Page 46 of The Mortal Queen

“Partially. The Unseelie have always hunted mankind and the Sidhe have allowed them to in exchange for their aid in protecting the feywilds, our kingdoms. This arrangement has proved effective over the centuries. But peace between the Sidhe and the mortals leaves the Unseelie without an incentive for their loyalty.”

Aisling bristled, anger abated only by the passing thought that based upon this agreement between the Sidhe and Unseelie, perhaps mankind had mistaken the two fae categories all these years. That would explain the impossibly inaccurate accounts of what the Sidhe truly looked like. How they ate mortal babes in caves and tricked children into rivers. But this by no means exonerated her father. Nemed had fought the Sidhe for decades, captured them, tortured them. He would be well acquainted with his enemy.

Aisling was drawn from her thoughts by the shouting ofher name in the distance. Galad and Gilrel were calling for her.

“You should return to the others,” Lir said, pushing off the tree. His voice was both coy and cold, iced, like the evergreens sparkling in the gems only the frost could afford.

“And what of you?” Aisling asked.

Lir eyed the surrounding woodland, and it was only a moment later Aisling heard what the fae king already had: others approaching. And sure enough, through the trees, Aisling could see the faint shadows of Lir’s knights making their way towards the castle.

“I’ll meet you tonight,” he said, already stepping back, away from her and towards his knights. “And then you can explain to me how a mortal princess learned to ride like that.”

Aisling didn’t move, only watched as he disappeared into the forest, as wild as a wolf and as elusive as the stag. And despite Galad and Gilrel’s calls, she stood there, watching Lir vanish, catching him glance back before disappearing entirely.

It was a snake that at last diverted her attention. The black flame of a creature cautiously approached the mortal queen, abandoning her reed before her boots.

Aisling sunk into the tub. She’d already bathed in the steam, sour pudina, tayberry tea, and suds for the better half of the day with little desire to ever emerge.

But just as he’d promised, a lanky fox knocked on her chamber doors on behalf of the fae king, requesting Aisling join Lir for supper. And by the time the sun set, Aisling was expected to be sitting in the dining hall. A room she hadn’t explored, much less been invited to. Until now, all her meals had been delivered to her chambers. A product of the distrust Aisling didn’t blame the fair folk for; her tuath only need send word for Aisling to betray her newfound world.

“Come,mo Lúra, we must get you dressed,” Gilrel said, approaching the basin with a pile of warm towels in tow. Reluctantly, Aisling indulged the handmaid, allowing Gilrel to dry her, brush through her knots, spray her with the winds of Innisfree, and select a gown for the evening.

The dress was sky blue with large, transparent sleeves billowing before cinching at the wrists and elbows. The bodice ribbed like a corset. A foil to the loose, sweeping skirts that spilled from the waist in waves of cerulean. Giant moths’ wings Aisling realized, stroking the soft surface and powdering her fingertips.

As with all fae gowns, it was a stark contrast to Tilrish fashion: the countless brown, grey, and black dresses Gilrel had stuffed into some unbothered drawer upon her arrival, her Neimedh tartans the only respite from the drab collection, tartans she cherished, woven in the threads of her ancestry. But Aisling hadn’t donned these mortal gowns and fabrics lest she stand out like a beating heart in a graveyard. Or because Gilrel would contest it to no end. But whatever the excuse she gave herself, Aisling knew the true reason: these gowns were far superior to anything mortal hands sewed. No mortal land, township, kingdom, nor village existed where Aisling could sport beetles as jewels and spider-webs for skirts, swathe herself in petrified rain, or bloody her neck with cave rubies. So why, Aisling began to ask herself, should she deny herself the guilty pleasure here?

Once Gilrel’s magpies had stitched Aisling into the gown, the lady’s maid began weaving her fingers through Aisling’s hair. She tied it tightly behind her head as she always did. As Aisling always insisted.

“Perhaps, Gilrel,” Aisling began, “you may try something different tonight.” For Aisling was realizing more and more each day just how much she resembled Clodagh with her hair pressed against the scalp and knotted in a crude bundle.

“A woman’s hair is a self-reflection. For thatreason, a lady never wears her hair undone. It is to be safely pinned, as prim as the lady herself. To wear one’s tresses loose and wild implies the woman is just as impetuous as her hair suggests,” Clodagh would say as she raked a brush through Aisling’s locks.

“How would you like it,mo Lúra?” Gilrel asked, securing the tethers she’d already placed.

“Undone,” Aisling replied. The lady’s maid considered the mortal queen before putting herself to work, struggling to hide a satisfied grin as she removed the pins one by one.

“Easily enough done,” the chambermaid said, already barking orders at her magpies. Birds who gathered Aisling’s hair in their beaks, knotting disheveled braids to complement the loose mane of unkempt black.

The gilded doors parted, and the mortal queen stepped into the dining hall. Barreled ceilings dripped with showers of hanging butterwort, bittercress, bilberries, buttercups, and bogbeans. Chandeliers of waxing wendies hung low, sweeping the heads of the Aos Sí seated at their tables spilling over with chartreuse gelatins, pudding pies, stewed rabbit, tea-toasted buns, and goblets of strawberry wine to name a few. And while several bears stood guard along the periphery of the hall, it appeared the entirety of Annwyn’s royal court was in attendance. Violent reds, blues, greens, golds, and silvers dying their tunics, the females’ rich Gúnas, their capes, their tailored trousers. Flaunting their attire as winged Aos Sí twirled in the air with their partners, wings tickling the vaulted ceilings and showering the hall in loose petals.

As Aisling entered, the fair folk turned to look, their feline eyes exploring her gown, her hair, her bare feet padding across the marble floors speckled with leaves and insects.

“Are there always this many Aos Sí attending dinner withthe king?” Aisling asked her handmaid, following shortly behind.

“It’s to celebrate Lir’s return to Annwyn,” Gilrel explained, nudging Aisling forward.

“And remember, Aisling: even in your dying breath, never give them the satisfaction of seeing you wilt, witnessing your fear. You represent all our kind when amongst them now. Never forget that.”

From across the room, through the maze of Aos Sí, Aisling’s eyes met Lir’s. The fae king danced amidst the crowd of fair folk, taller than even his fae subjects, stepping to the flutes, fiddles, and bodhrans. That intangible cord between she and Lir growing taut, groaning with every inch Aisling grew nearer.

He was dressed in an ebony tunic embroidered with sage thread, split down the center so Aisling could see the white of his shirt beneath, its undone tethers, the chains he brandished around his neck, and the skin below his collar where fae markings proudly graced.

And if it weren’t for his elegant, masterful skill for the dance, Aisling wouldn’t have noticed his partner, Peitho, as radiant as the southern sun.

“Mo Lúra,” a voice said from nearby, shattering Aisling’s trance. The mortal queen whipped her attention towards the source, her stomach instantly plummeting.

Filverel approached her, a sparkling chalice of wine in hand.

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