Page 22 of Beyond the Faerie Gate

“Halt! State your business.”

The guard is using the same language as they did. Does no one here speak English?

“We’re looking for an inn for the night.” Drystan couldn’t sound more bored if he tried.

But the guard isn’t so easily swayed. “What’s an unseelie doing so far south?”

Whatever that means, it seems to aggravate Drystan, who replies, “Does it really matter?”

Jaro must have shifted back, because his voice breaks up the burgeoning argument before it can form. “I’m seelie, and he’s with me. Now, can we stay the night or not? It’s getting dark.”

Like Jaro’s appearance has flicked a switch, the guard moves aside. “All right, all right, come on in. Might not be anyone at the inn, mind. They’re all up at the temple, giving thanks to the Goddess.”

Drystan doesn’t pay any attention, spurring his horse through the open gate without so much as a thank you.

“Pretentious seelie twats,” he grunts once we’re inside, so quietly I’m not sure I was meant to hear it.

I mentally add seelie and unseelie to my list of things to ask Jaro about as Drystan steers his horse past a wide, empty marketplace. I know I’m supposed to be keeping my head down, but I can’t help but steal glances at everything we pass.

It can’t do much harm, right? The town is deserted.

And it’s so pretty. I swivel in place, staring at absolutely everything like an awestruck fool.

Like the walls, the buildings in the town are made of wood, but brightly painted with patterns and murals that make me smile. The architecture of the place is strangely organic, as if the houses were grown rather than built, and everywhere I look there are flowers. Blooms cascade from baskets and spring up from beneath benches. They’re in troughs around the square and spilling from window boxes on every level.

It’s like something out of a fairy tale.

The building we’re headed for is tall and spindly, and adjoins a small, nearly empty stable. I can’t read the writing on the sign which hangs from above the door, but the little crescent moon painted beneath is almost universal.

This must be the inn.

Jaro is ahead of us. He’s already shrugged on a pair of trousers and is digging through his bag for something else. Drystan dismounts in one smooth leap as soon as we reach the stable, then waits, holding the reins as if he expects me to do the same.

I push with my hands, but all I succeed in doing is toppling from the back of his horse. My previously numb thighs blaze with pain as I try to land on my feet, but my knees buckle without warning, and I just end up in a heap on the cobbles.

The dizzy feeling returns in force, and I’m almost certain I’m going to throw up on Drystan’s boots before Jaro swoops in to rescue me.

One of his large arms threads beneath my legs, and the other cradles me beneath my shoulders. The move puts a strange kind of pressure on my wings, not unpleasant or crushing… just odd. With one sweeping lift, I’m pressed against that very naked chest I was admiring earlier. If I stretch my hand out, I could touch him.

Do not pet the tawny fluff. You don’t need to know what it feels like. He has a wife, remember?

A second set of hands pulls my hood further over my face, then tucks the cloak around my body with clinical brusqueness. Drystan—making sure I can’t be recognised.

“What happened at the river drained you,” Jaro realises. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

I shrink into his hold, shaking my head. “I want to walk,” I protest, instead of answering.

Being in his arms is comfortable. Too comfortable. I think I’d happily let him carry me anywhere.

Bad Rose.

“Rosie,” he murmurs, heading for the door of the inn, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

My cheeks warm at the new nickname, but I stubbornly keep my mouth shut.

When you’ve been ill as long as I have, you learn to keep such things to yourself. People don’t really want to know what’s wrong with you if they can’t help. They don’t like to feel powerless.

He sighs. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but you might just be more stubborn than your eldest brother.”

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