Page 19 of Bound to the Fae Assassin

Farrow

An hour later, Farrow stood in the square, her hands trembling around what she hoped was the most delicious pie she had ever baked.

It turned out that the man the elves had called Lord Daydleman was actually the Prince’s footman. He had been posted outside the bakery to ensure not one person offered her a moment’s help.

Due to the prep time and the cook time, she’d been forced to make a smaller and more delicate pie than usual to have it be ready in just one hour.

But the persimmons had been fresh, picked from the land near the Fae castle, and incredibly open to suggestion. She had barely whispered to them when they showed her a vision of the Queen’s girlhood. Farrow watched the pale, thin child, playing quietly among the fragrant fruit trees and sneaking into her father’s armory to admire the shimmering weapons with her beloved older brother.

She coaxed those pleasant memories into the flavor, soothing the fruit to encourage subtlety in a way she’d never had to do at home.

Somehow, the meringue had set perfectly, and the goblins’ oven was blessedly even. There had only been one real challenge.

Not too sweet was a hopeless suggestion. She did not know the Queen, and had no sense of her palate.

But the woman’s cruel manner and her painfully slender frame were enough of a clue that Farrow made the pie with honey alone, in small enough quantity that the tartness of the persimmons still practically turned her mouth inside out. As her hour ran out, she prayed her instincts had been correct.

“Come,” the Queen called out.

Farrow walked across the square to the table that the villagers had set out for their royalty. It felt like she was walking to the gallows, and indeed, the table was not far from the place she would likely be meeting her death.

She tried to memorize the complexity of the cloudy sky, the strange spicy scents of the goblin markets, and the taste of the breeze on her skin. If this was to be her last taste of life, she might as well savor it.

She took in the strange sight of the Fae court waiting for her. The Queen watched her like a cat about to pounce while the King frowned at her under his dark beard.

But Prince Blackthorn met her eye and winked. His face was not so hard to look at today as it had been yesterday in the field.

She felt her heart pound, though she could not say why the small kindness made her feel such a surge of hope.

When she reached the table, she curtsied carefully and then set the pie before Queen Persimmon.

“It is small,” the queen said with her signature frown.

“It is a pie made to honor the royal whose name it bears,” Farrow said politely. “It is complex, meant to be taken in slender slices, so the eater may enjoy the delicate fragrance as much as the bold flavor.”

The Queen looked almost pleased for a moment.

Farrow didn’t dare to breathe.

“Very well, very well,” the Queen said quickly. “You may serve us.”

Somehow, Farrow’s hands did not tremble as she sliced and served tiny wedges of the tart confection.

She gave the first slice to the Queen, then the King, then the Prince.

Don’t think about it. Don’t wonder what a prince was doing in rags on your side of the wall. It’s not your concern.

The entire square seemed to press closer to get a better view of what would happen next.

Farrow thought the most likely outcome was that she would be put to death a few minutes from now. But she watched the Queen anyway, her professional curiosity too great to be stifled even by pain of death.

Queen Persimmon lifted the tiniest morsel to her mouth and closed her lips around it.

Her eyes closed too, as if in rapture.

There was a pause that seemed to stretch for hours, then she swallowed and opened her eyes again.

“Magic,” she said softly, gazing into Farrow’s eyes.

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