Page 63 of Kiss the Fae

Funny how you can feel two different things at once. But that’s how it is, and I don’t like to think about it too long.

I go back after dark again, and again, and again. I sneak out while my sisters dream, kissing their foreheads before I go. Maybe it’s because I’m a tad scared I won’t see them again, that the Fae boy’s gonna find a means to glamour me in spite of the iron bars, then force me to open the cage, then force me to make an idiot of myself, or force me to do something vile, or force me to leave with him.

So why do I keep going? Maybe a tiny part of me wants to know more. Maybe a tiny part of me can’t help myself, because he wears that owl mask. And maybe a tiny part of me fancies our games. And maybe a tiny part of me wants to win them.

The iron weakens him from using enchantment. As for the wind? Juniper says mountain Solitaries have a bond with it. Seems the Fae boy can toss the air about, but he’s not strong enough to do worse right now. He can’t even reach through the bars and choke me. Even if none of that were true, maybe a tiny part of me doesn’t believe he’d hurt me anyway.

But analyzing is a hobby for Juniper. And fretting is a hobby for Cove.

Me? I’m the wild one who flies into the gale.

So I kiss the spruce green of Juniper’s tresses and the watery blue above Cove’s temple. I smell woodlands and brooks wafting from their hair—earthen animals and sea creatures, as if my sisters have been doing their own private frolicking. But that’s silly, because they’re always here when I leave, and they’re always here when I get back. I’m imagining things.

I feel guilty that I haven’t told them about him, but I want this secret to be my own. Every night for thirteen days, I traipse into the fields, where the crickets croak and the nightingale whistles. I inhale the fragrance of Fables—feathers, hides, and scales.

I take the whip Papa Thorne’s teaching me to use. I make sure to arrive when I know the glassblower has retired, snoring the good snore at home. Always, I have to use my feather to jimmy the bolt. I wear my crudely patched mask and hide my hair in the cloak’s hood, because in case this all goes awry, I don’t want the Fae boy committing my looks to memory.

Midnight drips through the roof, puddling on the floor as I slip into the workshop. The Fae knows I’m there without me announcing it. Oftentimes, he’s staring at the door before I show myself.

All right. My kind isn’t supposed to tamper with his kind, but I’ll admit it. This birdie is cute. Uppity but cute. If his pupils and the lower half of his face are anything to go by, the rest of him is just as fetching.

I jog to the cage while balancing a basket. Behind his mask, the Fae boy seems to grimace in distaste, as if I’m a nuisance and he’s grown bored. Sensing his thoughts feels natural, instinctive, though I can’t say how or why. Maybe he’s skilled at projecting himself, mask or no mask. Either way, my chest winces.

But at once, the grimace melts into a sly slant of the lips beneath the beak. My heart grows wings, delight and shame mingling together. I shouldn’t be giddy that he’s pleased to see me, but I am. This Fae boy likes that I’m here, even though he won’t say it.

In all this time, he hasn’t said anything.

Propping the basket on the floor, I go through the motions, withdrawing a vial of milk, plus wedges of Papa’s rye bread. This boy isn’t a twig, but he’s not a cliff, either. I’m not sure if the villagers are feeding him, but he enjoys my offerings.

I wave the bread like a flag. “Come and get it.”

Giving me a mild look, the Fae plucks the morsel too swiftly for me to see it happen. He chews slowly, like a fancy noble. I still haven’t gotten a clear view of his hair or irises. Despite the moon, it’s too muted in the forge.

All I see is shaggy layers, the reflective dots in his pupils, and tapered ears. Oh, and that ivory throat as it pumps down the milk. Due to the compact bars, a vial was the surest thing I could find to fit through. Casually, he tosses the empty vessel onto the ground by my toes, not so much as a thank you.

“You’re welcome,” I mutter.

He gives a dismissive shrug. That’s when I notice the welts peppering his wrists beneath the shirt sleeves, angry slashes bubbling across his flesh in a horrible robin red, as though someone has been poking him. My hand is halfway to the cage when he veers back, and I feel his glare eating me alive.

“What happened?” I ask.

He twists away, flippant as you please.

“What are they doing to you?”

Still nothing. I have so many questions, but I know he’ll have zero answers. Even if he did, and even if he can’t lie, he’ll find a way to twist his words and speak in riddles. That’s what they do, right?

Those welts must hurt. He might be immortal, and he might be a snooty bugger, and it might be sacrilege to pity him, but the sight of this Fae harmed does terrible things to my chest.

I grab the basket cloth and flee outside, where I travel to the nearest gurgling brook and douse the material. Flying back into the workshop, I move too quickly for him to object. I crush fabric in my hand and shove my arm through the bars.

As I snatch one of his wrists, he stiffens. Those eyes slit behind the visor, his shoulders tensing. With sweaty fingers, I press the wet cloth onto the first welt—and he freezes. Stunned, he watches me pat down the wound, watches me tend to the next one, and the next one. My pulse darts all over the place. I’m touching the softest skin I’ve ever felt, and he’s letting me.

I should minister to the other arm, but that might overwhelm him. Finished, I pull back to find him gawking. “Again. You’re welcome.”

The Fae boy’s head slants, the motion suspicious and irritated. Oh, right. Faeries don’t like favors or owing people.

So why am I surprised when a wicked gleam alights his pupils? I won’t be receiving gratitude. Rather, he flicks his digits. A sheet of wind swoops into the workshop and coils around me, lifting my arms.

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