Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(48)

A small hand tugged her skirt. Sorcha glanced down at Boggart’s strange, elongated face. Bread stuffed her cheeks, bulging them to the side and preventing her from squeaking.

Boggart tugged again and pointed towards the bed.

“Yes, it’s bedtime. Where are you sleeping, little one?”

The faerie pointed at a small lump of moth eaten blankets in the corner.

“Is that where you want to sleep? The bed is plenty big enough for the both of us.”

Boggart took off for her corner and burrowed underneath the blankets. Her long, whiskered nose poked out of the mound, sniffing for a moment before disappearing again. Sorcha could hear the slight sound of munching.

She must have taken the rest of the bread with her, Sorcha thought with a smile. Shaking her head, she disrobed and hung the velvet dress from the window. It was too nice to leave on the floor or fold into the chest in the corner.

Tomorrow, she promised herself as she got into bed, tomorrow she would explore the island and speak with its inhabitants. She would not be distracted by the handsome king. She needed to convince him to come back to the mainland with her and damned if she would fail.

The air vibrated with the sound of wings, wind brushing over her face as she snuggled into the pillows. A raven croaked as it landed on her windowsill.

“There you are, Bran,” she murmured quietly, so as not to disturb Boggart. “I wondered where you’d flown off to.”

He croaked.

“Of course I worried. We survived a near death experience together. And no, I can’t seem to sleep.”

The raven tilted his head, staring at her with one dark, beady eye.

“It has nothing to do with him!”

He flapped his wings, settled onto the windowsill for the night, and turned his back to her.

“That’s just rude,” she grumbled. “I’m not lying to you. I slept for a full day when I first arrived here. I’m not tired in the slightest!”

Perhaps it had something to do with the master of the isle. His gaze like ice, with molten heat in its depths.

She shivered and pulled the blankets high over her shoulders. Huffing out a breath, she resigned herself to a difficult night with little sleep.





Chapter Seven





THE HEALER





Sorcha crested a hill. Her breath was ragged and dripping sweat stuck long strands of her hair to her brow. She’d wrapped a bedsheet across her body as a makeshift pack. Her own was too large to bring on an adventure across the small isle.

The white sheet was a stark contrast to the old dress she wore. She found it in a chest left behind by the hag. Moths had gotten to it, chewing holes through the fabric and leaving the edges ragged, but there was nothing functionally wrong with it. She wouldn’t ruin it any further, and who needed fine clothing every day? The velvet was lovely, but not practical.

She prided herself on being a practical woman.

Hiking the sheet higher up her shoulder, she blew out a breath. A curl bounced from its confining tie.

Sorcha groaned. At this rate, by the time she crested the small mountain there wouldn’t be any hair left in the tie! The unruly curls demanded freedom.

Gravel crunched under her borrowed boots. There used to be a path here, the ground worn down by centuries of feet. The earth had grown back over the years, smoothing the marred ground, and covering the path to the peak.

She scrambled on hands and knees to the crest. Air sawed from her lungs and her knees wobbled, but she had done it. Plunking down near a cairn, she yanked the wayward curls back into their tie.

Bran cawed overhead, his voice shouting in the air.

“Yes, yes,” she muttered as she pulled hard. “You could have done this in half the time. Need I remind you feathers are far faster than flesh?”

He circled above her, dipping and diving as if to mock her exhaustion.

“Must be easy being a raven. Those of us down here have to struggle our way up the mountain. You can soar over and far beyond.”

She released the knot across her chest with a relieved sigh. Food was only a slight weight, but she was still sore. Her muscles needed to move, to release the tension and stiffness that hindered her movements.

Perhaps a mountain had been a little more than she could handle.

Rubbing her shoulder, Sorcha pulled out the small jug of water and block of cheese. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

She kept a sgian dubh, a knife, strapped to her ankle for moments like this. Dicing the soft cheese, she lifted it to her mouth and glanced down the mountain.

Everything seemed so small from up here. The land stretched out before her, dotted with sheep-like stars in the night sky. Tiny people worked diligently on their land. From here, she could see they had cast aside their glamour. Wings sparkled in the sunlight, warped forms bent over the fields. She knew if she walked within a few feet of them, they would put their glamours up so fast she never would get a peek at what they looked like.

It was the only mountain on the isle and was even with the top of the castle. Quiet, and lonely, it gave her moments to think while remaining away from all the people here.

No one wanted to speak to her about their master. They were as elusive as the man himself, answering her questions in vague responses that weren’t quite lies. Perhaps he had warned them away from speaking to her. Perhaps they were loyal to the mysterious man.