Page 54 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
My brows shoot up, and I quickly try to hide my surprise. “It’s… nice of you, I suppose.”
An agonizing silence falls over us. Neirin looks away, stares at the wardrobe instead, though I suspect he’s not really looking at anything. Something is bothering him, and that something, remarkably, is me.
I clear my throat, searching for anything I can say to free us from this suddenly uncomfortable moment. “Where are the clothes I got from Peg?”
Neirin starts, his expression quickly turning jovial again. “They’re ruined.”
I grimace. “Oh. I liked them.”
Neirin sets his cup aside with a smile. “I’ll see what I can do. As you are insisting on getting back on your feet quickly, would you like to join the rest of my court for lunch?”
My instinct is to say no, but that’s the reply Sabrina would give when threatened with any social event in Llanadwen. For now, I’m Habren, and I’m not stuck in the village, faced with the prospect of another ghastly dance in the town hall. This is another world entirely, and I am here as the guest of the lord of the manor. Curiosity courses through me at the prospect of meeting Neirin’s people. I nod.
Neirin rises, and he heads for the door. He glances back and gestures to the tray. “Leave that when you’re done. Someone will take it away.”
My eyes widen. I could get used to this. Neirin leaves without another word, only to be replaced by his massive dog, who stares at the wardrobe against the wall expectantly.
I take the hint and rise with a sigh, moving slowly to make sure I don’t overexert myself. I’m still tired, but I’m more certain on my feet as I throw open the wardrobe doors.
The items inside would be indecent for a grown actress on stage, let alone a sixteen-year-old shopgirl. I dig in, raking through spiderwebs and silks.
“He may as well send me down naked,” I mutter as I pull up a gown of morning dew.
Deep in the wardrobe I find a dress that is just enough for me. The lightweight taffeta is a rich green like my coat. The sleeves sit off the shoulder, but, other than that, it covers everything and clings to nothing. The wide skirt swishes grandly, and a bow droops at the waist.
I check the mirror when I’m finished getting into it, expecting a new girl to be looking back at me. A girl called Habren Faire—whoever that is. But in the glass, it’s still just me: Sabrina Parry, neither tall nor small. An ordinary face with strange, wonderful hair. I meet my own green eyes. While I’m not transformed, I can’t drum up the unique loathing I usually reserve for my reflection.
The hound leads me to the dining hall. It’s an energetic beast, light on its feet despite its huge body, leaving a trail of slobber for me to follow. When I look behind us, the drops have already vanished.
There’s a shimmer to the walls that I hadn’t noticed before—a ripple in the air that shines when the sunlight catches it. As I approach each sconce, they light themselves, and woolen flowers burst from the carpet to cushion my every step. Inside a glass cabinet, crystal birds begin to flutter, and blooms unfurl, the faint clink of glass echoing through the corridor as they move.
We approach the stairs, and the dog leads me down. The oak risers split like a ribcage, framing a rug shaped like an anatomical heart. The newel posts are carved sculptures of beautiful teg. Chandeliers made from warped branches hang overhead, warm-hued orbs of light floating above the arms. I hitch up my skirts inelegantly and hurry after the dog.
We halt at a nondescript door. The hound looks up at me, wide-eyed and expectant.
I drop a swift pat to his back and reach for the door handle as he pads away. The shadow he casts on the wall is far larger than it ought to be. It bares more teeth as well.
I step into an encased garden that steals my breath. Three glass walls flow into a glass ceiling, held together by whorls of gold binding. Wisteria creeps up both the outside and inside, the air heady with its perfume. Trees, bushes and flowerbeds burst from cracks in the marble floor. Stone nymphs dance around a bubbling fountain, hands eternally entwined. A piano plays somewhere. In the center of it all sits a large table, covered with mountains of pastel-colored sweets and orbited by smaller tables laden with fruit, cured meats and bread—but it’s the people occupying the chairs around them that crown the scene.
No, I remind myself.They’re not people. They’re about as far from people as anything could be.
Their skin glows in every color imaginable: I spot some almost human tones among the greens, the blues, the rose pinks and the midnight skies. Their hair, too, shines in unnatural shades, woven with precious jewels, ribbons and sparkling metal strands. There are wings and horns, clawed hands and cloven hooves. There are limbs of vine, ivory, clean bone, and there are clothes I can scarcely understand. Women wear trousers and men wear skirts, while some wear nothing at all. Some sport attire from Tudor portraits, or Grecian togas, and still others wear fabrics covered in little silver disks that flicker in the light.
Neirin told me when we first met that his court is as fascinated with humans as he is, and it’s reflected in their fashions. They attempt to emulate us, just as humans don wire wings and flowers in their hair for fancy-dress parties to pass as fairies. One woman has molded clay to her ears, rounding out the points and making them abnormally large in the process. Even those who aren’t as committed to the facade have decked themselves out with artificial irregularities: a gold cap on a tooth that doesn’t need one, neat bandages on uncut fingers. Someone has even drawn pus-filled spots upon their chin. But most common are the carefully placed freckles in every color—rainbows and sparkling specks, and some the same muddy mess as mine. Now it’s clear why Neirin’s freckles are so unsettling. He draws them on.
Among the crowd of faux brethren, a woman sits near the head of the table, as human as I am. She sizes me up unsubtly and then returns to conversation her with Neirin, who is presiding over the gathering.
Neirin’s chair is no different from anyone else’s, and his clothes are no lusher, but he holds himself with an ethereal grace that would take me the rest a lifetime to learn.
It must be wonderful, to be comfortable everywhere.
He turns to me, and a bright smile blooms on his face. “Habren!”
Perhaps I’m a fool, but that smile doesn’t look practiced anymore.
Neirin waves a hand at the young man to his side, who vacates his chair and dutifully gestures for the fairy beside him to give him hers. On and on it goes, each strange creature motioning for the next to move down, hopping from seat to seat in an elaborate show of willing for their lord, until the very last fairy, with skin like a sunset, is bumped from his chair and lands in a heap on the floor.
I scowl and mutter an apology to the displaced gentleman as I pass and take up my seat.
