Chapter One #2
She was quiet and hardy, my mother, sneaking me food in the Illusion kitchens each day. When she died, it was only fitting that I start a network of nourishment in her honor.
“Did you not receive the First Five?” the faerie asks, eyes dropping to my arms.
“It’s only four tattoos if there’s no Healer,” I say.
In the end, we all must go to the creditor, Healer or not, for unregistered children are slain. Debt or death, and when nature did not claim my breath that day, the Houses had to claim my skin. How painful it must have been for my mother: to hand over her untouched newborn to a life of service.
“Didn’t know it was possible to survive without a Healer,” the faerie remarks. Though many mothers don’t survive even if there is one.
“She lived until two years ago,” I say, staring at the bloodstain again.
In polite respect, the faerie offers, “May she wander well.”
“May she wander well.”
—
As I emerge from the Peri tunnel, Jeremee lunges for a hug. His hair sticks up, so I know he’s been running anxious hands through it.
“I gotta go,” I say, squirming. “I’m going to be late.”
“Lady Kassandra doesn’t get up until the afternoon and you know it.” He buries his face in the crook of my neck.
“Yes, but I’m supposed to be up there now!”
He pulls back, hands heavy on my shoulders, scanning my face. “Did everything go okay? What was the Unluckie like?”
“He was normal. Polite and in shock as they usually are.”
“Right,” Jeremee says. “Of course.”
Laughter filters toward us, a set of footsteps growing close.
I stiffen in Jae’s grasp, panic rising. The only servants down in the Nest at this time are Scarps like Jeremee or Bases on break from the fields.
My system only works because the Night Crest servants are now asleep, and the other Day Crest servants think I’m on my twelve-hour shift.
No one in the kitchens knows that Lady Kassandra sleeps so much and eats so little.
According to them, I’ve already served her breakfast at the normal hour and on a silver tray. Not in a jute sack to an Unluckie.
“We need to leave,” I say.
“We can go back into the Peri tunnel, but we may be spotted.”
“Let’s just put our heads down as we pass them. They might not recognize me,” I try.
“Of course they will,” Jae whispers. “You’ve lasted under Lady Kassandra longer than a year.”
“It’s only been two!”
“Still more than most.”
The voices round the corner, coming down the corridor.
“Sorry” is all Jeremee manages to say before pressing me to the wall, his body bracketing mine.
Stones push into my back. Jae lowers his head, blocking the light.
I’m tall for a faerie, but he’s taller, his lithe body curled around mine.
I could tell him to back off and he would, but the laughter of males fills my ears, and though they are faerie does not mean they are friend.
Long ago, the redheaded cook accused my mother of slipping me apple slices.
When the halfling guards punished my mother even after I purged the apple in absolution, the cook almost looked guilty.
She still took her reward: five copper coins in exchange for each fingernail they splintered.
My mother became more cautious in the following years.
I think of the wonder in the Unluckie’s voice, those inked eyes. He will be punished more severely than that if caught.
I shiver. Jeremee rubs the goosebumps budding across my arms.
“Stop fidgeting,” he murmurs, but his hand pauses on my biceps. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“Of course not. It isn’t every day I get to pretend I’m one of your lovers.”
I meant it as a jest. But he stills, and his eyes find mine. Heat rolls off his skin, his breath on the side of my face. My heart thumps. I cannot look away first; to do so is to admit more than I’d like.
The faeries spot us. Jae goes even more rigid. Planes, he frets more than a grandmother might.
I yank him closer by the shirt, and he lets out a puff of surprise.
His hard chest pushes me against the wall, and he cradles the back of my skull before it can hit the stone.
Fingers twining into my waves, he glances down at my lips, his own a breath away.
His heart hammers in my palm, his throat bobbing, and I want to scrape nails along his clavicle.
Bring forth a blush to his flesh that’s building under mine. But we are just playing a role.
The snickering males pass by, one whistling. Jae’s attention is rapt, as if I had slipped a hand between his legs to hold him there instead.
When their voices fade, he steps away, slipping hands in his pockets. Cool, empty air rushes my skin.
“Sorry.” I shiver again, then slip past him without another word, taking the passage to the Nest once more. He follows, silent. Only after I’ve reached the threshold of the Illusion kitchens does he speak.
“Careful,” he says. “Please.”
“Always,” I answer, forcing a smile.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” I cut in. It would hurt to know exactly what he didn’t mean: to touch me, to react to me?
Had he hated it? The truth is, my feelings started to shift after my mother’s death.
But no matter how much not having him pains me, I cannot lose him, either.
I’m a faerie, after all. I know how to settle for scraps.
“Okay,” he says. “Well, I’ll see you at dinner later.”
I brush his hand goodbye and then enter the Illusion kitchens.
Built for scale and efficiency, six-foot-tall hearths flank the space, firing up pies, stews, stocks, vegetables, preparing feasts for the Illusion nobles at court and the parties they throw.
Piles of potatoes, onions, turnips, and cabbage line long wooden tables.
I stare at the spot on the third table where my mother and I prepped meals for most of our lives. Her gentle hands would wrap around mine, position my fingers on the handle of a knife, mimic the methodical, rhythmic chopping that would forever remind me of her.
I thought we would spend the rest of our lives as Scarps—cooking, laundering clothes, repairing shoes.
Before, my mother thought she’d always remain a Base in the fields with her family, until a late-blooming ability with fire graduated her to the kitchens as an adult.
Two years ago, death came for her, and shortly after that, my mistress came for me, propelling me from Scarp duties in the kitchens to a coveted Day Crest position, a personal servant to the High Fae.
A cruel irony, as if we can only ascend to a new layer of wealth after shedding loved ones.
“Coming in!” I shout into the noise of lunch preparation. “Lady Kassandra requests croissants and grapes for her late-morning snack!”
“How does that little thing eat so much?” a cook grumbles, glancing at the table of pastries and fruit.
“You know how the High Fae are,” I say. “Insatiable.”
Lies and truths fall out of my mouth faster than rotting teeth, and one day, someone will catch on.
Just not today.
The noon bell rings out as I exit the kitchens.
I am already late.