Page 11 of Sweetling
“Do they eat?”
Molly opened her mouth to scoff, of course theyate,but then…
He never had. Not in front of her, anyway. Despite coming to a place where food, and especially drinks, was plentiful.
She blinked, which only made Jennet grin wider. “Uh-huh.”
Before she could argue, more of the barmaids hurried over to ask about the fae who’d come to her table, and it was all Molly could do to beat down her incriminating blush.
It didn’t matter if the fae ate or drank. It didn’t matter at all what he did. It was no concern of hers. She was probably a curiosity to him,look at the human with enormous tits, how fascinating,that was all.
He had no reason to give her a second glance, none at all. She wasn’t remarkable. She was just Molly, orphan, barmaid, human, with a handful of coins to her name and that was all.
Even the life she dreamed of having, one full of family and home and warmth, didn’t rise high enough to warrant notice from someone like a fae. Especially one that carried himself with more elegance and poise than every well-bred noble in the Darrowlands combined. She had no reason to think other fae carried themselves differently, but his perfect manners and precise deportment just screamed aristocrat.
Human nobles hardly looked a barmaid’s way, unless they were looking for a fun time while out carousing, so why would a fae?
As the barmaids tittered and gossiped, she began refilling tankards a little too aggressively, cider spilling over the rims. She made herself take a breath, to refocus. Spilled cider didn’t get her extra coin.
It didn’t matter what the fae thought.
Molly was Molly—granted, one who’d be a little richer after today—and that was perfectly all right.
But what if…
The stables were a quiet refuge from the crowded courtyard outside. Allarion walked into a haven of sweet-smelling hay and the content whicker of horses.
Drawing the tankard to his nose, he took a curious sniff of the cider Molly had given him. It was a pleasant mix of bitter and sweet, notes of apple and molasses combining with the fermented tang of alcohol.
Allarion couldn’t remember the last time he’d drunk something. With magic as their sustenance, the fae had no need. They grew no food, and what animals were reared were used for wool, leather, or milk for soaps and tinctures. He wasn’t even sure if he had the internal structures necessary to imbibe. To be sure, his mouth had to go somewhere, but it’d been so long since…
A peal of laughter brought him round, and with another sniff of the cider, he left it behind on a haybale. What he’d wanted was a moment with Molly, and he’d gotten that and more. He’d seen the way her pupils dilated when she saw him.
He scared her just like other humans, but with her there was…something else. Something tantalizing.
Hope was a painful, dangerous vice pinching his chest.
Perhaps his luck would hold just a little longer to see this last plan fulfilled.
Delving deeper into the stables, Allarion followed the sound of girlish laughter and equine nickering. He wasn’t at all surprised to see the princess drawn near the paddock where Bellarand had taken up court.
The unicorn so enjoyed visiting Dundúran for the simple reason that he craved all the castle horses gathering round to treat him like a conquering hero. Unicorns always garnered fear and respect amongst not justtwo-leggeds, as Bellarand called them, but all animals. As the only unicorn for hundreds of miles, it seemed Bellarand enjoyed the more varied company of the castle horses.
Not that Bellarand would ever admit to it, of course.
As he neared, Allarion saw that his dread-mount was performing one of his favorite tricks, drawing symbols in the ground with the sharp tip of his horn.
“I see you are already acquainted,” said Allarion.
The princess’s four guards jumped, their hands going to their hilts, but Princess Isolde merely turned her smile to Allarion.
“Indeed. I think he’s spelling out his name for me.” She nodded at the scratches in the paddock dirt.
His incorrigible steed most certainly wasn’t spelling his name but something far ruder, not fit for young princesses’ ears.
It’s funny,the unfunny steed insisted.
It’s really not.
