“I would have done anything for him…” her voice broke into a hoarse whisper. “I was so wanton.”
My stomach twisted into a series of knots, and I glanced away. There was nothing I could say to ease her pain. She had done in public what I imagined men paid harlots to do in private.
“Maybe you should…” A huff escaped my throat. “Stay indoors for a while and avoid the worst of the gossip.”
She stilled. A glance her way found Shona chewing on her bottom lip.
“Neara… All those things I said about you?”
The muscles of my neck tightened. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry…” She cast her gaze down.
Lifting a shoulder, I neither accepted nor rebuked her apology. Many of her fabricated rumors had been outlandish, such as the one about my sword skills being honed from giving favors to the entire constabulary of Calafort. However, some of the words that had carried in the wind had hurt. The worst had been whisperings about clandestine encounters with Eirnin the blacksmith during his wife’s pregnancies.
I shook such petty matters to the back of my mind. “Maybe the villagers will be kinder to you than they were to me.”
“They’ll be on me like crows on a carcass!” She launched into a tirade about the viciousness of gossips.
Iron-gray clouds moved in front of the sun, casting the cobbled street in gloom. A bone-deep shudder rattled my spine. Eirnin’s forge was a twenty-minute walk away, and it would take another ten minutes to get home. Salt and iron was no defense against the gancanagh. Not when it could trick me with that handsome face into absorbing its venom.
I cut off Shona’s rant. “It’s time to go home.”
“Neara—”
“There are ways to cope with being branded a harlot. Just put your head down and go about your business.”
Like I did when you branded me as such, I wanted to say, but there was no point in prolonging our conversation. Instead, I turned and raced down the garden path. She hadn’t asked about the gancanagh’s supernatural effect on her, and I wouldn’t offer any information. Even the smallest of faeries could overhear a slipped word and report back to its superiors. Any advice I could offer would not differ from the general warnings given on a Sunday service.
Shona might have shouted out an invitation for tea the next day, but I didn’t linger to ask for a repetition of her words. It was too late to make friends here, but I would speak to Reverend Donal to give her extra attention. The gancanagh would return soon enough to check if she’d committed suicide.
Clutching my basket, I raced through the cobbled streets, keeping my head down and not daring to look at passersby, lest any of them be members of the fair folk. Houses and storefronts blurred in the edges of my vision.
“Neara,” shouted the baker’s apprentice. “Eirnin’s back at the forge.”
“Thanks!” I sprinted around toward the harbor, leaping over a steaming pile of horse dung. The burn salves clinked in their basket, and I slowed down my pace. Eirnin the blacksmith wouldn’t pay for damaged goods, and we were still short a few shillings to pay for our passage out of Bresail.
Sweat covered my brow by the time I reached the forge, a spacious, brick-built workshop with tools hanging off its walls like stalactites. I stepped into the heat and welcoming scent of burning coals mingled with smelted iron.
A long, relieved breath slid from my lips. Iron could burn a faerie’s skin, and when sharp enough, a weapon forged of the metal could slice through one of the creatures. It was why faeries stayed away from homes with horseshoes on their doors.
Eirnin turned from his forge. Between a pair of metal tongs, he held a piece of iron that glowed candle-white with incandescent heat. “Hello, Neara!”
“Here are the salves you ordered.” I raised my basket.
He flicked his head toward the wooden table. “Put them over there.”
I did as he asked and turned around. Eirnin had put the metal back into the forge, and he wiped his hands on his worn, leather apron. “I’ve been meaning to ask…”
My gaze flickered to the darkening sky and then to the money box. It would be rude to demand payment and leave so soon. I wasn’t the only herbalist in the village, and Eirnin had supplied me with iron weapons and protective jewelry without asking awkward questions. So, instead of hurrying him along, I replied, “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s Margaret, you see.” A red flush crawled across his face.
Impatience simmered in my gut. I tamped it down and nodded. “Is there anything wrong with the baby? It’s due this month, isn’t it?
He rubbed the back of his neck. “No… The baby’s fine.”
Then what did he want? I would have stepped closer, but years of rumors about our involvement gave me pause. In a voice as soothing as I could muster, I said, “You can talk to me about anything.”
Eirnin pressed his lips together and sucked in a huge breath through his nostrils. The movement made his chest expand like the bellows he used to stoke the fire. “All right.”
I leaned forward, heart thrumming, waiting for him to reveal this mysterious request. Perhaps a faerie was bothering him and his young family. By now, he should have suspected that I could see them. I’d purchased more than enough iron items from him over the years. Instead of speaking, he sighed, ducking his head and staring into his large, calloused hands. My posture slumped, and all thoughts of politeness evaporated in the heat of my frustration.
“It’s getting late.” The words came out sharper than I had planned.
His head snapped up. “Right. I-I-I thought you might know something to help her recover from the baby. Last time, it took her a few months because she said it hurt.” He raised a massive shoulder. “And what with you being a woman and all…”
“A healing pessary,” I said.
“What?”
“It works like a suppository.” I stared into his blank face. It would be too embarrassing to explain that it needed to be inserted into the woman, so I shook my head. “How about I come round in a few days and talk it through with Margaret.”
Eirnin deflated with relief, and the tension in his face evaporated. “Thank you.”
“That’ll be twelve shillings.”
He tilted his head to the side, and I nodded at the burn salves. The flush returned, making his ears glow as red as the coals smoldering in the forge. “Oh, right.”
After accepting the payment, I sprinted across the village. The skies had turned an ominous mauve, with thick, indigo clouds rolling toward a blood-red haze on the horizon. Long shadows stretched out over the cobblestones, and I tried not to think about the tale of the man who had been consumed by his own shadow.
Father and I lived on the side of the village furthest away from the forest, but not so close to the sea that we could hear the merrows’ song or catch a glimpse of some of the other creatures that lurked beneath the water.
Our one-room cottage stood at the end of Tavern’s Row, perpendicular to Salt Street. Squeezed between two larger homes, it was the perfect sanctuary with only a door, a window, and a fireplace to keep secure from the fae.
I opened the door. The shrill whistle of the kettle filled my ears, and warmth puffed out from the iron stove on the far wall. It was big for an interior twenty feet in width and length but provided ample space for the small still I used to extract the essential oils from herbs. Wooden cupboards and shelves lined the rest of that wall, and a dining table that doubled up as my workbench stood in the middle of the room.
Father shuffled toward the stove, and I rushed inside, disturbing the line of salt at the threshold.
“Dammit!” I snapped.
He turned his head, and something deep in my heart twisted. Every day, he gained another line on his aged face. Every day, his eyes became more hooded. Father was wiry and wizened, nothing like the jolly old grandfathers who drank barley wine and played Amadan on decks of faded playing cards. Not a spare piece of flesh hung on his face, and the only thin
g obscuring the horror of his condition was a bone-white beard.
Father’s sunken eyes widened. Even the pale covering on his pupils had thickened. “Neara?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not so old I can’t make a cup of tea.” His rasp was barely audible through the kettle’s insistent whistling.
Exhaling, I tried to loosen the tightness in my chest. It was good to see Father standing, but he needed to conserve his strength for the journey across the Sea of Atlas to reach Hibernia.
“Would you like a drink?” Father reached for the kettle’s iron handle, forgetting to use a cloth.
My heart jumped into my throat. I had sold the last of the burn salves and couldn’t rush out in the dark to borrow a jar from Eirnin. “I’ll get that!”
He stepped away. “Where have you been?”
“I couldn’t find Eirnin at the tavern and—”
“You stumbled across one of the folk and became distracted?” The words were as hard as iron.
My jaw clenched. “No.”
Father turned his rheumy eyes to mine, and I avoided his gaze. Wrapping my hand in my apron, I picked up the kettle and placed it on the iron trivet.
The whistling faded, leaving a silence so loud, my ears rang. Unspoken reprimands hung in the air. They spoke of my irresponsibility. How my desire for normal hair had led me to bargain with the fae on that fateful Samhain night. My mind filled with thundering hooves, the mocking laughter of the wild hunt, and a wicked Queen with hair as gold as her crown. Right now, anything was better than memories of being chased through the night until all that was left of my village was a pile of corpses, their throats slit.
Guilt was my mantle. Guilt was my tyrant. Guilt was what kept me from turning a blind eye. And guilt, the crushing feeling that mangled my heart every time I saw Father’s prematurely aged face, made me say, “I’m sorry.”
“You cannot save them all.” His voice was whisper-quiet.
A lump formed in my throat. “I know.”
We’d had this conversation countless times. Different words each instance, different triggers, but the message was all the same.
“Neara… Please do not jeopardize our escape from this accursed island.”
My eyes clouded with tears. Tears because what I would say next would be a lie. It was easy enough to ignore a leprechaun swiping gold from drunkards or a clurichaun gorging itself on drink, but the gancanagh would have debased Shona if I hadn’t intervened. How could I stand by, knowing that she’d go mad for his touch, become ostracized and finally driven to suicide?
I glanced at Father’s age-ravaged face, wanting to explain myself, but the words died in my throat. “I won’t.”
Father’s eyes sharpened. “Seven days. That is all I ask. Please, for the sake of a man close to his end, do not interfere with the folk.”
My throat closed up. His condition was another source of shame and guilt and anguish. Six years ago, Father was a vigorous man in his prime. In our previous village, he’d been the blacksmith. But that Samhain night, something had happened to him. By the time I returned from escaping the fae horsemen, I found him sitting by his forge, wrapped around his leather tome, gray as a tombstone, and horribly aged.
No matter how much I asked, he would never tell me how he had avoided the notice of the faeries.
“Father, I’m sorry.” This time, I meant every word. “I won’t look out for the folk.”
“And if their mischief turns murderous?” he asked.
“You can’t expect me to do nothing!”
A protest formed on his lips, but I spoke first. “Then I’ll do something to distract them... like ring the church bells.”
He nodded. “Very well. Please make the tea. When you have finished, you will continue your studies.”
Warmth filled my chest, and I wrapped my arms around his stooped and shrunken form, inhaling his peppermint and woodsmoke scent. It reminded me of simpler times when my biggest worry was having hair as vibrant as a freshly peeled carrot.
A gnarled hand patted me on the side before falling like a dead weight. Even something as simple as a hug was too much for him these days.
Father shuffled toward his dining chair in the middle of the room, leaning heavily on his iron cane. He would probably flip through the leather tome on the table, as he did every night, and instruct me on the dangers of the fae.
Blinking away the last of my tears, I reached for the caddy of dandelion tea and shook my head. We would be leaving in a week. This called for the rose hips I had dried last year.
Chapter 3
The next morning, swirling mist, thick as the clouds hovering over the distant mountains, invaded the village. It curled around the rooftops, whirled around the streets. It even obscured the cobblestones, casting everything in white.
Magic was the only explanation for this abnormal weather, and I dreaded to think of what it meant. If most captains hadn’t already filled their ships with willing passengers, I’d have stayed at home. If leprechauns hadn’t infested the village, stealing every bit of gold they could find, I’d have stayed at home. And if dread, heavy as an anchor and twice as dark, wasn’t urging me to secure our passage out of Bresail, I’d have stayed at home. Home behind my iron and salt and St. John’s Wort.
Clutching the bag of money to the iron torque around my neck, I let my sleeves drop around my elbows to expose my iron bracelets. No matter what happened today, I would not fall prey to thieving faeries.
Father depended on me to purchase passage out of Bresail, and our very survival depended on one of the captains still having space in their ships.
“Morning, Neara!” Mr. Martin the innkeeper tipped his hat at me. “Fine work you did yesterday, putting that Mulloy girl in her place.”
I lifted the brim of my bonnet and gave the livid bruise on his eye a pointed look. “And Mrs. Martin seemed to do the same to you, I see.”
The man flushed and scurried away. My insides writhed, admonishing me for having embarrassed an elder, but I pushed it away. He was as bad as all those leering drunks, reveling in a young woman’s humiliation. Worse, perhaps, as his own daughters were not much older than Shona. He should have intervened long before I had arrived.
The first inn was already filled with sailors and merchants, eager to finalize business before the mist cleared over the Sea of Atlas. Most of the captains had already sold their cabins, but a couple had offered me a place, if I was willing to help out a bit with crew morale. I wasn’t sure why. Nothing about me said I could laugh and joke with sailors. Since they would not accommodate Father, I refused their offers and moved onto Mr. Martin’s Inn.
The last captain was a ruddy-faced man whose hair was a less vibrant shade of orange than mine. He sat at a well-appointed table, wedged between two blonde-haired sisters I had seen around Calafort. They both wore frayed, velvet dresses that had probably once been magnificent.
I stopped at their table and bobbed into a quick curtsey. “Excuse me, sir?”
He lifted his head, gaze scanning me up and down and finding me wanting. I pursed my lips. Who had time to look pretty when monsters roamed the streets?
“Yes?” he drawled.
“Do you have any cabins left on your ship?”
The captain turned to the plumpest blonde, whose ringlets hung around her pretty face like a gilded frame. “Naimh, what do you say?”
“Cabins, no.”
My heart plummeted along with my hope, and I pictured myself crawling back to the previous captains to offer them more in exchange for providing Father and me passage when the other blonde spoke up. “We’ve got a couple of empty hammocks.”
A breath caught in my throat. “How much do you want for them?”
“A pound.” She flicked her gaze to the pouch clutched to my chest. “Each.”
“For a hammock?” I blurted.
She leaned back and folded her arms. “It costs more to get to Caledonia, girl.”
My eyes squeeze
d shut. Caledonia was the country north of Hibernia, inhabited by clans of ferocious warriors. “Are you making a stop at Hibernia?”
The captain rubbed his ginger beard. “Nothing is stopping you from getting another ship from Caledonia to Latharna or Beal Feirste.” He glanced over my shoulder. “Step aside if you don’t want the hammocks. Those two lads over there are eager for a way out of Bresail.”
I clenched my teeth. Going to Caledonia would mean spending more money. Money we didn’t have! Nausea crawled up my gullet, and my pulse throbbed in my ears, drowning out the sounds of chatter from the other tables in the inn’s dining room. I had mere days to earn money to pay for these new travel expenses.
“Fine.” I placed my purse on the table, and the thinner blonde counted and measured its weight with a pair of balance scales.
While she checked my payment, her sister glanced up at me. “You’re the herbalist, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Do you sell toilet water?”
I licked my lips, thinking of the rose hips I had collected the year before. We still had the poteen I had distilled a few months back, lard, and there were enough flowers in the forest to create what she was asking for. It wouldn’t take me long to make something luxurious and fragrant. “I have a few perfumes, but I was planning to sell them to Hiberian noblewomen.”
Her eyes widened. “Could you sell us a batch?”
I wrinkled my brow, pretending to think about it. Normally, I wouldn’t be so dishonest, but the cost of a private cabin to Hibernia was two pounds, and a pair of hammocks to Caledonia should have cost considerably less. Perfume making wasn’t easy. Not every flower would retain its fragrance, and only a herbalist would know which plants could mask odors, repel midges, and make a woman smell like a Queen.
“The mayor’s daughter pays two shillings per ounce,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel.
The younger one’s head snapped up. “That’s three times how much it costs in Hibernia!”
I shrugged. “There’s a reason why merchants come to Bresail. The plants here are the most potent in the world. You could dilute a pound of my perfume and produce a gallon of aromatic toilet water.”
Curse of the Fae King Page 2