Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(5)

A minstrel played his flute, filling the square with a jaunty tune. Sorcha recognized the song and covered her grin. The words were highly inappropriate. His hat on the ground overflowed with coins, so others must have appreciated the jest as much as she.

He winked at her when she placed a single coin with the others.

A woman selling dried herbs caught her arm and pressed a small jar of honey into Sorcha’s palm. “For Danu.”

“I will leave it in the forest,” Sorcha tucked it into her bag. “For anything in particular?”

“Good health.”

Nodding, she continued to push through the crowds of people. It wasn’t the first time someone asked for a blessing. They weren't willing to follow the old ways themselves—that was too risky—so they’d ask Sorcha to leave them for her. If she was caught, she'd be burned at the stake by the same people who handed her gifts to take to the Fae.

A few others passed her bits and pieces to leave as offerings. A small packet of sugar, a dried bunch of lavender, a tiny jar of fresh cream. Little things that the faeries appreciated, and might leave blessings for in return.

That was the deal with faeries. Their favors could not be bought or bribed. One had to continue leaving gifts and someday, maybe, the faeries would gift them a blessing.

Another woman grabbed Sorcha’s arm and pulled her away from the crowd. A dirty kerchief covered her head and a moth-bitten brown dress hung from her thin frame. “My daughter won’t stop crying. She’s screaming the nights away, and my husband plans to leave her on the hill tomorrow night saying she’s a changeling. Is there another way?” Her swollen eyes brimmed with tears, cheeks scrubbed raw and nose stuffed.

Sorcha patted her hand. “Bring her to the river and hold her in the water. No need to put her underneath it, just her legs will do. If they look the same, then she’s no changeling. If they look like birch branches, then you know you’re housing a faerie under your roof.”

“The river?”

“Faerie magic doesn’t work under flowing water and the glamour will break. If she’s no Fae, then bring her to the brothel. I’ll have a good look at her and see if I can give you something to help her, and you, get some sleep.”

“Bless you, lady. We have nothing to pay you.”

“I don’t ask for payment. Leave an offering for Danu when you can and apologize for blaming her children for your child's illness.”

The woman wrung her hands. “And if it is a changeling?”

Sorcha frowned. “Then you’ll leave it in the woods and hope they bring your child back.”

She pulled away and continued her journey with a troubled mind. Many families thought their sickly babe was a changeling, but rarely was it true. There hadn’t had a changeling in this area for years.

Yet, offerings to the Fae had diminished in the past years. With the blood beetle plague, the rising of other religions, and more outsiders in their lands, faerie stories faded into myth.

The people forgot the shrines. Cattle and lye tainted the holy waters. Many people didn’t leave cream and sugar on their doorsteps. No one remembered the old ways, and they were paying for that.

Sorcha shook her head. She hoped it wasn’t a changeling. Often, the Fae swapped out children for a reason. It was an unwanted, ugly babe, or it was an ancient faerie who needed a quiet place to die. Neither of those were a fair trade for a human child, and leaving it on a hill didn’t result in gaining their child back. The faerie would die alone on the hill, cold and unwanted once again.

But it was the only solution she knew.

She tried not to let her eyes linger upon the shadows at the edges of the street. Families cast out the infected from their home, fear of spreading the blood beetles giving way to panic. She couldn't stop her eyes from searching for them at the edges of the crowd.

Her gaze caught on a painfully thin man. He scratched at a bulge on his cheek which shifted every time he touched it.

Sorcha shivered and hurried along her way.

The Guild building loomed at the end of the street. It looked nearly as impressive as the church. Imposing and tall, the walls stretched so high she had to shade her eyes to see their peak. One of the more prestigious patrons had paid for full stained glass windows. On one side, a healer looked down at her with disapproving eyes. On the other, a priest held his hands solemnly before him.

Taking a deep breath, she hiked the bag on her shoulder higher. Noblemen worked here, their fine velvet clothing easily ruined by her dirty touch, their jewelry blinding her with its opulence. She was not a welcome visitor.

She walked up the steps, counting each one as she went. By the time she reached thirty, she was at the front doors.

“This time will be different,” she told herself. “They will listen to you. You'll make them.”

Sorcha pushed the doors open and stepped onto the marble floors. Her footsteps echoed, those closest to her glancing up at the intrusive sound. She didn’t let herself meet their gaze. She knew from experience their expressions would turn to shock and then anger. How dare a woman tread among their favored kind?

Confidently striding to the end of the building, she halted in front of a bespectacled man peering at ledgers. He didn’t look up.

Sorcha cleared her throat.

“What is it this time, Sorcha?”

“I’ve come to speak with the healers guild on the matter of blood beetles.”