’Tis pity he’s an elf | Jen Williams #2
Molly shook her head. “It’s a strange match, this one.
My mistress spent many of her teenage years as the city’s foremost assassin, and has a fine collection of poisoned blades.
That room is where she spends much of her time.
Keeping their edges sharp.” She shivered, then nodded at the fireplace.
“Is it me or is that thing not giving off any heat?”
“My apologies.” Tristaine got up and prodded at the fire with a poker. The greenish flames rose a little, then settled. “My understanding is that human fires burn much fiercer. We do not feel the cold in the same way you do.”
“Oh well, can’t be helped,” she said. “What about books? We certainly have a lot…”
“Here.” Tristaine stood up and began pulling off his own jumper. When he’d lifted it over his head, he saw that Molly was staring at him, aghast.
“What are you doing?”
“Wear this.” He handed her the jumper, and she took it reluctantly.
“It’s woven from the wool of faerie sheep.
It’s uncommonly soft and warm.” Oddly, he could feel his own cheeks growing heated.
“We’re going to be here for a few hours yet, I’m afraid.
And I need you at your sharpest if we’re going to figure this out, Molly. ”
The human woman gave him one more uncertain look before pulling the jumper over her own head. As she tugged the sleeves down over her arms and hands – it was a little large on her – he saw an expression of pure, startled pleasure pass over her face.
“Oh, this is wonderful! I’ve never felt any thing like it.
” She pressed the sleeve to her cheek briefly.
“Like silk, but fluffy.” She cleared her throat.
“Unfortunately my mistress has little use for soft, or fluffy. So.” She settled her green eyes back on him.
“What about those books? How does Prince Eianor feel about books? We have a history of our two realms he might enjoy – bound in softest calf-skin, illuminated in gold…”
“Easily distracted, remember? Unless… does it have pictures?”
They worked on through the night, polishing off two more pots of strong elven coffee, sketching designs for an elaborate feast on pieces of parchment until they both got hungry.
Tristaine attempted to rustle up a few sugar tarts for them to nibble on; he burned his finger on the caramel and Molly took over, getting flour all over the marble countertop.
Eventually, dawn began to rub rosy fingers against the tiny, smudged windows of the kitchen, and they had the beginnings of a plan for the next fateful meeting of Prince Eianor and Lady Amber Ironheart.
When Molly stood up to go, she began to pull the jumper off, but Tristaine held up his hand.
“Please,” he said, “keep it.”
She blinked at him. “I couldn’t. It’s yours! And it’s so fine. All my other clothes will get jealous.”
Tristaine smiled. His mother had knitted the jumper for him years ago, and doubtless would be put out by its sudden absence, but somehow the thought of Molly shivering her way back to the guest apartments without it was worse. Besides, the colour complemented the green of her eyes.
“It’s a gift,” he said. “Everyone loves gifts, right?”
* * *
The parade of pixies, their iridescent skins winking in the candlelight, somersaulted up onto the marble tabletop, each of them carrying a single sugary confection, which they gently placed on a set of golden plates before backflipping away.
Lady Amber and Prince Eianor sat at opposite ends of the table, both of them resplendent in silk and jewels.
Molly, standing just inside the door with Tristaine by her side, knew that each tiny confection had been crafted into the shape of an animal – some fae, some mortal.
The prince appeared to be delighted by the sugary sculptures – she saw him pick up a tiny badger to look at it more closely – while Lady Amber Ironheart looked faintly bemused.
Molly’s mistress picked up a sugar griffin and snapped its head off between her teeth.
“So far, so good,” she murmured to Tristaine.
It was another beautiful evening, the setting sun sending beams of orange and pink light to fill the crystal pavilion with an otherworldly glow.
Between the two of them they had planned twenty courses, with the final dessert served at midnight – goblets of enchanted honey wine, said to warm even the coldest hearts.
“I wish they’d talk to each other a bit more, though. ”
“We’ll have to get up there and help them along,” he said. “Are you ready?”
“Wait.” She looked at him critically. He was wearing the deep green livery of the prince’s household, the sleeves darted with silver, his hair brushed back from his face. Molly swatted at an imaginary speck of dust on his shoulder. “You are presentable enough, I suppose.”
He smiled at her. “You look wonderful. By which I mean, you are more than presentable to wait on my prince.”
Molly glanced at her own dress, which was a deep, burnished orange, the velvet pleated so that it nipped in at her waist. She had spent the customary number of hours dressing her lady’s hair, but had also spent longer than usual on her own, even going so far as to steal a little scent off Lady Amber’s vast dressing table.
“This old thing? I just threw it on this morning.”
At that moment, the second course appeared.
Molly and Tristaine took the platters from the servants and made their way up the short flight of stairs to the stage where the table had been set.
In lieu of flowers, they had strewn the pavilion with glittering fae spiderwebs, each strand strung with tiny seed pearls, and in one corner a trio of fauns were playing the harp, filling the space with soft music that made Molly think of lonely, windswept hills covered in heather.
She made her way towards her mistress and placed the platter in front of her. Lady Amber eyed the silverware warily.
“Molly, I’ve already eaten so much sugar I may never sleep again. This had better be something hearty, like a stew. Maybe a steak. Who eats sugar before the main course? Is he trying to cover the taste of something?” She lowered her voice. “A poison, perhaps?”
“Worry not, my lady – we’re alternating fae and human courses, so this should be…
” Molly lifted the lid off the tureen. “Ah, trout paté. And please try to bear in mind, not everyone has to murder and poison their way to power. Tristaine tells me that the prince’s family has ruled for generations, and Eianor himself is extremely sweet-natured. ”
“I’m not surprised, the amount of sugar he eats.” Amber gave her a sharp look. “Don’t get so cosy with his underlings, Molly. Who knows what fae magics they could be weaving?”
“Of course, my lady.” She took a step back, her hands folded in front of her. “Perhaps it is time to make some polite conversation? After all, both our worlds are at risk, and we only have so much time before the portal closes…”
“I want something in my stomach before I attempt small talk.” Lady Amber picked up a delicate silver knife and expertly sliced the paté, before spreading it on a poppy seed cracker. “Besides which, he should be the one doing the wooing. How am I supposed to fall madly in love if there’s no wooing?”
The next two courses passed in an awkward silence. When they had cleared away the latest set of dishes, Molly and Tristaine reconvened at the door, both with anxious expressions on their faces.
“Perhaps we need more wine?” Molly looked around the pavilion, searching for any thing that might be out of place. The last of the sun’s light had given everything a ruby tint. “How’s the prince doing? Is he usually this quiet?”
“Not at all,” said Tristaine. He pushed one hand back through his hair in agitation, causing it to fall forward again. “Honestly, I think he’s a little scared of her.”
Molly sighed. “That’s fair enough. But he’ll have to get over that if we’ve any hope of making this work, and I’m afraid she’s decided that he has to take the lead.
” They had arranged for a selection of minor entertainments to appear between courses.
Around the edge of the plinth a team of furry green boggarts were doing slow cartwheels and juggling eggs: the prince and the Lady Amber were watching with varying degrees of interest. “What about compliments? Could he rustle a few of those up? She responds well to flattery… most of the time. He could mention her eyes, perhaps? In our realm, whole books of poetry have been written about her eyes.”
Tristaine nodded. “I’ll suggest it to him.”
They approached the table again with the meat course – lightly seared cockatrice flank with a medley of pickled fruits – and Molly watched Tristaine go back to his master’s side, bending to discreetly murmur into the prince’s ear. After a moment, the prince nodded, then cleared his throat.
“My Lady Amber, what a great honour it is to see you again. If anything, you are even more beautiful than when last we met, if such a thing were even possible.” The prince had, Molly thought, a fine speaking voice, warm and melodious, if a little uncertain.
He cleared his throat, glancing briefly at his manservant before continuing, and she knew in that moment Tristaine had told him exactly what to say.
“Your eyes, my darling, rival the Emerald Portal itself with their brightness, their liveliness, their ability to entrance. Your eyes are as green as the leaves upon our beloved Tree of Life, as green as the deepest waters of our most celebrated lakes—”
Molly felt her heart drop in her chest. Quickly she looked to Amber to see if she had caught it, but of course she had: her lady was narrowing her distinctly and unmissably blue eyes, her cheeks flushing in the way that suggested someone was about to get stabbed.
“My eyes, my darling prince, are blue,” she spat.