Page 79 of A House of Cloaks & Daggers

I couldn’t prevent the grimace that warped the features on my face at the very thought. Iron was toxic to faeries. Painful.

“We can’t have the knowledge of the universe landing in the wrong hands,” Morgoya explained, noticing my expression. “The iron-thread ensures that, even if magic is used to somehow give the Secret-Keeper a voice again, they won’t be able to use it.”

“So why offer the secrets at all, if it’s so risky?” I asked, reaching for a moon-shaped slice of juicy orange fruit.

Morgoya shrugged delicately. “Faith, I suppose. The world simply cannot sustain every being knowing every detail because that would starve it of passion. Still, people like Delia are a symbol. They prove that thereareanswers to our questions, even if we aren’t supposed to know what they are. The Secret-Keepers are, in a sense, the wick allowing the candle to burn.”

“Couldn’t she just write it all down?”

She arched a perfectly curved eyebrow at me. “Haven’t you noticed her hands?”

I shook my head.

“They break their fingers and seal the damage with an enchantment,” she murmured, tilting her face towards her breakfast tray. “I’m not doing a great job of convincing you that we aren’t barbaric, am I?”

Delia’s hands.

If I was honest, I hadn’t actually paid attention to her fingers. When she had carried the bucket into my room the morning that she had manually filled the marble tub, she kept one palm flat against the bottom and one obscured from my viewon the other side. Ever since then, I’d been too preoccupied to notice any of those details.

Shuddering, I tried to offer Morgoya a placid smile, but something wet and cold was curling up in the bottom of my stomach. “Do you think it’s worth it?”

“To me?” Morgoya’s catlike eyes widened, long lashes fluttering. “No. To others? Every Secret-Keeper I’ve ever met has gone back to their normal lives, and they don’t seem disappointed.”

“Would she know about the Malum? Is that the sort of thing you can ask?”

Morgoya shook her head. “Delia hasn’t gone back to the Temple since her initial visit long ago. Some do return. So, theoretically, there could be someone out there who knows the ultimate fate of the Malum. I doubt it, though.”

For a fleeting moment, I actually entertained the thought. I considered what it would be like to give my voice up in order to receive answers, and if it might even be worth it, simply to avoid having to deal with Wren while I searched for them the old-fashioned way.

I had not seen or heard from him or the High King of Faerie since our humiliating confrontations. The lingering traces of anger still itched in my veins, but it was a small comfort to discover that they were not responsible for the stitches on Delia’s mouth.

“Well.” I sighed. “At least she did it to herself. On purpose.”

Morgoya chuckled, the sound deep and throaty. “You really thought it was one of us?”

“Wren, actually,” I confessed. “He used her as part of some sick joke when he chose her to send up here to be my maid.”

Her laughter quieted. “Delia’s the only maid in the House.”

“Yeah,” I scoffed. “Because he scared all the other maids away.”

This time, her laugh was loud and genuine. “Oh, darling. That man is all bark and no bite.”

Somehow, I doubted that, although I appreciated the comparison to a dog. And not just any dog, either. In my mind, he was a flea-ridden mongrel with a penchant for snapping at people who tried to feed him.

I hope he starves to death.

“You better wipe that look off your face before he sees you again,” she warned playfully. “You might hurt his feelings.”

Wren didn’t have feelings, but that wasn’t what gave me pause as I threw my legs over the side of the bed and made to stand up. “How do Secret-Keepers eat and drink?” I asked her.

Morgoya gave me a contemplative look. “We don’t really need to eat or drink, darling. Not if our magic is intact and thriving. We do so for pleasure. Most of the things the High Fae do, we do for pleasure.”

So, Wren is a masochist.

“Figures,” I muttered, striding over to the wardrobe.

All of the clothes provided by the House looked to me like pyjamas, so I wore them to bed every night and changed into a new set each morning. Dresses still dangled inside the wardrobe, pushed to the very end of the rack, and I quickly flicked through the varying shades of silk and velvet shirts.

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