Page 42 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
A muscle in Neirin’s jaw jumps as he tries to hold his smile.
“Regardless,” he says. “Take us to that little village north of here—Aberoedd. They have a fabulous inn.”
Iwan merely nods. “Aberoedd it is.”
Neirin steps up to the carriage and the door opens as if commanded. The contraption looks human-made, including a little box with a perch for the driver, lacquered all in black and accented with silver, and doors that are white and shining. The only difference, really, is that although the driver has pulled the reins taut, and though the bridles are holding the shape of horses, there are no horses to be seen. There’s no smell of manure, either.
I point to the carriage. “No horses?”
Neirin smiles. “As I said, I prefer elegant solutions—if I wanted to give you a fit, I’d have summoned an automobile.”
“What’s an automobile?”
“A carriage without horses.”
I jab my finger at the contraption again. “Thisis a carriage without horses.”
Neirin stutters. “All right, well, I don’t quite know how to explain it, but it runs on an engine, however that works. You ask so many questions. Don’t spoilallmy tricks.” He holds out a hand. “After you.”
It’s the most gentlemanly thing he’s done in our acquaintance. I take his hand and step into the carriage. My feet ache from the walk, and when I spot the lone cushioned leather bench I almost flop down onto it, until I note how small the space is. We’re going to be in very close quarters. I tuck myself into the corner, as far away from his spot as I can get.
By contrast, Neirin gets in and lets his long, lanky legs unfurl. No matter how I sit, our arms brush together.
His eyes rake up and down me. “Sit comfortably, Habren. No one can see you.”
“You can,” I remind him.
“Ah yes, I’m going to be scandalized by your lack of ladylike grace in a carriage,” Neirin says. “Do you really think I’m that boring?”
I shrug, kick my legs out to reveal the petticoat beneath my skirt, and slouch. He raises a hand to knock on the roof, and the carriage lurches forward, impossibly fast. I pitch forward, hands flailing with nothing to grab on to until Neirin catches me around the middle, arms locking around me to stop me from tumbling off the bench.
I let out a shaky breath. “Good catch.”
“Can’t lose my champion to a carriage accident before we even reach Y Lle Tywyll—imagine how mortifying that would be.”
“Perhaps it would humble you,” I suggest, keenly aware of his hands on my waist.
He laughs. “Do you think anything could ever truly humble me?”
“I think I could,” I say, and my face burns when I realize just how brazen that sounds when spoken aloud.
Neirin doesn’t release me. Not yet. He leans back, taking me with him, until we’re properly in our seats once more, and sitting fartoo close together. His arms slip away, and I know I should remove myself to my corner again, but I don’t. Our arms brush and I can feel him at my side, waiting for me to put distance between us. I cross my arms and turn to look at him. Our faces share the same headrest. My pale hair touches his dark, and we hold each other’s gazes for a beat longer than we ought. I will Neirin to look away, to let the moment pass, but he doesn’t. Something shifts low in my stomach, and though I should be staring out the window at Eu gwlad as it passes, I spend the short ride looking at Neirin instead.
The carriage vanishes into the night as we exit, leaving us in the center of the village. There are a handful of buildings on both banks of a stream cutting through a clearing. A small footbridge connects both sides.
The town is half asleep, tucking itself beneath blankets and winking out the lights. We traverse a stone pathway passing mismatched cottages, shops—even a tiny schoolhouse occupied by a rabbit-eared teg in a blue scholar’s gown. Nearby, a pwca is closing an antiques shop, which has a large front window filled with trinkets. Some—like the globe and a box of newspapers—seem to come from my world. A few people throw us a cursory questioning glance, but I suspect they’re merely curious about unfamiliar faces.
An inn squats at the end of the road, a thatched little thing with warped windows and an open door. Someone inside is playing a violin, and rowdy chatter leaks out.
I stand on the threshold as Neirin enters the tavern. Many of the fairies look human save for the odd tell. Goats’ legs beneath velvet breeches, foxes’ ears poking out of hair. Sprites perch on a light fixture, imbibing from thimbles that glint like diamonds, while witches gather in a corner, sharing a brew. The barman is some hulking ogre of a creature, dwarfing Neirin as they talk.
Instruments hover in the air, playing without fingers on the strings. My foot taps to the beat of the music, but I resist the urge to join the dancers. Among the fray, I spot a human man, clad in the pantaloons and tall boots of an earlier decade, carrying a tray of discarded cups. Straggling strands of long gray hair cling in patches to his dry, flaking scalp. His face is thin and gaunt as a skull, and the eyes that stare from it are as empty as the cups he collects. When fairies bump into him, knock him off course, he snaps back like a bandalore. His face is a mask of blissful, perfect happiness—and I could almost believe it, if it weren’t for the thin layer of filth that clings to him.
He passes me by without a hint of recognition of his own kind. Based on his worn shoes and hobbling gait, I don’t think he’s sat down in years.
My hand shoots out to grab his arm, but the landlord calls his name—“Richard!”—and the old man pivots like an obedient dog. The name lingers in the air, crackling like a building storm. Even I can feel the magic at work. Richard disappears behind the bar, and no one pays him any mind. This could have been my fate—and it could be my fate still. If I fail and live, I’ll be bound to Neirin’s side.
Neirin returns, his brow creasing as he sees me staring at another human.
