To Wear a Fae Crown (The Fair Isle Trilogy Book 2) Page 4

  I refocus on the bags of clothing, removing their contents and setting aside the most practical dresses I can find. The weather will be cool in Eisleigh, October in the human realm being nowhere near as mild as it is in the Autumn Court. Most of the fae dresses are light, flimsy, and entirely inappropriate for the human realm. The fabrics are too sheer and reveal far too much skin.

  I toss the dresses on the ground with frustration until I see a familiar sight at the very bottom of the last bag—stiff, starchy, cream-colored linen. I retrieve the corset and find a pair of trousers and a blouse lying beneath. The latter two are wrinkled but they are the only undamaged human clothing I have.

  “I will return to my people the same way I left,” I say, smoothing a wrinkle in the blue cotton blouse. My fingers brush a pearl-like button. There was a time when I rebelled against wearing anything but the clothes I now hold in my hands. I hated dresses. I hated corsets too, but they were a price I knew I had to pay to get away with wearing trousers in a society that frowns upon such unfeminine ways.

  I stare at the clothes, expecting sentimentality to wash over me at any moment. Instead, I feel a sense of foreboding. Restraint. I’ve come to appreciate the freedom of a flowing chiffon skirt as it swishes around my legs, in the lightness of an unbound chest beneath nothing but gauzy spider silk.

  Now I might never wear such things again.

  With my corset, trousers, and blouse in hand, I make my way behind the dressing screen and peel off my silky gown.

  Lorelei approaches the other side of the screen. “Do you need my help?”

  I’m about to say no, but stop myself as I pick up the stiff corset. “I do, actually.”

  She rounds the corner of the screen, eyes widening as she stares at the undergarment. “What in the name of oak and ivy is that thing?”

  “A mandatory article of clothing for women,” I say through my teeth as I turn my back toward her. “I need you to tighten the laces and tie them off.”

  She takes up the ends of the laces, grimacing as if she expects them to bite. “Why is this necessary for human women?”

  “To support our figures,” I say in a mocking tone. Lorelei pulls the laces tight at the top, eliciting a gasp from me.

  “Did I hurt you?” she asks with alarm.

  “No, I just...forgot how uncomfortable these are.”

  “Is this really necessary? You could wear something else and cover your clothing with a cloak if you’re worried—”

  “Just do it,” I say, though there’s no bite in my tone. More an eagerness to get this over with. “I need them to see me as one of them.”

  She releases a sigh, then returns to tightening the laces. “Do I have to wear one of these too?”

  I turn my head to the side to eye her from my periphery. “No, of course not. Why would you?”

  “Because I’m going with you, obviously.”

  I’m taken aback. “Did Aspen order you to come with me?”

  “I asked him if I could accompany you.”

  I sigh. “Lorelei, I appreciate your dedication, but I’ll have no need for a lady’s maid while I’m in Sableton.”

  She pauses her tightening and shifts to my side until our eyes meet. “You may not need a lady’s maid, but you might need a friend.”

  I want to argue, to tell her Foxglove will be there, but I can’t bring words over the lump in my throat. Instead, I nod and return to facing straight ahead, eyes unfocused as they well with tears. Lorelei resumes her work, and I grit my teeth against every pull.

  By the time I’m finished dressing, outfitted in human clothing and my most unassuming fae cloak, I feel the same way I did when I first left home for Faerwyvae.

  Like a lamb being led to slaughter.

  My heart is heavy as Lorelei and I leave my parlor. Every shadow in the hall pulls my attention, and my eyes dart to each one, expecting Aspen at every turn, around every corner. But he doesn’t appear, neither to try and stop me from leaving nor to offer me a heart-wrenching farewell. I am both disappointed and relieved.

  Foxglove awaits outside the palace, standing beside the carriage led by two dark puca. The puca aren’t nearly as terrifying to behold as they were when I first saw them, especially now that I’ve become so well-acquainted with the far more menacing kelpie. Then again, the kelpie helped me during my trial in the Twelfth Court when I fought to win back Aspen’s throne from Cobalt. But had any of that surreal experience been true? Or had it only occurred inside my imagination? The crown I returned with was my only proof.

  And now it sits on my parlor table. Belonging to no one.

  I climb inside the carriage, taking a seat on one of the long benches while Foxglove and Lorelei take the one across from me. As the carriage begins to move, I don’t dare look out the window. I don’t think I can handle the sight of Bircharbor fading from view. Not because it’s become dear to me—it was only just beginning to feel like home—but because I’m afraid I’ll see an antlered silhouette watching me from one of the windows. The thought alone strips the air from my lungs.

  It isn’t until we’ve been traveling in silence for what feels like an hour that I finally lean forward and stare at the scenery. We’re surrounded by oaks and maples with deep red leaves twinkling like rubies overhead, falling like stars to the ground where they coat the earth like a blood-red sea. I take in each crimson hue, memorizing the shape of every leaf like it’s the last time I’ll ever see it.

  I settle back into my seat and face Foxglove, seeking a less emotional conduit for my thoughts. There’s always one thing I can count on to do just that. Logic. “How are we getting to Sableton? I’m assuming we aren’t taking the long way.”

  “Right you are,” he says. “We’re nearing the Autumn axis. Once we reach it, we’ll be transported to the axis line along the wall. From there, we’ll make our way to the Spring axis where we’ll cross the wall into Sableton.”

  Aspen once explained interaxis travel to me briefly, but there’s still so much I don’t understand. “Where exactly is the Autumn axis within the court? I know where the axes are along the wall, but I’ve never left Autumn but by sea.”

  “The axis encompasses a portion of land in the forest on the southern end of Autumn near the perimeter where Autumn meets Wind.”

  “And it will automatically transport us to the Autumn axis along the wall?”

  “If by automatically you mean as a result of me using my magic to get there, then yes.”

  “You have to use magic?”

  “Of course.” Foxglove scoffs. “We must have the option to bypass the axis and proceed the long way, must we not? So, to communicate our intentions with the axis, we must have a sort of key.”

  “A key.”

  “That’s what you can imagine the magic we use to utilize the axis is.”

  I blink at him a few times, wishing I could make logical sense of his words. I’ve come to allow some suspension of disbelief when it comes to the fae and their magic. Before I came to Faerwyvae, I would have laughed at such a notion. Now that I’ve seen what I’ve seen, done what I’ve done...I admit there are things far beyond rational explanation. Yet, it still doesn’t stop me from seeking to understand it.

  “How do you use this magic key? Do you say some sort of incantation?”

  Foxglove and Lorelei exchange a look, one that tells me they think my line of questioning is quite simpleminded. “I merely use it, my dear,” Foxglove says. “It is more about intent than it is about tangible action. All magic is.”

  I lean back in my seat, brows furrowed as I try to pair his words with reason.

  Lorelei seems entertained by my obvious struggle, lips tight to suppress a grin. “Didn’t you learn about magic in the Twelfth Court?”

  “I wouldn’t say I learned anything,” I say. Sure, it opened my mind to new possibilities, made me feel like I was drunk on honey pyrus. But if my journey to the All of All is supposed to be any indication of how magic works, I have no hope of making sense o
f it any time soon.

  “We’re entering the axis,” Foxglove says.

  I return to looking out the window, trying to discern any change, any flicker of magic. The forest looks the same as it did the last time I looked out at the scenery. More oaks, maples. More red leaves. I continue watching as the carriage rolls along, but there’s no change.

  My attention then shifts back to Foxglove. I study his face, his eyes. “Are you using your magic right now?”

  He lets out a light giggle. “When am I not using my magic?”

  “Are you using it for the axis?”

  “I already have. We’re on the other side now, nearing the wall.”

  I look back out the window. Still, nothing has changed. Another magical occurrence I can’t decipher. It is both a frustration and an invigorating challenge to be so utterly perplexed. I shake my head, about to retreat to my seat once again, when movement catches my eye. There in the distance between the trees is a dark shape, hidden in shadows. A hulking creature with massive antlers.

  My breath hitches as I study the silhouette, seeking recognition. I’ve seen Aspen in his stag form before. Could this be...

  I can’t let myself wonder. I can’t.

  I watch the figure until it’s lost from view, swallowed by shadows beneath the setting sun. Only then do I question whether I saw the stag at all.

  6

  The fog that envelops the carriage tells me we’re approaching the wall. We’ve already traveled through the Autumn and Summer axes, and when we reached Spring, the carriage turned south. Now the towering stones of the faewall emerge from the fog. We pass between two stones into a familiar forest.

  Unlike the smooth transition from Autumn to its axis, the shift from Faerwyvae to Eisleigh is jarring. Night has fallen as it had over Spring, but there’s a dullness to the light of the moon. The leaves don’t shimmer as they drop from the trees, and unlike the Autumn Court, fall has already stripped half the branches bare. Gone are the nectar-like aromas wafting through the air, replaced with the pungent smell of decay. The sound of the wheels rolling over brown, mushy leaves brings an odd sense of nostalgia mixed with a sinking feeling.

  Home. I’m home.

  Less comforting thoughts chase away any sense of relief, reminding me of the confrontation I’m approaching. I don’t know what to expect from my meeting with the mayor. A minuscule spark of hope whispers the possibility that I’ll arrive, state my case, solve this outrageous misunderstanding, and set everything to rights. The mayor will order my mother released and I’ll secure the treaty with my marriage to Aspen.

  If that hope has any chance of coming about, then why does my stomach plummet when I entertain it? Because it hurts too much to hope? Or because deep down I know the hope is futile?

  I grit my teeth as we continue the journey in silence.

  When the carriage rolls to a stop, my heart leaps into my throat.

  “We’ve arrived at the mayor’s house,” Foxglove says. His expression reflects the anxiety I feel. He opens the carriage door but hesitates, his gaze falling on Lorelei. “I think you should wait here while Evelyn and I speak with the mayor.”

  She meets his eyes, something like relief flickering over her face as she nods.

  Foxglove’s attention moves to me. “You may wait here as well, if you like. I could speak with him first and glean more information before involving you.”

  There’s no way I’ll let this situation unfold without being front and center. I want every piece of information I can possibly get handed directly to me. Forcing confidence, I lift my chin. “I’m coming.”

  With a sigh, Foxglove exits the carriage and extends his hand to help me out. The mayor’s house looms on the other side of the carriage, an elegant manor framed with neat hedges and a manicured lawn. This is my first time seeing Mayor Coleman’s house, although I’ve walked by his drive many times growing up. Back when my sister was friends with Maddie Coleman, we often walked with her here, leaving her at the top of the drive for visits with her uncle.

  Of course, thoughts of Maddie Coleman only fill me with contempt, but at least it feels better than fear.

  Foxglove and I approach the front door, where a smug doorman greets us. After a brief statement of our business from Foxglove, the doorman leads us inside the manor and into a parlor. It’s clear he means to take us swiftly through to the door at the other side, but I find my feet rooted as a familiar face snags my attention.

  Maddie Coleman sits on the couch in the middle of the parlor next to her younger sister, Marie. Overstuffed bags and luggage litter the ground at their feet. With a haughty grin, Maddie looks up from her needlework and meets my eyes, blonde curls bouncing with the movement. She assesses me from head to toe, although she doesn’t seem surprised to see me. Her gaze moves to Foxglove. “Have you come to take me to my new husband?”

  A violent heat floods me, boiling my blood as I fight the urge to lash out at her. Even my hands are hot, as if each palm holds a flame.

  Foxglove inspects the girls on the couch, nose wrinkled in distaste. Without so much as a word, he turns up his chin and meets the doorman at the other side of the parlor. I burn Maddie with a scowl before joining him, but she doesn’t so much as flinch. Marie, on the other hand, goes a shade paler, mouth hanging open as if she wishes to speak.

  I’m shaking with suppressed rage as we move down the hall; I only begin to sober once we stop at the end of the corridor. The doorman knocks on a door, then opens it.

  Inside the room, Mayor Coleman sits at a desk with two armed guards standing on each side. It never occurred to me that the mayor employed guards, but I suppose the extra protection is a comfort when meeting with the fae, even if it’s with a peaceful ambassador.

  The mayor is a well-dressed man, but he looks nothing like his slim, blonde niece. He has a heavy-set build, a bushy mustache that hides his upper lip, and shrewd eyes beneath thick, caterpillar-like brows. He wears a brown jacket and waistcoat over a white shirt and cravat.

  He lifts his eyes from his desk as we enter, his gaze flicking toward Foxglove before resting on me. “Miss Fairfield,” he says with a reserved smile. “I wasn’t expecting you, but I must admit, this makes things much easier for us all.” He motions to one of the guards to lean forward, and the mayor whispers an order too soft for me to hear. Then the guard crosses the room. Toward me.

  I flinch, hands flying to my thigh, my hip, but the automatic response to danger is fruitless; my iron dagger was lost when Cobalt captured me, and I’ve yet to replace it. A moment too late, I realize my reaction was unfounded. The guard isn’t coming for me. Instead, he skirts behind Foxglove and rushes out the door.

  Heat floods my cheeks in embarrassment as I release a breath and return my attention to the mayor.

  Mayor Coleman eyes me through slitted lids and motions for Foxglove and me to sit. “Your king has made his decision regarding the correspondence the council sent, I presume?”

  “King Aspen has considered the contents of the letter, yes,” Foxglove says. I’m surprised how collected he is. I’ve gotten used to his often-anxious ways when dealing with unfortunate circumstances—wringing his hands, nervously adjusting his spectacles—that I nearly forgot how calm and regal he can be. This is how I first saw him, posture erect, voice high and snobbish, expression smug.

  “I take it he wasn’t pleased.”

  “That’s an understatement, Mayor Coleman. I can’t say Miss Fairfield and I are pleased either, and we have many questions.”

  The mayor leans back in his chair. “I will answer what I can, but I assure you, nothing will alter the conclusions we’ve reached or the final olive branch we’ve extended.”

  I grip the arms of the chair to channel my rage, my anxiety. It’s all I can do not to shout my questions at him, but I know it’s best if Foxglove takes the lead. For now.

  “The first issue we seek clarity on is the accusation over Miss Fairfield’s heritage,” Foxglove says. “The letter stated she
has been deemed ineligible to secure the treaty due to being of fae blood. The king’s mate has assured us she knows nothing about such a possibility. Will you explain what gave your council this outrageous idea?”

  The mayor purses his lips, pulling them both beneath the cliff of his mustache. “We have evidence that Evelyn and Amelie Fairfield are of fae blood and that their mother, Maven Fairfield, knew this and withheld the truth even after they were selected as Chosen. She deliberately put the treaty in danger with her omission.”

  I can keep quiet no longer, my body trembling from head to toe. “What evidence do you have?”

  The mayor slides his gaze to me, and a flash of hatred crosses his face. “The proof we have is not up for debate and will be more thoroughly discussed at your mother’s trial.”

  “My mother’s trial,” I echo. “When will that be?”

  “It will be held in two weeks’ time, when Eisleigh’s council gathers at the Spire.”

  The Spire. That’s the name for the prison in Grenneith, the capital city of Eisleigh. Only the most serious crimes in Eisleigh are tried at the Spire. The only thing worse would be if her trial were being held at Fort Merren on the mainland, involving the entire kingdom of Bretton as well as the king. At least her accusation of treason is being considered a territorial threat and not a national one. The thought doesn’t give me much comfort.

  The mayor continues. “Even though the proof we have is irrefutable, we are giving your mother a fair trial as well as allowing you and your sister plenty of time to get your affairs in order beforehand. Your presence today tells me it won’t be as difficult as we’d thought to get you to comply.”

  “I’m here to prove my mother’s innocence. My sister and I aren’t fae.”

  “If there is innocence to prove, you may present it at Maven Fairfield’s trial, as both you and your sister will be required to attend.”

  “That’s in two weeks!” I’m nearly shouting. “You won’t divulge whatever proof you have to support your claims, nor will you allow me to argue on my mother’s behalf for two weeks?”