Page 58 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“This wretched village of fae?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, please continue assigning me responsibility for every strange fae custom you encounter. It makes you so much more attractive.” The words leave her mouth before she realizes her mistake, then she snaps her jaw shut with an audible click.

I still, turning to look at her. She stalwartly keeps her attention fixed ahead, but pink blooms upon her cheeks in a way that makes me feel rather hopeless.

“You think I’m attractive?” I cannot hide my grin. It is the lightest my heart has felt in a long, long time.

Suddenly, Vireth slips—I manage to catch her by the elbow before she goes down. The cold has reddened her cheeks beneath the hood and one pale braid has come loose near her jaw, giving her a somewhat tumbled look.

Her gaze drops briefly toward my mouth, then she narrows her eyes.

“I think mayhap you are enjoying this too much.”

“I am well into my years, Lady Fae. I learned in my reckless youth to enjoy whatever pleasures life may offer whenever and however they’re offered, because none of us are guaranteed another sunrise.”

“Unless you are fae.”

“I suppose that is true,” I admit. Something of an awkward silence descends, until I realize I am still holding her upright.

She pulls away before either of us can say—or do—something unwise.

The final directions come from a butcher sharpening knives beneath a striped awning. He listens to Vireth’s question, looks at her hood, then points with the knife toward the edge of the village. Vireth nods once, throwing him a rare smile.

“If this isn’t the right way, I’m going back to the inn for a bath,” I grumble.

Dusk is settling early between the mountains. Smoke hangs low over the village, and windows begin to glow one by one behind us. The bustle of the village fades in the distance and the path narrows beneath undisturbed snow.

The seer’s house stands alone near the tree line, surrounded by a thready garden that probably looks magnificent in the spring. A single window shines gold against the snow, flickering with the movement of someone within. The cottage itself is small and crooked, with a roof sagging slightly on one side and bundles of wooden charms and dried plants hanging beneath the eaves.

Vireth slows, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her cloak.

“Nervous?” I ask.

“Yes.”

The plain honesty of the answer catches me off guard—I’d been expecting another haughty denial.

“Good,” I say, trying for her wry humor. “I was beginning to worry you weren’t taking this quite seriously enough.”

She lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, then shifts her shoulders back, lifts her hand and knocks.

For an interminably long moment, nothing happens. It’s long enough that I begin to suspect the villagers have sent us here for their own amusement, but then footsteps cross the floorboards inside, and the door opens slowly.

The woman standing there is much younger than I expected, though world-weary. She is dressed in a simple brown shift, her long hair tied up in a bundle beneath a red kerchief decked with threadbare ribbons and small silver beads. Her smile is as thin as she is, and small charms dangle from the sleeves of her dress, clicking softly when she moves.

Her gaze settles first on Vireth, then on me. No surprise enters her expression—something that I dislike immediately because of what it might mean.

“Ah,” she says softly.

Vireth goes still beside me, her hand suddenly reaching for mine. I squeeze hers, hoping to offer whatever she needs in this moment, be it reassurance or simply warmth.

The woman steps back from the doorway.

“I wondered how long it would take you to find me.”

Then she opens the door wider.