Page 10 of The Filigree Key

“Indeed.” He sat at the head of the table, and as if the act itself was a cue, a little golden bell rang to announce the presence of Mrs. Bilberry and the parade of woodchucks.

The hobs.

Once proud caretakers of apple orchards, the Fair Folk who resembled little men had been turned into belittled beasts of burden. And they didn’t even know it. Each bore a silver platter of food as reverently as if it were a bottle of their precious hob grog, and I refused to let their simple task go ignored without gratitude.

“Thank you, Roland,” I said quietly as the leader of the hobs passed by with the roasted game hens.

The woodchuck nearly stumbled. While nobody had ever told me not to address the castle staff, it was assumed that I shouldn’t because they were beneath my notice.

“Thank you, Walt,” I told the next hob. “Mrs. Bilberry, those waffles look delicious.”

“Th-thank you, milady,” she said hastily, casting a nervous glance at her king. “W-would milady like some?”

“Yes, please.” Then I thanked Ricky for carrying in the fruit salad. Mrs. Bilberry never forgot the maraschino cherries, and they glistened like jewels atop the medley of red grapefruit, pineapple, and peaches.

“Love, are you going to thank every hob by name?”

“Yes, I believe so. Thank you, Joe.”

“The food’ll get cold before you’re done.”

“Thank you, Victor. No one’s stopping you from eating, Ossian.”

“Meadow.”

The edge to his voice had the woodchucks parading at double-time. Mrs. Bilberry had even rung her second bell to summon the Lancaster brothers ahead of schedule. The black Labrador retrievers came bounding in, immediately noted the increasing frigidity of the atmosphere, and delivered my latte and Ossian’s beer without quip or comment.

“Thank you, Dale,” I said pointedly as Mrs. Bilberry hastily slopped a huge spoonful of apple butter onto my stack of steaming waffles. The badger snatched up her picnic basket and, apron strings flying out behind her, beat a hasty retreat after the last of the hobs.

“It seems bonding with your magic core has made you more fae-like than either of us anticipated,” he continued conversationally, though warning flashed in his eyes. His movements were clipped yet precise as he lifted the silver masala dabba and began mixing my morning toirchim tonic. “You’re bolder now, stronger. And yet you still have much to learn.”

Yes, please tell me the ways I’m still dependent on you, you cloven-hooved bast—

I took the fizzy red liquid and chugged it, wiped my mouth on my napkin, and turned my attention back to my breakfast. Waffles, fruit salad, and hard-boiled eggs. I would’ve preferred soft-boiled, but this way the yolks wouldn’t explode inside the foraging bag when Sawyer sank his little teeth into them.

Out of the corner of my eye, Ossian gave a satisfied nod as he retrieved the tonic cup and placed it beside the masala dabba. Another test passed.

A hastily chewed section of grapefruit from the fruit salad had helped mitigate the taste, but I still winced as the nasty liquid went to war against that sludge in my stomach. I hoped I’d notice if my inhibitions lowered and my impressionability increased, but there was no way to be sure.

“The high fae do not consort with fairies and the like, Meadow,” the Stag Man was saying. “I’ve been lenient with you since this is your home and these are you friends, but in Elfame, in the Court of Beasts, you would make yourself a laughingstock. And, as a result, undermine my reign. And it is mine, Meadow. You might be my mate, but that does not make you a queen of my court.”

Instead of crossing my arms over my chest and petulantly demanding why not, I hacked off a portion of waffle. Apple butter and honey oozed out of the square wells. “Tell me, Ossian, are there are other witch brides in the other fae courts?”

“No. Not one,” he said smugly, leaning back in his chair as if the discussion had just been won.

“So there’s a first time for everything. Including queens. Look at that.” I chomped down on my forkful of waffle. Guess that sludge had done a decent-enough job at preventing me from turning into a compliant bimbo if I could manage that level of sass.

“Meadow—”

“How about we open the portal first and then discuss the system of government? Where is the key, anyway?” It was squirreled away in one of the pouches on his belt, last I knew.

“It’s safe.”

He cracked into his first game hen, ripping it apart with animalistic ferocity, but he didn’t eat. Steam wafted from the roasted meat and his fingers alike, and Sawyer squirmed inside the foraging bag on my lap. I jerked my knee, squashing him between my leg and the underside of the table in warning.

“About the portal,” he began. “What did you feel last night, when we tried to enter before we discovered it was locked? What did you see or hear?”

For the first time since I’d known him, the Stag Man sounded unsure. Trepidatious.