Maybe Blue was right. Maybe the ordinary citizens of Balavata needed a hero. But Kellan wasn’t a hero, and he knew it. He was a pawn in a political game that was centuries older than he was. He was a piece of meat to be fought over by the head families who hungered for the power of the throne.
He was all that stood between his family and the wolves snapping at their door, and he couldn’t lose focus on that for an instant. Not even to prove Blue wrong about the man she thought he’d become.
FOUR
BLUE WAS EXHAUSTED by the time she returned to the farmhouse she shared with Papa. The deliveries had taken her the rest of the afternoon. She was annoyed that one of those deliveries had included a conversation with Kellan. He was still insufferable. Probably still planning some sort of stupid, risky adventure for the fun of it, regardless of the consequences.
And definitely none of her business. Not anymore. She washed her hands of him, his charming smile, and his reckless nonsense.
A shiver went up Blue’s spine as far to the west of the city, the iron bells closest to the blood wraith’s fae prison rang, a faint discordant melody that traveled through the perfect funnel created by the road that cut through the hills.
Sometimes she went months without hearing the bells. Sometimes they rang every day. The sound didn’t carry throughout the entire city, but those who lived on the western fringes, like Blue, heard it often enough. It was a stark reminder that even though the wraith Marielle was locked away, no one had figured out how to kill her, and so no one felt truly safe.
And it was a stark reminder of the woman on the market stage and what was at stake for Blue if she wasn’t more careful.
Lanterns cast a welcoming glow in the front windows as Blue turned up the little lane that led to the farmhouse.
The farmhouse was painted a warm yellow with white trim. Flower boxes filled with cat’s paws, pansies, dalliosas, and a sprinkling of wildflowers hung beneath the downstairs windows, and two large pots with herb gardens growing in them graced the wide front porch. Ivy climbed up one of the porch pillars and covered half of the veranda, and a wildly overgrown garden hugged the sides of the house. Blue had always thought it looked like the house had sprung out of the ground from a seed, just like the garden that surrounded it.
A dark streak launched itself off the porch and raced toward her. She laughed as her cat twined himself around her legs, managing to look furious with her for leaving him behind for the day even as he purred his joy at her return.
“Good evening, Pepperell, my handsome boy. Did you get into plenty of trouble today while I was gone?” Blue crouched to run her hand over Pepperell’s fur.
His body bore the testament to his younger days as a street brawler before Blue had found him injured in the alley behind their shop and nursed him back to health. His gray fur always looked slightly unkempt, with a longer strip of brilliant white tracing the scar that started at his mouth, moved over his cheek, and ended where his left eye should’ve been. The tip of his right ear was missing, and one of his front teeth refused to stay hidden when he closed his mouth, but Blue thought he was beautiful, and Pepperell knew it.
Pepperell meowed as if to affirm that he had indeed been in plenty of trouble while his mistress was away, and then together they entered the farmhouse.
The inside of the house was neat and comfortable. Rich chocolate-brown floors scarred from years of use met walls painted a cheerful sage green, and darker green curtains hung on either side of the windows. The small entrance area met a hallway that bisected the downstairs and led to the kitchen, the office, the privy, and the sitting room. A set of simple stairs off to the right led to the second story, where the three bedrooms were located and then on to the small garret in the attic.
Blue sat on a bench in the entrance and switched her walking boots for her gardening boots, careful not to let the mud that had dried on them the night before get on Papa’s clean floors. The smell of roasted fike and parslied turnips filled the air, and Papa poked his head out of the kitchen down the hall as Blue picked up her gathering basket.
“Dinner will be ready soon. Want honey with your oatcakes? Grand-mère brought a fresh jar with her.”
“Grand-mère is here?” Blue’s spirits lifted as a small, pear-shaped woman with sharp brown eyes, luminous dark skin, and a shock of tight gray-white curls peeked out of the kitchen. She was a full head shorter than Papa, nearly as small as Blue herself, and her full lips were lifted in a wide, welcoming smile.
“Course I’m here. Haven’t seen you in at least a week.” Grand-mère’s stern voice belied the warm teasing light in her eyes as she walked toward Blue. “Had to come over and see if you had a boy who was taking all your time away from me, or if you were just neglecting an old woman.”
Blue laughed. “No boy could ever be as interesting as you, Grand-mère. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. I’m just going to gather a few things from the garden before they pass their peak. You’re welcome to join me.”
Grand-mère pursed her lips as Papa popped back into the kitchen to resume cooking. “Hip’s bothering me tonight with that damp breeze. Why don’t you plan to visit me when the shop is closed for the weekend? I’ll make a pot of mashed sweetgrain and some fried apple cakes.” Her hand reached up to tug Blue’s headscarf aside, and her eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t look like you’re oiling your hair like you should be.”
“It takes too long,” Blue said as she leaned in to give Grand-mère a hug. “Besides, I’m barely awake in the mornings. I’m lucky to remember to change out of my nightdress before I leave the house.”
Grand-mère made a noise in the back of her throat. “No excuse for letting yourself go. We’ll fix that this weekend too.”
“Yes, Grand-mère,” Blue said, and then headed back outside in the purple twilight, with the last crimson rays of the sun to guide her steps. Pepperell shadowed her as she moved toward the garden.
Beyond the farmhouse and its wild garden stretched an orchard of apples, peaches, and shirella fruit. In the middle of the orchard, far from view of anyone who visited, was Grand-mère’s little cottage. And at the end was a ragged cliff side with narrow steps carved into the side so that Blue could climb down to her beloved Chrysós Sea.
Humming the lullaby her mama had sung to her when she was a child, Blue let the crash of the distant waves and the delicate tang of the sea breeze wash over her as her fingers worked nimbly to lift vines and reach for fruit or gently brush at the dirt to dig for a bulb. Some of them leaped for her hand, eager to be harvested. But sometimes when she touched a bulb, a tiny pulse fluttered against her fingertip while the bulb remained still. Those she carefully re-covered with dirt and left for another day, just as Grand-mère and her mama had taught her.
The touch of fae magic in her blood came from them. It wasn’t enough to send the iron bells ringing as she passed them. Not enough to count as a threat to those who feared magic, though she’d have no chance of convincing anyone of that if she got caught. Her magic was just enough to help her with the things she created for the shop, but not enough to help her when it had really mattered.
She drew in a deep breath and waited for the faint, bitter ache of grief to subside.