We arrived at a long embankment descending into a ravine. Rook descended gracefully as I shuffled and skidded through the leaf litter until I finally considered the possibility of giving up and sliding down on my rear. While I frowned at the ground, Rook’s hand extended into my field of vision. I didn’t want his help, but it was better than making a fool of myself, so I placed my fingers in his. We seemed able to touch each other without a word as long as I was the one who initiated it.
His skin was cool and his grip deceptively light. He helped me down the embankment and back up the hill on the other side as though I weighed no more than a feather. My stomach rumbled when we crested the top. To my dismay it wasn’t an ordinary rumble, either: my innards summoned forth a booming growl, followed by a series of long, drawn-out squeals.
Rook started back in alarm. Then, catching on to my condition, he gave me a knowing smile. Which was interesting—most fair folk didn’t understand the concept of human hunger, not truly. And earlier, he’d spoken as if he’d already tried taking a human on the fairy paths himself. Had he traveled with a human before?
Honestly, I should have suspected even earlier. He had human sorrow in his eyes, after all, and there was only one way he could have learned it.
“I haven’t eaten since supper yesterday,” I said when my stomach finally, mercifully went quiet. “I don’t think I can go on much longer without food.”
“Only yesterday?”
“I assure you, most humans aren’t accustomed to going a full day without a meal.” He continued looking deeply skeptical, so I added in a steadfast tone, “I’m feeling quite poorly. In fact, I can’t take another step. If I don’t eat soon, I may die.”
His hair practically stood on end. I almost felt bad for him. “Stay here,” he said urgently, and vanished. The leaves he’d been standing on eddied as though stirred by a draft.
I looked around. My stomach somersaulted, and my mouth went dry. The sparse, mossy undergrowth afforded a clear view into the far distance. I saw no tall figure, no raven winging through the forest. Rook truly did appear to be gone.
Run, I thought. But trying to urge my feet to move was like being four years old again, shifting at the foot of my mother’s bed after a nightmare, unable to speak a word to wake her. The forest slumbered too. How easily would I draw its attention, and was I really prepared for that nightmare?
As it turned out I needn’t have even bothered thinking about it. Something thumped into the leaves behind me, and I turned to find Rook standing over a dead hare.
“Go on,” he said when I didn’t move, glancing between me and the animal.
I shuffled forward and picked it up by the scruff of its neck. It was still warm, and watched me with its shiny black eyes. “Um,” I said.
“Is there something wrong with it?” His expression became guarded.
I was ravenous. I was sore. I was terrified. And yet looking at Rook I imagined a cat proudly bringing its master dead chipmunks, only to watch the two-legged oaf lift these priceless gifts by the tail and fling them unceremoniously into the bushes. Before I knew it I’d dissolved into laughter.
Rook shifted, torn between uneasiness and anger. “What?” he demanded.
I sank to my knees, the hare on my lap, gulping in air.
“Stop that.” Rook looked around, as if concerned someone might witness him mismanaging his human. I howled even louder. “Isobel, you simply must control yourself.”
He might have traveled with humans, but he most assuredly hadn’t dined with us.
“Rook!” I half-wailed his name. “I can’t just eat a rabbit!”
“I don’t see why not.”
“It’s—it needs to be cooked!”
For an instant, before he slammed the door shut on his expression, horror and confusion gripped him. “You mean to say you can’t eat anything at all without using Craft on it first?”
I took a shuddering breath, calming down, but knew I’d go off again at the slightest provocation. “We can eat fruit as it is, and most nuts and vegetables. But everything else, yes.”
“How can this be,” he said to himself quietly. That was all it took; I gave a strangled sob. He crouched and scrutinized my face, which I’m sure at that moment looked anything but attractive. “What do you require?”
“A fire, to start with. Some . . . some branches to make a spit out of, I suppose. Or maybe we could cut it up and skewer it? I’ve never cooked a rabbit outdoors before.” I might as well have started reciting an incantation. “Wood,” I revised for him. “Some kindling about this size”—I spread my hands—“and a long, thin, sturdy stick with a pointy end.”