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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 TWENTY-THREE
TATTERLEAF COMBED SAOIRSE'S HAIR WITH A PEARL-ENCRUSTED COMB.
Saoirse's eyes were fixed on the blue-skinned imp, features expressionless as she watched the iridescent comb part her golden hair soothingly until it was pin-straight. The imp's fingers were nimble and steady, and Saoirse examined her. Having never met Tatterleaf before, Saoirse was hesitant to let her guard down, Woodland Fey though she may be. Tatterleaf's white hair fell to the back of her knees, her green nose was long and hooked, and her black eyes were large. She was considerably nicer than the last Mundane Folk Saoirse had encountered in the Spring Court, Ghormflee. But, Saoirse determined, she could've just been misinterpreting quietness for kindness.
Pinching her lips, Saoirse slid her eyes away from the goblin, gliding them downwards until they came to rest where her hands sat in her lap. She had been clothed in a silk gown of deep, sumptuous ruby. The fabric was mesmerizing to behold, and yet, it was impossible not to feel like an imposter, knowing that without her facade, the crimson hue would not suit her. Her skin was golden, a far, far cry from her true alabaster tone. Her hair was honey-colored, like ambrosia spilling to her knees, a color that grated on her nerves, being that it was so unlike the titian locks she had shared with her mother. And those blue eyes, how they rankled Saoirse; beguiling in their mortal innocence.
It was a testament to her flesh magic, Saoirse knew, that she should be so bothered by how un-fey her appearance was. But since her scathing encounter with Caelia Silverhair and the Selkie, she had been left with an itch to peel away her facade, to remind herself of who she was-- a cunning iron-blooded faery. A faery with a noose wrapped around her neck, her eyes slid to the jewelry box containing the gemstones.
Tatterflee's hands began to twist Saoirse's hair, and Saoirse's held up a hand. "No," the command emerged on a sharp note. She gentled her voice. "If you might leave it as is, I would prefer it so."
The imp's eyes widened as she found herself acquiescing, thought she likely knew not why she followed the heed of a Mortal. Saoirse's fingers detangled the plait, nimbly working through it. She stood from where she had been seated, her hair rippling to her knees.
"I think that is all," Saoirse refused to speak the faery's name. "You may leave."
"Certainly," the imp dipped her head in a nod, and stealthily left, the door closing with a soft snick behind her.
Saoirse smoothed her hands down her gown, exhaling softly. Dining with The Alder King, she knew, was solely for her. The Alder King wouldn't eat. The older faerys were, the less human tendencies they displayed, if any at all. Hunger was not a thing most faerys felt, they ate simply by rote--typically only to appear more human, she surmised. Saoirse knew how the song and dance would go. She would eat, he would watch. He would question, interrogate, and she would be obliged to answer.
