Chapter 32
Ellie
After leaving Ashbourne, Taran takes a moment to adjust my glamour—it seems I was right about Merfyn seeing through it. Heat rushes through me as he rests his fingers gently on my face, and I pray my cheeks haven’t turned red as he scours my features.
“You’re not making me look worse, are you?” I ask, hoping to ease the tension.
His eyes flick to mine, and his hand wavers against my skin. “What? No.”
“So, better?”
He breaks eye contact, his cheeks flushing. “Different. More fae.”
“Does it suit me?” His gaze shoots back, and I quickly stammer, “I mean, since Merfyn saw through the old one.”
“It doesn’t,” he says, his voice catching. “Which may be why he did.” His hand lingers another second before he turns away. “Let’s go.”
I swallow, but the lump in my throat won’t go down, my stomach rising to meet it the more I try.
It must be my worries about Merfyn. So I catch up, attempting to dig out information on how Taran knows him.
He doesn’t share much, outside of Merfyn’s family having long served as caretakers of the royal deer.
The more I question, the more curt his answers become, until it’s clear I need to stop or risk drawing his ire.
So I back off, reminding myself that a lifetime of anti-fae propaganda has likely colored my perspective.
But the tightness in my throat builds, as if I’m holding back for the sake of his ego.
I don’t like it.
He leads us north, out of the forest and into a valley where we continue westward.
Sheep cover the surrounding hills, with the pungent smell of manure wafting on every breeze.
After a while, it’s clear we’re headed directly toward one of the herds.
Barely visible fae—at least by my human eyes—weave between the grazing sheep.
I hurry to Taran’s side. “Why aren’t we hiding?” After all the sneaking around we’ve done, my stomach’s twisting from being so conspicuous in our approach.
“Cadoc’s an old friend. His people would never betray me.” His voice is firm, as if countering my earlier questions.
“Since when are princes old friends with shepherds?”
Taran pauses, his brow furrowing. “Are shepherds not respected members of mortal communities?”
My body’s about to fold in on itself. “Not really, no.” How is it I always manage to say the wrong thing?
He frowns. “Our lives depend on those who tend the herds. We use every part of the animals for food, clothing, and other necessities. As leader of this community, Cadoc is one of the most respected people in the region.”
My mouth’s completely dry. “I’m sorry—I had no idea. I didn’t mean to insult him.”
Taran’s face softens. “You had no way of knowing. Now you do.”
This time, he leaves me behind at the edge of the herd while he makes his way to a gathering of small, tent-like structures I assume are the herders’ homes.
Whether to avoid the risk of Cadoc seeing through my glamour or me questioning his intentions, I don’t know.
Chewing my lip, I sit on the cool grass and rummage through my bag for my sketchbook.
Drawing has always relaxed me, and the sheep are kind of cute—if I ignore the dark stains on their rear ends.
Their bleating fills the air as I flip open my sketchbook and land on a page filled with drawings of a handsome, dark-haired man.
Where did these come from?
I skip a few pages ahead and find more of them.
Did I draw these while daydreaming?
I scrutinize the charcoal drawings. The face… A warm glow builds in my heart as I absorb its features. He looks vaguely familiar…
My stomach clenches as it hits me—he looks like Taran.
I frantically flip further through the book until I reach the pages I’d marked when Taran proved my curse’s existence. I haven’t drawn anything since.
How did I draw Taran before I knew him?
Inspecting the sketches, it becomes apparent: he isn’t quite Taran.
His features are softer. I rub some lines with my finger, blurring them, each smudge like a bruise in my mind.
I pick up my charcoal and make some adjustments—a straighter line here, a sharper angle there.
About a minute later, Taran’s face is staring back at me.
What does this mean?
“We can go now.”
I slam the book shut, blushing furiously. Taran stands a few feet ahead, covering a yawn with his fist. It doesn’t seem like he noticed the sketches. The last thing I need is for him to think I’ve been obsessively drawing him this entire time. So I shove the sketchbook to the bottom of my bag.
As we walk away, I glance back at the sheep. I remember taking my sketchbook out, but then… I must have gotten too lost in thought to draw them. My hands sink into my empty pockets.
* * *
Over the next two days, my tension increases exponentially. Taran spends most of the time keeping his distance, until I trip, slip, or otherwise highlight my humanity. Then he coddles me until his touch lingers for a moment too long, and it’s back to frosty indifference.
Despite my best attempts to help—asking about his plans, trying to offer suggestions—I’m basically luggage he’s dragging around the countryside.
He lets me gather food, but only after he’s used fae magic to sprout an unnatural amount of berries on the bushes he finds.
And when it comes time for his meetings, he simply stashes me away, out of sight, returning with hardly a word.
It’s hard to hold back the tears in those moments, not knowing if he can hear me.
On the third morning, I startle awake from haunting visions of the border to find his arm around me, his warmth permeating my back as his form follows mine.
It’d been another frigid night, so he’d sat against a tree with me tucked into his chest. He must have grown uncomfortable during the night and laid us down.
And for once, I woke up first.
What should I do?
My throat tightens, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to stay still as my entire body tenses. I don’t want to wake him and have this moment end. How pathetic is that?
It‘s not right to think of him this way—even if he weren’t a fae prince and me a lowly human, he’s made it clear he doesn’t want this.
But how could this have happened if he didn’t?
If only he were willing to look past all that and let me be more than just another burden.
A tool. Then my being here would actually matter.
Is it wrong to want that?
No, but I don’t know how to do it on my own. Everything I’ve tried has failed, which makes sense; I’ve never done anything other than follow expectations.
Maybe that’s what I need to figure out. My own path.
Taran shifts behind me. I wipe my eyes and focus on breathing.
In an instant, he shoots away, cold air rushing to fill the void he left behind. I curl tighter into a ball, sniffing back tears.
He clears his throat, and his words come out as if they tripped on a gravel road. “We should get ready to go.”
Of course.
I barely manage a nod.
“Ellie?” Concern laces his voice.
I nod again, choking out a response. “I’m alright.” With a deep breath, I force myself up, keeping my back to him as I wipe my face again.
“I didn’t mean to…” His voice wavers, then he sighs. “I’m sorry.”
I swallow, tasting the bitterness of my frustration, then spit out, “For what?”
He doesn’t answer, and I’m tired of waiting, so I pull on my pack and start walking. He’ll correct my direction when he catches up.
* * *
Sometime around mid-morning, we step through a shadowy forest of gargantuan trees—they must be ancient—until we arrive at an absolutely stunning fae village.
Its dwellings sit high among the forest’s branches; smooth pieces of wood wrapped around the tree trunks, like lumps of clay someone formed around them.
We ascend along a spiraling walkway of flattened wood, passing by some ethereal orbs floating through the air, pulsing with a warm, pinkish light.
I reach out to touch one, but Taran stops me, grabbing my hand with a silent shake of his head.
He’s been more careful around me this morning, clearly having enough sense to realize I’m upset.
Not that he’s talked to me about it. Or anything at all, for that matter.
But instead of abandoning me at the outskirts, he’s brought me along for this last meeting of his.
As we approach one of the dwellings, the door opens before he can knock.
“Taran? What are you doing here?”
A fae woman steps aside as she lets us into her home. A tree grows through one corner of the triangular foyer, with archways leading to two other rooms, one on each side.
I can’t help but notice the lack of ‘Your Highness’ or any bowing on her part. She looks similar in age to him, with umber skin and rosy eyes, her auburn curls flowing freely around her face.
Taran runs his hand through his hair, sweeping it out of his eyes. The gesture—warm, like a memory I can’t place—sends a hollow pang through my chest.
“I need your help, Aerona.”
Her gaze shifts to me. She raises an eyebrow before turning back to Taran. “With the queen?”
“You’ve heard?”
She glances at me again, her lips pressing into a frown, then answers Taran in the Tongue. When it’s his turn to speak, he responds in kind.
I bite my lip to hold back my annoyance. Can she see through the glamour, too? Is my humanity that obvious?
So much for being involved. At this rate, it wouldn’t surprise me if they hold their entire planning session at White Spring in the Tongue just to exclude me. How can I be an important part of the plan when I have no idea what’s going on? Taran trusts me, so why can’t they?
Clamping down on my lip, I run my fingers along the wooden wall, as smooth as polished steel, then step toward one of the other rooms to peek inside.
Taran’s voice wavers, then my spine seizes as he cries out, the sound ripping through the air as he crumbles, buckling at the knees.
“Taran!”