Brittle, p.23
Brittle, page 23
“I’m not—”
“A smaller group believes that the queen will have a terrible temper.” He looked at her as a cat might survey its dinner. “So, you see, you came very close to fulfilling an ancient prophecy. But a half-fae the Fire Queen will not be.” He crossed one boot over his knee. “If you had been, we would have been in deeper waters still, trying to calm your ire. You would have been absolutely deadly, what with your magic tied to your feelings.”
“You say that so casually.”
“It’s what might have been. There’s no need to dwell too much on it, but let it serve as a reminder.” He let out a low sigh and looked past her at the window. “Magic is fire. Rage is fuel. Mind what you are thinking and your feelings will follow.”
She had a snappy retort for that but decided to hold her tongue. As she tried to cool her temper, Fenn watched her struggle, the tension in his shoulders the only sign he was ready to step in and stop more destruction if needed. At length, Verve turned away and closed her eyes. “What of the rest of the prophecy?”
There was a pregnant pause, one that aroused Verve’s suspicion. Before she could repeat herself, Fenn said, “Well, we know that she will be a middling. It’s obvious from the final line. Brittle means that she was entirely human at one point…at least, that is what I believe. Others interpret it that she will almost succumb to the Cunning Blade and triumph over it.” Absently his hand went to his side, whence hung the blade.
“But why would…he want to make me into this Fire Queen or whatever she is? It makes no sense.”
A twitch formed in Fenn’s eye and he folded his arms across his chest. “I’m afraid that’s the most upsetting part in all this.”
Verve waited for him to finish. When he did not, she swallowed, hard, and pressed the matter. “What is the most upsetting part?”
“Do you know anything of fae property rights?”
“You know I don’t,” she said.
Fenn conceded the point with a tip of his head. “The fundamentals of the law are easy enough to follow.” Now he shifted in his seat, as though he were suddenly uncomfortable. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, a tone that suggested he was breaking bad news. “When a fae creates a new creature, they have power over him, her, or it…to a degree.” Fenn gave her a worried look, as though she might herself burst into flames this time.
He wasn’t far off. “Oh?” She could feel the fire pulsing in her veins, feel its heat rising in her breast and to her face. Then, all at once, she grew cold.
Perhaps seeing this was going better than he had expected, Fenn continued. “I don’t know how your magic would work against Dacre, since he only succeeded in making you into a halfling. There might be a way around his control, seeing as you’re technically only half his.”
Verve let out a low growl. “He doesn’t own me.”
“Only, he does.”
Verve glared at him.
“It’s fae law.” He was quiet for some time, and his lips began to move as though he were reciting some spell or verse or perhaps simply debating with himself. He startled her when he spoke, his voice louder than it had been before when he blurted out, “If you and I were wed, that might deter him from trying to claim you.”
“No,” she found herself saying at once.
Something akin to hurt flashed in Fenn’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly, Verve couldn’t be so certain of what she had seen. “If you married me, ownership should transfer.”
“I’m not anyone’s property,” Verve snapped.
Fenn held up his hands. “Only on paper. I wouldn’t impose or claim authority over you.” The distraught look he gave Verve cooled her temper and she merely shook her head.
“I’m not going to tie you up, Fenn. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”
“Do you have a prior attachment?”
“Well, no. But what about you?”
“Not exactly,” was his enigmatic reply. “This would give you some degree of protection, should Dacre find us.”
“Are we certain he’ll even come after me? I’m only half-fae.”
“I don’t think that would put him off. He’d probably just attempt to perform the ritual again.”
Now her head was aching. She rubbed her temples and swayed on the spot. “This is a lot to take in.”
“I know. Let’s talk about something else.”
Instead they were silent. Eventually, Verve took to pacing again, and Fenn returned to his book, though he didn’t turn a page for a suspiciously long time. Soon enough, the darkness faded into light, and the birdsong picked up in intensity.
At least someone out there is happy, she thought wretchedly. Verve moved to the window and pulled back the curtain. It had begun to snow, and she swore she could hear flakes pattering onto the ground below.
After eating a small breakfast, one Fenn had ordered and paid for with coin from a money pouch she had not seen until that moment, they sat in silence. Fenn pulled out a needle and thread and took to mending a hole in his coat.
“Couldn’t you just fix that with magic?” Verve watched his nimble fingers work and remembered all the times Mother had tried to teach her to darn socks. It had always ended with at least one pricked, bloody finger and a row.
Fenn chuckled. “I’m not good with fiddly magic like that. It takes far too much delicacy and concentration.”
“As opposed to what you’re doing right now?”
“Would you like to learn?”
Verve frowned and yanked a strand of hair out of her face. “Teach me to sew? I think I’ll pass.”
Fenn smirked, his eyes still on what he was doing. “I meant teach you to use magic to sew. Aren’t most women in Etterhea taught to stitch when they are children?”
“They are, but I was not like most girls.”
“I’d imagine not,” said Fenn, tying off what he had sewn and then cutting the excess thread.
Heat filled Verve’s cheeks and she let her hair fall between them again, hoping he wouldn’t notice her color. “Are we to remain indoors all day?”
“You wish to go out in the snow and cold?”
Verve chanced a peek at him to see if he was mocking her. “You don’t like the cold?”
“No. That is one point in favor of Letorheas, the weather-makers rarely allow the temperature to grow cold enough for things to freeze.” He shook out his coat and laid it on the sofa next to him. “We can go for a walk, if you need to.”
Verve pulled back the curtain of her hair again and tucked some errant strands behind her ears. At once she was on her feet and heading for the door, only to pause and remember she had destroyed her only cloak. “Blast.”
“Here,” said Fenn, picking up the brown blanket from the sofa. He tossed it to her, and when it reached her hands, the fabric had woven itself into a coat. “Let me know if it’s not warm enough.”
“Thank you.” Verve slid the coat over her shoulders and fastened the button at her neck while Fenn did the same with his own.
“Wait. Let me go first,” he said as her hand found the doorknob. “And don’t wander too far from me.”
She paused, a frown forming on her lips. Was he afraid she was going to try to run away from him? “Fenn, I have no idea where anything is or how to get back to my family. I’m not going anywhere.”
Fenn shook his head. “I know. But this town isn’t the safest.”
“We’re both fae, aren’t we?” The words came out hard and bitter, surprising Verve herself. “What’s the worst that could possibly happen?”
“Well,” said Fenn, “you could get lost, someone could see you and attack you for looking strange to them, or you could lose control of your magic and burn down a house or two.”
Verve scowled. “I meant that rhetorically, just so you know.”
Fenn flashed a roguish grin and moved past her to the door. “Try not to grow too angry with me now. The town is a tinderbox.” He turned back, took one look at her face, and said, “I’m only teasing you, just so you know.”
“Right.” Verve rolled her eyes and followed Fenn down the stairs, through a short hall, and then out into the biting cold. At once she drew up her hood and held it closed against the wind. When she talked, she found herself shouting at first, though she knew full well Fenn had supernatural hearing. “What is the name of this town?”
“Ashwood,” said Fenn softly though loud enough for Verve to hear. “It’s a province in Illytera.”
“And what is Illytera?” This time she kept her voice low, though it felt unnatural.
For a moment, that seemed to confuse Fenn, whose brow wrinkled as he trudged through the barely frozen streets beside her. “I don’t know what mortals call it. It’s simply a country surrounded by sea. I don’t know if you realize, but you’ve been speaking Illyterian since we arrived here.” He threw a playful smile her way.
“No, I haven’t. I would know if I was speaking a different language.” Wouldn’t she?
“Someone must have put a translator spell on you.” He motioned for her to turn right with him, and they entered a side road. “It’s not something easy to gift someone, but it helps the receiver blend in with ease. What will be troublesome is local slang and currency.” He leapt over a mud puddle with ridiculous ease and grace, and waited for Verve on the other side.
Verve elected to go around the muck, pulling her cloak tighter. “Where are we going?”
“To the quilt-makers.”
She raised a brow. “What’s at the quilt-makers?”
“Feathers.” He took a left, and Verve followed close on his heels.
They arrived outside a tall building squashed between two other shorter ones. It was painted a cheerful yellow with bright blue shutters, which contrasted with the two dark wood shops that sat on either side.
The snow had begun to fall in earnest, partially obscuring the shop that stood a mere six feet in front of them. Fenn stepped forward and motioned for Verve to follow him. “We’ll wait out the worst part of the weather in here. It’s easy to get lost in this town on a good day.” He paused a minute and looked her over. “Keep your hood up, whatever you do. And try not to say anything.”
“Won’t that seem suspicious?”
Fenn changed his eye color again and muted his powers, filling the air with a potent citrus smell. “You do realize you glow, yes? And your voice is like singing.”
“Huh?”
He shook his head. “I’ll teach you to mute your powers, but in the meantime, staying hidden is the best way to keep trouble at bay. Come.”
Together they stepped inside. The bell tinkled merrily as the door closed behind them. It was much warmer in here, and Verve felt her muscles relax. The air smelled of cinnamon and roast beef.
“Hello?” said Fenn, and Verve jumped at the sound. His voice had taken on a rougher quality, one he must associate with humans. It was no longer melodic and smooth, making Verve wonder about her own voice.
“Just one minute, please,” said a man from the other room behind the counter.
Verve looked around at the shelves of quilts and barrels of quilt squares that lined the walls, though her cloak’s hood kept getting in her eyes. All was bright and cheerful, so why did Fenn seem so tense in here?
From the other room, Verve could hear someone chewing noisily and scraping a plate with perhaps a fork. The harder she listened, the more her keen ears picked up on. She could hear his breathing, his heart, a second heart, and a second pattern of breathing. So, there was someone else with him in the shop. Was that why Fenn was on edge?
He stood rigidly by the door, his hands clenched into fists. He turned as though to leave but did not go out. Instead he stood there, staring out through the display window. What he possibly could see through the snow was difficult to say.
“Hello, how may I help you?” said the grandfatherly man who had just stepped out of the back room, wiping his lips on a handkerchief, which he hastily stowed in his pocket. “Ah, Mr. Farnsworth.”
Fenn turned from the window with apparent reluctance. “Hello, Charles. I’m here for the usual.”
Charles the shopkeeper bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Feathers, always feathers with you. Makes me wonder if you’re going to start your own quilting shop and put me out of business.”
Fenn cracked a smile and his eyes darted back to the door. “A lot of customers today?”
“Oh, a few. Do you wish for me to wrap the feathers in anything this time? Don’t want the snow getting them wet.” The man nodded to the front of the store.
“If you could wrap them in butcher paper, that would be agreeable.”
“And for you, sir?” Charles asked Verve.
She looked to Fenn, who quickly said, “My friend lost her voice some time ago.”
“Oh, she – I’m terribly sorry.” Charles’ vein-riddled hands fluttered toward the counter and he ducked out of view for a moment and emerged with two fists full of feathers, which he set on his work surface. “Does your friend need anything?”
“No. Actually, we were wondering something.” Again Fenn’s eyes went to the door as Charles tore off some butcher paper from a long roll hanging off the wall. “Have you had any strange visitors lately?”
Charles paused and looked at Fenn and then at Verve. “Stranger than usual, I take it you mean?”
Fenn waited.
The man’s shoulders heaved. “Not that I can say. But Mrs. Charles is in the back. Perhaps she would remember better than I would.” He turned away from his work and disappeared into the back room.
“What’s wrong?” Verve asked below her breath, knowing Fenn would hear her.
He shook his head. “Can’t you smell the residual burst?”
Verve’s mouth dropped open and her blood ran cold. She had smelled roast beef and cinnamon. The former apparently had been the quilter’s meal, but the latter….
Mr. Charles returned with a plump woman in his wake. She was a stern old thing, and Verve was forcibly reminded of old Aunt Springer, her father’s aunt. “What is it?” she said, her tone sharp and her beady eyes narrowed. Her eyes fell on Verve at once and she took a half step back. “Who is this reedy fellow? Haven’t seen him with you afore, Farnsworth.”
“My dear, this is Mr. Farnsworth’s friend. She doesn’t speak,” said Mr. Charles with a roll of his eyes.
Mrs. Charles made a noise of disapproval, looking Verve up and down. “Oh, she.”
Verve would have been more annoyed had she not been completely terrified that Fenn had scented a fae’s magic in the building. She looked at him, trying to communicate that she wished to leave at once.
Fenn gave her a reassuring nod and his lips formed the word, Wait. To the couple of shopkeepers he said, “I’m sorry to trouble you.”
“No, you’re not,” said Mrs. Charles. “Out with it, boy. What do you want?”
Under her watchful eye, Mr. Charles finished packaging the feathers in a neat little parcel and tied it up with brown twine. “You’ll forgive my wife,” said he. “She knows no subtlety.” That earned him a shove in the ribs with his wife’s elbow.
“Has anyone strange been in your shop today or yesterday?” Fenn asked.
The woman looked up from her husband’s work and glared at Fenn first and then Verve, where her eyes remained fixed. “You mean besides you two?”
Fenn sighed. “How long has your shop smelled of spices? Cinnamon, to be precise.”
That caused the couple to look at each other, apparently confused. “It smells like cinnamon?” asked Mr. Charles, breathing in deeply.
“Yes, it has for the last hour. Honestly, Charles, you’d think you have no sense of smell. The shop reeks of cinnamon.”
Mr. Charles looked at Fenn and shrugged. “If you say so, my dear.”
“What did the customer smelling of cinnamon want?” Fenn asked.
“The one with the strange ears,” said Mrs. Charles to her husband, obviously trying to refresh his memory.
“Oh, that one. Yes. Oddly enough, he bought nothing,” said the shopkeeper, a frown forming on his face. “He seemed very keen on knowing where the nearest inn was.”
“And what did you tell him?” Fenn asked.
Verve could see the tension building in the fae’s shoulders. She herself was ready to bolt from the store and flee into the woods.
“The Drinking Frog, naturally.”
“Charles, you know the Drinking Frog isn’t the closest inn. Really.”
Mr. Charles looked heavenward, his lips forming an oath. “Yes, my dear, but he was a stranger and we don’t direct them to the Tiger Moth. It’s not exactly the most reputable of inns and hosts quite a few unsavory characters.” He rolled his eyes and extended the package to Fenn. “That’ll be a ha’penny, Mr. Farnsworth.”
Fenn reached into his money pouch and produced a small coin, which he placed in the man’s waiting hand. He took the package, and Verve thought they would finally leave, but he paused and asked, “Did he ask you any strange questions?”
Verve was almost vibrating with the need to run, but Fenn seemed to ignore her agitated state. “Please,” she whispered.
“What kind of question is that but a strange one?” Mrs. Charles snapped, and with that said, she turned around and disappeared into the back of the store.
Mr. Charles lightened up noticeably upon his wife’s departure. “Well, come to think of it, the fellow did ask if anyone had been buying feathers from me recently. He was an odd sort, tall, like you. And something didn’t look quite right about his appearance. I can’t rightly describe it without sounding mad.” He gave Fenn an apologetic look.
