Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(57)

The last thing she needed was to go back to the “toss her out of the castle” route they’d started their relationship with. He had shown an ability to be a gentleman. Now she needed to use that to her advantage.

Her first thought was to dress up. She’d put the green velvet dress back on and twirled around in front of Boggart asking how she looked. Brown patches were showing up all over Boggart’s body, and she stroked one on her forearm before clapping.

But that hadn’t been right. Sorcha wasn’t trying to impress him with her beauty. She needed him to take her seriously. The blood beetle plague was a terrible affliction, and he needed to understand how dire the circumstances were.

She switched to the outfit she usually conducted her midwifery in. Stains decorated the front of the white apron and rips frayed the ends. She thought it rather suited the conversation.

Boggart hated it.

The little faerie then found the perfect dress or at least that’s what her chirps sounded like. It had been Sorcha’s mother’s. Pale yellow, with tiny hand-embroidered white daisies along the hem, it snugged tight to her waist while sweeping the ground. Sorcha rarely wore the dress for fear she might harm the delicate fabric.

Still, she tried it on. Worn cotton swayed against her thighs, delicate lace brushing the tops of her feet. The square neckline allowed the wind to brush over her skin, the tight sleeves complimented her strong arms.

Sorcha didn’t second guess her choice until she stood outside the kitchens. Now, she paced back and forth wondering what her plan was. Did she think he would say yes just because she wore a yellow dress?

Of course he wouldn’t. He was a man who called himself master. A peasant girl in a pretty dress wouldn’t change his mind that easily.

A grumbling voice lifted. “Are you going in or not, girl?”

“I’m thinking.”

“What could you have to think about that would make you trample my rutabagas?”

“Hush, Cian.”

The click of his jaw snapping together made her flinch. She should know better than to issue an order while using a Fae name.

Sorcha winced, “I’m sorry Cian. I rescind that order.”

His mouth flew open so fast she thought he might unhinge his jaw. “How dare you! This is precisely why humans shouldn’t have our names!”

“I agree,” she interrupted, stopping him mid rant. “I never should have used it, that was careless of me.”

Cian grumbled but turned back to hoeing the patch of lettuce which she swore had popped up overnight. The man was magic with the garden. Sorcha wished he lived near her sisters, maybe they wouldn’t have given so much money to the marketplace.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched into the bustling kitchen.

Most of the faeries still kept their glamour around her. They feared her reaction to their true form, or worried they might frighten her. Whatever the cause, it irked Sorcha to no end.

Already bristling, she searched through the steam and heat waves to find Pixie. The old woman was one of the Fae who remained glamoured. That little tidbit Sorcha liked least of all.

“Pixie!” she called out.

Everyone paused for a brief second. Sorcha knew what was running through their minds. The human was here. Be more careful than before. Even though they liked her, even though she had saved one of their own, tension appeared where there hadn’t been before.

Pixie rushed towards her, wiping her hands on a towel as she went. “What can I do for you, dearie?”

“Where is your master?”

“The throne room, I would imagine.”

Sorcha growled. “Why is he always in that damn throne room when I need him?”

“He’s expecting company.”

“Company?” Sorcha glanced around the room with surprise. “You’re preparing a feast?”

“Yes. It’s a rarity that we have visitors.”

“Who’s visiting?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to say,” Pixie glanced over her shoulder at the brownies frantically cooking. “You should remain in your home tonight. It would be safer.”

“Who’s coming?” Sorcha repeated.

Pixie did not respond. Instead, she turned on her heel and hustled back towards the table where she’d been decorating tiny pastries.

Frustration surged through her and gathered in her clenched fists. Sorcha didn’t like being left in the dark. Who was coming? This was a cursed isle impossible to even see for another seven years, so who would have the power to find it?

There were so many questions no one would answer. No one in this room, at least.

All the more reason to go bother the master of the isle.

Resolve settled upon her shoulders like a well-worn cloak. She wouldn’t be intimidated by visitors who might frighten her. She’d met the terrifying Macha—a woman who rode through battle and cleaved men in two. There were few worse than that.

Her footsteps echoed down the hall as she marched towards the throne room. She vaguely remembered where it was, although she caught herself turning into empty rooms.

One held shattered stone statues. Her foot caught upon a head, empty eyes staring up at her and carved so realistically that she expected it to blink. Unnerved, Sorcha backed out of the room as though the statues might call out for help.

Rounding a cobweb covered corner, she finally saw the grand entrance. This time, she paused to really look at it.