Page 54 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Chapter Thirteen

Pippa changed for dinner after sweating through her other dress while fighting off the fire hounds. It helped to think of them that way, as wild beasts who could be tamed, or at least bribed. Still, there were scorch marks on her hem, and her hair was stiff with salt at the nape of her neck. She was not about to join Lachlan for supper looking so bedraggled.

And if she stood in front of the wardrobe for longer than she cared to admit, and stared at her meager collection of dresses, no one had to know about it. She had nothing suitable for dinner with a Fae king, as it turned out. She had her Librarian work dress, two day dresses, a winter pelisse, a spencer trimmed with paste pearls—and one dress suitable for the evening, which she usually saved for Festival days. It was good enough for a professor. For a Fae king? Doubtful. But as it was all she had, it would have to do.

There was no sense being a cabbage about it. This was no courtship. This was about a house hob who needed to share his love of Elphame. That was a much better way to look at things. Never mind the way Lachlan looked at her. Or the way he made her feel. The fact that he kept saving her.

That he seemed to see her.

Where Lachlan was concerned, she needed restraint and logic. A circle of protective salt.

Her moth, who was a representation of ancient magic and really ought to know better, landed on a decorative hair bob and would not budge until Pippa slipped it into her hair. “Happy now?”

A flutter of papery wings, a glimmer of light. A resigned, slightly smug familiar, and pearls in Pippa’s hair. And an iron key on a red velvet ribbon around her neck. She still did not know what it might unlock.

When she finally stepped out into the hall, the blackthorn blossoms dangling from the roots and branches above her head bloomed. They urged her past the dining rooms, the drawing rooms, the alcove where it continually snowed, leading her to the garden doors on a pathway of petals.

Lachlan approached from the other direction, the glitter of his mismatched eyes on her. The flowers bloomed for him as well, dropping thorns. His mouth quirked. “Hedgewort is cross that I might have kept you waiting.”

“I had no idea he was so strict,” Pippa returned with a smile.

“I have seen war generals with more flexible schedules.”

Pippa nodded. “I know more than a few Librarians who are the same way. But honestly, I would be just as happy with bread and cheese in the kitchens.” She was far more accustomed to that.

Lachlan’s brow furrowed. “Tell me that is not your usual fare.”

“Very well.” She pursed her lips together and did not say anything else.

His frown intensified. “Pippa.”

“Professor.”

A twitch in his hand, as though he wanted to reach for her but stopped himself. “Playing with fire, Pippa?”

Heat kindled in response, and it had nothing to do with her magic.

“Do they not feed you at the Library?” he asked as if the muscles in her thighs had not suddenly gone warm.

“They do,” she replied, also as if it did not take every ounce of her willpower not to sway closer toward him. The Library apartments had a large kitchen in the cellar, with iceboxes and hearths that burned with magic.

On her third week, she had burned every potato in the larder to a crisp. And then the sugar. After that, she ate mostly what she could assemble without having to use the fires. She made an exception for the kettle, because tea was more important than personal safety. That was just a fact.

“That is not nearly enough food,” Lachlan grumbled. “Don’t ever mention it to Hedgewort,” he added. “He’d murder us both. He’ll have made a feast already, at any rate. He wants you to love this place.”

She nodded. “For when I am trapped here.”

He frowned again. “You have every chance of winning, like any other Tithe.”

Pippa sent him a very dry glance. “Roman outweighs me by several stone. Even without the armor.”

“Roman did not know about the Red Ladies. Or call the fire to protect everyone.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “That was mostly you.”

“I beg your pardon?” There was rebuke lacing every word.

“The red ribbons,” she pointed out. “I knew they were a clue. Weren’t they?”