Page 16 of Fae Games

I snatched my gaze from the depressing sight. If I had my DVD collections, I would play America’s Top Model or Extreme Makeover. Right now, I needed a shed-load of inspiration.

We walked past the arrangement of sofas toward the kitchenette at the other end of the room. Someone had left a currant loaf which filled the space with the scent of freshly baked bread, cinnamon, and nutmeg.

My mouth watered. “Whose is that?”

“Mr. Whittaker likes to bake whenever he’s feeling down,” said Flora. “He pretends the pixies leave it out for us, but everyone knows it’s him.”

“Oh.” I remembered something Gladiolus had told me about the remedial teacher. “Did he ever find the identity of his real parents?”

Flora shook her head and pulled open a drawer, which contained an array of knives. “Cast-offs never do. That’s the whole point of putting false memories in their head. So they’re too addled to work out the truth and claim their inheritance.”

“Right.” I opened the cupboard, pulled down two mugs, and picked up the kettle. It was already full and hot, so I reached for the tin of tea.

“Sorry, that sounded offensive, didn’t it?” After selecting one with a serrated blade, Flora cut two generous slices. “You woke up with a whole life of fake memories, too.”

“They’re real,” I whispered.

Flora shot me a pitying smile. “Yes, I’ve heard they’re very realistic.”

I blew out a breath. Nothing could be gained from insisting that I was a human girl cursed with wings except perhaps alerting the vengeful goddess who controlled the wards.

“How do you think I can get the fabric with no money?” I asked.

“You’ve heard of barter, right?” Flora reached into the cool box and extracted a block of butter in a crystal dish.

“Sure.” Elijah kept me well supplied with money beads, but I hardly needed to use them as we had so many DVDs to swap for whatever we needed. “But I don’t have anything of value.”

Her grin turned manic. “Yes, you do!”

My two encounters with Coltrane, the horny centaur, rolled to the front of my mind. “If you’re suggesting tug-a-lug or anything like that—”

“Ew, no!” Flora wrinkled her nose. “Where did you learn such a nasty word?”

I tapped the side of my head. “False memories of human depravity?”

After I’d made the tea and Flora had slathered the thick slices of fruit bread with butter, we walked over to the sofas, where the TV was now showing the credits. We ate in silence, and Flora let me have half her bread.

“What do I have to barter, then?”

“Future, unspecified favors.” She slurped from her mug.

“I don’t get it.”

“Look at it this way.” She placed her mug on a low table, giving me her full attention. “Last night, Prince Rory was putting in a strong case to take you for his mate.”

“Until he was silenced,” I muttered.

“Well, I think you have a better chance than Lady Gala. Everyone knows he can’t stand her.”

“True.” I washed down the remnants of my fruit bread with a mouthful of Earl Grey. “But how can I leverage that into a dress when there are so many forces working against me?”

“Only the people who were present last night know Queen Titania hates your guts.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“If we walk around the fabric district, telling them you’re the fifth Fated and have already caught Prince Rory’s eye, some gullible sap will take a risk and give you fabric in exchange for an unspecified favor.”

Never bargain with faeries. The warning flashed over and over in my mind. Everyone knew this—Mom before she succumbed to wasting sickness, Dad before he disappeared, Mrs. Yates, the magazine lady. Even Elijah had told me this once.