by Elise Kova
“They’re real,” I whisper, and stagger forward. I hold out my hands, searching for the chair at the opposite end of the table. I hear his footsteps as he rushes to me. My hands don’t meet the wood of a chair back. They close around his soft, warm fingers. The lord is before me in an instant, stealing my breath with his presence and preventing me from awkwardly bumping into something. “Are the fae truly real?”
“You doubt your own eyes?”
I shake my head. My knees feel weak. He must sense it because I hear him pull out a chair and he eases me into it. Lord Fenwood sits next to me.
“Yes, that thing you saw in the woods today was a fae.” He scoops up both of my hands. There’s not a tinge of smoke in my nostrils. He’s telling the truth. Or at least he believes it’s the truth. But after what I saw and heard… There’s no other explanation.
“They are as monstrous as the stories say.”
“Fae can be,” he agrees. “That’s why I told you to never go in the woods behind the manor.”
I shake my head as a chill rips through my body. “Fae can shape-shift?”
“Not quite. All fae are born with innate abilities. Most have wings or claws they can summon on command, along with various other inherited traits from the beasts of the forests. But one ability all fae share is the gift of glamour—fae can make themselves appear as anything they like. Mind you, it’s just an illusion, a magic trick of the senses, and very hard to continue once they are touched.”
I clutch his hands tighter on the word touch. They’re soft, callus free. The hands of the lord who spends his days in a tower. Not like my hands, rough and scarred. Or like the clawed fingers of that monster.
“Is there any other way to tell a glamour from real? Other than touch?”
“Pure water will wash away the glamour of a fae.”
Right as rain. I wonder if the expression is a holdover of some ancient advice for dealing with the fae.
“The creature wanted you.” My voice cracks a little as I think of what the woman had initially asked of me.
“I bet it did.” He chuckles darkly. “In the end, it got me. It just didn’t live to tell the tale.”
“Are you a fae hunter?” I dare to ask. A man, alone in the woods, holed up in a house warded from those magic beasts. A man who doesn’t let others see him, perhaps out of fear that they could use the information against him. Because if I saw him, I could identify him. I would have knowledge the fae would want and would clearly kill for.
“I do hunt some, from time to time,” he finally admits.
I inhale sharply. My fingers tighten around his. I am married to a man who hunts the most dangerous game in this world.
“Do you hunt at night? Is that why I hear the noises?”
“It’s better if you don’t worry about the noises.” He begins to pull his hands from mine. “The less you know, the safer you are. That creature already tried to use you once to get to me.”
The idea that I could be used to get anyone continues to startle me. I’m not accustomed to meaning that much to anyone or anything. My feelings are becoming murkier by the minute, clouded with emotions that I’ve never felt and am ill-equipped to understand. His fingers slip from mine and I’m filled with the insatiable urge to snatch back his hands.
Before I can, he runs a knuckle over my cheek. I feel him tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. My breath catches. How close is he? I imagine his face mere inches from mine, staring at me with all the desire I’ve hardly ever dared dream someone would look at me with.
“What else should I know about the fae?” I whisper. I only know the warnings my father would give me in the folk stories he told me when I was a girl.
“You don’t need to know anything else. With any luck, you will not be cursed with fae in your life for very long.” He pulls his hand away.
I try to catch it and grasp nothing but air. No doubt looking a fool in the process. “But the more I know, the more likely I am to be of help to you while they pursue you.”
“You’ve already been help enough. More than you know, really.” No smoke, no lies. “Now, you should get some rest. Eat what you can and go back to bed.”
He stands and I bite my lip. There’s more to be said. I can feel how tired and worried he is. I’m filled with the urge to say something as comforting or as beautiful as the old songs my mother would sing when I was fussy. But I’m not a poet; I can only repeat the words I’m taught. My whole life I’ve been a vessel, allowing others to fill me with their wants, needs, thoughts… There is so much of everyone else that there is no room left for me. And now, when I need something of my own creation to offer, I come up short.
I hear him leave and can’t even muster the words to tell him good night. I realize even later that I never properly thanked him for saving me.
To my surprise, Lord Fenwood gives me a second chance to find my voice the next night.
As I return to my wing from dinner I find the door to the study open, fire lit, chairs at the ready position. I take my seat, eager to speak with him again. I’ve had a day to recover now. My head is clearer. And my guilt has been lessened some with the opportunity to apologize to Oren over dinner as well.
I hear Lord Fenwood’s footsteps the moment he enters the room. Warm heat rushes over me at the sound, pooling in my stomach. My throat is already gummy. Just as I try to squeak out a greeting, a cloth is dropped over my eyes from above. I reach up, my hands grabbing his in surprise.
“What are you—”
“You gave me an idea the other night,” he murmurs as he continues tying the blindfold. The silk is cool against my flushing face. “I wanted to try it again, if you don’t mind?” His voice comes from above and behind me. He must be kneeling on his chair and reaching over. The sounds of him—his words, his breathing, his movement—fill my ears and are accented by the ghost of his warm breath on the nape of my neck. I try to suppress a shiver and lose.
“It’s fine with me,” I manage to say.
There’s a bunch of movement behind me, the scraping of the chair, the clinking of ice in his glass. I feel the air move as he comes to stand before me, and my nose picks up keenly on the crisp and earthy aroma that follows him. I imagine him looking down at me. There’s something vulnerable, in an exciting way, about knowing he can see me when I can’t see him. In my mind’s eye, he’s a mere silhouette, picked out from the darkness by the firelight. His features are hazy voids, waiting to be filled.
“Stand,” he commands. I oblige. He takes both my hands in his and guides me a step over. I listen as he moves the chair I was just sitting in, presumably to face his seat. “There, now sit.” He guides me back to the chair.
“It’s not fair,” I blurt, catching his hand as he goes to pull away. “You can see me, but I can’t see you.”
“The rule—”
“I know the rule; I’m not trying to change the rule.” I want to touch his face, to feel the bridge of his nose, to run my fingertips down to his lips and outline them. Are they full or thin? What is the cut of his jaw like? Or the angle of his brow? “May I ask you questions about what you look like? That way I have something to imagine about the man I’m speaking with. All I know right now is that you have very nice shoulders.” I grin.
“Very well. I shall grant you this.” He chuckles, pulls away, and takes his own seat. I amuse him. I’m shocked to find how much I like that.
Suddenly, the new seating arrangement feels like an interrogation. It’s rather thrilling. I’ve gone from being vulnerable due to my lack of knowledge to having the power. He’s going to answer my questions. “Your hair, is it long? Or short?”
“Somewhere in the middle,” he answers.
“To your shoulders?”
“Just beyond, only slightly.”
I purse my lips to stop myself from grinning like a fool as I begin to paint my mind’s portrait of him. “I should warn you up-front, it’s impossible to lie to me. So don’t even try.”
&nbs
p; “I wouldn’t even dream of attempting it.”
“Good.” I lean back into my chair. “Is your hair curly? Wavy? Straight?”
“Mostly straight. It does often have a mind of its own, however. Oren is always telling me to cut it shorter as it gets in my eyes constantly.”
“Do you pull it away from your face when it gets in your eyes?” I can sympathize with the frustrations of longer hair.
“I’ve been known to weave in a braid or two from time to time.” I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“What color?”
“Dark brown, a bit darker than yours.” That gives me a near-exact shade.
“What color are your eyes?”
“Green.”
“Like the pine trees?”
“No, more like a lime,” he says. I burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?”
“Green like a lime?” I shake my head. Who would describe their eyes like that? “That’s such a bright color.”
“I have been told I have piercing eyes.”
I scrunch my brow slightly, trying to picture the exact shade. Is it truly as vibrant as he says? Dark brown hair, bright green eyes… It makes for a beautiful combination. “What about your jaw?”
“What about it?” He seems amused I would ask.
“Is it wider? More narrow? Stubbled?”
“I try and keep myself clean-shaven. I admit my success with it can be varied.”
“Are you successful right now?”
“No.” I can almost hear the smirk in his voice. A light stubble, then.
“And the shape of your jaw?”
“I admit I’ve never analyzed it.” A pause. I imagine him running those smooth fingers of his over the roughness of his stubble. Pausing as he says, “More square? I suppose?”
I let out a low humming.
“You don’t seem satisfied with that answer.”
“I’m just…”
“Say it,” he demands. I think it would be impossible not to heed that firm tone.
“I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with you,” I admit and immediately busy my mouth with my glass of mead.
“What’s wrong with me?” I hear him take a sip as well.
“You sound…stunning,” I admit as little more than a whisper. “I thought you might have not wanted me to see you because you were hideous.”
His glass clanks softly on the table. I hear him stand. I’ve offended him. Before I can apologize he’s there again in front of me. He hooks my chin with the knuckle of his pointer finger and his thumb. He guides my face up toward where I imagine his to be. I know he’s just a breath away. I feel every little bit of aching distance between us, paired with a surprising need to cross it. I’m hot all over, but I can’t move to alleviate the tension. He’s trapped me with two fingers.
“Maybe,” he whispers, “I’m trying to protect you because I’m stunning. Because if you were to look at me with those eyes that Oren tells me are like a tempest sea, I could never let you go.”
I can smell the sweet liquor on his breath. I wish I could taste it on his mouth. That want is so all-consuming it startles me. My mind pushes away instantly. No, whatever is happening between us is the last thing I would want. This is the start of the same road that leads to how my father ended up so entangled with Joyce.
Romance starts well and ends badly. That’s how it fools people into attempting the futile effort. Joyce was Father’s “light,” pulling him out of the despair of my mother’s death. And then, once she had him, she showed her true colors.
I won’t let Lord Fenwood or anyone else ever ensnare me.
He releases me, as if sensing my hesitation. As if realizing that I’ve finally reached the same conclusion that he has. The best thing for us to do is avoid each other at all costs. If we can’t see each other, then we can’t lust after each other, and this heat will ultimately fade.
“Good night, Katria.”
Yet even as I make those realizations and vows, just the sound of my name on his lips has my breath catching. He leaves me with the remnants of the fire smoldering in the hearth—smoldering within me. I sit alone in the darkening room, still blindfolded, slowly tweaking the delicious mental portrait of him I’ve begun to construct.
Chapter 7
I pace the main hall from the entrance of the dining room to the leaded glass by the doors; I peer outside and see the drive is still empty; I repeat. My skirts swoosh around my ankles, as agitated as my nerves. I wring my hands.
“This is a terrible idea. A terrible, horrible idea.” Not that I had any say in it. The letter was waiting for me next to my dinner plate last night, Oren said it arrived by way of carrier pigeon. I was shocked that a carrier pigeon could find its way out here. Even more shocked that my sisters had actually decided to make the journey to come and visit like they promised weeks ago.
Laura sounded properly giddy at the prospect. And she had mentioned making an attempt when I left. But I expected them all to be so enraptured by their four thousand pieces, their new servants to boss around, and their new dresses to try on, that I didn’t think they really would come and see me. I bite my thumbnail and curse under my breath.
Part of me is wracked with guilt for thinking so little of Laura. We’ve always had a positive relationship. Of course she would come to see me. And I can only imagine how her circumstances have changed without what little shielding I could offer from Joyce.
As far as Helen, she’s not coming to see me; she’s coming to try and make a mockery of me and no doubt relay her findings back to Joyce.
I can imagine her in the carriage, chatting Laura’s ear off about the wretched circumstances I must certainly find myself in. I stop and take a deep breath, smoothing out my skirts. That is why I’ve worn my best dress today. That is why I must show her the lovely home I now have, the weight I’ve gained from proper food and care, the luster that has returned to my hair and eyes—and most importantly, that I never think about her or Joyce anymore or their trivial desires. I am fine, no, better without those two.
At last I hear the whinny of a horse and the gravel grinding underneath carriage wheels. Gathering every last scrap of composure, I step outside and wait at the top of the three steps. Oren rode out to meet them by the main road and be their guide. He dismounts, casting me a wary look, one I share.
My sisters’ new footman opens the door to their carriage and they come bursting out.
“Katria, it’s so good to see you.” Laura rushes over, arms open wide. The sight of her fair hair reminds me of that creature in the woods. I shake off the memory and descend the stairs to meet her.
“You really didn’t have to come all this way,” I say, returning her embrace fiercely.
“I couldn’t bring Misty,” she whispers quickly. Here I was, trying to admit I hadn’t been hoping to see Misty pulling their carriage. “I tried.”
“Don’t fret over that.” I keep the words low enough that Helen can’t hear, but firm. Laura has more important things to worry about now than my old horse.
“We wanted to see how you are doing.” Helen folds her arms in her usual stance. “From the looks of it, you’re well.”
“No complaints, certainly.”
“Will you give us a tour of your lovely new home?” Laura links her arm with mine, and gazes up at the manor in awe. She no doubt sees the same things I did when I first arrived—its castle-like appearance and the well-preserved craftsmanship of bygone days.
“Let’s skip the tour,” I say, patting her arm. I had rehearsed and planned for how to avoid showing them around since a good two thirds of the manor I am not allowed to enter. “Most of it is drafty, empty, boring rooms anyway, and I would much rather spend time with you, catching up on what has been happening back in town.”
This sparks a long-winded explanation from Laura about all of the gossip of high society that I was never really a part of. She carries on as I escort my sisters to the study that the lord and I usually use for our nig
htly conversations. I’ve procured a third chair. And, with Oren’s help, a bottle of mead to share with them.
“What is this?” Helen asks as I pour the drink.
“It’s mead.” I hand her a glass. “I certainly had never had it until I came here. My husband is able to import it from far away.” I honestly have no idea how easy or hard this mead is to come by. But Helen looks begrudgingly impressed so it’s worth opening the bottle. Laura is beaming at the honey liquid. I hold out my glass. “Cheers, to smart, fortuitous matches.”
Our glasses clink together and we each take a seat.
“Speaking of, how is your match?” Laura asks, voice dropping to whisper. She glances to the door, as if Lord Fenwood might walk in at any moment. “He isn’t as horrible as we feared, is he?”
“Not at all, he’s positively lovely,” I say with a genuine smile. Helen’s lips purse slightly, as they do when she’s silently fuming. It prompts me to continue. “He’s been nothing but generous, kind, and understanding. He enjoys my lute playing, even. He’ll sit out in the woods with me while I play.” He’s done that a few times now over these past weeks. The last time, he trusted me enough not to try to steal a glance that he sat on the stump behind me. Our backs almost touching…which caused me to dream about his skin pressed against mine the following night.
Helen snorts. “Be realistic. No real man is sitting out enjoying your lute playing. Have you not been satisfying him enough in bed that he feels the need to go out of his way and try and woo you with such ridiculous gestures?”
I don’t know where to start with that remark. I want to insist that he genuinely likes my lute playing. But my defensiveness will only make Helen double down. Worse, just with those few words, she’s made me doubt my instincts. Even though I’ve never smelled smoke on him. Even though I sit in my new home with my new life…she manages to bring out the old me, the meek parts of myself that I still can’t shed around her.
“He has made no demands in that department.”
My sisters glance at each other. Laura leans in. “But you have fulfilled your duties as a wife, haven’t you?”