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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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A THICKET OF BRIAR COSSETED THE ENCHANTMENT-WEAVER'S COTTAGE FROM PRYING EYES.
And it was within that thicket, with thorns scratching against her cloak, spindly branches striking her bones and flesh, and among the stench of faery blossoms, that Saoirse had donned her facade. She had withdrawn the canvas from the sack she had cinched it in, paint-streaked fingers committing every fine detail to memory.
Her wrist had curled, and she lifted the image from the canvas.
It was much like swallowing an object, and then ingesting it. Only, it was with her mind.
The facade had settled on her like silk. Her frame had never changed, all fine-limbed and slender-boned, but she had watched as her skin grew amber-like in color. She had felt a blade whittle away through the eyebrow of her right eye, gouging an impressive scar. She had felt her eyes widen, and a heavy fringe of lashes bloom about their shape. Her hair had shortened, lightening, and suddenly a bountiful riot of bronze curls had fallen about the shoulders of her cloak.
Saoirse had plucked a glove from her hand, drawing the ermine-trimmed silk away. The lace of iron scarring her flesh had been sheathed. And that was when she knew that her identity as Saoirse of Spring was concealed, and that she was from henceforth, to be Lavinia, a Changeling.
Saoirse clasped her hands, gingerly stepping on the front steps of the cottage. The air surrounding the Mundane Folk's cottage was saturated with magic, eliciting an eruption of gooseflesh over her freckled skin. Her gut churned, and she eyed the unassuming cottage uneasily. In spite of being a Mundane Folk, and not a faery of the Gentry, something told Saoirse that this faery was one to not be trifled with. Their magic was too great to escape unnoticed.
Very seldom had her mother entreated powerful Mundane Folk. Often, it had been a thing a chance, stumbling upon other faerys. But they had taken great pains to keep their identities sheathed from the Spring King--and it had come at exorbitant prices, no matter which Mundane Folk they bartered with.
Not that it did you any good in the end, Saoirse scowled. She had still been found out.
Her hand pressed against the ashen-oak door, and with a low, winding creak, the door opened, spilling forth the innards of the cottage to her vigilant gaze. A carpet of elaborate threads and remarkable weave sprawled before her eyes. A fireplace was ravaged with ochre flames that beckoned and curled with a hiss of smoke.
"Ah," a deep, gravelly voice rang out. "I had wondered when you would finally see to stepping forth into my cottage."
From the shadows, amongst a panoply of animals pelts, and trinkets of all manners, a figure approached, cutting a remarkable silhouette. Tall, limber, and outrageously elegant. Saoirse caught sight of hair gathered at the faery's nape, sleek as a raven's wing, only silver.
