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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...
* WARNING: sexual content ahead. if you wish to skip the section, look for the following symbol which indicates the beginning of the section ✵✥✵.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
DAYS PASSED, FASTER THAN SAOIRSE COULD COUNT.
Each day, she found herself gifted with countless new gowns, exquisite pieces of faery jewelry, in colors no one could ever dream of, and possibly everything she could ever want. Each day, Tatterleaf brought them to her. Each day, Saoirse feasted with The Alder King, a prelude to other delicious activities, worlds of pleasure Saoirse had never encountered before. She spent time with the Mundane Folk, she spent time with Isibeal who treated her much the same, but now that she guarded one of Saoirse's many secrets, she was much kinder to the Changeling in return. She spent time with Calanthe, finding her often in the lush gardens or in her chambers where they bonded over goblets of mandrake root wine.
But today, Saoirse decided she needed a few moments to herself. Clothed in a robe of fey-kissed color, hair a disheveled riot down her back, Saoirse sent Tatterleaf on her way with a soft smile and her assurances that she would eat below stairs in some time. Tatterleaf had harrumphed, a rather motherly look of concerned consternation etched upon her imp features, but she had ceded and bade Saoire a farewell before leaving.
A sigh loosened deep from her chest. With nimble, elongated fingers, Saoirse sifted through the box of jewels, nails catching at the diamonds rattling about. Her breath was bated as she performed her morning ritual. She had time, she knew, but her spine seemed to crumble beneath the weight of all that she had to do in that time. She had to maintain her flesh magic, and she had to continue her dalliance with The Alder King—for, to him, nothing was wrong and nothing had changed. She had to attend the revel, and she had to reveal to The Alder King his painting though if it meant unraveling a portion of her secrets. She had to halt the Wild Hunt, and she had to elude the clutches of all who would come after her once she brought Elfhame crashing down to its knees.
Saoirse's temples throbbed fiercely, and she rubbed them absently. The strange, foreign magic swirling in her blood felt cool along her skin, seeking to assuage the tautness that sloped her shoulders and the ache propagating in her head.
Gods above, it all seems so bleak, Saoirse thought flatly. She despaired over it. Thoughts of what would come had agonized her, plaguing her sleep fitfully, resulting in her seeking wisdom from the painting.
Saoirse's eyes flickered over to the drape-enclosed canvas, and nearly snorted in remembrance. She had never dreamt of a day where she would find solace in engaging in discourse with a sly, indecently-charming, one-dimensional immortal faery princling whom she had inadvertently imprisoned on canvas. But those days had come, and when she did undo the magic she'd placed on his tongue, she was always astonished by the depth of magic Saoirse the Mortal had possessed.
