To Carve a Fae Heart (The Fair Isle Trilogy Book 1)

by Tessonja Odette

  “Yes, well, my son is on holiday on the mainland, as you know. Since he couldn’t be here today, I’m pleased I was graced with the next best. Now, my dear, do clean up if you will. Mr. Osterman will be awake soon and I’d rather he didn’t have to see this mess.”

  I deflate as Mr. Meeks shuffles out of the room. He didn’t mean to insult me, I’m sure, but sometimes the old man can be quite daft, regardless of his genius status amongst the people of Sableton. I know he’s fond of me as his apprentice, but he never hesitates to make it clear his son is his successor, not me. His special little fop of a son, who I’m sure hasn’t spent half the time in the surgery room as I have. He clearly cares more about taking one holiday after the next than helping his dear old father.

  Great Mother above, help the injured residents of Sableton once Mr. Meeks retires and leaves the village in the hands of his idiot son.

  I shake out my wrists, realizing my nails have dug into my palms. Never mind that. Never mind. It’s not my concern anyway, I remind myself as I grit my teeth and haul the tray of bloodied tools to the stove. I’m going to medical school. I’m leaving Sableton behind for good.

  Once the tools have been cleaned, boiled, and dried, I untie my bloodstained apron, adding it to the basket of soiled laundry. I heft the basket and start toward the door when I hear a moan from behind me.

  “Mr. Meeks!” I shout into the hall, then rush to the operating table where Mr. Osterman is beginning to stir. His eyelids flutter as he lets out another pained groan. Without so much as a tremble, I reach for the bottle of laudanum, extract a dropperful, then place the dropper between his lips. “This will help.” He grimaces but doesn’t fight me as I drop the liquid—thirty drops, with precision—into his mouth. I call for Mr. Meeks again. Even though I have everything under control, there’s one thing I can’t do alone, and that’s help Mr. Osterman to the parlor. His towering weight would crush me, even if I could get him to walk mostly on his own.

  The patient’s groans subside, and his muscles begin to relax. “The fae did this,” he mutters drowsily, one word rolling into the next. His lids are still fluttering over his eyes. “She tricked me. She made me put my hand…in a bear trap.”

  I freeze. A fae is responsible for this? Hank Osterman is one of the best hunters in Sableton. What kind of evil creature could trick him into doing such a thing? And why?

  He lifts his head. It wobbles, giving him a glance at what remains of his arm before he rests it back on the table. He bares his teeth in an angry snarl. “I thought she was a woman. She looked like a woman.”

  His tone chills me, leaving me without a reply.

  “Ah, Mr. Osterman, you’re awake,” Mr. Meeks says as he approaches the table, his surgeon’s calm never faltering. “Come, let’s get you to the parlor to wait for your wife.”

  “My wife,” Mr. Osterman echoes.

  “Yes, she’s bringing the carriage. Come now.” Mr. Meeks puts his hand behind the patient’s head, helping ease him into a sitting position.

  Mr. Osterman steadies himself with his good arm, and the amputated limb twitches, as if trying to copy the movement of the other. A wince of pain shoots across his face, and he closes his eyes.

  I reach for the bottle next to me. “More laudanum.”

  Mr. Meeks shakes his head. “No, he’s had enough for now. We’ll send him home with a bottle for his wife to administer. Now, come Hank. On your feet.”

  Mr. Osterman doesn’t obey. Instead, he opens his eyes and glances again at the severed arm. For endless moments he just stares at it. Then his shoulders heave, head falling into his remaining hand. Sobs tear out of him.

  All I can do is stare with wide eyes as Hank Osterman—undoubtedly one of the strongest, burliest men in my village—is completely undone.

  And the fae are to blame.

  My heart sinks. I think about the Holstrom girls, gone nearly a week now. What’s it been like living in Faerwyvae, in that horrible, monstrous place? Are they being tormented by the same heartless creatures that did this to Mr. Osterman? The thought ties my stomach in knots. Now that the giddy relief over Amelie’s and my safety has worn off, it’s much easier to feel bad for the Holstrom girls.

  As the minutes tick by, Mr. Osterman’s sobs don’t seem to be letting up, no matter how much Mr. Meeks tries to console him. Finally, Mr. Meeks takes a step away and turns to me with a whisper. “Poor man. I wish we could have done more for him.”

  I keep my voice low. “He said a fae was responsible. Do you think he was glamoured?”

  Mr. Meeks looks back at his sobbing patient, expression grave. “He may have been, although I’d be surprised if that were true. He was wearing rowan berries around the arm we removed. I think it may be a matter of simple fae trickery.”

  “Rowan berries?” I’m shocked. Not by Mr. Osterman wearing them, but by Mr. Meeks’ belief in them. He’s always sharing his scientific theories with me, explaining the fae through logic. I never took the wearing of rowan berries to be anything more than superstition. A false magic.

  “Rowan berries have proven to be effective at preventing a glamour,” he explains. “It hasn’t been studied thoroughly, but those of us in the scientific community believe rowan berries release a chemical upon skin contact that somehow helps preserve the function of our amygdala in the presence of the fae. That way, one need not rely solely on severing eye contact to prevent a glamour.”

  Awe washes over me as my lips pull into a grin. Logic never ceases to have that effect. “That actually makes sense.”

  Mr. Meeks pats me on the head. “Such an apt pupil. Now, run along, Miss Fairfield. Mr. Osterman wouldn’t want a young lady to witness him in such a state.” He tilts his head back at the sobbing man.

  My grin slips from my lips. I want to remind him I’m more than just some young lady. I’m a surgeon’s apprentice and soon-to-be medical professional. However, Mr. Meeks has always been the one person I can’t bring myself to argue with. His mentorship has been my ticket to freedom. If I spoke to him the way I speak to most people, I never would have gotten the apprenticeship, much less kept it for the last two years. Instead, I nod and wish him a good evening.

  As I’m about to pass through the door, Mr. Meeks says, “Oh, and don’t forget the laundry, dear.”

  I grit my teeth, finding the basket I’d dropped earlier when Mr. Osterman woke. With an irritated sigh, I take it to the laundry room.

  The September air is mild when I leave Mr. Meeks’ house, the sun beginning to set. At the end of the drive, a carriage comes my way. It must be Mrs. Osterman. I refuse to look inside as I pass it, not wanting to witness the woman’s worry. She must be terrified for her poor husband.

  I take my time back to Ettings Street, where most of the shops are located. Once there, I stop at the post. We already got our letters this morning, but I’m eager to see if anything has arrived for us since. It’s silly of me to expect anything from the university so soon. It’s only been four days since I sent my acceptance letter. But that doesn’t stop me from checking twice a day. A girl can’t be sensible in all things, you know.

  I leave the post empty handed, then continue my walk. At the other end of Ettings is Mother’s shop, Fairfield Apothecary, which is also our home. It’s nestled between the baker and the dressmaker. You can imagine Amelie’s delight to be so near a dressmaker. As for me…I prefer the bakery.

  My stomach growls at the thought. Surgery always works up an appetite for me. After all the gruesome parts are well past done, of course.

  I can think of nothing but warm soup and buttered bread as the bakery comes into view. Then something unusual snags my attention—a figure walking toward me with sure, calculated steps. It’s then I realize how quiet Ettings Street is. The few villagers passing between shops seem frozen as they watch the figure make his way along the sidewalk.

  He’s fae.

  My mind brings forth visions of the fae I met at the wall, and I try to find what I remember of his features in the
male coming my way. But this fae is undoubtedly shorter, stouter. He wears thick-rimmed spectacles, which I didn’t know fae wore, and a long, burgundy and bronze jacket that reaches his ankles. Beneath the jacket, he wears a pair of cream trousers, a russet waistcoat, and a bronze cravat in a floral pattern. The only similarity between him and the fae from the wall is the smug smile.

  I don’t meet his eyes as he passes by, but a shiver runs down my spine once he’s behind me. I can guess where he’s heading. He’s clearly a fae ambassador and likely on his way to smooth things over with the Ostermans.

  A fae drawing human blood could be seen as an act of war—should be seen as an act of war. Yet, I already know that’s not how things will go. The ambassador has probably already spoken with the mayor, delivering sleek words and sorry excuses for the troublesome fae’s unwitting behavior. Then he’ll go to the Ostermans, offer to pay for the surgery we performed and make financial amends for loss of limb and income. The council will let it slide. Again. Just another accident. A misunderstanding.

  I’m so angry, I could explode. It’s then I notice the street has remained quiet. The villagers are still loitering outside the shops, staring at where the fae ambassador went. I whirl around, but he’s out of sight. It makes me wonder if something else happened. Maybe the mayor didn’t cave for once.

  Whatever the case, the mood on Ettings Street has me rattled. I quicken my pace, forgetting the bakery as I make a straight line for home. That’s when I realize the villagers aren’t staring after the fae ambassador. They’re watching me.

  Nausea wrenches my gut as my mind begins to spin. There’s a reasonable explanation for this. Maybe they’re only staring because I had the nerve to walk past the fae while everyone else stood frozen in fear.

  I want to be right. I have to be right.

  As I reach the door to the apothecary, I’m surprised to find it in the process of opening. I’m more surprised when Harriet, the baker from next door, is revealed coming from behind it. Her face is pale, and when her eyes find me, her lips pull into a sympathetic frown. She reaches a hand and places it on my shoulder. “I brought you some bread, dearie.”

  “Bread,” I echo, brows knitting together as I try to puzzle together her words with her expression. It isn’t unusual for Harriet to bring us bread. We buy some from her almost daily. So why is she saying it like an apology?

  Harriet nods. “I had plenty left over after I brought some to the Holstroms.”

  I stare at her, unable to make sense of her seemingly disconnected statements. “What’s this all about?”

  Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open, but she doesn’t say anything.

  Terror seizes my chest. “What’s going on?”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “You should talk to your mother.”

  I don’t wait to see Harriet the rest of the way out the door before I rush into the shop. The front is empty, so I barrel into the kitchen, then to the parlor. That’s where I find them.

  Amelie is lying on the couch, her head in Mother’s lap. Her cheeks are flushed and streaked with tears as she sobs uncontrollably into a white kerchief. Something sparkles from the finger of the hand she’s dabbing her tears with. A ring.

  I meet Mother’s eyes and find her staring blankly ahead, face devoid of all color.

  “Ma, what happened?”

  She slowly turns to meet my gaze, but her expression remains empty. “The Holstrom girls are dead. You and Amelie are being sent to Faerwyvae in their place.”

  Chapter Five

  Mother’s words make no sense. They are neither rational nor reasonable. And they do nothing to stop my mind from spinning. There’s no way she can mean what I think she means. My voice comes out shaky. “Ma, what are you talking about?”

  She looks from me to Amelie, then strokes my sister’s hair. Amelie lets out a louder sob.

  “Let’s speak in the kitchen.” Mother gently scoots Amelie’s head off her lap, leaving her to nestle deeper into the couch.

  I follow her to the kitchen. “Please tell me what’s happening. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  Her eyes are glazed as she takes two mugs and a jar of herbs, then sets them on the kitchen table. “The fae ambassador just left after coming here to tell me all of this. I’ve hardly had time to process it myself.”

  My eyes widen. The fae I saw a moment ago…he came from here? No wonder everyone was staring at me.

  Mother spoons some herbs into the mugs, then places the kettle on the stove. She returns to face me. “He explained the Holstrom girls were…executed last night.”

  “Executed! Why?”

  “All the ambassador would say is that the girls were found guilty of treason by King Aspen.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “We’re supposed to believe sweet little Theresa and Maryanne Holstrom committed treason against a fae king? That’s insane. What exactly was their treasonous crime?”

  She sighs. “You know how the fae are.”

  Cruel. Irrational. Evil. “You mean they offended him. Wore the wrong color on the wrong day of the week. Forgot to say some silly rhyme before eating fae food. Is that it?”

  Mother doesn’t answer. It’s not like I expect her to know the truth anyway. The ambassadors never come with the truth. They come with excuses.

  I grind my teeth. “Why are we being sent to Faerwyvae? They got their Chosen for the Reaping. It’s not our fault the king executed them already.”

  She shakes her head. “The ambassador says the marriages hadn’t taken place yet. The treaty states at least one marriage must take place between a Chosen and a fae every hundred years to secure the pact.”

  “What does the treaty say about the fae executing their fiancées? Drawing human blood is an act of war.”

  Her voice comes out soft. “So is treason.” The emptiness in her tone is so resigned. So final. So hopeless.

  I fight back tears, focusing instead on the flicker of indignation burning inside me. “You’re just going to let this happen? You’re going to let them take us?”

  When she meets my eyes, her expression hardens, turning to anger. Not at me, I realize, but at the situation. “I don’t know what else to do. I thought I did everything to keep the two of you safe. I thought you’d always be safe.”

  Anger is growing inside me too, and my words come out bitter. “You mean you never saw this in your cards? In your tea leaves? In all the times you took us to the wall with our offerings, promising us you understood the fae?”

  “Evie, I—”

  “Where is your precious magic now, Mother? Are your tinctures going to save us? Your potions and draughts? Do you have any mystical talismans to hang around our necks to ensure we don’t lose our heads?” My words are laced with sarcasm, and I watch as she wilts beneath them.

  As her expression falters, so does my heart. I shouldn’t have said any of that; my anger isn’t meant for her. Yet, I’m too full of fury to apologize. If I take it back now, the rage will rot inside me, eating me alive.

  The kettle whistles from the stove, saving me from the tension growing between us.

  “We were going to get married by the sea,” says a wistful voice.

  With a jump, I whirl around to find Amelie hovering in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes unfocused. I go to her, placing a hand on her arm.

  She meets my eyes, then holds up a frail hand, the one bearing the ring. It’s a ruby on a circlet of gold. “Magnus asked me to marry him this afternoon. Now I’ll…I’ll never…”

  Mother pushes a mug of tea into Amelie’s hands as a fresh sob escapes my sister’s throat. “Drink.”

  Amelie does as told, then wanders back to the parlor. The sight of her uneven steps chills me to the bone.

  Mother sighs, closing the lid to her jar of herbs with more force than necessary. “I should bring this to the Holstroms. It will help with their nerves. You may not believe in my craft, Evie, but I know Mrs. Holstrom will appreciate it.”

  I want to tell he
r laudanum would be far more effective than whatever herbal infusion she’s created, but I hold my tongue. I’ve said enough already. And if I’m not ready to apologize…

  I hold out my hand for the jar. “I’ll take it to them.”

  Mother cocks her head, then seems to understand the olive branch I’m offering. “Very well. But don’t stay long. The ambassador will be back at midnight…” Her words dry up, ending with a choked sound.

  Midnight. Amelie and I will be taken to Faerwyvae at midnight.

  The house suddenly seems too small for my swarm of thoughts, for the anger and confusion and shock swirling inside. I take the jar from Mother, then rush outside faster than I can blink.

  I make my way to the Holstrom farm, which is on the northern edge of Sableton. The sky is almost dark by the time I arrive, but there’s enough light to stop me when I reach their gate. For there in front of the farm lies a scene far more gruesome than anything I’ve witnessed during surgery.

  The grounds in front of their stables and pens are littered with dismembered bodies. Animal bodies. Pigs, sheep, goats. Blood splatters the dirt, entrails stream between corpses. I take a step back, bile rising in my throat. This could be none other than the work of fae.

  “Disgusting,” says a voice at my side. I hadn’t noticed Maddie Coleman arrive. She holds a basket full of coffee, chocolate, and other exotic food items. Her parents own the biggest merchant ships in Eisleigh, and her uncle is the mayor—which she thinks makes her Queen of Sableton. She wrinkles her nose at the scene before us but doesn’t seem nearly as disturbed as I am. When she turns to me, her eyes fall on the jar of herbs in my hand. “What a quaint gift.”

  I watch as she sways side to side, as if trying to accentuate the oversized gift basket in her arms.

  “Mother sent me,” I say flatly.