Page 55 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
“This is she,” Neirin tells the other human girl. “Our new expert.”
The girl is tiny, with brittle arms and a small face that makes her features look overdrawn. But she’s pretty, and she’s dressed in a gossamer gown of butter yellow that leaves little to the imagination.
“I’m Beth,” she says, with that honey-and-lavender accent that girls learn from governesses and half-missing mothers. “What a strange dress!”
“Habren,” I reply stiffly. “This is just the fashion.”
“When?”
“1842,” I tell her.
“No way! I’m from ’98.”
“1898?” I say incredulously—she must be from London. Or Cardiff.
“1998,” she corrects me, shaking her head. “God, your life must be fascinating.”
“Not as fascinating as yours,” says the fairy beside her, who is green at every edge.
“Mabyn,” Beth chides her, before tossing a conspiratorial glance in my direction. “We’re all brought to this court for a reason. I intended to write a comprehensive study of the place and prove its existence, as no one believed me when I said I saw fairies in the bottom of thegarden when I was a girl.” She waves aimlessly. “So, you must have a purpose, too. Right, Neirin?”
Neirin ignores Beth’s question. A silver filigree butterfly perches just above his ear, and I almost laugh at his vanity until the damned thing flutters and floats down to his shoulder. He lets it sit there undisturbed, the fine wings caressing his carefully rumpled collar. “Eat.” He gestures to the cakes. “You can eat the food I offer you.”
Dad would tell me not to listen, but Neirin cannot lie. The food he provides is safe, but there’s still a nagging voice at the back of my mind.
“But not from anyone else?” I test, hand half edging toward a cake. Safe or not, the gnawing in my stomach presents its own danger.
“You can make your own decisions.” He shrugs.
I take a slice big enough to serve as a doorstop and lay it delicately on my plate. Beth has only a handful of dates upon hers, and most of the fairies eat nothing at all. I lift a careful forkful to my mouth, and the moment the icing hits my tongue, any care for safety is forgotten.
I’m starving, and this cake is the sweetest thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.
It’s gone in seconds. The tylwyth teg around me watch every bite with hungry eyes, and delight crosses their faces as I reach for a second slice and a then third. The cake sits heavy in my stomach, but I never feel quite full.
“Do you remember me?” Mabyn asks.
My eyes narrow. “We’ve never met before.”
“Yes, we have!” she twitters like a particularly colorful bird. “You were—”
“Mabyn can’t tell humans apart.” Beth rolls her eyes. “She’s probably thinking of someone who came here a century ago. Right, Neirin?”
Neirin laughs. “Mabyn’s a bit dim, poor dear—ignore her, Habren.”
He and Beth exchange a knowing look, and the cake churns in my stomach. Mabyn’s face turns a sallow color, but she continues to smile.
“If we feed you, do you get bigger?” she asks.
I blanch with the fork hanging near my mouth. “I’d prefer not to discuss that.”
“Why?”
“Ladies don’t like discussing their weight,” Beth interjects, her eyes hooded and knowing.
“But why?” Mabyn keeps pushing, her gaze raking up and down me. “You’re very different. Why are you so different?”
“I’m inadequate,” I grit out.
