Page 24 of Enthralled

And so they returned home triumphant, the cure for their father’s ailment in hand, only to find the house boarded up and empty. When they asked the neighbors what had become of their parents, they were told, “Your father perished, and your mother fled. She has never been heard from again. You are alone in the world, little orphans. Alone with no one to care for you.”

That last line is so badly scrawled, I can scarcely read it. Blurred spots, the size of teardrops, reveal my brother’s state of mind as he wrote. A fat tear of my own rolls down my nose and falls on the page, marring the final word. Hastily I close the book and wipe my face with the back of my hand. But I cannot unsee those words. They’re burned into my brain.

Alone.

No one to care for you.

Oh, Oscar! Oscar, why would you write such a thing? Why would you take my story and turn it into this? Why couldn’t you hold onto hope just a little longer?

But he couldn’t. He didn’t.

I stare at that book for some moments. Then, impulsively, I stash it into my satchel. A further hasty search, and I finally discover a single empty volume. It isn’t much, but it’s better than nothing. I add it to my satchel along with several quills, penknives, and a few stoppered bottles of ink. I rue the lack of my own magicked quill, which allowed me to write without having to pause and dip in fresh ink every few moments. But this is the best I can do and better than nothing.

When I finally emerge from the stairwell and step into the living room, I find Ilusine in Mama’s rocking chair, gently rocking back and forth. The sight of her is still unsettling, emaciated and colorless as she is. She seems like another creature entirely: not a fae, but some sad changeling gremlin sent to take the princess’s place. But the look she turns my way—a perfect mingling of disdain and elegance—could only belong to Ilusine. “You’ve not eaten, human,” she states. It sounds like an accusation.

I place a hand against my stomach. It’s true. I’ve not had a bite, and I’m utterly ravenous! But also nauseated. I can’t imagine forcing myself to swallow anything. “I’m all right,” I lie.

“Nonsense.” To my surprise, she tosses me a still-warm cottage bun. I catch it, blinking in surprise. How did she come by such a treat? She must have ventured out into the streets and . . . “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Ilusine says coldly. “I sniffed out a vendor who had a whiff of Eledria about him. Such people are easily recognized if one knows what one is looking for. He was happy to exchange for a strand of my hair.” She crumbles the remains of another bun between her fingers. “Under other circumstances I would have killed any man who dared suggest such a thing. But the air of this world has made me soft, and this body needs so much . . . tending. It is singularly obnoxious.”

I don’t bother to respond. Now that the smell of warm bread is in my nostrils, I cannot resist taking a bite. That mouthful settles in the hollow of my gut, and my body doesn’t seem immediately disposed to bring it back up again. I can only hope the little life inside me will benefit.

I’ve not yet swallowed the last bite before Ilusine asks, “How far is it to this Den of Vipers you spoke of?”

A chill creeps down my neck. I’ve only been to the Old Docklands warehouse district twice in my life. The first time was a horror I hoped never to repeat; the second time was with the Prince. With Castien. He offered me the protection of his presence, and though I’d not wanted it at the time—and behaved with terrible ingratitude—it had made the experience significantly better. The idea of facing it again . . . alone . . .

“It will take some time,” I force myself to answer. “It’s a long walk from here, and the streets are not altogether safe at this time of night.”

“Walk?” Ilusine’s mouth drops open. “You’re telling me you intend to goon foot?”

I spread my arms. “Humans are not gifted with wings we can summon on command.”

“Surely you can call for a litter, a carriage, a steed?”

“I have no money to pay for such things.”

Ilusine’s eyes travel over my ragged person. She sniffs, as though I’ve just uttered the understatement of the century. “What about your magic? Your little . . .” She gestures vaguely in the air.

“You mean my writing?”

“Yes. That. Surely you can exchange a spell for transportation.”

“My magic doesn’t work like that.”

Ilusine rolls her eyes but rises from the rocking chair, brushing crumbs from her skirt. “Very well. If we must walk, then we must walk. Shall we get started?”

“Wait.” I blink fast. “You’re coming with me?”

The fae woman gives me another of those elegantly impatient looks. “Now I’ve put this much effort into keeping you alive, I’m not about to send you to the crones unattended.”

“I’m not sure there’s much you can do to protect me from the crones.”

“No.” She lifts her chin. “But I might frighten off any unsavory souls who might try to impede you on your way.”

While I could point out that Ilusine, emaciated, bandaged, and brittle, is hardly the protective force she imagines, I’m too grateful at the prospect of company. So I merely nod.

“Shall we then?” Ilusine asks.

I take a step toward the door, then hesitate. Pulling my lower lip between my teeth, I glance at the table where my brother’s contract lies. Before I can talk myself out of it, I stride swiftly to it and catch up the gold fountain pen from its box.

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