Page 21 of A Beastly Court

All of my friends were friends with someone who knew Ms. Charlotte Harris, the snowy egret, and that old bird kept her pulse on all the goings-on in Redbud. She ran the town’s gossip mill, which had evolved into a kind of early warning system now that the townsfolk had more things to worry about than who snubbed who and who wore what and who was jacking up the prices on feed and seed because of the upcoming winter months. Sluagh, mallaithe, hobgoblins—they were roaming freely now that the days were shortening and the nights lengthening. While Ossian was powerful, and the Brotherhood armed with magic, they couldn’t be everywhere at once.

The honey badger shook her head. “Never mind any of that. You already know what you want to do, cider witch, I’m just saying it out loud.” Flora gave me a sly wink and pointed one massive claw at the glass ceiling. “You’re sneaking out of the castle. For real, this time.”

“Flora,” both Daphne and Shari exclaimed at the outrageous—and downright dangerous—proposition. I would have joined them had it not been for the ache in my heart. I yearned for freedom. To thrive. To grow.

“Shhh!” Flora hissed. “Do you want Cernunnos to find out? He’s got eyes and ears everywhere no doubt.”

Really? I straightened, taking a look around and finding the atrium eerily empty except for the four of us and the wight trapped in the cloch. It had never occurred to me that the fae king would employ spies in his own court. Why would he?

“Only for an hour or two,” she continued, voice low. “And not far from the castle, though you don’t want to linger too close by and get caught. You’ll dismantle more of that curse faster than ever before, and can he really argue with the results? You’ll be summoning that portal by the end of the week, satisfying that fae bargain, and letting you get on with your life. What do you have planned for after, anyway?”

“I—” I had no idea. I mean, I was going to Elfame, for a reason I hoped I remembered once I summoned the portal, but afterwards? We were fated mates. Would I be expected to stay there with him? He hadn’t asked me, so was he just assuming I would leave my realm behind?

“One hurdle at a time, dear,” Daphne soothed, lipping at the furrowed lines in my forehead. “Free yourself of the curse, and the world is yours again. Let’s focus on that first.”

“And you free yourself by sneaking out,” Flora reminded me. “Better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission.”

“That’s a little easier said than done.” My shoulders slumped. “The courtyard walls are too steep to climb, and the rambler roses could never support my weight. Even if I was able to strengthen them over time, that is a lot of magic I would be expending on something other than freeing myself from the curse.”

“Then aren’t you glad you have a best friend with the foresight to bring a potted weeping willow with her today,” the honey badger said smugly. “It’s strong and one of the fastest growing trees and has this wonderful canopy so thick with leaves you can barely see through it. It’ll need a fraction of the magic you’d need to give to the rambler roses. Grow that willow, and it will enable and even hide your escape.”

“It’s not really an escape,” I whispered guiltily, looking about for those eyes and ears in wall that Flora had mentioned. “It’s just a field trip.”

“But if she gets caught…” Daphne worried.

“We covered that already. And she won’t.” Flora gave me an encouraging headbutt to my knee, nearly cracking my joint. “She’s the cider witch.”

“You act like her predilection for cider enables her to be sneaky,” Shari said. “Why do you call her that anyway, Flora?”

“I—” The honey badger’s black eyes widened. “I don’t know, actually. It’s just… something I’ve always called her.” She turned to me suspiciously. “You weren’t a cider seller or owned a cider farm in a past life, right?”

I shook my head. “Not that I know of. When I came to Redbud, I just holed myself up in one of Mrs. Bilberry’s rooms at the Candlelight Inn to work on the grimoire day and night. It was only pure happenstance that I met Ossian when I went out for a walk in the woods to clear my head.”

“Well, whatever.” Flora swiped her savage claws through the air in a wave of dismissal. “You’re the cider witch. It rolls off the tongue. And”—she cast the porcupine a warning look before she could protest—“that’s good enough for me.”

“Well it’s not for me,” Shari muttered. “There’s a reason for most things in this world.”

But further examination of Flora’s term of endearment would have to wait. The clock in the castle tower tolled the hour, and Ossian always kept our visits short. I walked them—slowly—back to the foyer where the fae king was waiting, hands linked behind his back. We said our goodbyes, and Daphne made sure to thank Ossian for the visiting opportunity, since she knew Flora never would after that “lowly gardener” comment and Shari always turned into a babbling mess around him.

I watched, heart straining after them, as my friends took Flora’s empty flower cart across the bridge and disappeared into the forested path leading to town. Away from me.

The fae king’s hand melded over my shoulder, but its warmth provided no comfort. “Time to train, love.”

CHAPTER TEN

Secluded in the rose courtyard, I stared up at the weeping willow tree I’d managed to grow tall enough that the descending arch of its canopy brushed the top of the wall. The supple branches and their yellow-green leaves brushed against the dark gray stone like a caress—a promise that my touch would join it as soon as I was strong enough to climb.

Growing the tree had been an exercise in restraint and no mistake. I could’ve dissolved another chunk of the cursed net from my oak tree, turning that proverbial maxi dress into a mid-calf poodle skirt, but then the willow wouldn’t have been strong enough to grow. There was a give and take, like of a fisherman not overfishing the seas. Take too much, and it would never provide for you again.

All the other potted plants that crowded the cramped space had been drained halfway, some to lift part of the curse, more to grow the willow. Individually, none of them had had the vitality of a rambler rose, probably because their roots weren’t allowed to grow deep with wild abandon, but together, they’d been enough to disperse another few inches of net surrounding the oak tree of my magic.

Weak, I forced myself to rise on trembling legs and staggered to the willow tree swaying in the evening breeze. I pressed my hand against its trunk, then my forehead.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I whispered, then I rang the little gold bell to be released from the courtyard. I was cold and could just as easily meditate on becoming one with my magic in the bathtub with a glass of mulled wine.

Though hob grog would be better, a little voice inside me insisted.

Wait, what?