The Wicked King (The Folk of the Air #2)(47)

Vivi pulls presents from her suitcase. Bags of coffee beans, glass earrings in the shape of little leaves, tins of dulce de leche.

Heather walks over to me. “This is all real.”

“Really, really real,” I confirm.

“And it’s true that these people are elves, that Vee is an elf, like from a story?” Heather looks around the room again, warily, as though she is expecting a rainbow-colored unicorn to burst through the plaster and lathe.

“Yup,” I say. She seems freaked out, but not actually angry at Vivi, which is something. Maybe the news is too big for anger, at least yet.

Or maybe Heather’s honestly pleased. Maybe Vivi was right about the way to tell her, and it was only that the delight took a few minutes to kick in. What do I know about love?

“And this place is…” she stops herself. “Oak is some kind of prince? He’s got horns. And Vivi has those eyes.”

“Cat eyes like her father,” I say. “It’s a lot, I’m sure.”

“He sounds scary,” Heather says. “Your dad. Sorry, I mean Vee’s dad. She says he’s not really your father.”

I flinch, although I am sure Vivi didn’t mean it that way. Maybe she didn’t even say it that way.

“Because you’re human,” Heather tries to clarify. “You are human, right?”

I nod, and the relief on her face is clear. She laughs a little.

“It’s not easy to be human in Faerie,” I tell her. “Come walk with me. I want to tell you some stuff.”

She tries to catch Vivi’s eye, but Vivi is still sitting on the rug, rooting through her suitcase. I see more trinkets, packages of licorice, hair ribbons, and a large package covered in white paper with a golden bow, stamped with “congratulations” all along its length.

Unsure of what else to do, Heather follows me. Vivi doesn’t even seem to notice.

It is strange to be back in the house where I grew up. Tempting to run up the stairs and throw open the doors to my old room, to see if there’s any trace of me there. Tempting to go into Madoc’s study and go through his papers like the spy that I am.

Instead, I head out onto the lawn and start toward the stables. Heather takes a deep breath of air. Her eyes are drawn to the towers visible above the tree line.

“Did Vee talk to you about rules?” I ask as we walk.

Heather shakes her head, clearly puzzled. “Rules?”

Vivi has come through for me plenty of times when no one else did, so I know she cares. Still, it feels like willful blindness to have overlooked how hard Taryn and I had it as mortals, how careful we had to be, and how careful Heather ought to be while she’s here.

“She said I should stick by her,” Heather says, probably seeing the frustration on my face and wanting to defend Vivi. “That I shouldn’t wander off without one of her family members.”

I shake my head. “Not good enough. Listen, the Folk can glamour things to look different than they do. They can mess with your mind—charm you, persuade you to do things you wouldn’t consider normally. And then there’s everapple, the fruit of Faerie. If you taste it, all you’ll think of is getting more.”

I sound like Oriana.

Heather is looking at me in horror and possibly disbelief. I wonder if I went too far. I try again with a slightly calmer tone. “We’re at a disadvantage here. The Folk, they’re ageless, immortal, and magical. And they’re not all fond of humans. So don’t let your guard down, don’t make any bargains, and keep some specific things on your person at all times—rowan berries and salt.”

“Okay,” she says.

In the distance, I can see Madoc’s two riding toads out on the lawn, being tended by grooms.

“You’re taking this really well,” I say.

“I have two questions.” Something in her voice or her manner makes me realize she is maybe having a harder time than I thought. “One, what are rowan berries? And two, if Faerieland is the way you say, why do you live here?”

I open my mouth, and then shut it. “It’s home,” I say, finally.

“It doesn’t have to be,” she says. “If Vee can leave, so can you. Like you said, you’re not one of them.”

“Come to the kitchens,” I tell her, veering back toward the house.

Once there, Heather is transfixed by the enormous cauldron, big enough for both of us to bathe in. She stares at the plucked bodies of partridges, resting on the counter beside dough rolled out for a pie.

I go over to the glass jars of herbs and draw out a few rowan berries. I take out a thick thread for sewing stuffing inside hens, and I use that and a bit of cheesecloth to make her a small knot of them.

“Put this in your pocket or in your bra,” I tell her. “Keep it on you while you’re here.”

“And this will keep me safe?” Heather asks.

“Safer,” I say, sewing her up a bag of salt. “Sprinkle this on whatever you eat. Don’t forget.”

“Thank you.” She takes my arm, giving it a quick squeeze. “I mean, this doesn’t feel real. I know that must sound ridiculous. I’m standing in front of you. I can smell herbs and blood from those weird little birds. If you stuck me with that needle, it would hurt. But it still doesn’t feel real. Even though it makes sense of all Vee’s stupid evasions about normal stuff like where she went to high school. But it means the whole world is upside down.”