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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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WHEN SAOIRSE AWAKENED, IT WAS TO GIFTS LAID AT THE COTTAGE DOOR OF THE PAINTER WHOSE FACE SHE'D STOLEN.
A sumptuous, silky cloak was folded neatly. Of a wondrous, blue-grey hue it was dreamily inlaid with swirls and whorls of dark, dark cerulean. Its inside was sewn of seamless, thick velvet that Saoirse dreamily ran her fingers through.
Seated atop the thick bundle was a gorgeously carved jewelry box, of ivory and gold. Marveling, Saoirse thumbed the edges, watching the delicately-crafted and malleable gold shine and wink. She tilted the edges of the jewelry box upwards, catching a glimpse of the pearls, rubies, and sapphires glittering with. Small, and delicately-cut, the gemstones shimmered and twinkled as though they were the very stars themselves, captured just for her, and Saoirse's breath caught in her throat.
Lastly was the rose she had requested. Its stem was long, petals blushed a dreamy, springtime hue, with blade-like thorns scuttling about its length. Entwined about its length was a crisp note. Etched on clean parchment, Eimear was thanking her greatly for Saoirse's portrait of her and –
Saoirse's breath lodged in her throat, eye fluttering over the words repeatedly.
Eimear was asking to refer her sister, Amoret, for a portrait as well.
Saoirse's fingers trembled, and the note nearly fluttered free of her fingers.
She hadn't planned on masquerading as a painter for much longer, only a few days at most. And she certainly hadn't considered taking on any more patrons.
The pale column of her throat bobbed with a heavy swallow as she fingered the rose gently, careful to edge past the thorns, thinking. She really couldn't afford to simply reject a patron – faery or not. Their payments, their gifts, were what she traded to keep a roof over her head, and food in her stomach.
Saoirse cast a forlorn glance at the gifts she'd gathered on the cushioned stool beside her. The cloak, a magnificent piece of craftsmanship, would be tortuous to part ways with. Especially, Saoirse thought, imagining the brutal winter that was to come – all prickly frost, relentless ice, skies of withering, rotting grey, and a chill wicked enough to seep into her bones. And the beautiful jewels. Saoirse knew they'd fetch her a handsome price, though she wished she could admire them for days on end.
She exhaled sharply, sinking into the divan beside the window as she made way to read over the letter for the umpteenth time.
Dearest Painter,
It began with neat, precise, and curling penmanship.
Saoirse snorted, curling a hand through her hair, tucking a tousle behind her decidedly pointy ear.
And therein, lay Eimear's flaw – conceit. She hadn't bothered to learn Saoirse's name; not in the days spent slaving over a sketch of Eimear's ethereal features, not in the days spent painting, and certainly not for this letter.
