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

by Tessonja Odette

  He takes a step toward me, and something like panic crosses his face. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to do this either? Especially when it means I have to give you my name in return?”

  I’m surprised by this. He has to give me his name too? Cobalt only mentioned my part in the ritual. Still, what good will having his name do me? It’s not like humans have access to whatever makes fae overpower us.

  “I’ve been thwarted by your kind time and time again,” he says. “Now I’m supposed to trust you with the one thing that could be my undoing.”

  “Well, it seems like forgoing the ritual will be mutually beneficial then.”

  He presses his fingers to his temples, grumbling something unintelligible. “Fine,” he finally says. “We’ve both had a long day. We’ll postpone the Bonding.”

  “We’ll cancel it,” I correct.

  Aspen’s jaw shifts back and forth. “We’ll get some sleep and reassess in the morning.”

  “Then I’ll be going.” I spin on my heel toward the door.

  Aspen strides toward me, blocking the door. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I already told you,” I say with a sneer. “I will never allow you to bed me, not even for the sake of sleep. I’m returning to my room.”

  “How do you think that will look to the ambassadors? The vicar? I don’t know who’s a spy, who’s plotting against me.”

  I let out a sharp laugh. “I know exactly who.”

  He tilts his head back, surprised. “Who?”

  I cup my hand over the side of my mouth and motion him closer. My voice starts as a whisper and ends in a roar. “No one, you arrogant, self-obsessed, paranoid fool. No one is plotting against you. You’re the one murdering humans and endangering the treaty, no one else!”

  His chest heaves with rage, and I realize I’ve gone too far.

  I try to keep my composure as I take a step away from him. “I should leave.”

  “No,” he growls. “I will.” With that, he storms to the doors and out of the room, leaving me in stunned silence.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  For minutes on end, I just stand there, unable to move. But can you blame me? Aspen left me in what is obviously his personal bedroom. I’m both too afraid to leave and too afraid he’ll return at any moment.

  When I finally get the nerve to further investigate my surroundings, I find my belongings have already been transferred here. One side of the wardrobe holds most of the fae dresses that used to be in my old room. The dressing table and screen have been brought over as well, taking up a corner of the room next to an enormous carnelian tub. My bag, my surgery kit, and all my stray items have been neatly arranged behind the dressing screen.

  The only things missing are Amelie’s. I blink back tears at the thought.

  I find a nightdress in the wardrobe and change behind the screen, even though the room is empty. Then I take my dagger and wander the room again, investigating every crack, looking under every table and within every shadow. Once I’ve surmised no threat has been left for me, I make my way to the bed. My fingers tremble as I turn down the covers, peel back the spider silk sheets. This is Aspen’s bed. His bed. The thought is equal parts disturbing and thrilling.

  I allow the latter sensation to prevail, finding satisfaction in the fact that I’ve momentarily won. He forfeited his bedroom to me. And if he’s going to be so difficult, I certainly won’t suffer for it. Let him wander the halls or sleep in a closet, or whatever it is brooding fae do when their pride is wounded. Let me get a good night’s sleep for once.

  And I do.

  * * *

  I don’t see Aspen the next day. Or the next. I hardly see anyone at all, for that matter, save for Foxglove and Lorelei. Since the king has yet to return to his bedroom since our argument, I begin to grow more and more comfortable, taking meals in there, snooping through Aspen’s things. Yet I’ve found nothing to occupy me for long and spend most of my time alternating between grief and boredom.

  By the third day, my curiosity is too strong. “Where are King Aspen and Prince Cobalt?” I ask Foxglove, meeting his eyes in the mirror as he twists a lock of my hair. “During the day, that is,” I quickly add, in case I’m supposed to be keeping up the ruse that Aspen and I have been spending the night together.

  “Hasn’t your mate told you?” He places a jeweled pin in my hair. “The king has been inundated with correspondences regarding some issue with the humans.”

  “What kind of an issue?”

  He shrugs. “It’s not my place to know or say. I’m his ambassador, not his confidante. When I’m needed to go smooth things over, I’m sure he’ll let me in on all the details.”

  I chew my bottom lip, wondering what this could be about. Is it about Amelie? Has Aspen finally decided to tell my people the truth? Or could he be trying to invalidate our alliance and break the treaty? The blood leaves my face at the thought.

  “He must know you’re restless with him so preoccupied,” Foxglove continues. “Which is why he’s brought a guest to visit.”

  “A guest? Who?”

  His expression brightens. “I went out of my way to make it a quaint little human ritual. What do you call it…sitting for tea? I made up a room like a parlor and imported tea from your village. Isn’t that too cute?”

  “But who is my guest, Foxglove?”

  He rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if I tell you. You don’t know her. Not personally, at least, but once I’m finished with your hair…there!” He steps back and evaluates my auburn tresses. “Now I can take you to meet her.”

  I follow Foxglove out of Aspen’s room and down the hall, eager to discover who my mysterious visitor will be. We stop at an open door, and I freeze when I see what’s inside.

  “You’re impressed, right?”

  I press my lips tight together, the strain of suppressing my laughter almost too much to bear. Inside the little room is a fine couch, a tea table, and an elegant chair. Surrounding these furnishings is an eyesore of human junk, from a grandfather clock to a coat stand dangling with numerous umbrellas, coats, and—oddly—a pair of boots. Everything is coated in doilies and frilly shawls, the floor sprawled with overlapping rugs of unfashionable design.

  “Does it remind you of home?”

  I’m not sure if I should be offended by that, considering he saw my home and should know this tacky room looks nothing like the parlor at the apothecary. “Yes,” I manage to say. “Just with more…stuff.”

  “More character, you mean,” he says. “I love human knickknacks. Some of these were left as offerings at the wall.”

  “Is this where our offerings end up?” I ask, lifting a corner of a yellowing doily. “In unused rooms at all the palaces?”

  “Of course not.” Foxglove says. “This just so happens to be my personal collection. When the king asked me to make you a private room to take guests, I figured I’d put these things to use. They didn’t come cheap, you know. That rug itself cost me six garnets.”

  My eyes widen. “Are you saying our offerings are taken from the wall…and sold?”

  “Only the most curious things. The rest is discarded. I’m sure hundreds of years ago, seelie fae were eager to get their hands on anything human. A new emotion to taste from a bite of pastry. A new human-like characteristic to learn from a pair of kid gloves. By now, Faerwyvae has enough human influence to keep the seelie quite satisfied.”

  “If our offerings are sold or discarded, how in the name of iron do the fae decide which girls to select for the Reaping?”

  Foxglove shoots me an odd look. “The fae don’t choose. Your human council does. The hosting court can override that decision with a choice of their own, of course, but that’s a rare thing.”

  My head swims as I ponder the implications of everything he’s saying. All those times Mother brought Amelie and me to the wall with our offering of bread and milk. All that time we thought the gesture would keep me and my sister safe from the Rea
ping. All that time we were wrong. It was my own people who were in charge all along.

  “They’re so precious, don’t you think?” Foxglove says with a sigh, oblivious to my agitation. “Such silly, useless things. Yet, they have an irresistible charm.”

  “They sure do,” I mutter.

  Foxglove beams. “I’m glad you approve. Aspen will be pleased, and I’m sure your guest will be equally so.”

  “Where is my guest, anyhow?”

  “She’s waiting below. I wanted you to see your parlor before I brought her in. I can fetch her now if you’re ready.” He takes a step toward the door, then pauses, furrowing his brow. “You do like it right?”

  I pull my lips into what I think is a warm smile. I’m sorely out of practice, but Foxglove deserves to see my gratitude. As gaudy as the room is, and as disappointed as I am to learn the futility of our offerings, I know his heart was in the right place. “Of course, Foxglove. I love it.”

  I take a seat on the couch as I wait for my guest. A few minutes later, Lorelei brings in a tray of tea, cookies, and salt. She freezes when she enters, looking around the room in terror. “What in all the rotting oak and ivy is this awful mess?”

  I hush her. “Foxglove worked really hard on this.”

  “I can see that. The question is why?”

  “He thinks it’s what a human parlor looks like. Which is beyond me, considering he’s the ambassador to the human lands.”

  She sets the tray on the table, nose wrinkled in disgust as she eyes her surroundings. “So you’re saying every parlor doesn’t look like this?”

  “No, but don’t tell Foxglove.”

  Noise sounds down the hall, and I rise to my feet. A moment later, Foxglove enters with a woman. A human woman. Her eyes widen as she enters the room, but other than that, her expression remains blank.

  “Miss Fairfield, I’d like for you to meet Doris Mason,” Foxglove says.

  The woman curtsies, then takes a seat in the chair across from me. I return to my seat on the couch, pondering the familiar name. Doris Mason. Where have I heard that? Then it dawns on me. “You’re the Chosen from the last Reaping.”

  “Yes,” she says, her voice light and breathy.

  “We’ll give you some privacy,” Foxglove says. Then he and Lorelei leave the room.

  I’m left staring at Doris, a mingle of shock and confusion running through me. Doris was one of the Chosen from one hundred years ago. Yet she looks no older than Mother. Her eyes are distant and watery, their shade a dull gray, her hair is brittle wisps of dirty blonde, and she wears a thin green dress that barely reaches her calves.

  “Is that tea?” she asks, eyes falling on the tray between us.

  I shake my head to clear it. “Yes. So sorry. Where are my manners?” I pour two cups, then offer her a plate with a cookie.

  As she sips her tea, a hint of clarity seems to focus in her eyes. “I haven’t had tea in ages. Not like this, at least.”

  “It’s a nice change from wine, isn’t it?”

  She nods.

  I feel a flush of anxiety building as I search for what to say next. These situations have never been my forte, considering I’m not one for small talk. An intellectual debate with a magister would be more in my comfort zone. “Might I ask what village you were from?”

  “Marchvale,” she says. “I barely remember what it was like anymore. I’m sure it’s changed since I last saw it.”

  “And you were sent to Faerwyvae with your cousin, right? To the Summer Court, if I remember correctly?”

  “Yes, but Nadia passed away many years ago. It’s been over sixty years that I’ve lived without her. It gets harder every day to remember her face.”

  Finally, a topic that piques my interest. I can think of no other way to pose my question but to be blunt. “How are you still alive when your cousin is not?”

  She ponders my question, eyes wandering the cluttered walls. “You won’t age the same way you used to,” she says. “Being in Faerwyvae will change you a little. You’ll be open to a very small amount of its magic. You can live longer than you would in Eisleigh, age less quickly. And so long as you live, your family and their descendants will be compensated back home. So, at least there’s one motivation not to take your own life.”

  She says the last part so casually, it takes me a moment to realize she wasn’t being sardonic. I make the firm decision not to laugh, then consider everything else she said. Faerwyvae will change you. You’ll be open to its magic. I want to tell her I don’t believe in magic, but the statement seems childish in this circumstance. Here sits a woman who wouldn’t be alive, were she still in Eisleigh. Yet she hardly looks a day over forty. I know there’s a scientific reason for this, but I haven’t the slightest idea what it could be. “What about your cousin? Did she not age as slowly as you did?”

  Doris shakes her head. “Nadia didn’t fare so well. Probably because she had no children to live for, nor was she well-loved.”

  “Was her husband unkind to her?”

  “I don’t know if one could call a fae kind or unkind,” she says. “They simply are what they are, despite the clothes they wear or the food they eat. Nadia and I were married to the Summer Queen’s cousins, neither of whom wanted us. Neither kept us well, but I doubt either of our husbands thought they were doing anything but their utmost duties. Nadia’s husband never visited her bed and chose to live with his favored lover instead. My husband visited my bed many times. But just as many times, he visited the beds of his numerous mates. I was breeding stock to him, a conduit to provide him heirs. And heirs I gave him. Many. I think that’s the only thing the fae like about humans. We conceive well.”

  My stomach churns at that. “How are the children treated, being half-fae?”

  “They are well,” she says. “You’d hardly know they are half-fae at all, aside from their appearance. The magic here seems to favor them as if they were fully fae. My sons and daughters will far outlive me. Many of the children of the Chosen who preceded me are still alive today.”

  It had never occurred to me what became of any offspring between the fae and humans. If I’d given it any thought, I would have assumed the fae ate their half-human children. At least that assumption has been proven wrong. “Are any of the previous Chosen still alive in the other courts?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m the last. No—I suppose there are two of us now. Three of us? Where is your sister?”

  I can’t bring myself to talk about Amelie, even though Doris might be the one person who could understand. “She isn’t here,” I say, then take a sip of my tea.

  “I see.” I’m not sure if I imagine it, but she seems to shoot me a knowing look. She then reaches across the table and gives my hand a squeeze. “Persevere, Miss Fairfield. If I can do it, so can you.”

  I look into her worn eyes, her empty expression, the lips that can barely form a smile. A morbid thought crosses my mind. If this is what perseverance looks like…perhaps Amelie was the lucky one.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I can’t shake my meeting with Doris, even long after she leaves. I’d always imagined the Chosen were unhappy with their predicaments—miserable, even—but seeing the evidence before me is more than I can handle. And hearing how she and her cousin were treated by their husbands…how did my people never hear of this?

  My mood sours further when I open the bedroom door and find Aspen waiting inside, pouring a glass of wine from the bedside table.

  “Come to steal your room back?”

  He ignores me. “Did you enjoy your guest?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You mean, did I enjoy that glimpse into my future? Did you arrange our meeting as some sort of threat?”

  He sips his wine, not looking at me. “I thought you might be lonely for human company.”

  “So you sent me an abused old woman?”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Ungrateful human.”

  “Have all the Cho
sen been treated so poorly? Used as breeding stock? Neglected until they died of loneliness?”

  He sets down his glass and storms over to me. “I didn’t wait here the past hour so you could return and gripe about Doris Mason. I came to tell you I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving?”

  “I have to deal with a skirmish near the wall. Cobalt will be coming too, along with some of my guards and soldiers. That leaves you in charge of the palace. Try not to burn it down.” He turns to leave.

  I’m flummoxed as I process his words. “Wait,” I call after him before he reaches the door. “What’s the skirmish about? And how long will you be gone?”

  He considers me a while before answering. His posture relaxes. “It’s the Holstrom father. He wants my blood. I’ll likely be gone no longer than three days.”

  I want to make a cutting retort, to tell him three days is far too short. But there’s a fatigue in Aspen’s bearing that I hadn’t noticed until now, making me hold my tongue.

  Aspen continues. “Mr. Holstrom won’t leave the wall until I face him in person. His recklessness is putting both humans and fae alike in danger. So I’ll go put an end to this stupidity.”

  “What are you going to do to him?”

  He shrugs. “Give him what he wants.”

  I raise a brow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll offer him a bargain. Let him choose his weapon and draw blood from me in any way he likes without fear of reproach. Then we will call a truce and return to our lands.”

  “You’re going to let him attack you?”

  “Just once. If he continues to fight me after he draws blood, the truce is off.”

  It seems like an odd way to settle a dispute. Then again, it makes sense for the fae. Of course they would end conflict with a bargain. But will it be enough for Mr. Holstrom? Would the blood of an immortal king be enough to compensate for losing two daughters? It will if it kills Aspen.

  He seems to read my mind, lips pulling into a smirk. “Perhaps you’ll get your dearest wish and the Holstrom father will deal me a fatal blow.”