Chapter Twenty-Two
A faerie revel, as it turns out, is something like a human ball—if all the humans were punch drunk and half dressed and the musicians hexed with a hastening spell. It is a chaotic jumble of noise and limbs and light.
Morgaine leads me down a narrow stone stair that wends down the back of the Dwirra Tree’s hill, to a wide clearing of moss ringed by craggy standing stones, much like the ones that circle the portal in the human world.
Trees grow around the perimeter, their branches glowing brightly with clusters of those strange fruit-like lamps, and between the lights wend vines of ivy and fragrant purple wisteria.
In the center of the clearing burns a large crackling bonfire.
Gathered there are hundreds of fae, dancing and shrieking with utter abandon.
Linked hand in hand, they form several rings around the fire, moving at a rapid, reckless pace.
If any of them tripped, they would be trampled by the others.
Their shadows, cast from the bonfire, twist behind them with lives of their own, flickering over the oblong stones.
The fae are dressed in revealing, almost nonexistent garments, thighs and waists and shoulders bare, their skirts and tunics ragged, petaled things that resemble crushed roses, not unlike my own gown.
Colorful painted patterns ring their eyes and curl down their cheeks, necks, and arms, vanishing beneath their sheer, many-layered garments.
Hanging from the hems of their clothing are tiny baubles, beads and buttons and keys and thimbles, human things, the sort of trinkets that one might drop on the road—none of iron, of course.
The fae have turned the objects into glinting jewelry, and the result is a glittering, tinkling spectacle.
They have even studded their wild, tangled hair with them.
Faerie musicians blow, pluck, and pound on instruments I do not recognize, though I can guess at their human counterparts—flute and fife, fiddle and cello, drum and harp.
The music is furious and fast, a fever dream of a song, played with no regard for harmony.
The notes clash and writhe in the air, and yet somehow emerge symphonic, beauty born of chaos.
“My people are beautiful,” sighs Morgaine. “Their songs a tribute to my ears, and their steps an homage to my rule.”
The music scurries beneath my skin and bursts behind my ribs, tugging at my heart.
“Do you wish to join the revel?” asks Morgaine, her voice sibilant in my ear.
“Yes,” I say, before I can stop to think. My thoughts are beginning to blur; I catch myself leaning forward in anticipation. Music shivers over my skin, pulls insistently at my hair.
“Then go,” she says. “Dance, little witch, and forget the world above.”
I move forward in a daze, descending the rest of the stairs and setting foot in the mossy clearing. Everything spins around me, fae and tree and fire, and before I know it, hands grasp my arms and drag me in, linking me into the dance, submersing me in their dream.
Round and round I spin, clutching a faerie on either side.
There is thread woven in their hair and on their clothes, I dimly realize.
Spells upon spells, magic layered over magic, until the air is so thick with it I can barely breathe.
The smell of it burns in my nose, smoky and sharp, blended with the sweetness of the wisteria overhead and the earthen aroma of trees and moss.
Vaguely, I wonder what spells they are, but I cannot clear my thoughts to focus on any one Weave.
Instead, my head is full of pounding drums, and I let myself be pulled and spun the length of the revel, handed from faerie to faerie.
Their long fingers, with those extra joints, trail down my arms and twist my hair, and their eyes study me with a range of expressions—curiosity, delight, hunger, rage.
In those glimpses the fae fragment, no longer a tribe of faceless, vibrant creatures, but individuals with different reactions to the human in their midst. Not all of them welcome me.
Some look keen to take a bite of me. But I linger with none long enough to truly understand what they see in me, and the longer I dance, the less I notice.
Like ink on a rain-spattered page, the whirling, twirling fae begin to run together and blur.
I blink hard, trying to focus, but less and less makes sense.
I’m not even sure if I am dancing anymore or sitting; the world wheels relentlessly around.
Then I find a familiar pair of eyes locked with mine: Morgaine has me in her arms, and for a moment, my head clears a little.
The dance has splintered, the great rings of fae breaking up into pairs and trios who dance together, the steps seeming to consist only of holding tight to one another and whirling as fast as possible.
But Morgaine spins me slowly, her hands tight around my wrists.
“Did he let you in?” she asks softly. “Or did you sneak through like a mouse?”
I cannot answer her; my throat is too dry. My head is pounding now not only from music, but with pain, and my legs shake. I realize, dimly, I’ve been dancing for hours.
“My Conrad is loyal,” she says. “But he has his weaknesses. What are you to him, little witch? What spell have you woven over him?”
I can only shake my head.
She pulls me closer, her hands sliding around to lock behind my waist, so we spin close enough I can see the spiders in her hair.
“If he has fallen for you,” she whispers in my ear, “I can see why.”
“No,” I manage to return at last, my voice a rasp. “He had nothing to do with my coming here.”
If she hears me, she doesn’t show it, for she only spins away and laughs, lost to the crowd. Another faerie steps in and sweeps me away, and my head fogs once more.
How long can I keep this up? How much more can I endure before I collapse? Does she mean to dance me to death? It is a curious way to die, and not the worst, I suppose.
Like a bird trapped beneath a heavy blanket, panic sparks in the back of my mind.
The past, only hours behind me, recedes like a shoreline in a sea fog, and the harder I try to define it, the less tangible it becomes.
I forget how I came here; I forget what I came here for.
And the need to remember dims; these questions—who, what, why, when—become meaningless and silly.
All that matters is the dance.
All I want is to dance.
I am drowning, and I relish the waves closing over my head.
I whirl from one faerie to another and feel a hand close on my waist, another slide against my palms, our fingers entwining. Unlike the others, this one’s skin is warm.
“Wake up,” whispers the faerie. “Damn it, lass, keep your head.”
Not a faerie.
Conrad.
His face sharpens in my vision: human, gloriously human, his skin sun-warmed bronze, his tiger eyes reflecting the glowing lights all around us.
His tailcoat is black, the lapels and shoulders crusted with dark jewels and silver embroidery; his cravat is white silk chiffon tied in an elaborate knot; his dark hair is dusted with silver.
Lacy cuffs cover half his hands, and a sprig of elderberry and juniper is stuck on his lapel with a raven pin.
He looks like a groom, or a faerie prince.
We are a matched set.
I smile dreamily, reaching up to twist my fingers in his hair the way I’ve been dreaming of doing. Just as I’d imagined, the dark locks are luxuriously thick and buttery soft.
“Dance with me, laird.” I tilt my head, smiling coyly up at him.
He curses and disentangles my hands from his hair. “You should not have come here, you daft wee menace. What were you thinking?”
I sigh and rest my cheek against his chest, feeling him tense.
I imagine cracking through that gruff exterior of his, breaking through his wall of secrets and finding the soft center of him.
The real Conrad. My hand plays across his shoulder and then down his arm, tracing the magnificent curves of muscle beneath the sleeve.
His voice turns ragged. “Rose . . . you’re not thinking straight. Stop that.”
“Why should I?”
“Aren’t you a Moirene sister? Don’t you have celibacy vows or something?”
I giggle. “That’s the stuffy old Edgithans you’re thinking of. My order makes no such vows. I don’t have to be celibate at all.”
For emphasis, I rub my hand down the front of his coat.
His heart thumps against my ear, racing faster and faster.
I feel a rumble deep in his chest, a suppressed groan, as if he is fighting against himself.
He pushes at me, but the effort lacks conviction.
I lift my eyes to his again and drag my finger along his jaw, finishing with a tap of his lower lip.
“Always so grumpy,” I pout. My gaze remains fastened on his lips, as heated visions fill my head and tingle through my veins. I imagine his mouth closing on my throat, his tongue dragging over my skin . . . finding my lips. With a moan, I shut my eyes and nuzzle into his neck.
Only to feel his fingers tug at something in my hair. They pull away a tangle of spider’s thread, destroying the spellknot.
All at once, clarity bursts over me like a splash of cold water. I freeze in place, gasping.
“There you are, lass,” Conrad murmurs. “Welcome back.”
I blink at him, heat flooding my face as fragments of sensual fantasies still swirl about my head. Fates, if he hadn’t stopped me, I might have . . .
“What happened?” I whisper, rigid with mortification.
Fae cavort madly about, the music higher and more feverish than ever.
Conrad and I blend in with the immortals.
His hands, I see, are whole and healthy again.
Someone has healed him. But then my eyes wander away, back to the fae, their whispers and glances and whirling bodies reeling away my every thought.