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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 FIVE
SAOIRSE FOUND HERSELF SWALLOWING HER TONGUE.
She plastered a well-rehearsed smile on her features and set her wicker basket atop the cushion of the arm chair. "My thanks," she strived to appear oblivious to the insult. "If you will excuse me, I will go gather my supplies. I presume the parlor is a sufficient-enough setup?"
Amoret sniffed, glancing coldly at Eimear. "I can't imagine there exists another chamber here any less shabbily put together than this."
Saoirse coughed lightly, and nodded politely. She left the parlor room with a feigned look of timidity over her shoulder. Amoret's cold russet eyes were fixed on Saoirse as she retreated, and Saoirse found her fingers trembling under its heavy weight.
She darted towards the kitchen that she scarcely used. She had refused to risk going upstairs earlier, and instead, she had stowed away her tools of trade in the cupboard. Her gaze skittered over the wildflowers tucked in a pretty vase that decorated the small table, eyes glazing over the various pots and pans suspended from the ceiling.
Absently, she considered whether or not she'd need one of those heavy pans -- as a weapon-- but then thought the better of it.
She gathered her easel and the canvas she had stretched earlier. Her tin of paints was nowhere near to dwindling, but her lids lowered morosely as she glanced at the cake of vermilion she had, wishing she had thought to purchase more.
Saoirse, they are waiting for you! Her thoughts hissed, and she dropped the matter as she paced briskly back to the Parlor room.
Amoret had now taken a seat upon the deep-jade colored settee, hands folded primly in her lap, nails gleaming. She hadn't yet divested herself of her cloak, although Eimear had. Speaking of, the faery approached Amoret's side, looking as though she was gliding upon water. Ringlets of silvery ice hung frozen eerily, suspended above the indents of her waist, never jostling. She wore a deep, deep gown that looked a cross between prussian-blue and jade, tailored of a fabric far beyond the reach of mortal wealth, further blanching her delicate features.
"Hello, painter," Eimear purred, voice like glass. A serene smile daintily molded her lush mouth, blotting out any shreds of malevolence Saoirse could have spied.
An odd description for a voice, to be certain. But when Eimear spoke, Saoirse was reminded of when she'd pricked her finger with a shard of glass. When Eimear spoke, Saoirse was reminded of the achy throbbing that had poisoned her wounded digit before the onslaught of pain. It was like a taunt, and Saoirse's stomach knotted at the sound.
"Hello, Eimear," Saoirse nodded her acknowledgement. "I hope the day has found the both of you well."
