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Das Celyn stands in the doorway in a stained eggshell apron, their shaggy, banged bob framing their face. They keep their distance, which eases my discomfort slightly.
They toss a matching apron down beside me, then rub their temples with a sigh.
“You’ve redecorated.” They jerk a thumb toward the hallway, where the stuff I threw is scattered.
“Perhaps if you let me out, I’ll put it all back,” I mutter.
They grunt, ignoring me in favor of striding to the window.
“You’ve been here a day, and already, you’ve managed to piss off the prince.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible, considering I haven’t even left the room!”
“Well, a few bottles of perfume thrown at one’s head surely ought to do it. Not sure what you were trying to accomplish, but—”
“Rainer?” I cringe as the question leaves my mouth.
I’ll be damned. He is the prince.
“Oh gods have pity. The prince was right. You truly are a dense thing.”
My cheeks flush and my face falls. “He called me dense?”
“He summoned me to heal the welt on his forehead.” They stifle a laugh. “Everyone is calling you dense for assaulting the crown prince of Umbra.”
“I didn’t have proper schooling,” I whisper, as if it makes a difference.
Char taught me plenty enough, but nothing could’ve prepared me for entering a new realm.
Standing up, I spin toward the window, resting my forehead against the glass with a groan.
“For fae-sake, get your oily face off the glass!”
A hand wraps around my shoulder, prying me from the window.
I jerk away from their touch, mumbling my apologies.
Das Celyn shakes their head, their bob shimmying with the movement. Pulling a cloth from their apron pocket, they vigorously wipe away the smudge I left on the glass.
“I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t—” My brows pinch in confusion. “I hadn’t realized you cleaned by hand.”
“Stop apologizing.” They scowl. “Of course we do.” Then their face softens, as they tuck their hair behind a pointed ear. “What—did you think we used magic to clean?”
I nod.
They bark a short laugh. “Magic isn’t limitless, especially not for Low Fae.” They tuck the cloth back into their apron with an eye roll. “Full of assumptions, you are.”
I want to ask what Low Fae are, how magic works, but the returning scowl tells me I’m pressing my luck. If I stand a chance at earning their favor to escape from here, I need to win them over instead of alienating them.
“Thanks for answering my questions,” I say.
“What is wrong with you? Haven’t you learned anything?” They swat at me, and it’s not violent, but it’s also not playful. “Don’t ever thank the fae. You should stop apologizing while you’re at it, too, unless you want to get eaten alive.” I blanch at the imagery and Das Celyn chuckles. “Not literally, ya dolt.”
“What do you mean don’t thank them?”
Lord Edvin whipped manners into me as a young girl, going the extra mile to withhold my food when I was too slow to offer pleasantries. The prospect of being impolite discomforts me. I can’t help it. Even in my borderline catatonic and grief-stricken state, my manners are firmly in place. A natural reflex.
Das Celyn’s voice lowers an octave. They gesture toward the closed door.
