Page 6 of The Midnight King

With shaking fingers I collect the dress. It’s ruined.

I pull out my father’s watch and flip it open. It confirms what I feared… that I slept too long with my head on the table. It’s after five o’clock in the morning. I need to begin the care and feeding of the animals, then start breakfast.

Even if I could find time to remove the bloody lace, there are no more scraps that will match the trim on the dress. And nothing can fix the damage done to the delicate fabric by Sophie’s claws.

“Fuck my life.” I whisper it aloud, while a tear falls from my lower lashes onto the face of the watch. I wipe it off with my thumb, then tuck the watch back into my work dress.

Slowly I shuffle to the back door and slide my stockinged feet into my battered leather boots. I put on my threadbare coat and wrap a thick shawl around myself, knowing it won’t be enough to keep out the pre-dawn cold. I dig my fingerless gloves out of the deep pockets of the coat, then pick up the milk pail.

When I open the back door, the wind hits me like an angry fist. It feels personal, a brutal attack. The whole world and all thegods are battering me, seeing how long I’ll last before I break. Did my father feel like this on his last day?

Holding one hand up to shield my face from the wind, I struggle across the yard toward the barn. It’s a dilapidated mess, with gaps so big the cold pours right in. Not much shelter for the poor cows.

The ground isn’t frozen yet, but it’s only a matter of days before winter comes in earnest and the soil freezes solid. Judging by the keen, fresh scent of the air, we might have our first snowfall tonight.

I yank the barn door open a crack and wedge myself and the bucket through the gap. Despite the drafts leaking through the cracks, there’s a steamy heat pouring off the cows as they stand close together. The biggest one, Merry, lows in gentle greeting, and my sore heart nearly bursts at the simple acknowledgement. I drop the bucket and lean against her, my face pressed to her neck. Her warm, curly coat is coarser than Sophie’s, but it’s comforting all the same.

“Hey, beautiful,” I murmur. A tear traces down my cheek and trembles on my lips.

The youngest of the three cows, whom I’ve named Crabapple, is about eight months old, the result of a local farmer’s kindness. He lent us his bull last year, as a favor to me after I made his wife a beautiful quilt from snippets of dresses my stepsisters outgrew. I got to know the couple through visiting their stall on market days, and when I found out the wife was pregnant, I began crafting the quilt.

Not long after Merry’s successful breeding session, my stepmother discovered my friendship with the farmer’s family, and she ordered me never to speak to them or buy from them again. A month ago, the farmer’s wife spotted me at the market and called out to me, but I could not answer, no matter how hard I tried. I struggled so viciously that the anklet burned my leg. There’s a recent scar beneath the gold band now, layered withother similar scars. They are warnings and reminders that my will is not strong enough to dispel magic.

I pat Crabapple’s nose, then pitch some fresh straw from the back loft into the trough. The third cow, Annabelle, seems half-asleep, more sluggish than usual. She’s been losing weight, and I’m concerned about her. It takes some coaxing and a little hand-feeding to get her to begin taking mouthfuls of hay.

I greet the horses next. I’ll need to muck out their stalls later, but first I fill their feed bags from the dwindling supply of oats.

At last I set the stool in place and sit down to milk Merry. With each firm roll and squeeze of her teats, each hiss of the milk hitting the inside of the pail, I feel my distress easing slightly. The rhythm of it is soothing. At least here, among the animals, I am temporarily safe, and I know exactly what to do.

Once the pail is full, I set it on a shelf and move around Annabelle to inspect a sore I noticed on her flank. “That looks painful, sweet thing,” I croon to her, touching the edge of the wound lightly. Her flank shudders and she shifts a step away, but continues to eat. “We’ll have to get the farrier out here to look at you. Not sure where we’ll find the money to pay him, but—”

“If you’ll allow me,” says a voice.

I startle violently and clap my hand over my mouth, stifling a scream that would surely have panicked the cows.

From a shadowed corner of the barn, a figure emerges—tall and lean, dressed in an unbuttoned white shirt beneath a purple tailcoat. His slim legs are encased in gray pants, and he wears thigh-high boots decorated with strings of purple beads. Violet gems glitter against his bare chest and twinkle along the edges of his pointed ears. His chin-length hair is dark purple at the roots and lavender at the tips, and as he approaches, he tosses it back with a sweep of his long tapered fingers, each one sparkling with rings.

He’s smiling brightly, graciously, almost eagerly. As if he’s delighted to meet me and already expects us to be great friends. His features are practically ethereal, blessed with a beauty so pure he couldn’t possibly be human.

He’s a Faerie. He must be. But why in the name of Fate is he in my barn?

“What the actual fuck?” I exclaim.

He hesitates, a soft laugh breaking from him. The laughter is ridiculously beautiful, too. I’m beginning to hate him just for looking the way he does, like a sparkly violet among earthen clods, and yes, I feel like one of the clods.

“I always try to avoid startling people,” he says apologetically. “But I rarely succeed. Mortals can be so terribly jumpy. You’re doing very well though. You haven’t screamed yet, so—”

He’s reaching for Annabelle, and I react with the defensive instinct of a mother bear, snatching up the pitchfork and jabbing it at him. The tines rip through his coat and shirt, grazing him slightly.

“So you’re a fighter, not a screamer.” He gives me an unbothered smirk. When he passes his hand over the ripped garments, they mend themselves immediately, seamlessly.

Mouth open, I gape at him.

He reaches out toward the cow again, giving me a cautious look. “May I? I promise I intend her no harm.”

I clutch the pitchfork tighter, but I don’t attack him again.

He places his palm over the sore on Annabelle’s side and closes his eyes, his brows bending in concentration. His dark lashes are absurdly luxurious.

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