Chapter 13
Maddox
“In modern times, tea is observed from half eleven to twelve, while lunch is enjoyed from one until two.”
— Seelie Culture: Then and Now
Dawn arrives far too soon. My body used to be accustomed to rising early after very little rest; however, since moving to the Seelie lands, sleeping late has become my habit.
Turns out, life is far more relaxed when you’re not constantly worrying about where your next meal will come from or looking over your shoulder for fear of a predator stalking you for its breakfast.
As promised, I arrive at the worksite as the golden sun rises over Rosehill’s pitched rooftops.
Unlike yesterday, there are many Seelie fae toiling over wood and stone, using the tools that laid dormant only a few hours earlier.
The foreman’s heavy brow draws tight when he sees me approach. “Don’t touch anything,” he grumbles before my boots even meet the ground.
There is no need for his unfriendly tone. I am here to help, after all. “What about the dirt? Am I to remain on my steed all day?”
He casts his eyes toward the clouds in the sky, huffing loudly. “You can obviously touch the dirt.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. “What about the air? Am I allowed to touch that?”
“I meant the tools. Don’t touch the tools. Bloody Unseelie fae,” he mutters under his breath as he ambles over to the edge of the canyon, joining two other grumpy looking fae with silver-streaked hair who are bent over a map of the bridge they are hoping to build.
It would seem I must find someone else with whom to share my humor.
I tie Dusk to a post next to two horses that look like foals next to my unicorn. They seem as wary of him as these Seelie are of me.
On my walk through the site, I see many tools I would love to have in my possession. Like the one right over there. “What does this do?”
The fae holding the tool jumps at the sound of my question. His voice trembles like a leaf in a gale. “I-it’s a level, sir.”
“Maddox Finch.”
“W-what?”
“My name is Maddox Finch, not Sir.”
“Oh. Yes. Right. M-my name is Tim. Tim Peck.”
Peck is what birds do to the ground. This Seelie looks a bit like a bird, so his name should be easy to remember. “What is this level, Tim Peck?”
His brow furrows as he glances down at the tool still clutched in his white-knuckled fist. “I-it shows when things are s-straight.”
Interesting. I use my eyes for this purpose.
On the makeshift table in front of him is another contraption I have never seen before. My hands itch to pick it up, but I do not wish for the foreman to give out to me again. Instead, I must make do with pointing. “And that is a . . . ?”
“A compass.”
“That is not a compass.” My father had a compass that he used to tell the direction. I remember it vividly: the faded brass casing and the sound of the glass cracking when I accidentally dropped it. My father’s terrifying roar when he found me playing with it.
No, this cannot be a compass.
“It’s for drawing circles. See?” Tim places the pointy tip against the tabletop and swivels the other side around, drawing a perfect circle.
I must trace my mugs or plates for circles.
What will they invent next?
“Thank you, Tim Peck.”
“Y-you’re welcome, sir. Maddox Finch. Sir.”
I leave the Tim to continue walking through the site. Everyone seems to be working away, no disruptions or disagreements. Just fae building a bridge. Albeit slowly.
If the Unseelie were to help, they would finish twice as quickly.
Perhaps I will suggest this to Ever.
None of the workers smile as I make my way back to where the blood was splattered, hoping to find some clue we missed. Only a handful of specks remain, the rest stamped into the earth by the many boots traversing this area, destroying any chance of tracking the culprit.
Or culprits.
Three fae are missing, after all.
Did they all vanish at once, or were they stolen one at a time? The former would have to involve more than one fae.
“What’s that green bastard doing here?” a voice to my left whispers. A Seelie guard dressed in those ridiculous leathers, perspiration already clinging to his brow beneath equally damp ochre hair.
Were they not informed that I would be helping this day?
“Don’t rightfully know,” the guard beside him whispers back.
Is it me they dislike or all Unseelie fae? How do they feel about their king? Perhaps these men are responsible for the missing Seelie. No one is above suspicion.
When they catch me watching them, they quickly avert their gazes toward the cottony clouds above us.
The cloud nearest town resembles a daisy flower with five petals. The one beside it is a cow. No, not a cow. A bull. The one beside that—
Focus, Maddox. You may stare at the clouds when you return to the garden.
I offer the guards a smile, which earns me two matching frowns. “I am Maddox Finch. I am here to keep all the Seelie safe.”
The pair trade glances. “That’s what Collum and me are doing.”
Interesting. Ever did not mention there would be additional guards to help me with this task. “Have you been at this post long?”
Collum, a short male with thick eyebrows resembling two fat caterpillars, is the one to respond. “Nearly two weeks.”
Ah. This makes sense now. I was tasked with this mission because these two are useless.
“Two weeks on duty, and how many fae missing? Three?” I click my tongue. “It is a good thing I am here to help, would you not agree?” I say this with a smile, but my good humor is beginning to wane.
This sort of incompetence would not be tolerated on the Unseelie side of the canyon. There, these two would face the council and likely exile for failing to keep their fellow fae safe.
Yet here these fools stand.
“It wasn’t our fault,” the first one who spoke protests. “We were off duty.”
Perhaps I was too quick to judge. “So the Seelie went missing at night?”
“Don’t rightly know, do I?” Collum shrugs. “Monty and me cut out at five.”
Well before nightfall, then. “Who relieved you of your posts?”
“No one. The king’s guard has more important things to do than stand around watching a bunch of men build a fucking bridge.”
“Was the site empty?”
“What do you mean?” the other one, Monty, asks.
Was my question not obvious? “I mean, were you the last to leave the site the day the Seelie went missing?”
“Some of these men don’t knock off till nightfall,” Collum scoffs.
That is a no, then. “You are charged with protecting the workers on this site, which means you should be the first to arrive and the last to leave.” Is this their first post? Have they only recently been hired and never actually guarded anyone or anything before?
Irritation prickles my spine, and I leave them before I say words that cannot be taken back. Ever will hear about this.
I do not envy my friend having to suffer these lazy, ignorant fae.
I stalk toward the thin cropping of trees beyond the site. Any semi-intelligent fae would have already searched the woods, but it is clear we are dealing with fools.
If wolves are responsible for the missing fae, they must’ve left something behind, yet after two hours of searching, I have found no sign of the beasts. No paw prints. No fur clinging to the brambles. No scat.
Part of me is sorry to have not found anything amiss. Another part of me is relieved there are no signs of wolves that would make this side of the canyon as dangerous as ours, especially seeing as these Seelie have no natural defenses, with their small stature, slow legs, and soft bellies.
When I return to the worksite, the Seelie are all sitting around, drinking tea and eating sandwiches.
Every.
Last.
One.
Even the angry foreman is perched on a stack of wood, sipping from a mug next to the two incompetent guards.
It is no wonder they have not finished. Surely they should be taking breaks one or two at a time so that work can continue instead of the entire site coming to a halt.
Then again, what reason do they have to rush? They have immortal water flowing through their city. They do not need to traverse the temporary bridge for any reason.
They have no incentive to complete the bridge.
Maybe the architects did not go missing after all.
Maybe this is only an excuse to delay connecting our worlds.
Golden sunlight streams through the tall windows on the far wall, highlighting Ever’s form where he perches on the raised platform, watching me pace.
How can he be so still at a time like this? So calm? “The guards left at dinnertime.” Dinnertime!
Ever scrubs a hand across his jaw. “I know.”
“They do not care if the bridge is finished.”
“I know.”
“This is unacceptable. The temporary bridge is no longer safe for wagon or steed. Our people must cross on foot to retrieve water from their well, and these Seelie act as if there is no hurry to complete the bridge.” They spent an hour on lunch. An hour! Who takes this long to eat a meal?
“Maddox. I know.”
“Then why do you allow them to continue?” He is their king. His words hold weight. His word is law. “If you spoke to the Chieftain, surely he would be willing to send males to finish the bridge.”
“The Unseelie have other worries. Besides, we do not have the skills, and the Chieftain cannot spare the hunters.”
This is another problem that could be easily solved. There is plenty of game on this side of the canyon. Our hunters would not have to leave for weeks on end if they were allowed to hunt the Seelie forests.
A problem for another time.
In this moment, we must focus on the bridge. At the Seelie’s current pace, the thing will take years to complete. The foreman clearly does not have what it takes to motivate his workers.
But I can think of someone who might. I stop in front of Ever, meeting his scowl with a smile—the first I have worn since returning from the worksite. “We do not need all the hunters.”
His brows arch.
“We only need one.”