Page 56 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
Mabyn roars with laughter. “Oh! I’ve never met anyone less than perfectly adequate before!”
As the evening unfolds, the teg only grow more animated—shrieking laughter across the table, chasing each other around the hall and tumbling into each other’s arms when caught—while my eyes droop. When they open again, Neirin is at my side, a hand outstretched.
“You must be tired,” he says. “The human body has to work hard to heal itself.”
I smile and nod, taking his hand in my own. Neirin gently leads me back to my room, which I’m glad for, as every step is heavier than the last, and I can’t stop yawning. He leaves me at the door, releasing my hand with a squeeze.
18
merch heb amser
(A GIRL OUT OF TIME)
I wake up to a wine-rich sunset leaking in through the window and caressing my face. I pick a new outfit without a care and leisurely make my way downstairs to a strangely quiet house. No doors are locked to me, and I wander through more sitting rooms and dining halls than anyone could ever need, but no teg cross my path. Not even a servant.
At the back of the manor, I find a gallery. I’ve heard about great houses with rooms like this, lined with hundreds of paintings. Vistas of unparalleled beauty and strangeness jockey for attention alongside portraits of snake-eyed ancestors and horned nymphs. The frames are piled atop each other, stretching high up the walls. I ignore canvases depicting cities bursting from the sea, a Wild Hunt roving the stars and the white palace I visited only a few days ago, in favor of one particular image.
I assume it’s from the future. It looks nothing like the art of my time. The people are impressions, the seaside town barely a wash of chalk. A half-empty audience watches a stage from abandoned deck chairs, and seagulls suspend themselves overhead. Two men in red suits dance as the sun sets, turning the sky to milky tea, the dying day at odds with the forced life of the stage and its artificial, acid lights.
Exhaustion leaks from the brush strokes, like everyone trapped in the painting has lived the performance a thousand times and will live it a thousand more. I wonder why Neirin’s given it pride ofplace, but there’s no one to ask. I don’t know where the members of Neirin’s court go when he has no need of them. It’s lonely.
“You’ve been summoned.”
The voice startles me, and I whip around to find Beth. Something is… odd about her that I can’t quite place. I can count her bones as they move against her flesh. Her hair is thin and brittle beneath a veneer of shine that won’t stay in place.
I point blindly to the painting.
“What’s this?” I ask. “Where did it come from?”
She pulls a face. “Brighton Pierrotsby Sickert. Another realm-crosser gave it to Neirin years ago; he’s rather attached. Can’t see why. There’s better miserable postimpressionism out there.”
I bristle on Neirin’s behalf, and though I try to clamp down on the feeling of irritation, I can’t. I like the painting too, and I think I can guess why it appeals to him so.
“We need to fetch your sword.” She pivots without another word, and I’m left to rush after her.
“My sword?”
I pepper her with questions as she leads me back to my room, but all are met with lackluster answers.
“Where is everyone?”
She waves her hand vaguely toward the end of the corridor. “Around.”
“What do the teg do all day?”
“Whatever makes them happy.”
I enter my room and don’t bother shutting the door as I fasten my rapier to my hip.
“How long have you been here?” I ask as we traipse back through the ever-shifting corridors.
Beth glances back, her pale eyes dull until they snag on something behind me, and she smiles. I try to follow her gaze but see only the hallway we just left. The hair on my arms stands at attention.
“Longer than you,” she says finally.
My brow furrows. That’s the most detailed answer I’ve drawn from her so far. “But in my time you haven’t even been born yet. I still don’t understand how any of this works.”
“You wouldn’t understand”—she tosses her hair—“you’re not like us.”
