“I am not. There may have been a lot of wine, but I’m royalty, you know. I’m the autumn prince. Therefore, I’m only a little drunk.” With that he closed his eyes.
“You can’t sleep here. You really, really can’t, it’s too—”
The room’s leaves trembled as someone came racing up the hallway. “Oh, no,” I groaned. “Quickly, get under the bed, or transform—”
Wind lifted the covers, and a soft, slithery maelstrom of feathers caressed my arms. When it settled Rook crouched indignantly in raven form among the tousled bedclothes, wings akimbo, as though his body had transformed automatically on my suggestion without his agreeing to it. Before he could change his mind, I snatched him beneath the covers and clasped him against my stomach.
Right as I finished, Lark peered around the doorway. She stared at me for a moment while I pretended to sleep, then giggled and raced away again.
“No,” I said, when Rook began struggling. “If you’re going to stay, you must be subtle about it.”
He kicked his legs and nibbled my fingers, trying to free himself so he could transform again. I saw that more extreme tactics were necessary.
“What a pretty bird you are,” I crooned.
His struggling slowed, then stilled. I felt him cock his head.
“What a lovely bird,” I repeated in a syrupy voice. “Yes, you’re the loveliest bird.” I stroked his back. He made a pleased muttering sound in his breast. Soon his smug silence indicated that he was quite content to remain as he was, so long as I continued my praise.
I knew I wasn’t truly safe now, but Rook’s presence, such as it was, came as an undeniable comfort. The day’s exertions drew over me like heavy wool. Rook’s heart beat against my fingertips through his soft feathers, and my eyes sank closed as I murmured drowsy endearments to the spoiled prince nestled against my stomach, warm within a nest of blankets.
Wink, wink, wink, went Gadfly’s eyes overhead. A hundred of him watched us with unknowable smiles as we drifted off to sleep.
Fourteen
THE LINE of fair folk waiting for a portrait stretched so far down the tree-lined approach to the throne that I couldn’t see the end of it. No evidence of last night’s feast remained. Try as I might, I couldn’t spy a single grape or crumb on the mossy lawn. The entire evening might as well have been an illusion.
Presently Foxglove sat across from me, wearing a smile that suggested her tight collar was slowly asphyxiating her. I wondered how she had achieved the coveted first place in line, and then decided not to think about it too closely.
Queasiness curdled my stomach. Formulating my grand plan had been one thing; executing it was another. What if Foxglove saw the results and flew into a rage as Rook had? She had no reason to, I told myself—the context was completely different—but the fact remained that if they turned on me, I had only my wits and one iron ring for protection, now a hard lump inside my tightly laced boot. And, I thought . . . and Rook.
I knew, with the same unshakable certainty that sunrise came at dawn, that Rook would defend me from the other fair folk even at the cost of his own life. The thought was not romantic. Rather, it was grim. If this scenario ever came to pass, I couldn’t think of any way it might end without both of us dead.
I spared a glance toward where he sat near Gadfly’s throne. He looked elegant but uncomfortable on the brocade chair that had been brought for him, bent over restlessly with his elbow resting on his thigh, half-listening to whatever Lark was prattling into his ear. He caught me looking, and our eyes met. I noticed, for no particular reason, that a lock of dark hair had fallen over his cheek. Quickly, I returned my attention to my work.
For Foxglove’s portrait, I had chosen human joy. It seemed to me that what passed for joy among fair folk came in two varieties. The first was something akin to the self-righteous, frigid gladness a cheated-on wife might feel upon hearing that her husband’s mistress had taken a fatal fall down a flight of stairs. The second was a vain, selfish, and indulgent pleasure: a rich nobleman calculating that his silver mine had earned so much money he could survive on caviar alone for the next three centuries, were he to live long enough to enjoy it.
And so as I inked Foxglove’s features in blueberry pigment with the tip of Rook’s quill, I gave her the swelling, radiant joy of being swept up in a lover’s arms; of seeing a beloved figure coming down the road after months apart, and recognizing his silhouette against the morning light. Without the crisp and glossy perfection of oil paint on canvas there was something raw about my work, less beautiful, less realistic, but stronger. A stray line by Foxglove’s mouth that I couldn’t correct suggested she was holding in a smile. Laughter welled up behind her crinkled eyes. Working in this imperfect medium made it easier to transmute humanity, the court alchemist turning gold back into lead.