Page 5 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Chapter Two

Winter solstice 1798

The owls started following her that very night.

A white horned owl flew beside her on the bridge leading to the apprentice apartments. Another landed on her windowsill, watching her with black, knowing eyes. Ice gleamed under his talons.

Three more waited for her the next day, lined up on the edge of the roof.

She found an owl feather in her pocket, another tucked into her apron. One outside her bedroom door.

From Samhain to the winter solstice, they watched her.

And on the eve of her twenty-ninth birthday, an owl flew inside the Library.

It was not generally considered a good omen.

Owls were sometimes associated with wisdom, but mostly with death. Or, at the very least, dark secrets. Cunning.

More important to the Librarians, they tended to leave a mess.

Pippa happened to like owls. Outside. In the woods. Not watching her through windows and landing on the statue of the very dour Miss Thistlethwaite-Smythe, a professor under King Henry III who had specialized in the magic folklore of toads—and whose ghost occasionally visited to scold anyone nearby who was not keeping her likeness as free of dust as she deemed suitable.

This owl would not be removed, would not blink, not even when Mrs. Pettigrew waved a broom at him. Argyle tried the smoke of burning juniper, but it only made everyone else’s eyes water. The owl was disdain personified. Magic had no effect. Neither did a dish of mealworms.

When Pippa turned the corner, pushing her book cart, the owl gave a startling cry and flew down so suddenly that Mrs. Pettigrew yelped. Pippa could have sworn the owl grinned.

And then it landed on Pippa’s arm.

Its talons were very long, curved around her bracelet. She imagined it would have been a great deal more painful had it landed anywhere else. She swallowed. “Good bird.” Where was her friend Sorcha when she needed her? She had the magical gift of communication with birds. She would have known what to say. What to do.

When Mrs. Pettigrew regained her composure, she pointed at Pippa. “Get that disgusting thing out of here.”

The owl screeched, offended, and bit the air, his beak close to Mrs. Pettigrew. Very close.

Pippa did not blame him one bit. “Come along,” she murmured, moving slowly as to not startle him. “You do not have a Library card, sir.”

She headed toward the nearest door, grateful for the student who hurried ahead to fling it open. The owl tightened its grip and made a sound Pippa could not interpret. “Do not bite me.”

He settled, dark eyes gleaming.

“There’s a good giant death omen.”

He fluffed his feathers, clearly preening.

Pippa continued her careful walk outside into one of the courtyard gardens. Once there, the owl still did not budge. “I beg your pardon,” she said politely. “I need to get back to my duties.”

A turn of his head but nothing else.

“You’re going to get me into trouble.”

He gave what she could only describe as an avian sigh before leaping into the air. Her cuff was scratched from his talons.

The visit and subsequent eviction of the white owl was eclipsed, however, when news reached them that Professor Thorn had returned. The solstice happened every year, and owls were not uncommon.

Lachlan Thorn’s return was substantially more noticeable.

Even by Pippa, who had last seen him when she found him bleeding on her books.