Page 64 of Kiss the Fae

I gasp, resisting until the Fae bounces his flat palm, indicating for me to calm down. I relax my arms and close my eyes. The breeze buffets me, splaying my arms to the sides and turning me into a bird in flight.

It’s another game. He’s repaying me with the wind, letting me feel it, really feel it.

My breath stutters into a laugh. And I chortle some more as my nightgown billows, my hooded cloak riding the draft.

I’m weightless. I’m a cloud in the sky.

When my eyes flutter open, I meet the Fae boy’s stare. Under the costume’s beak, the slices of his cheekbones rise, his mouth lifting into a conceited grin.

The wind bumps my backside. I squeal, chuckling as it chases me through the forge, where blue and green glass balls wink from the shelves. I dodge and duck from the current. All the while, I laugh, and he smiles.

Just like that, I make a forbidden friend.

Just like that, he pulls a fatal trick.

Just like that, he steals my heart.

***

I don’t want to leave, so I stay. After the wind stops chasing me, I spend the night while moonlight shadows our bird masks and illuminates the iron bars. He settles on the cage floor, and I hunker on the stony ground.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Are you an owl?” I ask.

“Can you talk?” I ask.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. Suppose that’s fine and dandy. If he answers, I’d wonder whether to believe him. Speaking of which, he should be spinning words like yarn to confuse me. Despite the iron grille protecting me from glamour, clever turns of phrase can do the same thing, according to the Book of Fables and every account we’ve ever read. He could play with that skill rather than clam up. So maybe he really can’t speak.

What’s it like in his world? Does he have siblings? Do they miss him?

Leaning back on my palms and crossing my feet at the ankles, I try one more question. “Why are you wearing a mask?”

Again, nothing.

I let out a charming little sigh, if I do say so myself. “I reckon owls are wizards in disguise.”

The Fae boy glances sideways at me, his ears piercing the air. When I ask if that’s why he chose an owl mask, his lips flatten and veer sideways. Uh oh, he’s insulted. Animals are sacred to them, which means he doesn’t like pretending they’re something they’re not.

I nod, sheepish. “You’re right. They’re amazing as they are.”

He offers me a snide inclination of his head. Well, that explains a lot and nothing at all. I improvise, “Faeries must know a bunch about the fauna, if you’ve got bits and pieces of their traits. I wish humans knew as much about mortal creatures, but then, they could if they made an effort. Guess people miss out that way, if they don’t give things a whirl. Like, what if you’re the world’s greatest bird watcher, but you don’t know it yet, because you’ve never tried? That’d be a fun skill.”

He crosses his legs, managing an unruly sprawl although he can’t touch the bars. Balancing his elbow and his knee, he props the slope of a cheek in his palm. It’s hard to say whether he’s intrigued or entertained.

Encouraged, I get to my feet and shuffle toward him. We play another game, inventing experts that don’t exist in either of our worlds but should. He nods at some of the professions I list and sneers at others, his mouth wrinkling like a towel. In the end, we settle on a bubbleleer, a dragon groomer, a weapons blesser, a masquerade planner, and a candy maker for animals.

His silent chuckle fades into bafflement. The Fae boy realizes he’s gotten caught up and backs off, shaking his head. I recognize the unspoken question:Why are you doing this?

Why am I keeping him company? Why am I feeding him? Why did I bathe his wounds? Why am I being nice?

I glance at my unshod toes streaked with dirt, which reminds me of soot. “I know what it’s like to be trapped.”

It’s true. I know what it’s like to be squashed in a small space, stuck there with no way out and nobody who cares. I don’t tell him I was a chimney sweep, but I do tell him, “I know what it’s like to be alone. I know what it’s like to be plucked off my feet and forced someplace that isn’t home. I know what it’s like to be frightened and lose hope.”

Fingers appear before my eyes, so sudden that I flinch. Long, slender digits sneak past the bars and reach toward my jaw. I glimpse a pair of ethereal pupils, easy to fall into. The forge blurs. The tools, furnace, and stone walls disappear, leaving only him and that hand extending toward me. I stall, gobsmacked as his knuckles curl with indecision, then come to rest on my face. His palm frames my profile, light and feathery.

He doesn’t dissect what I’ve said, like Juniper would. He doesn’t try to sweeten what I’ve said, like Cove would. He doesn’t try to fix what I’ve said, like Papa would.

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