Page 2 of The High Mountain Court

“Yes, Matilda,” Remy said.

Matilda sagged with relief, as though Remy’s response was an act of kindness and not obedience. Remy liked Matilda. She was the nicest matron Remy had met so far. Matilda gave her staff fair wages and fair breaks. Remy was off for the night after the pans, but she heard the bustle of a full tavern and decided to help, ignoring Fenrin’s warning. Staying on the good side of the tavern matron was worth the extra few minutes of work.

Remy grabbed all four plates, balancing two on her left forearm and one in each hand. Using her hip, she pushed open the wood door.

Clamorous banter and the merry tunes of a fiddle and drum greeted her. She made her way past the bar full of cheery, drunk locals. Pushing her way through the throng of standing patrons, she did not let a single pea roll off the four plates she carried. Remy had been serving boisterous crowds in taverns since she was a child. She passed the musicians, casting a sideways glance at the fiddle player. He wore a dark tunic over his broad shoulders and a cap that covered his red hair. Like most of the people in this town, he was a human, not a witch or fae. There was no visible difference between humans and witches, apart from when the witches wielded their magic. The eerie glow of magic gave them away, each radiating with the colors of their home coven: blue, green, brown, and red.

The fiddle player gave Remy a wink, a blush creeping up her neck. She was glad Heather and Fenrin had already retired to their attic room so that she could enjoy the fiddler’s attention. Though Remy had learned many times over the years that the affections of a half-intoxicated man meant nothing.

She moved toward the far corner booth below the stairs of the Rusty Hatchet. The hair on her arms stood on end. Her face chilled in an invisible breeze. A thread of power hung in the air; there was magic in the tavern tonight. With enough time and stillness she could probably discern which people they were, but Remy was too tired. She wanted to serve this table and then go to her bedroll in the attic above the stables.

The lamp that normally shined above the booth was dark. The candle on the table did not flicker with life either. The four men in the corner sat in darkness. Remy could only just make out their shapes. It was not unusual, this sitting in darkness. Many a secret deal happened in back booths. Perhaps they were politicians and thieves, or sheriffs and scoundrels. She did not care to know their business, and she would not attempt to peer under their hoods.

“Your food, gentlemen,” Remy said, serving their plates.

As she backed away from the table, a hand snaked out and encircled her wrist. A jolt of lightning buzzed through her veins at the warm touch. The man who held her wrist flipped it over and placed two silver druni in her palm.

Remy looked down to the waxing and waning moons printed on the witch coins. The currencies of Okrith were all muddled together, but each race had their preferences. Fae preferred gold pieces, humans preferred coppers, and witches traded in silver druni. Perhaps these men were witches.

“We asked for ale,” another man spoke out from under his hood. She expected a deep, gruff voice, but it was rather lighthearted for someone hiding under a hood.

Remy didn’t take her eyes off the shadowed face of the man who still held her wrist. She clenched the coins in her palm, trying to stare through the darkness to his face.

“If you want your ale, then you should tell your friend to release me so I may fetch it,” she said through gritted teeth.

The man who held her wrist leaned forward, bringing his torso more into the light. With his free hand he grabbed his hood, pulling it back to expose his angular face, golden sun-kissed skin, and wavy chestnut hair that fell into his gray eyes. He was the most handsome man Remy had ever seen. Unnaturally so. Remy’s power buzzed through her again. The magic wasn’t witches in the tavern, it was the power of a fae glamour.

Remy froze.

Before her sat a fae male glamoured as a human. Here. In the Rusty Hatchet. The humans of this town didn’t take kindly to fae being amongst them, but the humans didn’t sense magic the way that witches did. To them, these were merely human travelers and nothing more.

Remy looked to the other three hooded figures, allowing her eyes to peer deeper into the darkness. She suspected the other three must be fae too. Remy bit back the gasp that wanted to escape her throat. She schooled her face, hoping they could not scent her fear.

“Apologies,” the striking fae said, releasing her hand. “I only wanted to tell you . . .” He paused to swipe one long, tanned finger across her cheek. It took everything in Remy not to flinch.

He showed her the soot smudge on his fingertip. She rubbed her cheek.

“I thought you’d like to know.” Remy’s eyes snagged on those lush lips pulling up at the corners. He was watching her, looking at her mouth. Gods, she blushed when a fiddling human winked at her, but this . . . this fae was something else. It was hardly her fault she wanted to ogle him.

Remy couldn’t hold his stare, though. Those depthless smoky gray eyes promised to entrance her.

“Thanks,” she said, looking to the floor.

“My pleasure.” The male’s voice was a deep rolling wave that made Remy’s toes curl in her boots. “Have a good night, little witch.”

Curse the Gods. He knew.

The fae male knew she was a witch, at the very least, and if she lingered much longer this infuriatingly gorgeous problem might discern what kind of witch she was.

This was the difficulty with the fae. This was why Remy avoided the sneaky, charming bastards like the plague.

His cunning face missed nothing, though Remy refused to reveal she knew he was fae.

“Y-you too,” Remy said.

It was not a crime to be any other kind of witch . . . only a red witch. Heather claimed to be her mother, so as long as Remy did not linger with these fae, she should be okay. She looked toward the shadowed male who spoke before. “I’ll fetch your ale at once.”

Spinning, she disappeared into the crowd. She rushed past the musicians, ignoring the fiddle player’s gaze this time. She plunged into the kitchens and out the back door. Remy braced against the damp wind as she rushed straight to the stables. She scurried without breaking into a suspicious run. She had to find Heather. Remy was sure the brown witch would want to leave at once. Fenrin was going to be furious. They’d been at this tavern for less than a year, and they had to flee again.

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