Page 26 of Bound to the Fae Assassin

“Excellent, madam,” Blackthorn said with a small bow. “You offer a great kindness to a stranger.”

“As did you,” Farrow’s mother said, smiling from ear to ear.

“I need to bake,” Farrow said, wanting to get out of this confusing charade and back to some semblance of normalcy.

“Of course,” Blackthorn told her at once. “I will attend you in the kitchens.”

The last thing she saw as she left the room was Jericho glowering after them, his cheeks maybe a little too red now.

Chapter 13

Blackthorn

Blackthorn followed Farrow back into the kitchen.

It was a small, low-ceilinged workspace, with blackened pots and pans instead of the bright copper he was used to, and little in the way of modern implements. But it still had the delicious fragrance of the big kitchens in the castle - those wonderful smells of yeast and caramelized sugar that reminded him of being a small boy.

Farrow moved to the counter and began pulling out ingredients.

She was different in this space, more confident, her hands moving deftly, with a quiet grace that nearly took his breath away.

“What?” she asked him suddenly, as if she had only realized he was standing still, staring at her.

“Nothing important,” he said, looking around the space, unsure where to begin. “What should I do?”

She rolled her eyes.

He stepped closer, unable to believe her impertinence, and even more unbelieving of his own reaction to it, which was amusement rather than fury.

“What was that?” he whispered when he was close enough for her to feel his breath on her skin.

“What is any of this?” she whispered back. “You’ve fulfilled your obligation. Take this and go.”

Her hand brushed his and he was shocked by her forwardness before he realized she was merely returning the deadly thistlebaum.

He took a step back and slid it into his pocket.

“Our business is not yet complete,” he told her carefully. He could not lie, but he did not have to volunteer all his reasons for staying. “Your friend is not yet well.”

“A technicality that will soon be remedied,” she told him. “In a day or two, I’m sure he’ll be good as new after your… vampire butterflies.”

“You really did see them,” he said.

“Why didn’t the others?” she asked. But her tone told him that she knew the answer.

“You have a touch of magic,” he told her. “They do not.”

She nodded once, and he rejoiced that she had softened to him enough not to repeat her tiresome phrase about what was permitted on her side of the wall.

“So, what does a baker’s boy do?” he asked.

“The baker’s second boy can sweep the floors,” she told him archly. “There is a broom in the corner.”

She couldn’t be serious. He was the Crown Prince of Swordbrake. He did not sweep up. But she had turned back to her ingredients, and he now had a choice to make.

Doubtless, she thought him a spoiled, useless dandy.

He was about to prove her right, or prove her wrong.

---