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“It only grows in the mountains.”
“Not in fields, though,” she stated, as if she knew for a fact. “Where does it grow exactly?”
She’d seemed to forget that I was the enemy, her curiosity about the plant getting the better of her. One thing Gwenda had reported the most about Murgha was her deep love of plants. She spent countless hours foraging in the woods and cultivating her own in a garden. I could probably get her full cooperationfrom now on by simply listing the properties of all of the exotic plants in Solgavia.
“Dellabore is a delicate shrub that grows in the lower elevation of the Solgavia Mountains. It cannot grow in the higher elevation where the temperatures are too cold. This time of year, it will be sprouting everywhere, especially near the streams that trickle through the foothills.”
She continued stitching, but I could feel her burning to ask another question. I waited.
“What does it look like?”
Smiling to myself as she made another stitch, I replied. “The leaves are as big as your hand. The flowers have six spiky petals.”
She paused to open her hand and looked at her palm.
“But it’s the flower that’s the most fascinating,” I continued. “It blooms with thousands of tiny black thistles with a pink stamen at its center.”
She tied off the stitch and leaned forward to bite the end, her warm breath coasting over my wing. I clamped my jaw tight and closed my eyes, forcing myself not to make a sound at the pleasure of it.
Most fae didn’t realize that our wings were highly sensitive. Though the skin was a tough hide, there was a sensitive web of nerves running just beneath.
“You use the thistles to create the thread?” she asked, walking to my bag and tucking the thread and needle back in the front pocket.
“Yes. It’s a lengthy process of grinding the thistles with a binding mixture then flattening it thin before pulling it apart in tufts and spinning it into thread.”
She returned to her place on the other side of the coal-fire and knelt on her knees, tucking her skirt around her. I frowned. She needed better clothes. Trousers, for one. Her legs would be exposed when we flew into colder climes.
“You know a lot about making thread. Is that one of the jobs of a shadow fae priest?” She blinked innocently but her eyes were mocking. She was teasing me? Another wave of warmth filled my chest.
“My mother was a spinner,” I told her, not knowing why I wanted to share this with her, but I did. “That is what we call those who work on the looms creating dellabore thread and those who create the fabric from it.”
Her eyes widened, her gaze flicking to my horns. “But you’re a noble.”
She understood that demon fae with four horns were noble-born.
“Was your mother common-born?” she asked.
I smiled. “In Gadlizel, there is no shame in work. Even the high-born work.”
She seemed to want to say more but didn’t.
“When I was small,” I continued, “I’d sit at my mother’s feet and play in the black tufts of dellabore, tossing them in the air.”
“She wouldn’t get angry?” she asked.
“No.” I shook my head, smiling. “I was her only child, and she spoiled me.”
Murgha smiled, and pleasure spread warmly through me.
“She made all my clothes, even this shirt.” I tugged at the black sleeve.
She leaned forward but didn’t ask to see it up close. Of course, she was still wary of me. She was an intelligent female and still had no idea why I’d taken her from that hovel of a home.
“Your mother? She is still living?” she asked tentatively.
“Very much. Strong as a Meer-wolf, she is.” My smile softened. “But she doesn’t spin or sew as much as she used to. Quite frankly, my father”—a twist of grief made me falter—“when he was alive, he fussed all the time that she should berelaxing and enjoying a life of leisure. But she would always tell him that sewing was what gave her the most enjoyment.”
Murgha’s violet eyes sparkled brightly by the coal-fire. “Your mother and father, they sound like very kind fae.” She said this with a frown creasing her pretty brow.
