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

by Tessonja Odette

  By the time we come to a stop, I’m nearly out of breath. I try to keep my panting to a minimum while Foxglove approaches a set of double doors and pushes them open. He waves us forward, and Amelie and I step inside.

  We enter a room in the same warm hues as the rest of the palace. An enormous bed lines the far wall, a wardrobe spans half the length of another wall, and a desk, dressing table, and dressing screen stand in a corner. In the middle of the room is a magnificent citrine tub. Wafts of steam curl up from the water inside.

  “First things first,” Foxglove says. “The two of you need to bathe before you meet your future husbands. You may either take turns or share the bath.”

  I didn’t expect such a luxury to await me. In fact, I’m not sure what I expected, but it was supposed to be more terrifying than this.

  “I will tell the king and prince you are here and arrange a meeting,” Foxglove says. “Is there anything else you will require in the meantime? Lorelei can help you undress and wash—”

  “No,” I say. “We would like to bathe alone.”

  Lorelei shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

  “She’ll be on the other side of the door if you need anything.” Foxglove gives a bow of his head, then hurries to add, “Please don’t plot murder or anything.”

  I frown at his back as he and Lorelei leave, closing the doors behind them.

  Amelie finally lets go of my hand and looks around the room with mournful eyes. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

  I sigh, wishing I’d wake up from this beautiful nightmare. But it isn’t going anywhere, and it’s only just begun. “Unfortunately, it really is.”

  Chapter Nine

  The warmth of the bath soothes my muscles and calms my frazzled nerves. I know it’s nothing more than a false sense of security, but the comfort lulls me into a feeling of safety. I wish I could stay in the bath all night.

  Amelie sits across from me in the tub, playing with a sprig of rosemary. Other herbs and marigold blooms float on the water’s surface, filling my senses with an intoxicating aroma. An aroma that reminds me of home. Of the apothecary kitchen. Of Mother.

  “At least they’ve given us this room together,” Amelie says, her frown flickering into a weak smile.

  I don’t want to crush her hope by telling her we’ll likely be separated once our marriages take place, so I do nothing but nod.

  “And this bath is nice,” she says. “How do you think they keep the water warm?”

  I don’t have an answer to that and have been trying my best to tamp down any fascination with the palace or the fae. But I can’t deny I am stimulated with all the questions brimming in the back of my mind. We must have been in the tub for an hour by now, and the water is still as warm as when we entered it. There’s no drain, no visible plumbing, no heating element.

  “It’s magic, isn’t it?” Amelie asks.

  I shake my head. “You know I don’t believe in magic.”

  “Even after all of this?” she says, waving her hand to indicate the room around us. “How else are those orbs of light staying lit? How else was a palace this big constructed?” She lifts her rowan berry necklace from her neck, the length of it trailing behind her to keep from soaking in the tub. “How else do magic talismans work against the fae?”

  “It isn’t magic. There’s a perfectly logical—”

  “—explanation for all of it,” she finishes with me. “I know, but you don’t have the slightest idea what that explanation could be, do you?”

  “Actually, I know exactly how rowan works against the fae. You see—”

  She splashes me, leaving me sputtering and blinking water from my eyes. When Amelie’s face comes back into view, she’s grinning mischievously.

  I splash her back. “How dare you interrupt my scientific explications!”

  She squeals, then launches more water at me. We fall into fits of laughter, and for a moment, it’s like we’re little girls again, sharing the tub while Mother scrubs our backs. The thought sobers me, and I’m again reminded of our situation.

  Amelie seems to feel the same, her smile slipping back into a frown. Finally, she stands and reaches for one of the blanket-like towels on the floor. “I’m going to explore the wardrobe.”

  “Of course you are.” Classic Amelie behavior. Solve all problems with clothes. The bath doesn’t feel nearly as friendly now that I’m alone, so I follow suit. I step out of the tub and grab the towel, releasing a sigh as its warmth envelops me.

  Amelie gasps, making me jump. My eyes locate my pile of discarded clothing. I’m ready to dive for my dagger buried beneath them when she gasps again, then turns toward me with a wide smile. She holds a shimmering pink dress up to herself, swishing the hem of the fabric back and forth. “Evie, can you even believe your eyes?”

  I let out a sigh of relief and join her at the wardrobe to examine the gown. Its fabric is thin and gauzy, like Lorelei’s, but the skirt is constructed of numerous layers, making it look like petals of a flower. Dresses may not be my favorite, but I must admit it’s pretty.

  She puts it back and pulls out another, this one in a seafoam green. Again, she holds it up to her body. “Each is more stunning than the last. Have you ever seen anything like this? What are you going to wear?”

  I look back at my pile of clothes. “I’ll probably wear my trousers.”

  Amelie’s mouth falls open aghast. “No. How could you when you have all this at your disposal?”

  A feeling of unease ties my stomach in knots. I feel oddly betrayed by Amelie’s excitement over the dresses. Aren’t we supposed to be angry about all of this? Still, I can’t bring myself to dampen her sudden joy.

  She replaces the seafoam dress, then takes out another, purple this time. The skirt is made of shimmering silk decorated with tiny, amethyst jewels. The top is made from a similar silk in shades of purple, constructed of tiny, overlapping pieces of the cloth, making it look like scales. “Oh, I am definitely wearing this one.”

  “What if these are supposed to be formal dresses?”

  She shrugs, letting the towel fall to the floor as she puts the dress over her head. “Who cares? If I’m going to get eaten by a fae king, at least I’ll look good before I die.”

  I’m stuck between a gasp and a laugh, then that sense of unease returns. Again, I feel betrayed by how well Amelie seems to be adapting. How could she feel so lighthearted after spending the best part of our ride here sulking and crying? She’s out of her wits. I’m being the sensible one. Aren’t I?

  A knock sounds on the other side of the door, and Amelie suppresses a shriek. She hurries to pull the dress the rest of the way down, succeeding just as Lorelei steps inside.

  “Brought your things,” the fae says, four bags in hand. Three are Amelie’s, while one is mine. As she crosses the room, I realize for the first time that her gait is less than graceful. There’s something crooked about the way she walks, her steps not dainty like Foxglove’s.

  She reaches the dressing table and hefts the bags on top of it. When she turns to face us, she catches us staring. Amelie tugs at her gown while I pull the towel tighter around me. “What?” she says, pulling her head back. “Did you not want your things?”

  I lift my chin. “In the human world, a knock doesn’t forewarn one entering. You usually await permission to enter first. Especially when one is known to be bathing.”

  A corner of her mouth lifts but her eyes narrow at me. “Well, aren’t we fussy. I may be your lady’s maid, but the first thing you need to get right is this: you aren’t in the human world anymore. You’re lucky you got a knock at all.”

  I glower. “I didn’t ask you to be my lady’s maid. In fact, tell the king we don’t need one. Let him punish you elsewhere for your crimes.”

  Lorelei crosses her arms and strides up to me. I fight the urge to lean back as she holds my gaze with her furious olive eyes. “For one thing, I don’t tell the king anything. He tells me. I am his subject as you are now too. For a
nother, I shouldn’t be punished at all. What I did to the Butcher was a favor to my people.”

  I remember what Foxglove said about the traps on the Faerwyvae side of the wall, about Mr. Osterman selling fae parts. “You see, that’s where you’re mistaken. Hank Osterman would never do what your kind are saying he did.”

  She bares her teeth. “Has it ever occurred to you that being human doesn’t make you an authority on everyone of your kind? The man you call Hank killed my lover in front of my eyes. I watched him do it. How? My leg was stuck in one of his iron traps. I watched as he took Malan and cut the wings from her back with an iron blade, sliced out her emerald heart, then stuffed her body in a bag. I screamed the entire time. The only reason I’m alive is because I got lucky.”

  I blanch, taking an inadvertent step away from her. No, she’s wrong. This can’t be true.

  She continues. “When he released me from the trap, I put myself under a glamour. It took all the strength I had not to give in to the pain from my wound. I could have let myself die, could have joined Malan in the otherlife, but I didn’t. Instead, I thought of those I could help if I made the Butcher pay. So I glamoured myself as a beautiful human woman. I crawled away from him, and he saw it as a seduction, a tease. He followed me, reaching to touch me, to put his hands in all the forbidden places he craved. I finally pulled myself in front of another of his traps. He watched a beautiful woman open for him. And he did all the rest.”

  I feel like I’m going to be sick, her impossible words and my own logic battling for supremacy inside me. “It’s still cruel,” is all I can say. “You glamoured him—”

  “No,” she snaps. “I glamoured me alone.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “What’s the difference?”

  “Do you know nothing about our magic? Placing a glamour on a human controls them, lowers their inhibitions, allows us to suggest actions they readily accept.”

  This I know about, and there’s a rational explanation to it. Mr. Meeks theorizes that the fae emit a certain hormone during prolonged eye contact—an automatic function for the fae. That hormone, unfortunately, is what suppresses our amygdala, compromising our response to danger, opening our minds to suggestion. That’s why blinking is so effective at preventing a glamour. It keeps the fae from secreting whatever hormone is responsible for attacking our brains.

  “Trust me, I know all about a fae glamour,” I say, hazarding a glance at Amelie, who blanches. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

  “Then you’ll know that’s not what I did to the Butcher,” Lorelei says.

  “What exactly did you do to him, then?”

  “Like I said, I glamoured myself, changing my appearance to look like a human instead. He saw a helpless woman before him. He could have done anything—ignored her to find the fae he’d captured, asked her what she was doing alone in the woods—but his vile urges were stronger.”

  I shake my head, unable to reconcile the man she’s describing with the hunter from my village. He’s lived in Sableton my entire life. He has a wife! Could it be I never knew him at all? That no one really knows him?

  I remember what he said after he woke from surgery. I thought she was a woman. She looked like a woman.

  Equally disturbing is Lorelei’s assertion that she can glamour herself, change her appearance at will. I refuse to believe that’s possible. Again, there must be a scientific explanation. Another undiscovered hormone the fae emit that wreaks havoc on our nervous systems, altering our perceptions, our interpretation of visual stimuli.

  “Sorrow not,” Lorelei says, a bitter edge in her voice as she lifts the hem of her dress. “He may have lost an arm, but iron through the leg is a lot to heal from for a fae.”

  I can’t help but look at the flesh she’s exposed. One of her legs is perfect, slim, and brown, while the other is scarred and misshapen, wrapped in thin vines like a makeshift cast.

  She continues. “He, on the other hand, still has his wife while Malan will never again be amongst the living.”

  I shudder, my chest heaving. I want nothing more than to change the subject. For her to leave. To unsee the battered flesh of her leg.

  “Can I wear this?” Amelie’s voice comes out small. She strokes the skirt of the purple gown she’s already wearing.

  Lorelei swings her head toward my sister. Some of the fire seems to drain from her eyes, her shoulders slumping forward. “Yes. In fact, wear the nicest dress you can find in there.”

  I point to my bag on the dressing table. “I was going to wear—”

  “Wear. A. Dress,” Lorelei says, eyes locking back on me. “A fae dress. You are about to meet King Aspen and Prince Cobalt. This is not the time to argue about it or cling to your silly human ways.”

  Amelie squeals in delight and tosses the seafoam dress at me. I catch it with a resigned sigh.

  “I take it neither of you need or want my help,” Lorelei says, her tone still icy. “Meet me in the hall when you’re dressed.”

  I feel empty after she leaves. Partially from guilt, but I’m used to my sharp tongue getting me into tight corners with others. What’s more unsettling is the upside-down world I’ve been thrust into. One where fae find me ignorant and the people I’ve trusted my entire life are seen as monsters.

  For the love of iron, is any of this real?

  Chapter Ten

  “Must I wear these?” Amelie asks.

  I peer from behind the dressing screen to see my sister stroking the rowan berries around her neck. Her nose wrinkles, a frown tugging her lips as she stares into the full-length mirror next to the dressing table.

  “Yes,” I say, then pull back behind the screen. I’m wearing the seafoam dress after turning it inside out and back again several times. The fae dresses don’t have visible seams and look appropriate worn either way. Not that I thought Mother’s wear your clothes inside out suggestion would help anyway. I can think of no logic to such a superstition. But it was worth a try.

  She lets out a heavy sigh. “But it doesn’t match the dress.”

  “Neither does getting glamoured.”

  “That makes no sense, Evie. Besides, it’s not like I’ll do anything that will put me in a position to get glamoured. I know how to blink. I’m not stupid.”

  “I know you’re not.” She wasn’t stupid when she fell under a glamour four years ago either, but I don’t say so. Instead, I retrieve my dagger from the pile of clothes I’ve hidden it in, then strap the belt around my thigh. It’s snug, but the gray leggings I found should keep it from chafing too badly. Luckily, the seafoam dress has several layers to the skirt, making the belt and dagger invisible to prying eyes. “Rowan works against the fae. We need to keep wearing the necklaces Mother made us. Make sure at least part of it is touching your skin at all times.”

  “Oh, now you believe in Mother’s craft.”

  I roll my eyes, then check the fit of the dress. It feels fine. Unlike the dresses we wear at home, these ones are loose and flowing, easy to put on without much assistance. Best of all, no corsets.

  I meet Amelie at the mirror, and she grins at my reflection. “You look beautiful, Evie!”

  As much as I hate to admit it, the dress suits me, complementing the copper tones in my dark hair. I quickly look away, then approach the dressing table to rifle through my bag. “Did mother give you a pouch of salt and a tincture?”

  Amelie drags her gaze away from the mirror with some difficulty, then stands at my side. “Yes, yes. Do we bring them both with us?”

  “Bring the salt,” I say, tying the pouch to my waist. Salt is another one of Mother’s prescriptions I can believe in. While I don’t believe it wards off magical enchantment—because, obviously, enchantment isn’t real—I do believe it helps protect our digestive tracts from harm. Mr. Meeks once told me he theorized salt could counteract the harmful effects of fae food by neutralizing any acids and helping us digest unfamiliar components. “But take the tincture now. Half a dropperful like Mother said. Remember?�
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  She nods, then finds the pouch and bottle in one of her bags. Once she’s finished tying her own pouch to her waist, we face each other.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  She blanches a little, then nods.

  Lorelei waits for us outside our door. We find her leaning against the opposite wall with her arms crossed. “Finally,” she mutters, then takes off down the hall.

  As we follow, I try to memorize every turn we make, to familiarize myself with the halls and doors, but I keep finding myself drawn to Lorelei’s now-unmistakable limp.

  I avert my gaze back to our surroundings, to the staircase up ahead. We climb it, and I feel a cool breeze, again carrying the smell of salt. As we reach the top of the staircase, an enormous room comes into view. Open air greets us at the other side of the room from a wide expanse cut from the wall, lined with a white rail, and interspersed with citrine columns. The air is cool without being unpleasant, and the night is dark beyond it.

  At the center of the room is a long table with two ornate chairs on each end. One chair is taller than the other, its legs and back in the shape of twining branches, or—more accurately—antlers. The chair on the other side is similar in design but with a shorter back. The table is laden with plates of food, thick yellow candles, and numerous cups and bottles. Along the length of the table are about a dozen much simpler chairs.

  The room is empty, save for Foxglove, standing near the open expanse. Lorelei waves for us to follow as she crosses the room toward him.

  He turns with a wide grin, adjusts his spectacles, then assesses Amelie and me. “Ah, much better. The king and prince will arrive shortly.”