Page 59 of Kiss the Fae

In the corridors, rope-spun planters hover, leaves tumbling over the rims. Two pixies flit toward us, their stained-glass butterfly wings plaited into their sides. Must be the servants. I gawk at the wee creatures and the baskets they carry, each laden with moonflower petals. They dip their heads to Cerulean, then pelt me with scathing looks once they’ve passed him and Moth.

Up a winding staircase, the second level drops us into a round mezzanine of sleeping quarters. I’m sure there are other details inside the chamber where he leads me, but only one object claims my attention. The fireplace bursts to life the moment we enter. Flames writhe inside the fire box, ash sprinkling across the hearth and likely building inside the pit. Soon, the blaze will become a pyramid of charred flecks.

This rarely bothers me at home, and it hadn’t bothered me in Moth’s cottage, so it shouldn’t now. Except I don’t sleep near the blaze at home, I wasn’t destined to spend the night at the runt’s cottage, and the fire Cerulean lit in that living room hadn’t burned out or started coughing up piles of soot yet.

“Not this room,” I say.

Silence. I turn to where Cerulean hovers, his height dominating the hall. “I need another room,” I repeat. And because there’s no other way to explain, I add, “A room without a fireplace. Please.”

Moth squints, parsing through my words for a ruse.

Cerulean’s penetrating gaze tests my patience. Other than my waterskin and the hidden feather, there’s nothing left in the pack strapped to my back. Definitely nothing he’d value and nothing I’m willing to give up.

To compensate, I yank on the decorative tassels dangling from the strings at my cloak’s neckline. It takes a few tries, but the garment wasn’t of quality to begin with, so they eventually come off.

I offer the tassels to him. “All I’ve got, but here.”

Cerulean bats away the frippery. He leans toward Moth and murmurs private instructions, then finishes in a droll tone,“Jakadun fér.”

With that, the Fae turns on his heel. But halfway down the hall, he changes his mind and wheels back. Wordlessly, he accepts the tassels and plunks them into Moth’s hands, then glides down the hallway without a backward glance, his figure slipping around a corner.

Appeased, Moth jams the tassels into her pocket and knocks her head toward the opposite hall. She shepherds me along the mezzanine and passes over another curtained threshold. This chamber’s fancier than anything I’ve ever snored in. Inside, there’s a poster bed draped in bone-dyed cloth, plus a tripod table, a cushioned chair, and a wardrobe that resembles a monument rather than a closet, so tall it might climb through the ceiling one day.

More of that ivy laces the corner wall. There’s no fireplace in sight.

It’s tough not offering thanks, until I glance at the pinched countenance next to me, and I remember to whom it belongs. “What are you—”

“I’m the groundskeeper,” Moth answers. “I tend to the fauna when Cerulean’s not here to do it himself. Though he’s stubborn, insistent upon handling the responsibilities himself.”

I stare at her, waylaid. When Cerulean showed up at The Black Nest, he was angry to find Moth with me. I’d thought he was scolding her for neglecting some trivial or shallow job, when it turns out he was miffed that she wasn’t looking after the park and its creatures. Though in Moth’s defense, she was trying to unlock the mystery of Cerulean’s impotent flute.

“I’m good at my job, mind you,” the whippersnapper insists, then glares at me with every fiber of her being. “Don’t you wish to know what he said before leaving? He asked me to behave myself, but I’m not in the mood to be charming. He should have let you tumble. Nothing’s stopped him before.”

“Hey, now.” I dump myself on the bed, which bounces beneath my rear. “I don’t want to be here, and I don’t know why I can’t leave, so stop looking at me like that.”

“Escaping will do you no good.”

“Me? Escape?” I ask innocently.

“Feel free, but you won’t get far,” Moth warns. “Cerulean—”

“—will know,” I predict. “Well, he should also know that stealing a whole day from me isn’t fair, nor is it…what’s the word you monsters use? Polite?”

“Daft human. Didn’t I tell you in the cottage? Middle Moon begins tonight.”

Ah, shit. I hadn’t thought of that. Moth had told me about Middle Moon, the period that marks the historical birth of fauna. Except she hadn’t mentioned when that lunar event began.

“So long as black swells inside the moon—a globe within a globe, so to speak—travel on the mountain is forbidden to every soul except for the fauna,” she says. “We can’t go anywhere during that time, other than to the revels, which doesn’t include you. As a mortal, you’re to stay put. Unless you want to take your chances insulting the animals, then go ahead and do me the favor. While the raptors are busy pecking you to bits, I’ll be dancing my wings off.”

Again, shit. The masquerade. She’d mentioned that as well.

However, Moth had omitted the part about not being mobile. So that’s what she meant in the cottage, about the celebration setting me back.

“Sounds dandy,” I mutter. “When does this circus begin? Where does it take place? What happens there?”

“It’s none of your concern. Either way, you’re hence delayed from reaching the top.” A smirk unravels across the runt’s face. “I’ll leave you to sleep on that.”

“You like it?” I ask, unable to help myself. “You like tending to ’em?”

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