Page 10 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Argyle’s stomach grumbled. Mrs. Pettigrew did not allow much time for meals, and certainly nothing that might contain crumbs. Tea was only begrudgingly allowed, and that was to stave off mutiny. Pippa usually snuck him rolls of dark brown bread filled with seeds and raisins from her apron pocket. Sorcha always gave Pippa extra seed rolls because they were Mrs. Pettigrew’s favorite. They were not intended as a bribe, but a taunt. Sorcha refused to sell her any and strictly forbade Pippa from sharing hers with the Head Librarian.

“She called you a threat and a calamity no charity could justify,” Sorcha said. “And so she gets day-old bread from me. If she’s lucky. I’ll show her a calamity.”

To be fair, Mrs. Pettigrew had been very much afraid her hair was on fire when she had said those things.

The first time, in any case.

Sorcha was not the forgiving sort. She was loyal and vengeful and one of Pippa’s favorite people on the island. In all of England.

“Have some cake,” Pippa said to Argyle.

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Lady Sorcha baked it.”

“In that case, just a—”

“Miss Cavendish, why are you still here?” Mrs. Pettigrew snapped, bustling toward them. She was soft-hipped and pretty, the way a rose was before its petals fell. When it came to Pippa, she was mostly made of thorns. Her familiar was a striped badger who liked to snap at the ankles of those who were being disruptive. Pippa adored him. The feeling was not mutual.

Sorcha’s eyes were already narrowing, both at Mrs. Pettigrew and at Pippa, who was too quiet for her liking.

“On my way, Mrs. Pettigrew,” Pippa murmured.

Sorcha sighed, disappointed and annoyed. With everyone.

“Never mind the worktables,” Mrs. Pettigrew decided. “See to the dish cart in the staff parlor first. I feel much better when you are nowhere near the books.” She sniffed. “Do I smell smoke, Miss Cavendish?”

Panic scoured Pippa’s stomach, heat scraping up inside her ribs, up to her throat. She glanced at her bracelet. “N-no.”

Mrs. Pettigrew noted the glance. “You have been warned that one more accident and you will be banished.” Pippa was quite certain that the other woman visited all of the statues and spirits in the Library, making wish after wish that Pippa would simply disappear.

Pippa could not entirely blame her.

“There’s been no fire, Mrs. Pettigrew,” she said quietly. Not this time. That was something, at least. Wasn’t it?

“Keep it that way if you want to remain a Librarian. And mop the entrance of the snow on your way back. Unless you think it quite beneath you?”

“Of course not,” Pippa said, even though no other Librarian would be asked to mop.

“I should think not. An orphan with uncontrolled magic… Why they let you in the doors continues to astound me.”

Sorcha sighed again, much louder.

“Lady Sorcha, are you ill?” Mrs. Pettigrew asked her sharply.

Pippa shook her head pointedly. Someone who descended from dukes and distant royalty was unlikely to understand. Mrs. Pettigrew could pick on Pippa because Pippa’s station as a Librarian was tenuous. She was one magic bracelet away from being banished, and it was not working nearly as well as it used to. She’d wound it around with more iron just this morning.

Pippa had very little recourse for retaliation. Sorcha would have set one of her many other friends on her—and her friends included a vampire, a bloodthirsty unicorn, and a pack of Lycan wolves.

But Mrs. Pettigrew was unfortunately in the right when it came to uncontrolled fire in a library. It was a bad idea. Pippa could not dispute it. Instead, she spent most of her time making sure she was as safe as possible, from the spelled cuff, which left scars no spell could heal, to iron nails in her pockets and eating ice cubes because an old witch had once mentioned it in a book of fairy tales. Pippa also swallowed back her temper when the bullies of Hallow condescended to her, or even occasionally shoved her aside, which some of the teaching assistants found amusing. She bit her tongue until it bled. Control was everything.

“It’s solstice, Mrs. Pettigrew,” Argyle reminded her. “There’s mulled wine to be had at in the square. And they always choose a Librarian to light the candles.”

Mrs. Pettigrew scowled at Pippa. “You will decline any such invitation.”

“Of course.”

“We do not need a conflagration.”