Page 21 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“Dragons keep to their caves and mountaintops; why would I go there?” Neirin laughs without concern. “I bet I know more about your people than you know of mine.”
“Doubtful.” I jump inelegantly down from the log, landing a little too close to him.
Neirin doesn’t pull away. His eyes linger on my attire. I flinch back reflexively, but he’s examining me with a curator’s eye.
“What year are you from?” Neirin says, more to himself than to me. “Hard to tell with a nightgown—interesting garment to go out wandering in, by the way—but from the shape of that coat I’d guess 1840?”
My brow furrows. “1842.”
“So you are unfashionable.”
“No. Just poor.”
Neirin doesn’t seem to notice the offense painted over my face. “Look at this.” He holds out his arms.
A warp covers him, like the waves in the air on a hot day, and when Neirin shakes it off, his black coat has been replaced by a starched white shirt with a high collar and a pristine gray frock coat. The only thing he is missing is a top hat to shield his eyes from the sun, but I suspect that doesn’t trouble Neirin.
He fixes me with a crooked grin. “See? Don’t I look just like the boys from your village?”
I eye him carefully, but I cannot bring myself to tell him that he looks nothing like the boys I have known. He doesn’t look like a boy at all. He’s an illustration for a shop I can’t afford to buy from—a life glimpsed only in newspaper advertisements.
He looks like money. Not even John Branshaw looks as rich as him.
“You look too new,” I tell him.
“I can age the clothes—”
“Don’t insult me.”
“Insult you?”
I ignore the question. “Don’t you think it’s rude that you’re conjuring up outfits for yourself while I’m trekking around filthy?”
With a flick of his hand and without another word, my clothes lose their stiff crust and smell freshly laundered once more. No, they smell better. This is not lye soap and cold water; this is magic that leaves lavender in its wake. I’m so mystified by the simplicity of it, by how he barely had to think to achieve something that would take me an entire day, that I almost miss the way he leans a little closer, an expectant look on his face.
“Doesn’t that earn a thank-you?”
I exhale through my nose. “Thank you, Neirin, and I’ll thank you even more if you cease your constant chatter.”
Neirin groans, his head tossed back. “How boring this walk will be.”
“Good,” I say beneath my breath.
We continue through the forest for an hour, and though he tries to drag me into more conversation, I manage to resist. He asks, “What do humans like to eat,” and I reply, “Food,” which he finds very funny. He even asks about my family, but when all I’ll give him is that I certainly have one, he realizes he’s getting nowhere and lapses into silence.
“The road is ahead,” he tells me after a while.
“You’re certain we can summon a horse here?”
Hopefully, Ceridwen will still be on foot and I can cut her off at the palace. If I find her before she volunteers as champion I’ll be able to weasel out of this deal with Neirin and bring us both home.
“Sure.” Neirin shrugs. “But when we get to the palace, you’ll go in alone.”
I nod, recalling his earlier explanation. “So I can make the deal for myself.”
“Oh, that too—I was mainly musing on the fact that the king doesn’t like me.”
My mouth gapes. “Perhaps you should’ve told me thatbefore.”
