An Enchantment of Ravens(44)

“Isobel, I’d like you to meet Foxglove,” said Gadfly. I curtsied deeply. “Foxglove, this is Isobel, though you already know her by reputation.” She curtsied back.

I knew her by reputation too. She was the fair one who’d stolen Mrs. Firth’s vowels. I had always counted myself lucky that she’d never come calling on me.

“I am utterly thrilled by your visit,” she said, leaning close enough that her breath tickled my hair. It had a sweet flowery aroma over a base note of some rich and deadly spice. “I’ve followed your work ever since it began appearing in the courts. I would so love to have a portrait done while you’re here.”

My jaw already ached from smiling, and the ordeal had only just begun. “Thank you. It would be my pleasure.”

“You’re a darling,” she replied, with hunger in her eyes.

Fair folk came forward in an endless stream. Soon my knees creaked from curtsying and pleasantries numbed my brain. The whole time Rook and I stood side by side as if we were strangers, never meeting each other’s eyes. Many of the fair folk I greeted were current or former patrons, like Swallowtail, who loudly engaged me in a conversation about his past commission as others in line peered jealously over his shoulders. All of them were familiar with my Craft.

As the afternoon dragged on, I grew increasingly impatient. I needed time to gather supplies before dusk. More importantly, I needed to send word of my situation to Emma—in writing—now that I was at last in a position to do so. News delivered verbally by a fair folk messenger, if indeed Gadfly could spare one from a tea party, would only leave her stewing until the sun came up, trying to figure out if I was really dead or injured and they’d figured out some twisty way to make it sound otherwise.

So I was distracted, wondering how I could escape before it grew too late, when Gadfly pulled forth another fair one and introduced her as Aster.

“I think you will be particularly delighted to meet our Aster,” he said, with an extra veneer of enthusiasm. “She was a mortal once, like you, and drank from the Green Well. When was that, Aster?”

“It must have been some centuries ago now—though it seems like just yesterday,” she replied in a soft, wispy voice, like willow branches stirred by a breeze.

My attention snapped back into focus at once. Had I not known, I wouldn’t have been able to tell Aster apart from the rest. She was perhaps a little less tall, but not remarkably so. Flowers were woven into her wavy, waist-length black hair. Her skin looked starkly pale in contrast, which only accentuated her glamour’s flaw: she was inhumanly gaunt. Her collarbones and ribs protruded from her chest above her gown’s neckline, and her shoulders looked as fragile as a bird’s bones. She watched me closely with brown eyes nearly as dark as mine.

We exchanged curtsies. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aster. I hope to drink from the Green Well one day myself.” The ability to lie had never seemed as useful or necessary. “How do you find being a fair one?”

She gave me a flickering smile that didn’t reach the rest of her face. “It’s lovely, you know. There are so few things to worry about—I hardly ever have cares these days. I remember getting sick, or the way I used to feel pain, and there’s so much . . . less of it now.” Her smile faded and came back.

“That sounds wonderful.” I was aware of everyone watching me, and made sure my expression didn’t change. “The forest is so beautiful compared to Whimsy.”

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.”

“Were you a master of the Craft?” I inquired.

Her wan smile lit her face like the striking of a flint. “I was! One must be to drink from the well, of course. Let’s see—I was”—she faltered horribly—“you know, I seem to have forgotten the name for it. Ha ha! How strange!”

My skin crawled, a thousand many-legged insects skittering from my scalp all the way down to my toes. I desperately hoped the fair folk couldn’t see my hair standing on end. “Perhaps you could describe it to me,” I suggested, “and I’ll find the name for you.”

“Well, I made words. I made words for books, the ones that tell stories that aren’t true. Isn’t that odd? I used to do that myself!”

“You were a writer,” I said.

Her pupils swallowed up her eyes. For a heartbeat I had the terrifying notion she was about to leap at me and tear my throat out. Then I saw her hands fisted so tightly, gripping the fabric of her dress, that her knuckles bulged white and her fingers looked fit to break. “Yes, that’s it. I was a writer. Ha ha! A writer! Silly me—one does forget such things. We all forget things from time to time.”

“Yes, we certainly do.” I kept my voice steady with an effort. “May I ask, did you also have the pleasure of visiting the spring court before you drank from the well?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “How splendid that would have been. I only came here afterward, once I’d transformed.”

How many fair folk had Aster met before she made her decision? How much had she understood about the consequences of her choice? I couldn’t continue my line of questioning without risking suspicion. But it seemed to me that she might not have known what was in store for her, not truly, the same as everyone back in Whimsy.

“I see,” I replied. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Aster.”