Page 2 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Stomach fluttering, Seren heads out again.
Alard’s workshop is a separate building, so cooking smoke doesn’t damage his wares. The travel cart parks alongside. Seren looks upon the well-worn cart with fresh affection. Tomorrow, it will carry him away from here.
The workshop door is propped open. Tamping down his eagerness, Seren knocks on the doorframe.
“Sorry if I’m late,” Seren says, inhaling the scent of ink and paper.
One large worktable dominates the single room. Two walls of storage cupboards are stuffed to bursting with old books, new paper, and other supplies. The other walls boast expensive glass windows, letting in plenty of light.
Seren’s father looks up from trimming his quills. Alard is a quiet, gruff man, with a coarse beard Seren’s never been able to match. “Not much work today. I finished copying the tavern’s records. You can check that over.”
He returns to his quills, squinting in concentration. His words are friendly enough, but resentment chills the workshop.
Colder than usual. Seren rubs his hands dry with a handkerchief as he composes himself, then sits with the record books. Maybe the surge of resentment isn’t a bad sign. Maybe Alard just didn’t get much sleep.
The life of a traveling scribe has always sounded magical. Alard journeys from village to village, crossing forests and bridges all over the county, with his treasure trove of words. Mostly he transcribes letters and documents for people who can’t write well enough themselves. Sometimes he buys and sells books, especially damaged ones he can fix up.
Seren’s own small collection comes from stock Alard couldn’t sell. A water-damaged book of fae stories. An odd compilation of religious poems and seafood recipes. A bestiary that was too boring for anyone to buy—no unicorns or griffons. Everyone already knows what squirrels look like.
When Alard is home, he lets Seren help. Seren’s penmanship isn’t good, but he can check copied documents for errors, or read letters to recipients if needed. But Alard’s never let Seren join him on his circuit until now. Either because he can’t stand Seren’s company in such close quarters, or because he fears exactly what Seren plans.
Tomorrow, Seren leaves Wymond for the first time. Hopefully for good. He’s saved up enough money. Once he’s in Forwick or Bardill, he can buy a horse and go anywhere. Surely horse dealers in Forwick aren’t afraid of Edith.
Seren flips through the tavern records. The new copy is an unbound stack of parchment. The original is bound in threadbare blue cloth and smells like ale and grease. Seren’s surprised the tavernkeeper let it out of her sight. She’s been tracking some expensive tabs for decades.
No errors on the first page, or the second. Seren reviews the third page three times without processing a word. His fingers are numb with his father’s resentment. Something’s wrong.
“When do we leave tomorrow?” Seren asks, trying to sound casual.
Stubbornness sets Alard’s jaw. “I’m leaving at dawn.”
Seren’s stomach drops. “You said I could ride along.”
“I’m just doing my short round,” Alard says, squinting at his perfectly trimmed quills. “I won’t need help.”
The betrayal shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. “You promised,” Seren says, sharper than he should, jumping to his feet.
Alard’s anger is an icy lash beneath his reserved exterior. “I said maybe, but it wasn’t set in stone.”
The lies spring easily from his lips, as if he can revise history just like that. Seren vividly remembers his own relief just a week ago when Alard said he’d take Seren along. When he promised not to tell—
“You told her.”
“Of course I did,” Alard says, like he’s forgotten that promise too. He offers a rueful smile. “Look, maybe it’ll work out next time. I’ll try to talk her around.”
A new emotion blazes into the workshop, just before a woman snaps from the doorway. “You’ll talk me around, will you?”
Seren turns, hurt and cornered.
Edith clutches her gardening gloves in one white-knuckled hand. Her face is pink with the morning’s work, her hair matted with sweat at her temples. Dark blond, nearly brown, the same color as Seren’s. They share the same blue eyes too,but that’s the extent of their resemblance. Summer has tanned and freckled both his parents, while the sun never seems to touch Seren.
Without looking at Seren, Edith continues. “Stop filling the boy’s head with nonsense. I won’t change my mind.”
Seren trembles beneath the weight of his mother’s emotions. He forces out an argument. “Father’s only going on his short round. That’s barely a week.”
Never mind Seren’s plan to stray from that path.
“I won’t have you leaving the village,” Edith says, her voice steely calm. “Traveling is too dangerous—and you expect me to handle everything here, with both of you gone?” She takes a deep breath and exhales into a smile. “I’m about to make lunch. Come in and eat.”
