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Saoirse's blood dances with iron and trickery, a secret she has managed to sheathe from all faery alike.
Until now, that is.
When Saoirse's cunning and charade is shredded to bits by the malevolent interfering of fa...
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CHAPTER ONE
OUTWITTING A FAERY, SAOIRSE WAS DISCOVERING, WOULD TAKE QUITE A BIT OF EFFORT
Especially if one considered her current predicament – that she was masquerading as a mere Mortal.
Her hand lifted gently from the canvas, fingers clasping the handle of her brush. Dotted with flecks of paint – a dreamy, endless cerulean, and a soft violet like the streak of morning light – her hands were telling of the latest façade she had donned.
A painter.
Saoirse's eyes flickered away from her canvas, focusing on the faery seated before her; the object of her commissioned portrait. Her features maintained a semblance of neutrality, and her mouth pressed into a dainty, well-practiced line. But her sloe eyes slanted curiously beneath her lashes as she admired the creature sitting before her.
Had she not been able to recognize the signs of a faery, she, too, might have fallen prey to the common assumption that her patron was mortal. Fey folk had studied Mortal mannerisms for what seemed to them a mere blink of an eye, though in actuality, may have been a period spanning years. They had rehearsed until they very nearly blended seamlessly into the Mortal world, but they always possessed a tell-tale sign of being preternatural.
For most, it was the unnatural, eerie stillness they possessed. They could sit in perfect, ramrod straightness for hours – never blinking, and never fidgeting, and largely, in complete silence. For a few, it was the odd, rare thing. Fingers tapered to an odd, great length. Heads and necks craned to an uncanny degree. But for all, it was the nature with which they spoke; each word was a weighty decision, deliberate pauses, and unusual formality. And for some, it may have been their style of dress. Some faerys had the habit of dressing in terribly outdated fashions, but instead of being conscious about it, they preened and strutted themselves like peacocks beneath the watchful, scrutinizing gaze of humans that might care enough to note the oddity arousing their curiosity.
While a Mortal may never have been able to place a finger on what so bothered them about an incognito faery, the effect was still evident in the raised hairs on their neck, in the inexplicable bout of gooseflesh, and fright pecking at their bones.
"Are you quite finished, yet?" Saoirse's train of thought was broken by the sharp question, spoken by the faery seated before her.
Saoirse's shoulder dropped, her brush lowering. A heavy fall of hair rounded her shoulders, all smooth, straight locks of raven.
Her eyes crept away from the easel, dancing over the faery perched on the ruby-velvet divan. Ice-colored eyes focused unerringly on her, white-blonde hair spanned a face armored in small, frigid beauty. Dainty hands, with pronounced fingers, lengthy to the point of concern, lay clasped in the lap of the faery who went by the name of Eimear.
