Page 3 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
Pleased, I spread both hands over his pectorals, feeling the solid heat of his chest through his thin, silky shirt. “Good boy.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, fire leaping into his eyes. “Say that again.”
“Good boy, Finias.” I move in, pressing my body along his. He’s hard under his dark pants, and I smile. “It’s been months, and you still want me as much as ever.”
“Of course I do. I told you, sugar—it’s only you, as long as I exist.”
He tells me he adores me in a hundred ways, calls me “love,” but he has never formed those three exact words:I love you. And I haven’t asked him why. Perhaps I’m afraid to, in spite of the fact that he obviously wants to build a life with me—in spite of his desire for me, his everyday care, and the grandest gesture of his devotion: coming to rescue me from the Rat King’s lair.
I keep telling myself he doesn’t need to say it in those precise words, when I already know how he feels about me.
“I have a surprise for you,” he whispers, kissing my forehead.
“I like surprises.” I reach for his belt, but he steps back.
He’s grinning, his eyes sparkling. “Close your eyes.”
I’m about to obey, but a trickle of chiming music announces a customer’s entrance into Fin’s side of the shop.
“Shit,” he mutters, striding toward the archway with a fierce, bright smile. “The shop’s closed,” he announces. “Come back tomorrow.”
I’m right behind him, and when we enter the sweetshop, I’m surprised to see Darragh, Chief Steward and Communique Coordinator for the Palace. He’s an olive-skinned faerie, taller than most, with a permanently downturned, disapproving mouth. His black hair is tucked behind his ears and flows all the way to his waist. His robes are plain and gray, and his only adornment is the royal emblem, a silver dragon pinned to his shoulder.
“I’m afraid this cannot wait until tomorrow,” says Darragh. “I have pressing business to share, and you are the Acting Lord of the Court in His Majesty’s absence, so—”
“I thought that was merely a title.” Finias yawns, propping his butt against one of the counters. “I didn’t think I would actually have todosomething. How disappointing.”
“Quite disappointing, for all of us,” says the Chief Steward dryly. “If you’ll come with me, please.”
“Now I have togosomewhere? By the old gods, this responsibility is wearisome.”
“You too, my lady.” Darragh nods to me. “The message pertains to you as well.”
The Chief Steward won’t tell us anything more, even though I ask twice during our walk to the palace.
“It’s something you must hear and see for yourself,” Darragh says.
Located in the center of Beannú, surrounded by twisting streets, multicolored rooftops, and cobblestone squares, the palace shines like a glittering, golden piece of filigree. The spires at the peaks of its towers are crafted of pure, transparent crystal, catching every bit of sunlight, starlight or moonlight and throwing rainbows or frosty sparkles over the city. I’ve painted it three times, and I still haven’t been able to capture its ever-changing beauty.
The Chief Steward takes us through courtyards, past fountains and alcoves, across statue gardens and ballrooms, until we reach a long chamber lined with windows. Several Fae are present, and they all seem uncharacteristically agitated, standing in clusters, whispering to each other, watching Darragh, Fin, and me as we traverse the room.
“In this part of the palace, we receive communications of various kinds,” the Steward says. “Through that door is the aviary, where messenger birds arrive and from which they depart. This area over here is devoted to sending and receiving magical messages.”
“Ah, I see some of my creations.” Fin points to a large glass jar full of purple candies. “Melt one on your tongue and think of someone specific, and the words you speak will be instantly echoed in their mind as long as they’re within the borders of this kingdom. A special batch, one I shan’t be able to replicate because of the extreme rarity of the ingredients.”
“We use them sparingly, I assure you,” says Darragh. “For the most part we rely on the usual means—messages written with charmed ink, mirror-to-mirror communication, musical transference, wind-whispering.”
“Fascinating,” I breathe.
“I suppose to a human it must seem so,” replies the Steward. “Just minutes ago we received a very strange communication through an ancient device.” He points to a table in a back corner, on which lie a jumble of items—books with cracked leather bindings, rusted sextants, and an enameled clock with moons and eyes where the numbers should be.
In the center of the table, a round ebony geode sits on a claw-shaped stand. Its stony surface has been cleaved open, as if something chomped a giant bite out of the orb. Inside it’s all glittering black crystals, tiny and close-set.
“This is a Mortal Sphere,” Finias says, frowning. “I thought they had all been lost or destroyed.”
“It’s an old method of communication, but the former king, your illustrious uncle, insisted we keep one here in the palace, purely for its historical value,” explains Darragh. “Unfortunately, it was not properly secured, and it activated just moments ago. The person communicating through this device was none other than the great enemy of Fae-kind, the hunter Drosselmeyer.”
Alarmed whispers rustle through the Fae in the room.
