Page 29 of Wench

‘It’s unnatural, is what it is,’ she mutters.

‘Magic is as natural as your heartbeat.’

She grips the sketchpad harder, her knuckles whitening. ‘Where I come from, we’re taught that magic is a corruption. A twisting of the order meant to bind the world. It cheats from men the toil they were born to seek.’ The stick of charcoal snaps between her rigid fingers. ‘They told us it hollows you from within, makes you hunger for power until you can’t tell need from want.’

Allen’s laugh softens into something like pity. ‘You were told twisted tales; not because magic will eat you alive, but because those in power feared what you might build if you learned to wield it.’

Silence blooms between them, filled only by the slap of linen in the breeze and the soft gurgle of the river. The broken, black grit of the charcoal works into the whorls of her skin. ‘That isn’t true.’

‘We fae are taught that mortals steal what they can’t grow, and burn what they can’t break. That your kind takes and takes, only to call it survival. Doesn’t make it true.’ He sighs and leans back, basking in the beams that break through the clouds. ‘You mortals are always so afraid someone else might taste joy without permission.’

‘Fae powers cheat what should be earned. Work should take effort, not tricks that flout it.’ She gestures sharply toward the pile of clothes in the basket.

‘Magic isn’t a trick.’ Allen sets the lute aside and props his chin on his fist. His eyes soften, but the tease never quite leaves them. ‘It isn’t coin stolen from a shop or bread swiped from a market. It’s thread spun from what’s already there. It’s a way of listening so closely to the world that it listens back. What you call a trick is only what happens when the river and the child remember they were made of the same thing.’

The water laps against the stone, murmuring secrets in a tongue older than either of them. Marian doesn’t answer. Instead, she watches as a trio of boys with loam-coloured skin and bright green eyes skip smooth stones that leap across the water.

‘If magic is as natural as you say,’ she eventually asks, ‘then why don’t all fae use it? Why not join together and sweep over the mortal kingdoms? You could rule the world if you wanted to.’

Allen lets out a low whistle, tossing his head back against the boulder. ‘Once, long ago, you’d have been right. Every child born beneath Sherwood’s boughs was touched by magic. Fire in their veins, water in their bones, the forest in their lungs. But something’s changed.’ He scrubs a hand down his face as if debating how much he should say. Eventually, he sits forward, elbows braced against his knees, his grin absent for once. His eyes – green, lit through with amber – narrow as though he’s staring at something only he can see. ‘With every generation, fewer of us are born who can hear the song. It’s as if the fae ore in our blood has forgotten how to answer the call of the wild.’

Marian blinks. She almost laughs at the absurdity of it. Fae ore is jagged veins of mineral her father’s men dig up and smelt into weapons. It is cold, unfeeling rock, not something that sings. But Allen’s expression isn’t playful.

It unsettles her more than any tale of magic. Sadness coils in the hollow of her ribs before she can shove it away. She wants to tell him she doesn’t care and they are the enemy. Yet the image of those boys by the river, bright-eyed, laughing, and unaware of what might be stolen from them before they’re grown, lodges in her chest.

‘What could be causing it to dwindle?’ she manages.

Allen only shrugs, though the motion is heavy. ‘Some say it’s punishment from Shéruel for our arrogance. Several believe it’s just time; all things wane, even us.’ His gaze flicks back to her, a rueful twist at the corner of his mouth. ‘You expected us to be all-powerful tyrants, didn’t you? Monsters sharpening our claws for the day we conquer mortal kingdoms?’

Before she can speak, Allen stiffens. His gaze goes distant, not unfocused but fixed on something she cannot see. A faint ripple of gold flickers in his irises, pulsing like light through leaves.

Marian’s eyes narrow. She has seen it before; the sudden stillness, the subtle shift, the way fae eyes shimmer as though lit from within. Each time, Allen has dodged her questions with jokes or half-truths. But here it is again, undeniable.

They’re communicating with one another via the gilded pulses that thread through their eyes like the interconnected root network running beneath their very feet.

A beat passes, then another. Finally, he blinks, the gold guttering out.

‘What was that?’ her fingers clutch the sketchpad tighter, suspicion rattling through her bones.

‘Hmm?’ Allen smiles, all charm again, though it feels stretched. He shakes his head and shoves up from the boulder. ‘Sorry, you aren’t the only one who hasn’t eaten much today. I should swing by the kitchens after we stop by the healing bough.’

‘The healing bough?’

‘Oh, did I forget to mention it to you earlier?’ he remarks casually, already moving to pluck the drying tunics from the line with easy grace. ‘Apparently, there was some sort of fracas by the boundaries last night. A few bruised ribs, some burns, nothing dramatic. But they need fresh linens for the bandages and the like.’

He’s lying. Not outright, but there’s a slant to his words that doesn’t sit clean.

She wants to press him – demand confirmation that some sort of network connects their minds together – but Allen’s already bundled the last of the linens under his arm. Just as she opens her mouth, her stomach gives a low, traitorous growl. With a huff, she tucks the sketchpad against her chest and pushes herself off the ground. She spies a thicket hugging the trunk just below. Red berries cluster thick on the stems, fat and glossy. Her eyes dart toward Allen as he wades across the river.

Quick as a thief, she plucks a fistful from the lowest branch and shoves them past her lips. They burst tart and sweet across her tongue, juice staining her teeth, seeds catching in her molars. Her stomach relaxes slightly in gratitude even as she wipes her fingers on her skirt and hurries to catch up to him.

Allen doesn’t look back, but his voice carries over the burble of the river. ‘Be sure to remove the evidence from your chin as well.’

Marian’s hand flies to her jaw. Sure enough, the pad of her thumb comes away red-streaked. Heat stings her cheeks. She scrubs at the stubborn stain on her lips with the back of her hand and scowls at Allen’s retreating shoulders.

They walk in relative silence for a while, her hunger soothed, though not satisfied. Allen hums under his breath, the tune light, almost careless. The path they take winds deeper into Sherwood and along the outskirts of Elswyth. Overhead, branches knit so tightly that the morning dulls into a green twilight. Roots arch up across the ground, forcing them to step high or balance across them. The air thickens with the smell of pine. Marian wipes her stained fingers against her skirt again, though the juice clings stubbornly.

Soon the trees thin and the ground opens into a hollow lit by shafts of pale sun. A vast bough arches low enough to graze the earth before rising again into the canopy. It curves like a giant’s arm bent in prayer, its bark striated with silver veins. Vines drip across the entrance like hair, their blossoms a pale, pulsing blue.