An Enchantment of Ravens(39)
“Do you really think it might repair your reputation?” I asked, lifting my skirts to step through a meadow of nodding yellow cowslips. Whenever the breeze changed directions it brought a different fragrance—some I could identify, and others I’d never smelled before.
“At this point, I doubt anything can,” he replied with a crooked smile. “But the portrait . . . yes, I believe so. I’m relieved I’m no longer on the receiving end of your schemes. You’re a great deal more devious than you look.”
Try as I might to block it out, I heard an echo of Rook’s confession in everything he said since leaving the well behind. Now that I knew to look for it, I perceived the warm admiration in his tone. While our mood might have lightened, the perfumed air hung heavy with tension. I forced out a laugh, focusing on my steps through the tall, tangled flowers.
“I’m not devious, I’m just practical. But I suppose fair folk don’t have much to do with the latter.”
He frowned, trying to figure out if I’d insulted him.
“Look,” I said quickly, hiding my amusement as I waded over to a great mossy stone, “this blossom’s as large as my hand. I wonder what makes them grow so large?”
As soon as I bent down and plucked the flower, a trouser leg appeared next to me. It was made of shimmering rose-gray silk, and another, matching trouser leg followed. I started back and fell on my rear in time to watch Gadfly finish stepping out from the space between the two halves of the cracked boulder. This was made even stranger by the fact that—and I was completely certain of this—he hadn’t emerged from the other side. Somehow, I’d stumbled upon the entrance to a fairy path.
“Good afternoon, Isobel,” he said pleasantly, straightening his impeccably tied cravat. He didn’t seem at all surprised to find me sitting on the ground in front of him, alarmed and clutching a cowslip.
As the shock wore off, I found I was terribly happy to see him. The homesickness I hadn’t had time to indulge in these past few days struck me like a runaway carriage. I’d spent years with him in my parlor, and though his pale blue eyes betrayed not the slightest genuine warmth, his face was more familiar a sight than anything else I’d lain eyes upon since leaving home.
I nearly exclaimed his name, but caught myself at the last second. My manners had deteriorated appallingly during my time with Rook.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Gadfly,” I said, standing up to curtsy. “Did Rook inform you of our arrival?” If he had, it was news to me.
He swept me a bow, then sent Rook a pointed look. “Does our dear Rook ever bother with common courtesy? No, I simply knew you were coming. Very few things escape my attention in the springlands—even the plucking of a flower.”
I looked at the cowslip guiltily.
“Do keep it,” he urged, “as a welcome to my domain.”
While I digested his curious words he swept past me and walked a circle around Rook, who withstood the inspection with a lifted chin and a set jaw. Comparing them, I was oddly proud to note that Rook was several inches taller. His dark, tousled hair and striking eyes set him apart like night from day in contrast to Gadfly’s refined pastel pallor. Though by far the younger of the two, he was in every way Gadfly’s equal.
“Those clothes are at least fifty years out of fashion,” Gadfly was telling him. “No one wears copper buttons in the spring court. If you insist on staying we’ll have to find . . .”
Whatever he said next, and whatever Rook said in reply, was lost to me as I finished digesting that phrase—a welcome to my domain.
I cleared my throat. Gadfly looked around. “Sir, are you the spring prince?” I asked.
He smiled. “Why, yes. None other! Surely I’ve mentioned that to you before?”
“No, I can’t say you have.”
“How remiss of me. I’m so forgetful with mortals—I simply assume everyone already knows.” While Gadfly spoke, Rook studied him with an unreadable expression. “Well, fear not, Isobel. Your manners are beyond reproach. I always felt welcomed as a princely figure in your home. Now, before I forget another detail, would you care to tell me why you’re roaming about in the forest, and in such distinguished company?”
“Actually—” I glanced at Rook. I was grateful we’d planned on having him explain, because the revelation about Gadfly’s rank had left me quite speechless.
“Let’s discuss it as we walk,” he suggested, yanking his coat straight and tightening his sword belt, rather crossly, I thought. I wondered if he’d taken Gadfly’s criticisms to heart. Then he set off through the meadow, leaving us to catch up.
“He’s a singular fellow, isn’t he,” Gadfly said.
How could I possibly answer that without giving anything away? I settled for the blandest reply I could think of. “Indeed, sir. I find all fair folk to be quite singular.”
“Oh, how I wish that were so! But we’re all the same, I’m afraid.” He gave me a smile as subtle and chilly as a spring thaw. “Most of us. Now, Rook—you were saying?”
Pacing along in front, Rook was clearly growing tired of all the cowslips. “As you know,” he said impatiently, “Isobel is the most distinguished Crafter in Whimsy at present. The portrait she painted for me was unlike anything we’ve ever seen in the autumn court.”