Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(39)

“We have plenty, dearie.” Pixie stood up and hopped towards her, surprisingly spry for a woman who looked so old. “Let me help you put your cloak on. It pins at your throat now, doesn’t it? There. It’s lovely. We’ll get you warmed up and fed in a moment!”

Pixie planted her hands on Sorcha’s shoulder blades and shoved. For a glamoured being, her strength was impressive. Before Sorcha could blink, they were already outside and moving down the ramp.

Why was it that faeries dragged her around so much? Sorcha’s eyes watered in the bright sunlight. “What time is it?”

“Mid-day, dearie. You’ve been asleep for some time.”

“It was a long journey,” she said.

“I imagine it would be! Coming from the human world all the way here, you’re a brave little thing and polite.”

“No braver than the next person.” Sorcha tried to focus on the words, staring around her at all the new sights. There were people everywhere. Men and women, dressed in clothing styles from a hundred years ago or more, but still people. They tended the fields, drove herds of sheep out of their pens, laid in the grass, and pointed out clouds to each other. “Are these all faeries?”

“Indeed, they are!”

“Why didn’t I see them yesterday?” A man walked past them and doffed his shepherd’s hat. Sorcha nodded back politely and tugged her cloak tighter around her waist.

“We tend to be shy around humans. One never knows how they will react. Boggart was adamant you were kind, so the others were less hesitant to be seen.”

“Word travels fast around here,” Sorcha mused.

“It certainly does.”

Another man walked past them, his eyes lingering too long upon the gap at the bottom of the cloak which revealed the delicate lines of her ankle bones. Sorcha blushed, and Pixie smacked the back of the man’s head as he passed.

“Cretin,” Pixie muttered. “No respect for the womenfolk. Those selkie men need to be taken to task.”

“That was a selkie?” Sorcha spun to stare at his back. He glanced over his shoulder and winked at her.

“We’re not on a tour. Attention back towards the castle, please.”

“But—”

“No buts! You aren’t meeting a selkie today, or ever, if I have my say.”

Sorcha furrowed her brows. “Are they dangerous?”

“To a person’s sanity.”

“He didn’t seem all that bad.”

“None of them do!” Pixie guided her around the back to the castle, nudging her this way and that until she opened a small wooden gate. “The Fae are notoriously interested in humans. Far more than we should be, I might add. Stay away from faerie men, and you’ll be much happier.”

Sorcha stepped into the garden beyond the gate and inhaled the sweet scent of growing herbs. It was too early in the year for any plant to be bearing fruit, but tomatoes hung swollen and bright red. Basil spiced the air with a heady flavor while carrot tops tickled her toes.

“This garden is beautiful,” she whispered.

“I’m sure Cian will be pleased to hear that.”

“The gnome?” Sorcha skirted around a patch of turnips. “Cian is a gardener?”

“Most gnomes are. They’re good at it, too. The earth listens to them, you see, and that makes it a lot easier. Come on!”

Sorcha glanced up and realized she’d fallen behind. Pixie was holding open a plain brown door framed by gray stone. Steam billowed out in hot, rolling waves.

“Where does that lead?”

“To the kitchens, dearie.”

“I didn’t see the kitchens before.”

The cobblestone floor was cold against the soles of her bare feet. She curled her toes and held onto the door frame. The scent of pastries, bubbling stew, and strong tea made her head swim. Her stomach clenched in hunger.

Three women puttered around the kitchen. One leaned over a large cauldron, tasting the soup within. Another kneaded dough into a familiar shape while the last ducked behind a curtain. Trickling water striking a basin rained through her senses.

“Come on, dearie,” Pixie said. “We’ll get you all cleaned up and then fill that belly of yours.”

Sorcha tiptoed around the curtain and gaped at the large metal tub beyond it. “This is too fine for the likes of me.”

“Nonsense! There's nothing better than bathing in hot water. In you go.”

“I would be fine in a stream—”

“In.”

The steely order had Sorcha unclasping her cloak. The fabric fell to the floor with a heavy thump, followed by her white underdress.

“Should I even be here?” she asked. The hot water stung the scrapes on her knees but made her muscles loosen their tight knots. She hissed her pleasure as the steam coated her face.

“Why shouldn’t you be? Lean forward, and I’ll get your back.”

It had been a long time since someone helped Sorcha bathe. She remembered her mother scrubbing vigorously at her dirt streaked skin. She was always red for days after her baths. In contrast, Sorcha’s sisters were far less vigorous when she moved in with them.

“Your master didn’t seem keen on having me linger,” she said as the sponge slid over her skin.