Page 75 of The Faerie Handmaid

“I will convene the council and make certain that they do.”

“Soon?” Morgana said, wanting—no, needing—for this to be the end of it.

Emerlyn said, “This very day. You have my word.”

It took a moment for them to settle into the palanquin. Morgana’s blood was still high, threatening a headache. She thought it must be worse for Emerlyn. “It took courage to come back, to brave their attack, Emerlyn. Thank you.”

“It was necessary. I am ashamed of them both.”

Morgana had no answer for that. Her own emotion was more violent than shame. She wanted to throw something, to break something. She longed to go to the woods, to walk, to scream, to find relief for the fury that still burned through her body.

As they rattled down the lane toward the boulevard, Emerlyn turned to her. “Morgana, I need you to understand. The greatest concern of my life is that the fae will be no more.” Morgana, her fingers rubbing her temples, cast her a concerned glance at the tremor in her voice. Emerlyn said, “I have fought to prevent that.”

Morgana dropped her hands to her lap and leaned back against the cushions, slowing her breathing in an effort to calm herself. When she felt steadier, she said, “Braithe is not here to quote the stanza, Emerlyn, but I think she would cite this one:”

The greatest river

Will one day run dry.

“One of the Lady’s stanzas?”

“Yes.”

“She was so wise.” Emerlyn turned her head away, but not before Morgana saw tears welling in her eyes.

“Yes. She was.”

Emerlyn’s tears never fell, but they left Morgana wondering why they should have appeared at all.

24

The lavender-and-poppy tincture had soothed Idhri into sleep. Braithe peeked around his curtain now and again to be sure his eyes were still closed. Satisfied that he was resting, she wandered the house, worrying about Morgana, trying to cope with the shock of the things Emerlyn had said. She had begun to think of the councillor as an ally, as someone to be trusted. She was sympathetic to their cause, at least, but to say such things about humans—to think such things—it was more than Braithe could comprehend.

She supposed Emerlyn was simply a product of her culture. As far as Braithe knew, the councillor had never traveled beyond the confines of the White City. The only humans Emerlyn knew were servants. Inferiors, in her view. Not to be maltreated, perhaps, but neither to be respected. Perhaps the Rule had been meant to protect the fae from learning about humans, rather than protecting humans from the fae themselves.

She herself would have been a different woman if she had never left the croft. She would not have learned the skills of an acolyte. She would have no idea of what lavender tincture could do, for example, or any of the dozens of other remedies she had studied and been taught to prepare. She wouldn’t know how to forage for the beneficial herbs and nourishing plants that hid in the forest glens.

And she would never, in her wildest dreams, have thought herself capable of magic.

She grew weary of trying to make sense of it all, and tiptoed back into the kitchen to have another peek behind Idhri’s makeshift curtain.

The curtain had been pulled back. It hung half open across the entrance to the tiny room. Her heart began to race, and she hurried the length of the kitchen to be certain.

It was true. Idhri’s cot was empty. There was nowhere in the little niche he could be hiding, nor could he have passed her in the hallway, unseen. Her heart thudding so hard she could hear it, she spun in a circle, wondering how he could possibly have left the house without her knowledge. Or without a cantrip!

When she realized what he had done, she gave an anguished cry, though there was no one to hear. Those small, high windows were unreachable for someone of her size, but Idhri’s legs were twice the length of hers. His body was whip-thin, with the flexibility only the very young possessed, and he had managed to wriggle through one of those unglazed windows without making a sound.

There was no point in searching the rest of the house. He was gone.

Idhri was sorry to worry Braithe, but he had heard the councillor describe the penalties for Skye and Faolin. They were not enough. Giving up their homes, their possessions, was nothing. Even losing their magic was a minor punishment. He would never shake the ghastly memory of Skye casually ending his mother’s life as if she were no more than a partridge to be roasted on the cook fire. It ran over and over in his head, torturing him. If he did not avenge Ainslie’s murder, he could never rest again.

He didn’t tell Braithe his plan. She would only try to talk him out of it. She had a soft heart and had been kind to him. He would never forget that, no matter what was about to happen. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he had no choice. He hoped she wouldn’t think he was ungrateful.

He put on his servant’s clothes and belted Skye’s knife beneath his tunic, having to wrap the belt twice around his narrow middle to secure it. Cautious and silent, he climbed onto the edge of the sink, then lifted himself up to the window above it. The opening was too small, but he edged himself into it by turning his shoulders at an angle. He managed to scramble through, winning painful scrapes on his shoulders and his knees. For a moment he hung from the outer sill by his fingers, listening for any sign that Braithe knew he had escaped. When he heard nothing, he dropped down into the garden. Clambering up and over the garden wall was easy. When he reached the lane, he double-checked that the knife was still in place, then broke into a trot toward the boulevard.

Vivyan had said he could never find his way through the city on his own, but she was wrong. He had paid attention, as he had been taught, noting every turn, every street and lane. He knew precisely how to get to Skye’s house.

In his servant’s clothes, no one paid him the slightest attention as he traversed the boulevard and then the lanes that led to his destination. The knife was heavy and cold against his skin, jostling as he hurried, growing warmer with the heat of his body. The afternoon sun burned his head and the back of his neck. The reflective white walls of the buildings turned every street into a furnace, and by the time he reached Skye’s house, he was dripping with perspiration.