Page 53 of Crown of the Fae King

Wickham leaned over them, his mouth moving as he read the words inside the decorative margins. The little faces watched him, warily, but smiled when they looked at me. I slipped into my courteous waitress personae, determined to keep them happy. But I had no idea what to say.

“This is Wickham.”

The shape of an oval appeared over the words and started growing, then little stars bloomed in the center. It became a fingernail. Turned purple. The bug’s eye strained sideways at it, then looked at me.

“They…they want to know what happened to the fairy with the purple eyes.”

Wickham stared at the bug and the bug stared back. He glanced at me, then straightened to where I couldn’t see his face without turning. “Dead. She’s dead.”

Every little face was shocked. Tiny mouths turned into O’s. Little eyebrows slid high. My face might have reflected the same if I hadn’t deliberately hidden my reaction. Inside, my stomach turned to stone.

Suddenly, the little creatures grew leafy legs and started dancing, entwining arms and swinging each other in circles. Little bits of confetti popped onto the page and snowed down the paper, obscuring the wording as it fell.

“Seems as though they kenned her well enough,” he said, then pointed to the words. “Poetry, here. Odes to nature. Nothing we’re looking for.”

The bug grew a little, looked at me, waiting for something. I couldn’t imagine what.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want.”

It pointed at me. Pointed again. Looked at Wickham as if asking for his help.

“Could it be asking what it isyouwant?”

It smiled, looked back at me, and blinked.

“No one will ever believe this,” I said, then asked, “Will we find the answers to our questions in these books?”

It went on blinking.

Wickham nudged me. “Maybe it doesnae ken what answers we seek.”

“Who are the monsters who claim to bebefore name?”

One of the pages fluttered and rose like a breeze had scooped beneath it. It swirled around the table, rocked back and forth like a leaf, over the clear space where the other boxes lay. Wickham hurried around the table, grabbed the invisible containers, and forced them open one by one, until six books lay between us.

The page hovered over one, its margins fluttering like wings. The book flipped open, and the interior pages shuffled like cards, then settled. The decorated page turned vertical, then stabbed its bottom edge between the open pages.

The book closed with a thud. It lay lifeless on the table once more, but the margins of the animated page stuck out.

A laugh escaped me. “They’re not pages. They’re…bookmarks.”

Wickham opened the book to the marked page and started reading.

The little bug smiled up at me with closed eyes, pleased it could help. Then it opened its eyes and looked expectant again.

“Hurry,” I hissed at Wickham. “Next question.”

“Auch, let me think.” He bit his lips, shook his head. “What is the connection with an Uncast and acloch realta?”

The bug blinked. Nothing moved. Wickham pulled his hands away from the book to allow the first page to go where it wanted, but it, too, sat perfectly still.

“Maybe that’s not in any of these books. So next question.”

“Who is the golden fairy who calls himself O’Ryan?”

Another page lifted off the table and flew straight to the nearest book to slip between the pages without any help.

I nodded to the bug. “Very impressive. Now…what else?”

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