Page 41 of The Queen's Huntsman
“I must confess he is not so pleased to see me,” Esme allowed, completely without regret, her voice like the music of a lyre.
She cast a glance backward, into the room as they departed, and Gwendolyn followed her gaze to find Emrys and Málik speaking now, their expressions sober.
Gwendolyn didn’t know what to say. He was clearly not pleased. But she was ill-equipped to assuage the Faerie’s ruffled feelings when Gwendolyn’s own heart was still wounded and weeping from his confessions.
Instead, she thought it best to change the subject. “I never expected these Druids would be so… amicable.” Feeling silly now, particularly after Málik’s recent disclosures, she added. “I was led to believe they would tear out my woman’s heart if I ever dared to seek their counsel.”
“Ah, well, you are not merely any woman, Gwendolyn. You aretheDragon Queen,” Esme said. “But you must not be fooled by the Druid’s demeanor. Emrys will slay a man sooner than he will harm a spider. They are fierce in their love of nature, and, truly, even above myfaekind, they have curried favor with the goddess.” She waved a hand about. “This place… they know its worth and will guard its secrets with their lives… and, if needs be, the lives of others. That is the true reason you mortals are not welcome here. It has little to do with your womanhood.”
A warm breeze pushed about a mist that was light and yet somehow still impenetrable, so that even as one passed through it, even knowing what was left behind, or what lay ahead, all sense of what was gone was lost, and a glance backward revealed nothing but swirling mist. Looking ahead gave one a sense of keen anticipation, though for what was unclear.
“But enough of that,” Esme said with a hand to the small of Gwendolyn’s back. She led Gwendolyn down several twisting paths until they came to a cluster of small dwellings. “I come bearing gifts,Banríon na bhfear.”
“Queen?” Gwendolyn said, and Esme offered a nod of approval, adding, “Queen of men. You learn quickly,” she said, approvingly. “Your husband may yet rue the day he ever met you.” And she smiled as she said this, the smile transforming her face until it was a thing of terror.
ChapterEighteen
The “gifts” Esme came bearing were many, but the most magnificent of all was neither the clothing, nor the accoutrements. It was a bath. Warm, scented, it reminded Gwendolyn of a miniature version of theirpiscina, although she was gobsmacked that any such structure could exist so high in the trees—at least she believed they were still in the trees. She couldn’t be certain. She had a sense of great height, but the swirling mists prevented her from seeing anything beyond their immediate environs. It was the strangest experience Gwendolyn had ever had.
“There is a hot house below,” Esme said. “But that bath is not used for washing. It is ceremonial. This one is simple but serviceable.”
“Where are we?” Gwendolyn dared to ask.
The Faerie answered in a singsong tone. “Oh, neither here, nor there,” she said.
Not helpful.And yet, wherever they were, the room was far larger than Gwendolyn had expected upon their approach, and once inside, Esme went straight for a stone tub, dipping in a finger to test the water. After considering it a moment, she tilted her head, and a burst of steam erupted from the pool. Gwendolyn blinked with awe.
Esme said, “As you must have gleaned, Gwendolyn, this place defies your earthly laws. It was constructed by my kinfolk when we were still masters of this realm. It became our final refuge, and though it remains concealed behind the Veil, it exists betwixt worlds, neither in this, nor the next. Somehow, these Lifer Pol Druids found it, and made it their own.”
She spun about then, her movements so elegant they put even Ely’s dancing to shame. And then, again, she closed the distance between them, although Gwendolyn never even saw her feet move. Once she reached Gwendolyn, she at once began to disrobe her without invitation.
“The bath will be lovely,” she promised. And when she laughed thereafter, the sound was like poplar leaves tinkling against a warm summer breeze. “Perhaps long overdue?” she suggested, without intending the slightest insult, Gwendolyn sensed. Still, she lifted a finger to her nose, pushing it up as she smiled. “When was the last time?”
Embarrassed, Gwendolyn said, “Not since…”
“Your wedding day?” Esme surmised. Then she slapped her forehead and shook her head. “The cruelty of men will never cease to amaze me. And yet, so I understand, your care was left to his mistress and his mother. Is that true?”
“Yes,” Gwendolyn said, still embittered, and Esme huffed another sound of disgust. “Mark me, they might both live to regret their choices.”
“Estrildis has a son,” Gwendolyn confided, wondering why she felt compelled to speak so candidly. Oddly, it felt as though they’d met before…. somewhere, but, in truth, Málik was the first Fae she’d ever met—or at least the first that Gwendolyn remembered. She couldn’t recall those Faeries at her cradle.
Esme drew up Gwendolyn’s arms. “I know,” she said, and tugged the tunic up and over Gwendolyn’s head. “You may need this later,” she suggested, making a face of disgust. “In the meantime, we shall have it repaired. Until you have need of it, I have another garment better suited to the task you will face. A queen must not go about looking like a dirty little waif!” she said brightly and gave Gwendolyn a wink.
“Thank you,” Gwendolyn said, as her tunic was discarded.
Esme at once rolled down her leathers, tugging them off as well, then discarding those, too, atop the Prydein gown—both utterly filthy. She blushed hotly, unaccustomed to any such solicitations, and when Esme paused at her mons, tilting her head, then peering up at Gwendolyn with a question in her eyes, Gwendolyn’s face heated, though she didn’t know why.
Gwendolyn had never stood under such intense scrutiny before, but she had always considered her hips a bit too wide, her breasts too small, and her mons… Golden like her hair, Esme’s gaze narrowed there, her brows slanting with surprise.
Did Faeries have no mons? she wondered.
The look Esme gave her made her think they must not, but perhaps there was another reason for her twisted little smile. Gwendolyn daren’t ask about it. She was far too embarrassed, and particularly in contrast to Esme’s striking beauty.
As Esme suggested, she felt like a dirty little waif in comparison—and it was only then that she dared to look, really look, at her arms, her legs, her feet, taking in the disgusting layer of filth that had embedded itself into her flesh. She must look as though she’d been wallowing in a pigsty!
Unlike her mother, whose hair and gowns were impossible to don without aid, Gwendolyn had rarely allowed herself to be assisted by Demelza. And even once she’d had her own maid, Ely knew her too well to try. Gwendolyn was not the sort who enjoyed being dressed or adorned, still she allowed it with Esme, perhaps even enjoyed the ministrations.
Then again, she had wallowed in her own sweat and filth for many months now, and it felt… divine to have someone care for her just once.
