Page 12 of Cursed Shadows 1

But I have means to belong, to trick the fae around me, dazzle and render them incapable—if only for a few moments—of remembering what I am.

I wear no Fae Mark on my flesh, like my sister once had dragonfly wings that were torn off in battle, but my tongue is not under the rule of the land.

The light fae cannot lie. And yet,and yet—

I can.

I first realised when I picked up on some sayings from around the court and near the human servants in the village.

‘I’m famished’, when in fact I’m only peckish.

‘I’m dying’, when in fact I’m only wine-ill.

‘My feet are killing me’, after excessive dance practice, and my feet are bruised and bloodied.

And I could repeat these human words, these little twists of the truths. Not lies, exactly, but close enough that I started to practice in private, tests the depths of this newly discovered advantage—one I was so very desperate to have back then.

I tested, but only ever in private, because it’s a deadly secret for anyone else to know, even my father. They think I am like other halflings, that I cannot lie because I am bound to the land as they are.

This talent is my best kept secret, because I don’t often use it. Better to not get caught, better to not use my talent for small things, better to save it for moments like these—

So I start my answer with a truth. It always disarms the light fae I lie to. “I can’t make that promise, father.” I shake my head and watch as his hands tense on the edge of the desk. “If I’m to live in the same garrison as him, how can I avoid him? I won’t be punished for circumstance. But,” I add with a submissive nod, and I look down at my lap, “I can promise to turn my backon him if he speaks to me. I’ll keep my distance when I can—because I don’t care about him, father. Not anymore.”

Oh the lies, the lies, how they hurt. Not just my heart, they physically hurt. It’s like the words have formed into a fist inside of me, twisting my throat in an invisible grip, and I feel the early prickles of warning on my tongue.

I’ll need some soothing tonic when I return to my room.

Satisfied, father nods, then draws back from the desk to sink into his chair. “You should pack. We will depart for Comlar next full moon.” That’s just nine sleeps from now. Father lifts his hand, a silent gesture dismissing me. “Let us hope Daxeel has not thawed in the last ten years.”

Let us hope Daxeel still hates you.

I force a small smile and leave the library. I head straight to my room, rushing by our servants (our brownies and goblins paid in bowls of cream and sugar). I knock one over in my rush.

I grimace as Knife, the wicked brownie, is sent sprawling—and shouts curses my way—but I just keep running.

Daxeel.

That name clangs my bones. I think only of him. His face flickers in my mind, a face twisted with fury.

I remember him then. It wasn’t so long ago, a decade, a handful of years to me, part of a lifetime to humans. If I close my eyes, those days flood to mind as though they only just happened some months ago.

I relive those memories every day.

4

the night we first spoke

††† TEN YEARS EARLIER †††

Taroh’s mouth is hot on the curve of my neck. His fingernails scrape at my thigh, bunching up the satin skirt that clings to me.

Silencing my shouts, his other hand is pressed firm against my twisted mouth. His palm is clammy from the excess of plumwine he’s had this night, but that wine doesn’t lessen the hardness he pushes against my belly, and it doesn’t let him listen to the muffled cries that his hand stifles.

Outside of the High Court, in the gardens, he found me. I was wandering the statue maze, far away enough from the celebration inside that my father wouldn’t catch me smoking valerian.

It was Taroh who caught me.

I was looking for a firefly to light the parchment-rolled valerian stalk when he sauntered up the path, wearing that striking grin of his. I didn’t get the chance to light it. It lies on the grass, forgotten and abandoned, near the toes of my sandals that scuff against the stone podium.

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