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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 FOUR
WHEN SAOIRSE FINALLY GATHERED THE MATERIALS NECESSARY FOR THE SPRING PRINCESSES' VISIT, DUSK WAS ENCROACHING THE SKY.
Soft, scattered light of ochre dappled Saoirse's cloak and skin as she walked. The trail from the town square to the painter's lonely, solitary cottage was a long one, wending through acres of once-emerald knolls and oceans of wheat and blossoms. It was tranquil and quiet unless one counted the relentless chirping and singing of birds, and the occasional stirring of forest creatures.
Saoirse's gaze fell to the wicker basket she held, cradled in the crook of her elbow, filled with brushes tipped of velvety softness, sticks of charcoal, the few paints she had purchased, and fixings for her supper. There was a soft thump against her heels, and Saoirse peered down, finding a rabbit bounding at her side.
She couldn't hide a smile at the sight of it, and calmly, let it bound beside her.
She had always had a way with forest animals, according to her mother. It may have been for the gentler-than-most spirit she possessed, having been abstained from the treachery and cruelty of faery-kind. Whatever it was, Saoirse had decided long ago, it was nice to have someone beside her aside from her mother.
After a few moments, the rabbit scampered away without so much as a glance back, nestling in a patch of grass, and Saoirse continued making her way.
A brisk chill had descended upon them with the sun's fading, and she gathered the painter's cape around her.
Her heart thumped solidly in her chest as she was reminded of the fact that any moment, she was to expect the spring faery at her doorstep. She was to expect her half-sister. A half-sister she knew nothing of, only that she was evidently a legitimate daughter of Spring, unlike she.
Saoirse's spine snapped into straightness, erasing the slight slouch she'd descended to.
She knew near to nothing of either Eimear or Amoret.
Only that they were noble fey-kind, impossibly stunning and guileful. Royalty such as they, no matter what house they owed allegiance to, were fawned over by the more mundane fey such as what she would be. They were devious and cruel, wicked in their treachery and tricks. Like all fey, they had a proclivity to be selfish in any given situation. Full of artifice, they worked endlessly to ensure that everything they touched -- everything they played a part in -- worked in their favor.
Saoirse shuddered. And it unnerved her to no end that she shared that blood and craftiness.
How she had thought Eimear to be a mere mundane fey would have been befuddling for any other faery. But Saoirse knew why. It was a disadvantage to having been raised amongst humans -- that she could not identify who was whom. Her mother had only taught her stories and her own magic, not what she might have learned through observation.
