With a shudder, I run to the door of the shop and dart inside. I find Mother in the parlor. Her hands are on her hips as she scowls at a figure standing in the middle of the room. He’s stout and barely taller than Mother, with neatly trimmed brown hair, pointed ears decorated with gold jewelry, and brown slanted eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. His jacket is pristine lines of burgundy and bronze with elaborate golden clasps shaped like leaves down the front. It’s the fae I saw in the village earlier.
Mother whirls toward me with a sigh. She returns to face the fae, irritation tensing her posture. “I told you she’d be back,” she snaps.
The ambassador shrugs. “You must understand my suspicion.”
“No, I must not,” Mother argues. “The girls aren’t to be taken until midnight. They still have three hours until then.”
“I am simply here to assure they comply. Don’t mind me. I won’t be a bother.”
“No, you won’t be,” Mother says, “since you’ll be waiting in your carriage.”
The ambassador looks shocked, his hand moving to his chest as if she suggested he wait in a gutter. I’m equally surprised. Mother has never spoken about the fae with anything but reverence and curiosity, or at the worst of times, with amused frustration. It shows how hopeless our situation really is.
When the ambassador makes no move to leave, she takes a step toward him. “There’s nothing in the treaty that states you are allowed in my house while my children pack for their imprisonment. Now go. They’ll be out the door at midnight.”
He sniffs, then turns on his heel.
I listen for the sound of the front door opening and shutting, then let out a heavy breath. “Three hours until midnight?”
Mother nods, her expression unreadable. She looks angry and hopeless all at once, but there’s something else there I can’t place. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she whispers, then brushes past me out of the parlor.
I consider following her but don’t. I’m not ready to face her after the hurtful things I said earlier. Especially since I know whatever I say to her next will be the last she’ll hear from me again.
My throat feels tight as I make my way up the stairs toward my room. As I reach the top landing, I hear whimpering coming from the door straight ahead. Amelie’s room. I tiptoe forward and peek through the crack between the door and the frame. Amelie is in the middle of her floor, surrounded by her favorite dresses. An overstuffed bag lies at her feet, more dresses spilling from it. I’m about to enter her room when I stop myself. How can I try to comfort her when I know I’m to blame? Does she already know? Does Mother know?
Tears spring to my eyes at the sight of my sister, but I force myself to leave, quietly crossing the hall to my bedroom. Once inside, I sit at the edge of my bed. Part of me wants to cry, to fall into a fit of sobs on my floor like Amelie. The other part of me won’t let me cry, knowing I must be strong for the both of us.
My eyes rove my room, taking in everything I’m leaving behind. I expect to feel nostalgic, but I don’t; I was already planning on leaving here anyway. My room isn’t full of trinkets and luxuries like Amelie’s is. My wardrobe isn’t brimming with gowns and beaded slippers. The thing I treasure most of all lies on my dressing table—the invitation to university.
Longing tugs at my heart. My mind races to think of some way out of this. Any way out of this. I imagine sneaking out the back door, leaving before the ambassador returns to escort us to the carriage. How far could I get by midnight if I left now? I could take the money I’ve saved for university, use it to take me south where I can catch a ship to the mainland.
Excitement sparks within me, a smile nearly pulling at my lips. Then it all comes crashing down. I think of Amelie. What would happen to her if I ran away? Would they still take her? Punish her with a fate worse than being a fae’s bride? No, I can’t leave her, especially when I’m to blame for this mess. Could I convince her to come with me?
My sensible side takes over, and I know running away is neither logical nor possible. A marriage must take place for the treaty to be upheld. Our village has already lost two girls to the Reaping without securing the pact. What will happen if we break the treaty too? The council could select another set of Chosen. The fae could request another girl to be punished.
Or it could start a war. A war that brought near-annihilation a thousand years ago. A war I’d be responsible for.
I close my eyes, shutting the door to all my thoughts of escaping this. My dream of moving to the mainland is over. I won’t be going to university nor will I become a great surgeon. I won’t be anything but a bride. If the fae let me live that long.
Anger returns to me in a rush, making my hands clench into fists. I stand and stride over to my wardrobe, flinging the doors open with more force than necessary. From the bottom of the wardrobe, I extricate a bag. Beneath it lies a wooden case. I take that too and bring both to my bed. I open the case, revealing an array of tools—bone saw, tourniquet, scalpel, trephine, forceps, tenaculum, knives. My surgery kit, a gift from Mr. Meeks on my eighteenth birthday. A gift I never got to use.
Most significantly, the tools are carbon steel—an alloy I know contains iron. Whether an iron alloy has any effect on the fae, I don’t know. But I’m willing to find out.
I close the box and place it at the bottom of the bag. Then I return to my wardrobe and pull out my cloak. From my dressing table, I retrieve my nightdress, an extra pair of trousers and a blouse, as well as my belt and dagger. I stuff the clothing in my bag and secure the belt around my waist. The dagger at my hip and the blades inside my bag have cooled some of my rage. I feel safe now. In control.
I may have to marry a monster. I may never get to leave Faerwyvae again. But I won’t go down without a fight. The treaty may force me to marry, but as far as I know, it says nothing about letting a fae touch me or letting one come anywhere near me. In fact, I doubt it says anything about my husband needing to be alive for the treaty to remain valid.
I’ll go to Faerwyvae. I’ll do my part. I’ll sacrifice myself for the safety of Eisleigh. But if any of the fae try to hurt me or my sister, I’ll be ready. My future husband can try all he likes to touch me, but he’ll find no luck with an iron blade between us.
I grin, but it’s short lived as my thoughts return to Amelie. There will be times when my blade will only be able to protect one of us, times when we’ll have to leave each other’s sides. How will I keep her safe?
The door creaks open behind me, and I turn to find Mother in the doorway. We lock eyes, staring wordlessly, until she joins me at my bed. She places a stoppered jar on top of the clothing in my bag. “Tincture of iron, St. John’s Wart, and daisy. Take half a dropperful daily.”
She wants me to ingest…an iron supplement?
Everyone in Eisleigh knows iron is our greatest defense against the fae, something humans discovered during the war. Most people think it’s magic that makes iron so harmful to the fae, but Mr. Meeks explains they have a severe allergy to the metal, preventing their blood from clotting and their wounds from healing. He says their olfactory system is highly attuned to it, allowing them to avoid it through scent. I think of the slaughtered animals at the Holstrom farm, of Hank Osterman’s mangled arm. While I’m not sure having adequate levels of iron in my blood will keep me from getting killed by a fae, at least I’ll less likely get eaten by one.