“Does he understand us?” I ask softly.
He grunts and bangs the bars. When we lock eyes, he nods.
“You do understand us,” I say, wandering closer to see him better. “Fantastic.”
“Whoa there, princess,” Elm says, grabbing my elbow. “Those bars will hold him, but he can reach through and snatch you. It took four guards and two syringes of clove tincture to lock him in there. I’m not sure my old, tired bones could save you from him.”
You assume I’d want to be saved.
Thank the Seelie, I didn’t say that out loud. The hubull is a fine specimen of masculinity, though. Even Rosemary would flush if she could see his miles of muscles, stretched over his large, shirtless frame. His shoulders are three times wider than his narrow hips. I bet his hand would span my torso from my collarbone to my bottom rib. Thinking about him putting his hands on me makes me blush fiercely, so I step into the shadows under the guise of moving away from his reach.
“I make dolls,” I say in the little voice I hate. I’m forced to use it when I’m acting demure for guests, but now I use it because I’m uncertain. Not necessarily afraid, but unsure of how I’m being received. Is he as fascinated with me as I am with him?
He grunts again and tilts his head at an angle to study me.
“When our village welcomes someone new, I make them a doll.” Do I sound as stupid to Elm and the hubull as I sound to my own ears? “I made this one for you.”
Elm jumps and draws his sword when I extend the doll toward the hubull. My fingers brush the hubull’s before Elm drags me away, but the doll is with him. Why does that make me so happy? Probably because that smirk is back on his face, along with crinkles at the corners of his eyes. I knew that expression was a smile!
“Isn’t your breakfast getting cold?” I ask Elm.
“Yes, and the missus isn’t one for cooking these days, so I savor the meals I get here at the castle. Let me escort you back,” he says.
“It’s been lovely to meet you,” I say with a curtsey to the hubull. “If you can tell us your name, I’ll sew little pants for the doll that match yours with your name on the back.”
He grunts and nods, but he doesn’t lift his eyes from the doll. His massive fingertip strokes the left horn with reverence. If I gave him a modicum of comfort in this dark place, my work is done. He doesn’t look up when we leave or when I look over my shoulder as we walk down the hallway.
“Thank you, Elm,” I say brightly at the entrance to the dungeon. “Enjoy your breakfast and give my love to the boys.”
“Will do, princess,” he says as he returns to his companion guard and his breakfast.
Instead of walking out of the dungeon, I turn back toward the interior. The hubull can’t rat me out if he can’t speak. He’s too fascinating, and I hate to leave him with a doll unfinished. Will he tell me his name? What if it’s a grunt that I will have trouble spelling?
Nobody will miss me, so why not wait for him to tell me his name? I’ll do my sewing under the sconce and far out of his reach. He needn’t speak, as I’ll fill the silence. I’m sure he’s curious about the castle, the Fae, and do I dare say…me. What is the hubull doing in the dungeon and not a guest room? Why does my father want him in a cage? I love Elm’s family, but I didn’t miss how he looked at the hubull as a mindless beast.
Nobody deserves to live a lonely life without a friend. I don’t care what he’s done. Someone has got to be his friend, and the guards won’t do it.
Why can’t it be me?
CHAPTER FOUR
FRANKLIN
She stayed until the midday meal, chatting to herself and sewing her doll. I still can’t believe she demanded the guards bring me a dessert. The guards went from scolding her for visiting me without their knowledge to tripping over themselves to fulfill her demands in a single conversation. Strings of her long brown hair escaped her braid as she carried on, giving her the appearance of a banshee. No wonder the guards obeyed her. She was positively terrifying.
According to Lilyfair’s rants, the cook made her favorite spice cake for tonight’s banquet, and I had to try it. My raspy chuckle hurts my throat as I recall her outlandish behavior.
My siblings didn’t band together to keep me out of this dungeon when I couldn’t defend myself, and this little sprite—a perfect stranger—got me cake. With a new doll that looks exactly like me and a slice of cake, today was better than my thirty birthdays with the herd. She said she gives a doll to every new villager, but I’m locked in the dungeon. Why did she feel the need to include me? Why did she insist I get cake, risking the wrath of the Fae guards on both of us?
Will the bravest brat I’ve ever met visit again tomorrow?
The hours she sat outside my cell flew by, and now time drags. It wasn’t the stimulating conversation or insider knowledge of the castle she gave me; it was her peaceful presence that changed my frame of mind. Instead of pacing like a caged animal with my thoughts oscillating between escape and revenge, I could sit down and look past the humiliation of my confinement.
Now that she’s gone, I study the doll—not just the face and hair coloring, but the stitching and the care that went into the doll’s construction. Each loop of thread is small, tight, and evenly spaced from the others, suggesting Lilyfair has practiced her craft for years. The little wooden hooves on the legs are clumsily glued. I bet this is her first hubull doll…which makes her gift all the more precious. The more I inspect the doll, the more I wish to learn everything about its maker.
“There’s no need, Elm,” says a stately voice at the other end of the hallway. I know Elm has been my guard since I arrived—mostly because Lilyfair used his name in her tantrum. “He can’t do anything to me from within the cage. Besides, you act like your old sovereign can’t hold his own anymore. There may be snow on the roof, but the frame is still sturdy.”
Heels clack toward me. The wall sconces alight one by one as the stranger passes them. With the surveillance laps of the guards, I’ll never be able to catch more than a few hours of sleep before the sconces flare to life with their movements. However, this stranger is a leader…could it be King Marigold himself? Why would a king visit a lowly prisoner—alone? If I were king, I’d have some underling visit the dungeons, so I wouldn’t have to smell the poop buckets. Maybe the royal Fae have a birth defect of their noses, and they can’t smell the filth.
