to break a finger.
I set the basket down beside a bench carved in stone. “You’re holding it too high,” I call.
They whirl, and when they see me, their massive eyes widen even more. The sticks hang limply at their sides as they gawk.
Keeping hold of my hood, I jog over to them. I motion for a stick, and the smaller of the two hands me his. I show him how to grip the bottom properly only to realize why he was holding it so high. The “hilt” is riddled with splinters. “Where did you find this?”
“Don’t tell him nothin’,” the other boy sniffs, his dimpled chin lifting as he watches warily.
“We was just borrowing it from Milton,” the first one blurts.
“Tommy!”
Sounds like they’re using the term “borrow” in the loosest sense of the word. “Does Milton have sandpaper?”
They both nod.
Guess I’m going to make some swords.
Turns out, Milton is a carpenter here in the burrows, and once I hand over a few coins, he is more than helpful, fashioning twenty wooden swords in under an hour.
That’s right. Twenty .
When one is commissioning weapons, word gets around.
Now I have amassed an army of children, all of whom have been sparring for the last fifteen minutes with their new swords.
Children aren’t the only ones who have gathered, either.
Five young men sit on the stone bench, eating my apples, worms and all. I don’t warn them about the creepy crawlies hiding within. Consider it their punishment for stealing another man’s fruit. Besides, I can’t begrudge them a bit of protein.
When I eventually return to retrieve my basket, only two apples remain. Why couldn’t they have eaten the oranges instead?
So much for my pie.
The silver-haired man in the middle folds his arms, smirking up at me in silent challenge. When I don’t take the bait, he nods toward the children playing with faux swords. “You’re going to get into right shit for that.”
In hindsight, giving a bunch of children weapons without their parents’ permission wasn’t the brightest idea, but it’s too late to take them back now.
Look how happy they are.
At least they won’t go home tonight with splintered hands.
The mousy-brown-haired one to his left nudges his shoulder. “How tall would you say he is?”
“At least a head taller than our tallest man,” responds the one perched on the knoll behind the bench, rolling an apple between scarred hands.
The fourth man snorts, his pierced eyebrows lifting. “What’s your mum been feeding you? Magic beans?”
The man in the middle, the one with the silver hair and a few golden rings in his ears, smirks and answers before I can. “Nah. This one’s been eating too much birdseed.”
“Excuse me?” Who in their right mind would eat birdseed? Gods above, do the Tuath eat birdseed? Those potatoes Josie made the other night did have a strange, almost crunchy texture.
“Are you all blind?” the one who made the birdseed comment scoffs, throwing a hand toward me. “The man isn’t Tuath at all.”
The five of them murmur amongst themselves, heads pressed together as they cast wary glances my way.
“If he’s Scathian, he’s the palest I’ve ever seen,” the short one says, pulling away from the group and running a hand along the patchy hair on his weak jaw. “You think he’s one of the birds, Nightingale?”
Wait a minute. “Are you by chance related to Braith Nightingale ?” I ask the silver-haired one with the earrings.
The man launches to his feet, squaring up to me. “Why the fuck do you want to know?”
“Calm down.” You’d swear I just told him I slept with his mother. “Braith and I are friends.”
I barely have time to smile before his fist slams into my jaw.