Page 21 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
“A few are probably holed up in the dark corners of the city. But none are at court. They’re not the most sociable creatures. They usually stick to the Wilds.” He explained that the Wilds were the untamed lands in his world—mostly forests, swamps, and mountains. “As the name implies, it’s not a place for a picnic.”
“So your nation has no connection to trows?”
“No. We steer clear of them. They’re not trustworthy.”
“How so?” she asked.
“They’ll slit your throat if you turn your back on them. Just for sport.”
Bristol blinked, trying not to look alarmed. “Always?”
“Not if they want something from you.”
Tyghan started to rise like their discussion was over.
“I’m not done with my questions, and I still haven’t made my final decision.”
He eased back into his chair, and a low grumble rolled from his throat.
“I need to know if you’re a Seelie or Unseelie fairy.”
He was silent for a long while. “And just what do you think Seelie means?” he finally asked.
“I’m told it means kind and agreeable.”
An amused spark lit his frosty eyes. “Then you tell me. . . . Do I look kind and agreeable to you?”
Bristol swallowed. He was quite readable now.
“Perceptive,” he replied as if she had answered aloud. “But it’s all a matter of degree. Like your kind, fae come in all types, and we tend to mix and congregate in the same way. We’re not rocks that you can classify. Try to remember that.”
Beneath the table, Bristol’s fingers curled into fists. “Very well. I’ll do my best to remember that, for the most part, you’re not a common rock. And now I need to know about your sheriff. . . . Was he in on it?”
“My sheriff?” he repeated. “What—You mean, Orley? He’s not my sheriff. I barely know the man. He’s an outlier. He’s lived in your world for years. Eris only brought him in for questioning.” He leaned forward. “Is he in onwhat?”
But Bristol’s mind had already moved on, spinning back to that morning Sheriff Orley knocked on their front door to notify them about their father. The true sadness etched in his face. His voice had even wobbled, and he needed to clear his throat twice to tell them the news. She guessed it was as Willow said—the trows had tricked him, too. The sheriff was an outlier, not really one of them at all.
Her attention returned to Tyghan as she formed a reckless proposal in her head with unknown costs, but she didn’t care. If she parsed out the price tag of every detail, she’d talk herself out of it and she’d never go. “My final and most important question: If I agree to go to your world and help you, will you help me find my father in return?”
His brow furrowed. For the first time, he seemed at a loss for words. “Your father? I was told he was . . . dead.”
“I just learned he may be alive, that he was taken by trows into your world. I intend to find him and bring him home.”
CHAPTER 14
Tyghan betrayed no expression, but inside he was nodding. So that was how Eris did it. He made her think her father could still be alive, and in Elphame, no less. That was a low blow, but Eris did promise he’d pressure her, and with only three months until the cauldron was passed on, there was no time to waste. The counselor had played it cleverly. Tyghan couldn’t blame him for that. She was here by her own choice. Some magics—especially this one—might be prodded along by twisted measures, but they couldn’t be forced. That was assuming she possessed any magical abilities at all, and he hadn’t detected any earlier, when he’d stood within inches of her, so close he felt the rush of blood in her veins and tasted the salty fear on her skin.
Even now, he sensed no magic from her. It was rare that such unions produced purely mortal children, but even so, fae blood could be recessive and of little use. Millions of mortals had vestigial traces of fae blood in them, but it only offered them minor instincts and no true magical skills. It was possible that was all she had—and they needed far more than a few small instincts.
“Well?” she asked, still waiting for an answer about her father.
The anticipation on her face made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. He turned his focus to his fingers, weaving them together in front of him. Promise to find a dead man? Could an impossible promise be made? Could he be held to it? This was one of those moments he could use the counselor’s advice. Eris should have told him about this ahead of time.
He glanced from his fingers to her face. Her skin was warm in the candlelight, like the soft sands of Amisterre, and her long, dark lashes cast a shadow over her eyes. A loose strand of chestnut hair fell in a wave over her cheekbone. She was disheveled, but it suited her. She owned her space without apology. In some ways, she seemed like she could be any mortal woman, one close to his own age, except she loved a man whom he despised. It was only the hope of finding that man that had made her come, not the art. That was the deal—what she really wanted.She was Kierus’s daughter.It was still sinking in. For over twenty years, Kierus had been in the mortal world. He had lived a lifetime—with Maire—while Tyghan’s own life was brought to a jolting halt.
She continued to stare at him, unblinking, waiting, her hazel eyes changing color, the brown flecks growing darker, troubled. As composed as she tried to be, her emotions showed in her eyes. Anger, fear, determination, they bobbed in her gaze like an oarless boat on a rough sea, struggling to stay afloat. This mattered so much to her that she couldn’t conceal it.
That trait was not like either of her parents. Kierus and Maire were good at hiding things—hiding nearly everything. She wasn’t. She truly believed her father was alive, notmight beas she had said. She wanted to rescue him.
