Page 36 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
When I wake up, Clara isn’t in the bed we were supposed to share.
Small wonder, I suppose, since I tend to flail in my sleep and I’m taking up all the available space.
I rise, shivering a little. The rooms are much chillier than they were last night. Perhaps winter has come suddenly, as the Sugarplum Faerie said.
Snagging one of the blankets from the bed and wrapping myself in it, I make a quick stop in the washroom before going in search of my sister.
It doesn’t take long to find her. She’s in a large bedroom decorated with a confection of vibrant tapestries and outfitted with stenciled wooden furniture, lying on a bed that’s more pillows than blankets. In the center of the pillowy nest lies the pink-haired faerie, shirtless, on his side with his pliant wings draped behind him—and Clara is tucked against his chest.
His arm drapes her waist. With the brown-sugar dusting of freckles across his nose, he looks very young, though as a Faerie there’s no telling his true age from appearance.
Clara is a year older than me. Usually she’s every inch the protective older sibling—responsible and cautious. But I’m defensive of her too, especially in situations where I’ve had more experience. I may never have slept with a Faerie, but I’ve dealt with plenty of lustful men. I know their tricks, and all the ways they can cause a woman pain.
I stalk up to the bedside, lean over the pink-haired Faerie, and flick his cheek sharply with my fingers.
He’s on his feet in a blink, poised lightly on the mattress, his eyes sharply alert and a blade in his hand. He moved so deftly, so smoothly, he didn’t even wake Clara.
Hiding my shock under a frown, I beckon for him to follow me out of the room. When he does, I pull the door shut.
“What did you do to my sister?” I hiss.
“That is her business and mine.” He’s no imp of mischief now, no saucy laughing charmer. This is him, woken out of a sound sleep by a perceived threat—sober and unsmiling.
“It’s my business because she’s my only family,” I tell him. “She was exhausted beyond reason last night. This—” I gesture to his bedroom door— “it’s not like her. It’s not something she would do.”
“I didn’t force her.” He flips the knife in his hand. It vanishes with a twinkle, and I inhale sharply. That teases a smirk out of him. “I didn’t even fuck her,” he continues. “I gave her what she needed, and then she shared my bed since you were using the whole bed in the guest room.”
Narrowing my eyes, I examine his face, searching for signs of deceit. He stares back, brows slightly raised, his gaze open.
“Fair enough,” I say at last. “But don’t be getting any ideas about using her for your pleasure and hurting her feelings. She’s important to me. Harm her in any way, and you’ll regret it.”
I half-expect him to react with haughty defiance and some comment about his own power compared to puny mortals, but he simply laughs aloud, all his triangular teeth showing.
“You’re so delightfully defensive. I love it. Trust me, I won’t use your sister unless she wants to be used. In which case I will use her most enthusiastically.” He sticks his tongue out at me with a lascivious wink, then saunters down the hall. “We’ll have breakfast, and then we can leave Clara to paint while we gather some allies to escort us to the Unending Pool.”
I’m uncertain about leaving Clara alone, but when we discuss the plan over breakfast, the Sugarplum Faerie assures me his house has protection spellwork in place. And Clara seems so eager to paint again, so happy with the supplies he gives her—paints in more colors than I knew existed, along with canvases and thick, smooth, heavy parchment. He’s something of a painter himself, it seems—he creates the intricate decorative labels for his spells, and he did all the stencil-work on the furniture throughout the house.
He sets Clara up in his spacious, sunny workroom on the second floor, where she can gaze out of the large windows and draw inspiration from the landscape.
Reluctantly I leave her there, barefoot, in a blue dress he conjured for her, biting her lip as she begins to sketch the outline she’ll later fill with colors.
I’m wearing a scarlet tunic and leggings, rich and warm. The black fur around my neck and wrists is flecked with white, and gold thread winds over the bodice in intricate designs.
“Do you have no tailors in Faerie, then?” I ask.
“Of course we do. Conjured clothing only lasts a few days,” the Sugarplum Faerie tells me. “We prefer to have actual garments made. But in a pinch, I can make a decent outfit with magic.” He steps back and nods, satisfied with his work on my clothes.
The Prince comes up behind him, eyeing my ensemble with a dour expression. “A little flashy, isn’t it?” he says. “We’re gathering allies, not attending a midwinter revel.”
The Sugarplum Faerie is unperturbed. “Louisa deserves to look fantastic.”
“I like this outfit,” I say crisply. “And if your Cursed Maleficence wants another sip of my blood later, I think you’ll agree that it’s perfect.”
The Prince frowns. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Why no. I believe it’s calledblackmail.”
The Sugarplum Faerie laughs. “Come along, both of you. Surely you can argue and walk at the same time? You’ve got your weapons, yes? Let’s be off.”
