Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(3)

The twins snuggled up near the fire, their heads pressed together as they shared secrets. Sorcha’s herbs hung from the ceiling to dry for later use. A worn table stretched from end to end, two benches serving as seats. They stored a cauldron in the back room and brought it out for supper to hang over the fire.

Briana, the eldest of their sisters, swung the opposite door open. Masculine laughter and shouts echoed in a wall of sound. “Rosaleen, you’ve a customer out front.”

“All right,” she squeezed Sorcha’s waist. “I’ll be back later, you’ll be fine without me?”

“You worry too much,” Sorcha replied. “Go on then. Make some money.”

As the tiny blonde skipped past, Briana gave Sorcha a measured stare. “You’re keeping yourself busy today I hope? There’s a long line of appointments and I don't have time to watch over you today. You’ll fend for yourself if you’re sticking around.”

Sorcha had never been like her adopted sisters. Her witch of a mother taught her too many things and her young mind had absorbed the information. Sorcha had more uses than whoring, Papa used to say. People paid more for healing than they did for bedding. And besides, no one wanted to risk laying with the devil's spawn. Papa never thought she was a witch or cursed, but she was whip-smart.

He made the decision for her to walk the path of a healer. From that day forward, she dedicated herself to helping others and tried to avoid the same fate as her mother. The acrid scent of burning flesh was seared into her memory.

Sorcha ducked her head and nodded. “I’ll be at the guild meeting most of the day and then need to stop by Dame Agatha’s.”

“That poor woman is pregnant again?”

“Seems so.”

Briana tsked. “That man needs to give her a break, or she’ll go to an early grave. Speaking of, I’ll need you to restock our own stores. We can’t have any children running around.”

“Of course. On the way back, I’ll gather more mealbhacán, but the wild carrot tastes awful.”

“I don’t care what you gather, or how bad it tastes. Just make it useful.”

Briana must have had a difficult client, Sorcha mused. Or perhaps it was the teeming mass of energy behind her. Men always grew excited on the Solstice.

She raced up the rickety wooden stairs, trying not to make eye contact with any of the male customers below. They lived in a large city, and most people knew her. She wasn’t in the market for entertaining.

“Sorcha! When are you going to let us love you like we love your sisters?”

Only when she crested the first flight of stairs, did she pause and lean over the railing. The long tangled mass of her hair hung over the edge. “Oh Fergus, someday you will make your wife jealous with talk like that.”

“She knows I’m loyal to her!”

Briana stood behind the man, waving her hands frantically.

Right. Sorcha wasn’t supposed to insult the customers, or they’d leave. She puffed out a breath that stirred the red curls in front of her face, conceding. “I’m a healer, Fergus. I don’t partake in your festivities, but a man certainly can dream!”

He let out a hearty laugh, his cheeks stained red. “Ah, and dream I do, my lovely lass!”

She raced up the rest of the stairs. Her skirt whirled in an arc behind her, the blue plaid fluttering with her movements. The last thing she wanted to hear was that Fergus, of all men, dreamed of her.

They all slept on the top floor, away from the rooms where they brought clients. A place they could call their own was important. Although, the more women they brought into their family, the less room they had.

Sorcha didn’t work in the brothel, so her room was the smallest. It had once been used as a storage closet, but now held a small cot and stacked chests. Books, herbs, and all manner of magical objects were scattered around the room.

The first chest creaked as she opened it. She reached into the dark depths, her fingers skimming over well-worn objects, until she closed her fist around her greatest treasure.

Her mother had passed down her knowledge along with sacred objects. Many feared Paganism, considered the work of the devil, and named those who practiced it witches. Sorcha knew better.

She pulled out a stone carved with a white dove. Pressing it to her lips, she whispered, “Good morrow, Máthair.”

Not a day passed when she didn’t miss her mother’s laughter, her calloused hands, and the scent of cinnamon in her hair. She hadn’t been a witch, just a healer who knew how to ask favors of the Fae.

Sorcha dropped the stone back into the chest and picked up a ceramic pot. Her mother had lovingly painted tiny flowers all around the edges, each stroke created with care and precision. She measured out a small bit of sugar and scooped it onto the windowsill.

“Share a taste of sugar with me,” Sorcha said, “in celebration of our dutiful work.”

Like her mother, Sorcha respected the old ways and the Fae. She believed in them where others did not. Her room was always clean, and her books always neatly packed away, all without Sorcha touching a single item. The brownies took care of her, and she took care of them in return.

She scooped up her medical notes and tucked them into a bag she slung over her shoulder. Patting her hair, she gave up on tying it back. The nest of curls would be free before she made it to the guild.