The Dayland guards wait outside. I don’t know why. It’s not like I can run from them.
“Yes, but …” She trails off and sits hard on our little kitchen chair. “Wear your good shoes.” She points.
“They’re slick on the bottoms. I don’t like them.”
“You can’t go with a king while wearing shoes filled with holes and held together with gum paste.”
“Ugh. Fine.” I kick off my usual flats and pull on the blue ones with the slick soles.
“Better.” She rubs her face. “I just wish …” She trails off again.
“You wish what?” I tie a string around my meager belongings.
“I wish you could stay. I can’t do all the mending myself.” She plucks at the end of her apron, her eyes downcast. “I’ll never get through it all without you.”
“You know I was never much for mending.” I walk over to her and try to keep my composure. There’s no point crying now. Not when magic has sealed the agreement between the day king and me. A vow like that—I can’t break it. If I do, the magic would likely take my life as payment. I must go, no matter how much I want to stay. I rest my hand on her shoulder. “In the time it takes me to darn a sock, you can sew two dresses and an apron. I’m not half the seamstress you are. You know that.”
“I know, but you’re mine.” Her voice breaks on a sob. “Mine, Emma. My only one. My special one.”
When she looks up at me with tears in her eyes, it’s a struggle for me to keep my chin from wobbling. Then I fail, my own tears rolling down my cheeks. “Mama,” I choke out.
She rises and pulls me into her arms.
I lean on her, trying to gain strength, to take as much of her with me as I can. We hold each other so long that the Dayland guard peeks in, his eyes stern. Our time is up. My time here is over. Will I ever return to the Nightlands and dance with the witches in the dark, dreamy woods?
“I thought I’d get to keep you, that’s all.” Mama sniffles. “I thought you’d stay.”
“I don’t want to leave.” I can barely breathe from the tightness of her embrace, but I can’t seem to let her go.
She takes a deep breath, and it only hitches once right in the middle. “But you must. You must,” she says, as if telling it to herself.
She pulls back and puts a calloused hand to my cheek. “Of course he chose you, Emma.”
“I thought you said I’d missed my chance for the easy, pampered life?” I try to smile, but I can’t seem to make it. Instead, more tears fall.
“He will treat you well. I saw him, saw his eyes. He’s a hard fae, but not cruel.” She glances at the door, then whispers in my ear, “Set a store aside for yourself if you can. Gold, jewels he gives, anything of value. Make your own little dragon hoard, so if the times comes when you want to return home, you can pay your way back to me. Be strong. You are far tougher than you know.”
“All right.” I wipe my cheeks.
“Good.” She sniffles. “And give him what he wants.” She glances southward. “All of it.”
“Mama.” I roll my eyes.
“Make him happy, and he’ll treat you well.” She clasps my hands. “Mayhap you’ll get some enjoyment out of it, too.”
Now my cheeks are on fire. “Mama,” I groan again.
“Don’t ‘Mama’ me. I know the pleasure of males. How do you think you got here?”
“Okay, that’s it. I’m out. Moment over.” I grab my sad little sack of clothes.
She grips my shoulders, her eyes still glittering with unshed tears. “I love you, my dearest one. I will always be here waiting for you to return.”
I swallow hard at the seriousness of her words. “I love you, too.”
One more embrace. That’s all I allow myself before I turn to the door. If I look back, I’ll crumble. So I don’t. I walk out of our cottage with my head high. Am I going to be the king’s whore? Yes. But I will not cower, not hide. I’ve done this for the other women in town who have lovers, husbands, and children. For my friends.
And just as I think it, I see them. The women from the stage have formed two lines at the entrance to the square.
“Thank you,” they each say as I pass.
Except Lysetta. She just glares.
Some squeeze my hand or give me small packages of food. I even get a pretty pink scarf from Rala. Maybe being the king’s whore has perks. I wrap the scarf around my neck and steel my spine as I trudge into the square. Many villagers hover at the edges, their eyes on me, and some whisper prayers to the Ancestors on my behalf. I’ve never been so popular. Too bad I have to leave my newfound fame behind.
The king—his broad shoulders and narrow waist admittedly desirable, his tanned face undoubtedly handsome, and his golden eyes undeniably bright—acknowledges me with a simple jerk of his chin. Hmph. I take back all those “handsome” thoughts.
“This way.” His gruff companion marches up and hurries me toward a wagon. When he swings the back open, I stare at the fancy pillows and fabrics inside. Now my scarf looks a bit sad in comparison.
“Allow me.” The king is at my back, his warmth seeping through my clothes as if he brought the sun with him.
The sun. I can’t even imagine it. Will it burn me?
“My lady.” He offers his hand, his beguiling eyes laughing at me. “Your carriage awaits.”
Maybe I don’t like this king after all. Maybe I won’t follow Mama’s advice and give him what he wants. Not when he’s looking at me like a gremel who caught a pixie.
I lay my packages inside the wagon, then climb up without taking the king’s hand. I’m almost inside when my damned slippery shoes slide off the step, and I fall.
Strong arms wrap around me, and the king hefts me as if I weigh nothing more than an air sprite.
“Careful, my consort.” His voice rumbles through me, and he clutches me tight to his chest.
Spires, he’s even more perfect up close like this. And his hair is so golden, just like his eyes. None in the night realm have ever been so blessed as the day king. High fae through and through, he’s everything about them I hate. But when he glances at my lips, something heats inside me. I push it down.
“I’d rather have fallen.” I push against him, but he doesn’t let me go.
“Drop her, my lord,” his second-in-command says.
“And injure her before I’ve enjoyed her fully?” The king presses his lips to my hair. “I think not.” He sets me inside the wagon—well, I suppose they call it a carriage—then closes the door, his gaze still on me through the window.
I sit on one of the gaudy pillows in the most unladylike way I can.
The king laughs and strides away as I look around and feel the velvets and satins that they use as simple upholstery, not finery. Mama would give her best apron to sew such soft and supple fabrics.
Mama. I bite my lip to keep from crying. She told me to be strong. I will. And hopefully, someday soon, I’ll come back to her with my arms full of every fabric and thread she’s ever dreamed of.
I settle in as the carriage begins to roll away from my home, from the only friends and family I’ve ever known. Leaning back against the comfortable pillows, I close my eyes as the procession marches steadily toward my uncertain future. The king’s golden eyes flash through my mind, the way his lips quirk in amusement. I bat those thoughts away. I’m only a toy to him. A changeling to enjoy and discard. The high fae have done this for millennia, trading changelings between them, using them and then tossing them aside. I’ll be used up soon enough, I tell myself, and then I can return to my velvety soft night and the silver moon. I’ll be older, perhaps even wiser, though Mama would probably dispute that. But when Solano tires of me, I’ll slip away and dance with the nymphs and witches again, safe in the light of the moon with no cares beyond tomorrow’s darning pile and no day king lording over me with addictive touches and heated looks.