Page 26 of Fae Tithe

Eleanor’s eyes followed the direction of his hand. She saw a huge figure lounging on a wide sofa. She could not make out any more, as the Fae lights had been dulled on that side of the room and the heavy velvet curtains were drawn.

“Anyway,” the Fae cleared his throat, dragging Eleanor’s attention back to him. “I am Mr Gavson. I conduct the Tithe Interviews on behalf of the Seelie Court of Solas. Who, as you should know, are the highest Court of Seelieland and rule the Kingdom. I am explaining this to you to ensure you understand that my authority in this Interview is absolute.” He paused for a moment, brown eyes scanning her face. “You are Miss Neycur, correct?” His tone was jaded.

Eleanor tightly balled her fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms. “Yes,” she swallowed, wary. “I am.”

“Excellent.” Gavson opened the drawer of his desk and placed a golden ball, slightly bigger than a hen’s egg, on top of the table. “Now, this is an enchanted object, forged with my own magic. It will tell me when you are lying to me. It is a Truth-Teller.” Gavson tapped the top of the contraption with his shiny, pointed nail. “Do not lie. I will know. Understood, Miss Neycur?”

“Understood,” Eleanor replied.

She watched as Gavson ran his light brown eyes over the papers in front of him. Even upside down, Eleanor recognised them. It was her enrolment documents from Portson Finishing School for Girls, their insignia on the top. She remembered helping her mother fill in any parts with numbers. Helena occasionally struggled with numbers. It was also why she had Eleanor and Rose check over the account books from time to time.

“Sixteen?” he asked.

“Yes.” The Truth Teller flashed green.

“Your school?” he continued.

“Portson Finishing School for Girls, in the provincial capital of Portson, Archipelago of Sol, Seelieland.”

Another green illumination.

“How did you perform there?” The Fae’s eyes were fixated on the Truth-Teller.

“Well.”

Another flash of green.

“What did you excel at?” he huffed, eyes narrowing at her face.

“Geography, History… most things, really.” Eleanor hesitated but decided to include a personal detail. She sensed he was getting impatient at her short responses. “My favourite is cartography. I want to travel and make maps.”

The Truth Teller flashed green for the fourth time.

“Thank you for sharing.” Gavson flashed a predatory smile of encouragement. “Tell me about your father.”

Eleanor shifted in her seat. “Dead.”

“Yes, but tell me about him,” the interviewer insisted.

“Peter.” Eleanor balled her fists harder, her nails digging further into her palms.

“His house?” Gavson pressed, his eyes glancing at the paper and back to her face. “I have it here, remember?”

“Curr House, of Archipelago of Sol,” Eleanor replied through gritted teeth. She hated talking about her father, loathing him for how he treated her mother.

The Truth-Teller flashed green.

“Excellent. That matches all of our information. You are from human aristocracy – and from an older, wealthier family, too. Yet, you live out in the Clusters,” he sneered. The Fae ran his eye over her paperwork again, turning over the documents. “Where, it appears, you do not have a proper address. Your enrolment papers have the post office number of the one office that serves three islands… and that’s it.”

Eleanor felt a flush of shame heat her cheeks at the way his voice cut about her home.

“Tell me about your mother?”

The teenager squeezed her eyes shut and screamed internally. Every instinct told her to say nothing. Eleanor did not want to tell this Fae anything about Helena. She knew it would put her mother in danger, and her mother would be coming for her. Eleanor was quickly realising that Helena may be her only hope to get out of this nightmare.

When she opened her eyes again, Gavson looked at Eleanor with a furrowed brow and the corners of his beautiful lips were pointed down. He wore an ugly expression marring his perfect face. Eleanor studied him and sensed a vicious temper brewing just beneath the surface.

Tell him something. Anything. It doesn’t have to be important. She took a deep breath “My mother was married to my father when she was fifteen and he was twenty-five…” she exhaled. Younger than me, she must have been terrified. “…then my father died in a bar brawl just after I was born.”