“Certainly. I give my word that your letter will reach your home by sunrise two days hence.”
“And my aunt Emma will receive it?” I pressed, sensing another loose end.
He gave me a knowing smile. “Never one to forget a detail. I promise it shall be delivered directly into Emma’s hand. Now, I confess I’ve never had the good fortune to watch writing Craft!” And with that he seated himself next to me cross-legged to watch.
“Oh. Er, I’m happy to demonstrate,” I replied, trying to ignore his close attention. He peered at the bark in my hand as though I were about to wave my hand and transform it into a dove. I reached for the soot bowl but halted halfway with a sinking realization. “I haven’t anything to write with,” I said to myself aloud, casting about.
Wind stirred my hair, and Rook hopped onto the stump beside me in raven form, twisting his head to preen his tail feathers. Just when I was about to shoo him off, he seized the longest feather and yanked it from his body. This he handed to me with courtly aplomb. It was warm, and the end of the translucent shaft contained a bead of his amber blood.
I turned the feather in my hands, running my fingertip along its silky edge, to buy myself a little time. I wasn’t certain why I felt so touched by the gesture. The feather was one of many, and Rook could grow it back in an instant. When I could stall no longer, I cleared my throat and dabbed its tip on the ground to clean it.
That was, perhaps, a mistake.
Right away the grass bulged and a sapling pushed forth from the wildflowers, rapidly straining upward into a young tree, unfolding branches like a stage prop. Vivid scarlet leaves burst forth in glorious bloom. Its foliage spread across the spring glade triumphantly, and a bit obnoxiously, in what struck me as a truly Rooklike fashion.
“Have a care!” Gadfly exclaimed. “I won’t see you defacing my court, Rook. That’s terribly unsightly.”
Rook spread his wings and released a series of belligerent croaks. I hid a smile.
“Thank you,” I whispered to him, rolling the feather’s stem between my fingertips.
Gadfly soon forgot the offense as I began scratching out my letter in wet soot. Fair folk might not be able to write, but they could certainly read, so I needed to be careful about what I revealed.
Dear Emma, March, and May, I wrote. I am safe and well. It pains me to think of the distress my disappearance must have caused you. The truth is that I have been on an unexpected adventure—I knew Emma would understand how I felt about being on an “adventure”—and haven’t had the opportunity to write you until now. Presently, I’m demonstrating my Craft in the spring court. I was brought here by Rook, the autumn prince, who spirited me away quite suddenly. I look forward to seeing you all again soon. With love, Isobel.
This would give Emma more questions than answers, but I was running out of room on the little square of bark, so it would have to do. I waited for it to dry, then handed it to Gadfly.
He brought the letter close to his face, examining it with remote fascination. “So simple an act,” he said eventually, “and yet, do you know that if a fair one were to attempt what you have just done, he would crumble to dust?”
“I’ve—heard that, yes.”
Gadfly’s pale gaze flicked to me. “Make no mistake, it’s a small price to pay for the power and beauty of immortality. Yet it does make one wonder, doesn’t it? Why do we desire, above all other things, that which has the greatest power to destroy us?”
A chill brushed my spine. Never before had I known Gadfly to wax philosophical about anything more profound than lemon curd. I resisted the urge to look at Rook, wondering if he shared my unease.
“Craft itself doesn’t harm you,” I pointed out. “You wear it and eat it every day without consequences.”
“Ah, yes. Still.” He summoned a faint smile. “Some consequences go unseen. One day, you might discover that Craft has the power to undo my kind in ways you’d never imagined. That sounded quite depressing, didn’t it? I do apologize.” He winked at me. Then he clapped his hands and stood.
Only then did I realize the letter was gone, vanished from his grasp too quickly for me to detect. He’d given his word, I reminded myself, shaking myself free from the lingering oddness of our conversation. Emma would receive it. She’d read it soon, and still fear for me, but at least not think me dead.
“Who would like to help Isobel convey her Crafting materials to the throne?” Gadfly asked, as if mustering a group of schoolchildren. Immediately I was surrounded by a tittering crowd of fair folk lifting the bowls and examining them. At first I was concerned they might upset some of my pigments, but that worry faded when I saw them handle the vessels as though they were enchanted goblets, liable to explode or turn anyone nearby to stone if dropped. Rook, apparently, had done enough helping for the day, because when I stood he flapped over my shoulder until I gave him permission to perch there, and then sat regarding everyone with an upturned beak.