Page 33 of Crown of Roses
“Tsk tsk,” Aran admonished mockingly. “My turn.”
The laughter stopped. Maeve’s palms dampened and she hastily scrubbed them on the soft fabric of her leggings. Every nerve in her body was on alert. She knew better than to go back on her word to a fae. Anxiety wrapped its knobby arms around her, kept her rooted in place so she couldn’t move.
Aran leaned forward. “Would you die for those you love?”
“Yes.” The answer came automatically. She didn’t even have to think about it. “A thousand times.”
“I thought as much,” Aran murmured, then stood abruptly. “Casimir, the map you requested is ready.”
Casimir motioned for Maeve to follow. She stepped out from around the table behind him, but Rowan caught her by the hand.
“Be careful, Princess.” He grazed his thumb across her knuckles. “Not all fae are so kind.”
Her pride stung from the bite of humiliation. “You mean like you?” she fired back.
Rowan dragged her arm to his mouth and lightly pressed a kiss to the inside of her palm. “Exactly.”
Chapter Twelve
The room Aran led them to was full of curious wonders. Warm sunlight spilled in through amber windows and cast the entire space in an ethereal glow. Glass spheres filled with sand floated along the ceiling, suspended from nothing. Rolls of textured paper stuck out of an onyx vase. One stick of crimson wax dripped steadily onto a piece of parchment. Books were stacked on nearly every surface, some covered in a fine layer of dust, others appearing to be so thoroughly read, the bindings were split and torn, the pages marked by slips of colored papers. Bottles of ink and jars of paint were cluttered together next to a bin of brushes and pencils, and a collection of scales for measurement poked out of a brass box. But what snared Maeve’s attention were the walls. Maps of all different land masses and scales were pinned and plastered to every empty space. To see the world, the realms of mortal and immortal, sketched with such precision and care, was a wanderer’s dream. Some were foreign and some were archaic, from before…
All of them were drawn by hand, each one painted and outlined with the tedious tip of a paintbrush. The strokes of colored paints were detailed and precise.
Casimir hovered over the desk while Aran unrolled a crisp scroll, bound in black ribbon.
“You made all of these?” Maeve asked, and her voice sounded too loud in such a sacred space.
Aran looked up. “I did.”
“Your cartography skills are fascinating.” She pored over the contents spread along the desk, over the maps that resembled paintings, and whose landmarks moved like bewitching watercolors. “Where did you learn to draw these?”
Aran’s lips pressed into a line.
“Right. Sorry.” A distinctive heat flushed Maeve’s cheeks. “Too many questions.”
“It wasn’t anything I learned.” He unrolled the scroll in his hands. “It’s a gift.”
“Your magic, then.” She inspected a collection of books stacked eight high. The spines were frayed and well-loved, and the cloth covers were embossed in gold. She nodded toward the desk. “These maps. They’re your magic.”
“A small part, but yes.” He spread out an atlas of a mythical isle. Judging from the bold colors—vibrant orange and red, bright turquoise and yellow, deep green and blush, icy blue and gray—Maeve assumed it was a hand-painted map of Faeven. Or at least, the Four Courts. A blur of gold in a sea of blue caught her eye.
Maeve gasped. “That’s us!”
Casimir bent over for a closer look. “Seven hells. She’s right.”
Moving across the map, through the sea, was the Amshir. It was impossible, beyond her mind to comprehend, but the painted vessel moved across the map. She swallowed the sudden knot of anxiety clenched in the back of her throat. They were incredibly close to Faeven. Closer still to the Summer Court. It was only a matter of time until they docked.
The detailed atlas of Faeven made sense; it was Aran’s home. But the other realms?
“How are they so precise?” Maeve asked. “Your maps?”
Aran’s smile was small and it did not reach his eyes. “Sometimes, when one has already been alive for hundreds of years, it can be rather easy to grow bored of your surroundings. Especially once the sea becomes your home.”
He reached up, ran a finger along the curved edge of a parchment pinned to the center of the far wall. There, the colors bled together into a forest—tree after tree of crimson, hunter green, burnished gold. Harvest colors. Autumn colors. Winding foot paths splintered off in different directions like the branches of a tree. Most intriguing, however, was the smear of black towards the edge of the map, where a palace had once been marked, now smudged by ash and soot.
“Cartography became a pastime of mine, and I found I desired to travel,” Aran murmured, “when my home was no longer my home.”
Stiff and awkward silence settled between the three of them. Maeve busied herself with the pile of books beside her. She slid one of them out and admired the cover of roses, and leaves, and a crescent moon. The embossed letters were smooth beneath her fingers, and though she didn’t have time to decipher the words, she knew they were in Old Laic.
