Page 49 of Crown of Roses
The will o’ wisp.
Maeve dreamt about her, about a faerie made of moonlight, starlight, and eternal night. She was certain she’d read about one somewhere, most likely in Aran’s book. She flipped through the pages, and a spark of excitement fired through her when she came across a brief mention of such a creature. The will ó wisp was an exceptionally rare fae, hardly ever seen, and hardly ever mentioned in any of her readings. A solitary fae to the extreme, the will ó wisp was a seer who wandered alone, was incredibly shrewd, and eagerly offered visions in exchange for cunning accords.
But Maeve had no need for prophecies or unjust bargains.
She shoved her messy waves back from her face. “I don’t understand how the will ó wisp could possibly help.”
Lir reached over the table and tapped the page with his finger. “Read.”
“I am reading.” She skimmed the inky script on the page. “It says here the will ó wisp’s knowledge of the realm is steeped in longevity of the sight and the capacity of acquiring all manners of secrets, legends, and lore. So long as everything is spoken in truth.”
“Exactly.”
His short responses weren’t entirely helpful, but Maeve was willing to take whatever she could get from him. She read the phrase again. Slowly.
So long as everything is spoken in truth.
“Does this mean the will ó wisp will tell me the truth if I ask it a question?”
Lir lifted one shoulder then let it fall, already done with the mostly one-sided conversation. Agitation fired through her. Maeve looked down at the page again, and when she turned it over, some blotchy words written in Old Laic were scrawled across the bottom. The language, she’d discovered, was incredibly difficult to decipher in written form. She squinted and tried to sound them out with no luck. She sounded like she was speaking gibberish.
“Lir, do you speak Old Laic?” she asked suddenly, curious if the stony fae would give her a little more insight into the world that was so unlike her own.
He simply watched her with his cold, silver eyes.
“Can you read it then?”
More silence. Maeve scowled. “I mean, if you want me to sit here and talk to myself for the next couple of hours then fine, I will. I get there are plenty of other things you could be doing with your time, and I know the last thing on your agenda was babysitting a mortal, but—”
“Okay!” He spoke so loudly, Maeve reared back, surprised by the outburst.
Lir dropped into the chair across from her and stretched out his legs. He braced his hands behind his head and kicked one ankle over the other. “He told us not to engage with you.”
“He, who?” Maeve leaned forward. “The High King?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t trust you.” The answer was simple and Lir shrugged, as though it was the most obvious thing.
“Oh. Well.” Maeve thrummed her fingers along the open pages spread before her. “I suppose that makes sense. I mean, we don’t really trust any of you either, so—”
Lir shook his head, and a ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “What do you need, little bird?”
“Little bird?” Maeve’s brow quirked.
He opened his hands in feigned innocence. “It’s a kinder way of saying annoying chatterbox.”
Embarrassed heat colored Maeve’s cheeks.
“Thanks,” she grumbled, reminding herself not to take it personally. She’d easily been called worse names by her own mother. She held out the page with the illegible handwriting along the bottom. “Can you read this to me?”
Lir took the page, and she noticed the way his eyes flashed, then shifted from something like shock to unease. “You want me to help you read Old Laic?”
“Yes.” She didn’t think it was too outlandish of a request. “Please.”
Puzzlement flicked across his stern features and he handed the book back to her. “It’s difficult to explain, even harder to teach. Old Laic is more innate, it’s something I’m born with, something the gods and goddesses deemed me worthy of, something you’ll never understand.”
