Page 24 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Pippa did not feel less enchanted, or any more protected. But she did feel able to take a full breath, which she realized she had not done since Lachlan pinned her to the shelf with his dagger. The air here tasted like apples and wine and something darker. A hint of bitterness. It was not unpleasant, but also not wholly comfortable.

She called on her Librarian training. Notice, catalogue. Sort.

Then act.

Voices lifting, and falling. The crunch of dried berries under the boots. The smell of fire and smoke and roses burning. Giant white dogs with red ears, muscles bunching under sleek fur, teeth sharp and exposed. There was no running from this place, not now. Not that there ever had been such a chance, not with Lachlan Thorn at her back and her coin deep in the Wishing Well. He nudged her inside, his pull unyielding even without the threat of Fae dogs tearing through her flesh.

Inside the bower was thick, soft grass, patterned with clover and bluebells. At the base of each tree sat a throne woven from branches and roots. She counted thirteen in total, hung banners embroidered with stag, swan, wolf, crow, toad, hawk, serpent, hound, owl, boar, fox and bear and hare.

The thirteen Winter Courts.

She picked out details to hold on to, in case they were of use later.

Assuming there was a later.

Details, she reminded herself when she started to tremble. Just focus on the details.

Thirteen houses, thirteen thrones. Candles burning in driftwood holders, dancing will-o’-the-wisps and jeweled pomegranate lanterns. A banquet table piled with every fruit she could name and so many more she had never seen before.

And Fae crowding all the spaces in between.

Fae lords and ladies with shining eyes and sharp teeth. Some had antlers draped with spider webs; some had moss and vines for hair. There was silver and gold, pearls and emeralds, beetle wings and spider silk. Ladies wearing crowns of sharpened antlers, carved bone, twisted daggers. Fae lords with eyes the color of poisonous flowers. Goat legs, magic cloaks. A woman with flowers tumbling from her lips every time she spoke. Mushrooms filling wooden bowls, water that sparkled, wine that left a smear of light on wet mouths.

Feral, dangerous beauty.

The Owl throne sat unattended. Lachlan did not even glance toward it. No courtiers, no servants, no one at all hovered nearby. The other niches were knotted and tangled with folk vying for some kind of recognition or acknowledgment. But Lachlan stood with a single Librarian. He looked faintly bored, but he was too sharp, too watchful, too composed of sharp corners and dark, silent menace, to be believable.

He placed a circlet of blackthorn branches bright with red berries, pink blossoms, and slender black thorns tipped with silver on her head like a crown. Owl feathers dangled from silver chains and lay across her hair. “Easy,” he murmured when she jerked. As if she were a fretful horse. Had she the teeth of a horse, she would have bitten him. Kicked him with her hooves. Something.

But alas.

“Thorn,” the Hawk King greeted him. She assumed he was the king from his golden crown.

“Cai,” Lachlan returned mildly.

Cai was as tall as Lachlan and even wider, with thick, sun-burnished hair and amber eyes. Soaring hawks and oak leaves were tattooed on his burly arms. His smile was easy. Charming.

Pippa did not particularly trust charming. She never had. Now did not seem the time to start.

Cai motioned to her. “What, not even a glamour, Thorn? Tonight of all nights?”

Lachlan barely glanced at him, leaning against the wall, boots crossed. His owl landed to perch on his throne, talons digging into the carved tangle of sharp thorns and branches. “She doesn’t need a glamour. Look at her.”

Cai did look at her.

And Pippa did not like it.

“She’s bonny for a wee witch, I’ll give you that.”

Pippa fought back a shudder, the visceral need to disappear. Years of experience had taught her to keep her eyes down, her expression mild and polite. The more uninteresting you were, the faster they got bored. She felt Lachlan scowling next to her. She did not look at him either.

“Mine was a lieutenant in the army before I found him. He’s vicious. He’ll win this, mark my words.”

The lieutenant in question certainly stood as though he were a military man. There was a sword at his hip, an axe with a golden handle strapped to his back. Pippa would need one of the Library’s rolling ladders to reach the top of his head, and she was not particularly short.

Lachlan shrugged, disinterested.

Pippa did not have the luxury of disinterest, feigned or otherwise. Was she meant to best him to gain her wish? Was that even possible? She knew spells, but she could hardly turn an axe into a bouquet of flowers. Could she? She would have to read up on that as soon as possible. Why were there so many fruits here and so few books?