Page 3 of Lore of the Wilds

It was unusual for the elite order of Alytherians to be in Duskmere at all. It was unheard of that they should be in the apothecary.

And yet, here they were.

Lore froze like a deer about to be shot through the heart with an arrow. Her heartbeat roared in her ears and her lungs ached for air. She wanted to look away from the depthless void of the male’s irises, but found it impossible.

It wasn’t until he raised an artfully manicured brow and made a comment under his breath to his companion that Lore’s body remembered how to work. She inhaled in relief, gulping the sweet, dusty air. The pair had seen her and hadn’t immediately ended her life.

Their tunics were lined with exquisite, delicate lace, and both blouses were adorned with embroidery. The colors of the threads were unbelievably vibrant; Lore couldn’t imagine what flower or animal could provide pigments that rich. Surely it was somethingpoisonous, as anything that colorful probably needn’t worry about being eaten.

Their clothes dripped with wealth. It was another oddity, as the wealthy didn’t come to Duskmere. The only fae who came around were the sentries and the taxers. And even then, the sentries rarely crossed the border into Duskmere and the taxers’ visits were expected, planned like clockwork at the same time every season to bleed the humans’ coffers dry.

Lore’s eyes snapped to the female as she leaned forward to sniff a candle. Long, silky braids dripped like syrup down her smooth, brown shoulders. The noble’s nose wrinkled like she’d smelled dog shit instead of warm amber and honey. That candle had been poured just the week before. The female’s eyes narrowed at the crowded tables and sagging wooden shelves, eventually lingering on Lore’s frayed boots. Her painted lips pulled up into a sneer.

A lick of shame burned through Lore’s sternum. She glanced away, sidestepped stacks of handwritten books, crates of glass bottles filled with perfumes, and a cupboard bursting with dried herbs and fragrant berries, trying to ignore the heaviness of the male’s eyes following her every move.

“Welcome, my lord, my lady. How may I be of service?” Lore asked, hating how much her voice shook. Had she addressed them correctly? She bowed her head, waiting for them to reply.

“We’re looking for the owner of this establishment,” the male finally said. His words were unhurried and spoken with a tone that commanded attention.

“My aunt and uncle own this shop, my lord, but they’re on the other side of town by the vineyard.”

“The other side of town?” The male sounded disappointed and more than a little annoyed.

Lore glanced through her lashes. His eyes combed the place, as if her aunt and uncle would suddenly pop out of a cupboard with whatever item he sought.

What could he possibly want from here that he didn’t have in abundance out there?

“I am happy to take you to them,” she added.

The female reached out, tugging on the male’s sleeve. “You dragged me on this fool’s errand when we could have sent an attendant. The human you seek isn’t even here. Don’t tell me you expect me to walk farther through these stinking, muddy streets.” The female’s words were ugly, but the lyrical timbre of her voice was a song.

She tugged on the male’s sleeve again, and Lore’s eyes snagged on her nails. They were long, filed into sharp points, and painted the same color as her delicate slippers. Small embedded gems sparkled.

Lore fisted her hands. Her own unpainted nails bit into the flesh of her palms—she used the pain to distract herself from speaking her thoughts aloud.If we didn’t have to give almost all our earnings to theAlytherians, then maybe we humans could pave our streets.

The male ignored his companion, his eyes still flitting around the shop.

“Perhaps I can help you find something?” Lore motioned toward the low table near the door. Every inch of the scuffed wood was covered in salves, candles, soaps made from goat’s milk, and bottles of wine from her uncle’s vineyard. Without this shop, Aunty Eshe and Uncle Salim wouldn’t have had the resources to care for the fifteen children at the orphanage.

The female’s eyes lit up. “While we are here, we should choose a present for Row.”

The male grimaced.

“Oh, don’t look that way,” she continued. “It will be the perfect thing. He’s always been fascinated with them.”

“We have many gifts if he is interested in us humans.” Lore had to swallow back bile as she said “interested”—as if humanswere little different than a newly discovered bird with peculiar feathering.

As if they were little more than creatures to be examined.

Lore walked the length of the shop and plucked a book from a shelf. It was an adventure novel, a copy of a copy, written by a person who had never been to Duskmere nor heard of the nightmare of the place. The original book had come over with the humans in the crossing.

Lore caressed the cloth binding. She had spent weeks copying each word, finding a sort of catharsis in crafting the pages. In binding the books.

Unfortunately, frivolities such as books weren’t something most people could afford, so she rarely had cause to do so.

Lore eyed their clothing again, and an idea began to form. It was reckless, dangerous, and terrible all around, but she barreled on. “This is the last copy of a book that came from our homeland,” she lied. “It’s quite pricey, but it would be a perfect gift.” Lore stilled her features, trying not to look terrified by what she’d just done.

Lying to a fae? Did shewantto die?

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