Caledon’s tone softened. “What matters now is that the Germans and French are appeased. We have a need to treat with the fey courts on the continent and assure them that we Scottish fey stand for peace. Perhaps they can aid us in convincing the human governments to quell their tempers.”
Effie snorted. “I’d like to see who could manage that.”
The steward offered her a soft smile, but his gaze pierced through her weariness. Her snort turned into a choking cough.
“No,” she said. She shook her head, trying to catch her breath.
“I believe your knowledge of human affairs and craft for negotiation would make our perfect emissary,” said Caledon.
Effie blinked. “You desire me to negotiate after all the failures I’ve had?”
“Failures? Do not underestimate the progress of small victories, Effie of Glen Coe.”
“But with Germany and France…” She paused to consider the complexity of the task the steward requested of her. “I’ve just proven I know little of the fey bloodlines within our own court. Outside of the Highlands, I know even less of politics and society.” She shook her head. “Rose Brewer has lived among their courts, and Abigail Salisbury has treated with travelers from other countries for decades, working as she did at the university library. Surely, either of them would make for a better emissary.”
Caledon’s face remained expressionless. As she often felt in his presence, she thought he tested her. She clasped her hands before her waist to steady them. As always, she never knew whether she passed these tests or not.
“Abigail has not the aptitude for convincing others to join a near hopeless cause, and Rose grows weary with age for such travel. It is you who are the heart of this cause, the leader of our hopes. The foreign courts know of you and your efforts. You are the Green Lady.”
Effie blushed. Her ears burned. The Green Lady was a moniker she had been dubbed after a royal procession with the Duke of Edinburgh. She’d worn an emerald dress, and while the newspapers of London had speculated she’d bewitched the duke, the Scottish fey had swelled with hope that one of their kind could treat with so mighty a person. They had praised her, and some had even pledged to her unfettered devotion.
Yet in her heart she knew her place remained unchanged. Green dresses were nothing but frivolity. She could fight to her last breath, inspire hope, and thrust herself into the public eye, but she could never take away how fey like Gaelyph saw her. She had learned that harsh lesson many times as an orphan when dealing with the threat of humans. For every cheery welcome she received, a dozen more would rather see her clamped in a dungeon.
“You do me a great honor, and a kindness,” she said. “But it is precisely because those in Scotland see me as this Green Lady that I must remain.” She found it difficult to meet the steward’s gaze, so dropped her own to study the ground before her. Her words failed her. She had to find a way to make him understand.
“You ask me to speak for the Seily Court, but how can I when I don’t even know how to reach Elphame? An hour ago, I had no idea the court even had a queen! The Warden of the Hunt is right. I am an outsider, no matter how well known I’ve become.” The words stung as she said them, but they were also the truth. Beyond her lack of knowledge, she held no proper place within the court, and there were many who would reject her involvement in court business, no matter the steward’s support.
Caledon nodded his head slowly. He seemed to study something deep behind her eyes, and she felt the weight of it drag against her shoulders. But he did not scold or let on to any disappointment. It was not his way.
“I will find another,” he said, “until the time comes when you can see yourself as others do.” He bowed and left her standing alone in the cold.
7
The sun crested the snow-dusted hills by the time preparations to march from the ravine completed. But the blinding rays did little to warm Effie. She stomped her feet and spread her hands over the smoldering ash of the bonfire, trying to stave off the morning chill that pressed against her cheeks. She’d padded her coat with thick wool and donned doeskin gloves, yet more than anything it was the waiting that allowed the cold to seep in.
Gareth lay with his head atop his paws, eyes glued to her, just as anxious to be moving again. Gwendoline had taken flight earlier, no doubt to hunt. Around Effie, the queen’s soldiers hurried to form ranks. White bandages wrapped arms and brows, and more than one man moved with a slower, limping gait. That they had survived the fight without the loss of life seemed miraculous.
A horse whinnied behind Effie. She turned and found Lieutenant Walford astride a chestnut. The horse stretched its neck to nuzzle her, its breath tickling as it washed over her. It smelled of oats and the damp fields. She grinned and stroked its mane. She’d long grown used to the affections her fey blood drew from animals.
“Are you to Balclune?” she asked the lieutenant.
He nodded. “Aye, Sir Walter will want a report, as will His Royal Highness, the duke.” The lieutenant’s dark hair had peppered with grey since they’d first met in Edinburgh a few years earlier, yet his cheeks remained stern and sunbaked. Days toiling in climates far south of Scotland had seen to that.
“And what of Mr. Billingsley, the Fey Finder General?” Effie asked.
The lieutenant didn’t quite smirk, yet nor did he fully mask his disdain at the mention of the man’s name. “Mr. Billingsley bothers himself with extravagant banquets and the company of his peers. If he desires any reports on this matter, I am sure he may obtain them from my superiors.”
Effie’s grin broadened. “You mean if Sir Walter encourages the man to act. He does nothing without Sir Walter’s blessing. His or Lady Fife’s.” Her fingers twirled through the coarse hair of the chestnut’s mane. “Still, the man is an improvement. I shudder to consider how worse our situation would be if Edmund Glover still held the position.”
This time the lieutenant did not hold back a snort of derision. It had been he who’d ultimately rescued Effie from a violent assault by the former Fey Finder General, a man Effie had loathed above any other save the Sidhe Bhreige.
His horse shuffled sidestep, and he patted its flank. “Aye, though it is difficult to fathom our situation grimmer. This hag creature, the Barrow Witch you’ve called her, creates chaos at the whim of her thoughts, and now we learn she has the capacity to create devoted legions of tainted fey. That alone is dire enough, even without the peril of her releasing more of her brethren.” The lieutenant’s stiff posture somehow hardened further. “I fear soon the empire will have a need to defend itself from threats beyond its borders.”
“It won’t come to that, surely.” A twinge of guilt shot through Effie as she recalled her refusal of Caledon.
“The French have risen to action already,” said the lieutenant. “An airship of theirs was spotted over Aberdeen. Rumors in the city say there was an exchange of cannon fire, though the target remains unclear, as does the instigator.”
A soldier approached the lieutenant and snapped to attention. With a young face and fair complexion, Effie guessed the lad had not yet seen a year in service. His eyes kept flickering toward her, and color rose to his cheeks. She wondered whether it was her fey blood or womanly shape that drew his eye. With young men, she couldn’t always tell.