Page 7 of Beyond the Faerie Gate

The last thing I remember was… being at my father's grave. I’m home, so Tom must have brought me back.

The clattering in the kitchen below must be him or Clair. I sigh as the familiar guilt of being such a burden returns in force.

Only… that’s not the last thing I remember…

It comes back to me slowly. By the time I remember everything, I bolt upright so fast that I get dizzy all over again. My dress is still ripped, muddy, and torn, proving it wasn’t a dream. At least, not all of it.

The clattering, which had been so soothing and familiar before, suddenly feels like a threat. I cast about frantically for an escape. The loft where I sleep is small and cramped. It only covers half the length of the cottage, and is accessed by a set of wonky wooden stairs. Whoever is below probably believes that is my only avenue of escape, but there’s a small window built into the thatch that I can crawl out of if I need to.

“I know you’re awake.”

It’s the same deep voice from before I collapsed.

Definitely not Tom or Clair.

I freeze, caught halfway to the window.

“If you listen to your gut, you’ll know I don’t mean you any harm.”

He sounds so calm. Completely at ease.

Listen to my gut? Of course my gut is going to say a stranger in my home means me harm.

I have no reason to humour this man, but I do it anyway, just to prove to myself…

Wait.

It’s hard to explain, but when I look past the surface alarm and residual stress, I don’t feel scared. Even the urge to bolt I feel whenever I’m around Colbert is absent.

“I bet you even feel stronger than you have in months,” he continues. “I took off the stupid iron buckle you were wearing on your belt, and that damned iron cross you decided to thread around your neck. I told Drystan that it was a foolish idea to leave you in the care of a blacksmith.”

My hand flies to my throat, and sure enough, the crucifix my father made me is gone.

And, again, he’s right. I do feel stronger.

Who is this man?

I creep towards the edge of the loft and peer down.

He’s tall—so much taller than anyone I’ve ever seen before—and muscular. Even beneath the tight white shirt and trousers he’s wearing—which, now that I think about it, might have been my father’s—I can tell there isn’t an ounce of fat on him.

His hair is long, falling to his shoulders in waves of honey-streaked brown. But peeking out from the waves are the long, unmistakable points of his distinctly fairy ears.

He turns on the spot, giving me a glimpse of a short beard and warm chestnut eyes, before I duck back behind the edge of the loft.

“You can look your fill when you’ve eaten, my lady,” he announces. “Your body has been through a lot.”

Where are Mab, Maeve, and Titania? I cast around for the three of them, but they’ve disappeared again.

Of all the times for them to wander off… or pop out of existence… or whatever it is that they do.

“It can’t be real,” I whisper, blindly clinging to whatever frayed threads of sanity I possess.

He might be a fairy, but I’m not. I look exactly like my mother. My ears are perfectly normal, thank you very much. I certainly don’t have his freakish height.

Even if I was, why would I have been abandoned in this village?

“I promise you won’t be harmed.” He pauses. “If I’m not real, then where’s the harm in humouring me by eating?” he asks. “And while you do so, I’ll give you all the facts, and you can make up your own mind about what to believe.”

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