I approached a bench in an alcove blooming with foxglove when the sound of steps on shifting gravel filled the air. Two pairs of light, quick feet. I straightened, peering down the way I’d come, but the path was empty.
I lingered at the edge of an open field of lanky meadow buttercups. The vibrant green-and-yellow field was deserted. Behind me arose a gnarled crab apple tree in full, glorious bloom, the petals of its flowers littering the shaded bench on which I’d been about to sit. A breeze set the branches rustling, a waterfall of white petals flittering down like snow.
I scanned the garden, the field—carefully, carefully watching and listening for those two sets of feet.
There was nothing in the tree, or behind it.
A prickling sensation ran down my spine. I’d spent enough time in the woods to trust my instincts.
Someone stood behind me—perhaps two of them. A faint sniff and a quiet giggle issued from far too close. My heart leaped into my throat.
I cast a subtle glance over my shoulder. But only a shining silvery light flickered in the corner of my vision.
I had to turn around. I had to face it.
The gravel crunched, nearer now. The shimmering in the corner of my eye grew larger, separating into two small figures no taller than my waist. My hands clenched into fists.
“Feyre!” Alis’s voice cut across the garden. I jumped out of my skin as she called me again. “Feyre, lunch!” she hollered. I whirled, a shout forming on my lips to alert her to whatever stood behind me, raising my fists, however futile it would be.
But the shining things had vanished, along with their sniffing and giggling, and I found myself facing a weathered statue of two merry, bounding lambs. I rubbed my neck.
Alis called me again, and I took a shuddering breath as I returned to the manor. But even as I strode through the hedges, carefully retracing my steps back to the house, I couldn’t erase the creeping feeling that someone still watched me, curious and wanting to play.
I stole a knife from dinner that night. Just to have something—anything—to defend myself with.
It turned out that dinner was the only meal I was invited to attend, which was fine. Three meals a day with Tamlin and Lucien would have been torturous. I could endure an hour of sitting at their fancy table if it made them think I was docile and had no plans to change my fate.
While Lucien ranted to Tamlin about some malfunction of the magical, carved eye that indeed allowed him to see, I slipped my knife down the sleeve of my tunic. My heart beat so fast I thought they could hear it, but Lucien continued speaking, and Tamlin’s focus remained on his courtier.
I supposed I should have pitied them for the masks they were forced to wear, for the blight that had infected their magic and people. But the less I interacted with them the better, especially when Lucien seemed to find everything I said to be hilariously human and uneducated. Snapping at him wouldn’t help my plans. It would be an uphill battle to win his favor, if only for the fact that I was alive and his friend was not. I’d have to deal with him alone, or risk raising Tamlin’s suspicions too soon.
Lucien’s red hair shone in the firelight, the colors flickering with every movement he made, and the jewels in the hilt of his sword glinted—the ornate blade so unlike the baldric of knives still strapped across Tamlin’s chest. But there was no one here to use a sword against. And while the sword was embedded with jewels and filigree, it was large enough to be more than decoration. Perhaps it had something to do with those invisible things in the garden. Maybe he’d lost his eye and earned that scar in battle. I fought against a shudder.
Alis had said the house was safe, but warned me to keep my wits about me. What might lurk beyond the house—or be able to use my human senses against me? Just how far would Tamlin’s order not to harm me stretch? What kind of authority did he hold?
Lucien paused, and I found him smirking at me, making the scar even more brutal. “Were you admiring my sword, or just contemplating killing me, Feyre?”
“Of course not,” I said softly, and glanced at Tamlin. The gold flecks in his eyes glowed, even from the other end of the table. My heart beat at a gallop. Had he somehow heard me take the knife, the whisper of metal on wood? I forced myself to look again at Lucien.
His lazy, vicious grin was still there. Act civilized, behave, possibly win him to my side … I could do that.
Tamlin broke the silence. “Feyre likes to hunt.”
“I don’t like to hunt.” I should have probably used a more polite tone, but I went on. “I hunted out of necessity. And how did you know that?”
Tamlin’s stare was bald, assessing. “Why else were you in the woods that day? You had a bow and arrows in your … house.” I wondered whether he’d almost said hovel. “When I saw your father’s hands, I knew he wasn’t the one using them.” He gestured to my scarred, callused hands. “You told him about the rations and money from pelts. Faeries might be many things, but we’re not stupid. Unless your ridiculous legends claim that about us, too.”