Chapter Two
The sun-drenched cream walls burn my eyes with their brilliance. In the parlor, plush round chairs and rose settees are artfully arranged on a soft white rug. High Fae love white décor for its clean look; faeries hate maintaining it.
Lady Kassandra stretches out on a settee, delicate fingers twirling her long silver hair.
Though we are both in our late two hundreds, her skin is smooth and unmarred by any debt rings.
The sight of so much untouched flesh is still a shock each shift, but this is the kingdom of Amyria. You either owe or you own.
The servants’ door clicks closed, and those pale eyes cut to me like blades. The plane of magic pitches with a tug from her genius, stronger than any faerie’s. The hairs on my forearms rise with the static, like a storm fomenting on the horizon.
Shit.
My own genius scratches the back of my skull, desperate to escape notice. Lady Kassandra tilts her feline face back to her tutor, a curly-haired male standing several feet away, arms full of parchment paper.
“I can’t possibly take any more notes,” she tells him. “My hand will cramp, and I need it for later.”
“L-Lady Kassandra, it’s imperative you understand the Head and Heart rule,” the tutor says, his name still unknown to me. He’s only been around a few months.
Her unflinching look could split the plane itself. “The Head and Heart must never share a body, only a bed. One must lead, and the other must wed.”
“Y-yes, but what that implies is—”
“As Heart of Illusion, I am to be bred like some country cow while my brother, the Heir of Illusion, will inherit the House. So, unless you’re here to tell me that our future king should not put a babe in my belly, I don’t care. And my brother and father don’t care either, until that happens.”
The tutor drops his papers. “Lady Kassandra, it’s very complex—”
“You may leave,” she sighs. “Send in the next one.”
He rushes out the main entrance and into the front hall that only High Fae and halfling guards can use. I approach with the pastries and fruit and a pot of coffee that warms the silver tray.
“Hold it,” she commands, examining a split end.
“My lady?”
“Hold the tray until I tell you to put it down.”
My hands singe with the heat of the coffee. A chestnut side table with scalloped edges and ornate legs is tucked at the end of her settee, only a few feet away. Practically within my reach, but even if I had permission, I’d hesitate to put the hot tray on the delicate wood.
Her cool face remains expressionless like a statue in the Illusion courtyards. A gentle, comforting breeze filters in through the propped door, and I wonder if winter has gasped its last frigid breath.
A moment later, a brown-skinned High Fae arrives, his black hair closely cropped and his tawny eyes glimmering behind spectacles. Warm magic floods the plane, coating the chill of Illusion.
“Kass, what did you say this time?” Lord Eli Seccler asks.
She draws herself to a sitting position, tucking slender legs beneath her.
“Only that I’ll listen to his droning when it includes something interesting and delightful, like my brother is dead or I don’t have to marry Max.”
Lord Eli stops short. Though stocky and broad, he surpasses faeries in size and magical ability like any other High Fae.
Like a wolf to a dog. So, even as his shoulders soften with pity, he still has teeth and claws.
And she still has me holding the burning tray, my palms screaming, and I bite my lip to remain quiet.
“Prince Maxian may make a kind husband,” he offers, sitting next to her. “He seeks to be a fairer ruler than his father—”
“Who was a boorish war general, so I should hope so,” she says. “May he wander well, of course.”
“Yes, may he wander well.” He pauses. “Are you still having trouble sleeping? I could prescribe a night tonic.”
“I’m assuming it can’t mix with wine.”
“That would not be wise.”
“Then no thank you.”
Lord Eli gives her a look before his attention shifts to me, hovering over her shoulder. “Have you eaten yet?”
Please eat, I think, hands itching with pain. Has the coffee grown hotter? Is the pot enchanted?
Kass frowns. “Not hungry.”
“Why don’t you try?”
Thank fuck. My gaze slides to the scalloped chestnut table in front of the pair, my arms trembling. My mistress adjusts her robe.
“Eli, have you seen my new side table?”
The head of House Healing leans forward. “Very nice.”
“Notice the details?”
“It’s very intricate, yes.”
“Avery, put the tray on it.”
Lord Eli raises his brows. I blink, watching her face that gives nothing away.
“What?” She bares white teeth. “Have you decided to be deaf today, or merely just dumb?”
“My lady,” I say in a strained voice. “Will it not mark the wood?”
“Do you enjoy disobeying me?”
She will punish me regardless, so I place the tray on the table, but it slips straight through to the floor with a giant crash, the contents scattering like roaches.
I leap back, mind spinning to catch up. There, then not—the table flickers in and out of sight before solidifying again, shadow and all. I could almost believe I imagined the entire incident if not for the shattered breakfast cutting through the table’s legs as if it were made of mist.
“Stunning!” Lord Eli exclaims, bending low to examine the scene. “A perfect Illusion.”
“That would be the case if I could make you feel as if the grain were real when you touched it,” she replies.
“Very few Illusion fae can do that.”
“Pity. Well, what are you waiting for, Avery? Clean it up.”
I kneel to place the croissants and muffins back on the tray, reaching through the mirage-table. I shiver at the feel of the magic, cold as snow.
My cheeks burn as the pair watch me pick up scraps of wasted food that faeries and Unluckies would kill over.
After turning the pot upright, I pull out my rag to soak up the hot liquid, my hands red and tingling from holding the burning silver.
Gritting my teeth, I work the rag, scalding my skin once more.
“Is that not hot?” Lord Eli asks. “You could use your genius to call to the water in the coffee to move it.” His voice softens. “Unless…you suffer from being a Molder?”
I focus on the muddied rag in front of me. “No, my lord. My genius is intact.”
“And nature still grants most of your requests?”
“It has not denied me in years.”
A point of pride among my kind—but I am not among my kind.
Like the way bugs and plants can emit signals to one another, so can a faerie genius send out a call along the plane of magic to the elements.
An appeal to water or dirt or even fire, and nature fulfills or denies the request. Only the High Fae can wield the elements and other creatures without their consent.
Only faeries fall victim to Moldhood, when nature rejects their appeals over and over until the genius atrophies with disuse.
Becoming a Molder is to become magically mute, and like with everything else, the High Fae cannot be silenced.
“Then why do you not use magic to complete your tasks?” Lord Eli asks.
Over the arm of the settee rises Kassandra’s pleased face, chin propped on her palm.
“Tell Lord Eli why you must do your chores by hand,” she commands.
She wants me to say it.
I swallow. “It’s that—”
“Look at him while he’s speaking to you.”
I lean back on my heels to take in the befuddled High Fae standing over me and the other grinning like a cat with her favorite rat.
“Because my magic smells, my lord.”
Kassandra bursts into giggles.
“It reeks!” She claps. “It’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever smelled. Must be the human blood mixed in there.”
Eli shakes his head. “The likelihood of human blood after their extinction is so low—”
“Then I swear she was birthed from her mother’s ass!”
I clutch the rag, longing to slap her across the face with it.
“Kass,” Eli cuts in, frowning, as if to spare me. “Maybe we should start our lesson now. To practice your water play.”
“Did you not just see my Illusion?”
“Your father and brother requested root magic for your display at the coronation.”
“Planes, they want me weak, playing in the dirt like the faeries.”
Forgotten, I smack the rag onto the pile of waste, then pick up the tray as the two argue.
“Just because your genius can perform more than root magic does not mean your genius should forget it,” Eli answers, helping her to her feet. “You must walk before you can run.”
“But why walk when you excel at running?”
He sighs. “Where’s the water pitcher?”
“Briar set it on the dining room table before her shift ended. Avery!”
I jolt, nerves fraying at the mischievous flicker in her eye.
Still, I head from the parlor to the adjacent sky-blue dining area, which similarly soars with gilded ceilings and glitters with ornate flourishes of marble mantels.
On the massive oak table rests a glass pitcher filled to the brim.
Approaching, I notice that the water does not ripple with my tread.
My genius pushes out onto the plane, requesting the water to move. The scent of earth permeates the air.
Nothing, not even the densely packed feeling of a refusal. There is no feeling at all. Setting down the tray, I wave a hand through the Illusion, cold like mist. Great.
The Night Crest, Briar, did not leave the pitcher out, and based on Kassandra’s expression, it was at her behest. All so that I would need to either return to the parlor to admit defeat or waste time chasing down a real water carafe from the kitchens.
Everything that is extra work for us is a game to her.
I search a forgotten servants’ cart in the corner of the room for a vase or water sack, but the cart only holds napkins, silverware, and wipes.
A knock inside the wall.
Straining, I feel the pulse of another faerie’s genius on the other side, earthy and sharp. Finding the seam, I open the servants’ door cut from the wallpapered paneling.