My skin crawled, a thousand many-legged insects skittering from my scalp all the way down to my toes. I desperately hoped the fair folk couldn’t see my hair standing on end. “Perhaps you could describe it to me,” I suggested, “and I’ll find the name for you.”
“Well, I made words. I made words for books, the ones that tell stories that aren’t true. Isn’t that odd? I used to do that myself!”
“You were a writer,” I said.
Her pupils swallowed up her eyes. For a heartbeat I had the terrifying notion she was about to leap at me and tear my throat out. Then I saw her hands fisted so tightly, gripping the fabric of her dress, that her knuckles bulged white and her fingers looked fit to break. “Yes, that’s it. I was a writer. Ha ha! A writer! Silly me—one does forget such things. We all forget things from time to time.”
“Yes, we certainly do.” I kept my voice steady with an effort. “May I ask, did you also have the pleasure of visiting the spring court before you drank from the well?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “How splendid that would have been. I only came here afterward, once I’d transformed.”
How many fair folk had Aster met before she made her decision? How much had she understood about the consequences of her choice? I couldn’t continue my line of questioning without risking suspicion. But it seemed to me that she might not have known what was in store for her, not truly, the same as everyone back in Whimsy.
“I see,” I replied. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Aster.”
“I’m so glad we had the chance to talk. I do hope you follow in my footsteps. It would be lovely to have you here in the spring court, just lovely.” Her fingers gripped and loosened. “Perhaps we might speak a second time before you return to Whimsy, so you can remind me of that word again. Oh, it’s amusing how forgetful I am.”
My smile felt carved onto my face as she took her leave. Rook shifted beside me, but I dared not look at him. I was chilled to the marrow of my bones. The wintry calls of the Wild Hunt’s hounds rose again in my ears, and I saw Hemlock’s white, wild-eyed face receding into the darkness. I recalled the hunger tearing forth from behind the polite, cold smile of every fair one I had ever painted. How was it that we had ever come to admire the fair folk—even hope to become them?
“Gadfly,” Rook said cheerfully, “I believe Isobel has had enough for the day. You know how mortals are, hardly able to stand up for an hour or two before they collapse from exhaustion. If we’re to have any hope of seeing her Craft tomorrow, she will require her remaining energy for—well, whatever it is she needs to do this evening.” I heard, rather than saw, his charming half-smile.
“Good gracious. We mustn’t interfere with her Craft!” Gadfly raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen of the court, you will simply have to wait. We will convene again at supper.”
Unhappy exclamations engulfed me. Murmured conversation followed. Numbly, I took Rook’s offered arm and allowed him to lead me away from the bottom of the stairs. Lark gamboled after us, waving at her friends, who watched us go with resentful scowls, which to all appearances Lark enjoyed immensely.
“Now we have you all to ourselves,” she said, coming around to take my other arm. Rook grimaced, struggling to contain his frustration. He couldn’t speak freely in Lark’s presence—but her company was a blessing for the same reason. We couldn’t be seen alone together too often without drawing suspicion.
I nodded at him, hoping it would tell him everything he wanted to know. I was all right. I was grateful for his intervention. But it didn’t make him look any happier.
Lark swung our arms back and forth. “You’re awfully quiet, Isobel! You really must be exhausted. What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Being exhausted, of course.”
Even after spending years in their company, fair folk still had the capacity to surprise me. “It makes you want to sit down, I suppose, or go to sleep. Anything that doesn’t require you to move or think.”
“So it’s like having too much wine,” Lark said knowingly.
I raised my eyebrows, thinking that if Gadfly were human, someone would need to have a talk with him. “Yes, but without the good parts. And, um, most of the bad parts, really,” I added, recalling my first, and last, experience with Emma’s holiday brandy.
Lark shrieked straight into my ear. “That doesn’t make any sense at all,” she said once she’d recovered. “What are we going to do now? Please don’t take a nap, it would be ever so dull.”