Page 207 of The Black Witch

I watch as Fern grows increasingly sleepy, until, at last, Fernyllia gently takes the mug of warm cream out of her granddaughter’s hands and lets the child fall asleep on her lap.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I’m sorry I was so ignorant...and wrong, when I first came here.”

Fernyllia looks at me appraisingly and then glances down at the child. “Apology accepted,” she replies with a smile. “Have some tea, Elloren Gardner.” She motions toward the teapot and mugs before her, minty steam wafting from the pot’s spout.

I pour myself some tea and drink it with Fernyllia as she rocks her granddaughter gently back and forth, the scene full of comfort.

I’m stung by Yvan’s anger and refusal to be honest with me, but as I watch the child sleeping and grip at my mug, the steaming heat seeps into my hands and some of my tension dissipates.

Fernyllia starts to sing a soft lullaby in Uriskal, the staccato language surprisingly lulling when lifted in song.

I slump back, sip at my tea and bask in this new, heartening friendship.

As I doggedly try to puzzle out Yvan Guriel’s secret.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Fae

“He must be Fae,” Aislinn says as she flips through a leather-bound text with silver-rimmed pages.

The two of us are sitting on the floor of her room, her two Elfin lodging mates absent. We’re squandering precious study time, poring over every book on Faekin that we can get our hands on.

“It must be strange,” I observe, looking around her room, “living with two Elves.”

Her face darkens. “I suspect I won’t be for too much longer. Now that the Verpacian Council is being run by Gardnerians.”

The University Council has always required the integration of lodging rooms, Gardnerians and Elves generally placed together since our countries are allied, our ways similarly reserved. But it’s only a matter of time until this widely disliked policy is dismantled by the Verpacian Council, with its new Gardnerian majority.

A fire roars in the fireplace beside us, a variety of books strewn about. I glance over at Aislinn’s bed, which is sequestered in a corner. Her things are finely made—her bed’s deep green sheets are made of expensive, Alfsigr Ellusian cotton, and her books are crisp and new. Her clothes, while simple, are nonetheless crafted from silk and fine linen, and her comb and brush set is silver.

But these things pale in comparison to the ethereal living space of the Alfsigr maidens who reside with her. Canopied beds graced with ivory silken sheets have spiraling posts wound tight with living vines, their black-green leaves interspersed with delicate white flowers that give off a subtle scent as clean as a spring shower. Intricate tapestries done up in white, silver and black knot-work designs set off a complementary rug with a similar, darker design. A long bookshelf holds bowls of translucent crystals and black texts titled with embossed Elfin script. At the foot of one bed stands a lovely harp in the rich hues of the Tortoiseshell Mahogany tree, its strings glimmering gold.

“There are legends of Fae healers who can do miraculous things,” Aislinn tells me, pulling my attention from the Elves’ waterfall fountain. It’s set near an arching window and surrounded by a variety of flowering plants in ivory pots with black knotwork designs. Its gentle rush is pleasing to the ear and sends a soothing moisture into the air.

I direct my gaze back to my own text, pausing to run my finger along a fanciful illustration of a Sylphan Air Fae. She’s garbed in flowing, gray garments, riding on a cloud.

I trace along the Sylph’s ear. “Yvan doesn’t have pointed ears,” I note.

“Could be a glamour,” Aislinn postulates.

I point to a passage in my text. “Which, according to this, would narrow our choices down to Sylphan Air, Lasair Fire and Asrai Water Fae. It says here that they’re the only Fae who can glamour.” I pick up my mug of hot tea and sip at it, the weighty ceramic mug warming my hands. “Iron doesn’t bother him. He touches it all the time in the kitchen.”

“Maybe he’s only part Fae,” Aislinn replies absently, as she runs her finger down the index of another text and begins to flip through it. “He might still feel an aversion to it, though.”

I try to remember a time when Yvan seemed the least put off by the iron cookware or stoves, but I can’t remember ever seeing him distressed by the contact. And, unlike Tierney, he always goes ungloved.

“There are so many types of Fae,” Aislinn muses as she reads. “Hundreds. And all of them so different.”

Fantastical images from the books’ illustrations hang bright in my mind. The Laminak Fae, with their crystalline underground castles. The goat-herding Hollen Fae, their cities carved into mountaintops. Sylphan Fae, who could render themselves transparent.

“Look at these,” I marvel, pointing out an illustration. “They have butterfly wings!”

“Hmm,” Aislinn says with a nod. “Moss Fae. I’ve heard tales of them. They’re trouper Fae. Put on plays for the monarchy.”

I skim over descriptions of the Skogsra Fae, who dwell deep in the forest with the owls, and the stern Ymir Fae of the Northern Mountains, their sharp-spired dwellings formed completely from ice.

“Have you ever heard of the Vila Fae?” Aislinn asks.

---