Page 32 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Chapter Eight

Pippa woke at dawn to the sound of bells ringing and wild, jubilant shouts echoing throughout Hallow. The longest night had ended. The Solstice sun had returned.

And she had survived her birthday and her own fire.

Huzzah.

She had also very possibly gone mad overnight and dreamed of becoming the Tithe for the Owl Court.

Or worse, she had not gone mad at all and it was all very real.

She reached over and opened the curtains. Lachlan’s owl had gone; even his talon marks were filled in with snow. The sky was a wash of colors, tulip pink, orange, and gold. Ice glittered in the snow that clung to roof tiles and cobblestones. Revelers would crowd the streets, nibbling on cinnamon cakes and gingerbread, giving gifts of tiny candles rolled in marigold petals.

Pippa stood weakly with her dry, salt-stiff curls stuck to her neck. She might have imagined that if one went to Elphame, one might return feeling magical herself. Whimsical, even. That she might hear secrets or see music or suddenly know how to speak to snakes. Something. Instead, she just felt as if she had drunk too much bad wine and then eaten hot coals. She could not taste peaches, nor roses, nor wine, only ashes and salt. Her throat ached.

And she did not smell particularly good.

But she was not currently being torn asunder by the Wild Hunt. So, all in all, a victory.

It did not do to feel sorry for oneself.

It took too long to hobble to the hearth to make a (very small) fire to heat the kettle of water for tea and washing up. To scrub her face and her hair and her body, shivering as a frosty draft snuck around the glass panes, cold and comforting.

Revelers would wear red today, gowns and shawls and cravats and waistcoats embroidered with scarlet suns. Pippa changed into a clean shift and stays and pulled a white bodice and skirt from the cedar chest. She could not justify spending money on a red dress worn once a year. She folded the rest of her dresses into a valise, along with three of her favorite books, added three more just in case, and then her toothbrush and hairbrush.

Packing for your possibly imminent demise, as well as solving a magical Labyrinth, was tricky business. Would she need her bonnet? A woolen scarf? Pencils? Surely they had soap?

It might be solstice morning, and she might be promised to the Fae, but she still had research to do. And capture and dismemberment by the Wild Hunt to avoid. Preferably before supper.

All in a day’s work.

Not usually in her day’s work, it had to be said. But Librarians were adaptable.

One Librarian in the year 672 had fought off a raiding party of Saxons with the assistance of his cat to save a collection of rare Welsh fairy tales. Another had hidden an entire collection of illuminated medieval psalms from Henry VIII in Anne Boleyn’s childhood bedroom.

Pippa could do this. She might not have a plan or a post, but she had a moth, an iron bracelet, and her training. It would have to be enough, because she could not run. If Lachlan did not catch her, the Wild Hunt would.

She did not, at present, know which might be worse.

She knew she ought to be more hopeful, more confident in her chances. Inspiring. But it was difficult when she had seen a woman nearly dance herself to death for the Fae’s pleasure just last night.

She left a letter for Sorcha and Briar, on her pillow. Just in case.

They would be furious that she had not sought them out, had not let Briar’s Iron Crow of a husband sail her away, or let Sorcha punch Lachlan in the nose.

Pippa had tried to speak about the Tithe out loud during the night but had only succeeded in making an odd croaking sound. She had tried to write down Tithe and Wish, but the binding spell held tight and no ink or charcoal would mark the paper.

There was no outrunning this kind of magic. She had made her wish.

And honestly, thirteen nights to revel with the Fae felt more daunting than whatever trials the Labyrinth would hold. She was too quiet and too odd and too focused to be properly diverting. On that encouraging note, if she lost and was trapped forever, the Fae might grow so bored with her that they’d send her back.

Or chase her with their ghostly dogs and tear her to pieces for an evening’s entertainment.

Choices, choices.

So while she might not know how to save herself, she could save her friends. The less they knew about it, the better. The binding spell was doing her a favor.

She opened her door and then stumbled back so suddenly she tripped and hit the wall. Her elbow tingled painfully.