1
Emma
The blue doesn’t turn out right. It never does. I toss the scrap of canvas into the small tub of water next to my rough wooden desk. I can’t waste the canvas. If I can wash the color off, I can use it again.
I take another precious square of white fabric from my meager stack and begin tracing the outline of my dream, trying to pull the image from my mind and create it with my small horse-hair brush and what little paints I’m able to mix from the washer woman’s dyes. I’ve been at it for far too long. My taper is getting low, but I have more. The Nightlands have one thing in abundance—candles.
“Emma!” The door to the cottage squeaks as it opens, and I shove my art supplies beneath the high stack of socks I’m supposed to be darning.
“Mama.” I turn and greet her as she hurries inside and slams the door behind her.
“You aren’t done?” She frowns and pulls her threadbare coat off along with her mismatched hat. Her red hair spills around her shoulders, streaks of silver blooming from her part down to the tips.
“Almost done,” I lie.
She accepts the lie, knowing full well that, yes, it is a lie, but we’ve been doing this sock darning dance for years, so why change it now? “The Daylanders are here.” She opens our bread box and pulls out the crusty end piece. “Poking their noses around all the girls who’ve just come of age.”
I lean back against my desk and clasp my hands behind my head. “I’m glad those days are behind me.”
“You could have been picked. Could have been you, Emma.” Mama sighs and sits at our worn kitchen table. “When you were still young, you could have been chosen. Living the good life in the Daylands, sipping fancy drinks, and bossing other changelings around.” Her eyes go misty. “Just think. If you’d been picked, you could have gotten atan.”
“Or died from sun poisoning.” I blow my air out in a huff and turn back to the never-ending stack of socks. “I’m glad I wasn’t picked. Being a king’s whor—”
“Consort, Em. Consort.” She pulls a handful of carrots from her apron. “An easy life, that is. Keeping him company for a few nights while he waits for his fated mate?” Her lashes flutter. “Why, I’d be happy to warm the day king’s bed in exchange for a life of luxury. You would be, too, but you’re too old now, and you’ve always been too stubborn to see the appeal.” She sighs dramatically and takes a chomp from the end of a carrot. “Like the bloom of my youth, your chance is long gone.”
“And here we are, back to the ‘bloom of my youth again.’” I roll my eyes. “For one thing, you aren’t that old. For another, I’m glad my chance is gone. Good riddance.”
She points what’s left of the small carrot at me. “You’ll never find a male to bed you and wed you with that attitude.”
“I’m perfectly happy being unbedded and unwedded, thank you very much.”
I don’t care that I’m considered the odd spinster of the changeling village. Twenty-eight years old, unmarried, and uninterested in anything to do with men. I often wish I didn’t have the same arresting red hair as my mother, because it draws too much attention, too many males using it to attempt to strike up conversation. I don’t want to talk. Being left alone to sew and paint are just fine with me. And being a king’s consort? No, thank you. I can be used and discarded just as easily here in Moonhollow if I were interested in that sort of life. Bonnie is always looking for girls to hang out her windows and lie on their backs for coin.
“The new king didn’t waste any time.” Mom pulls the greens from the carrots and stacks them neatly to the side. We can make a little salad out of that. “Sent his scouts just a week after his crowning. But at least they brought some extra supplies with them.” She nibbles at a carrot. “The Daylanders have it so easy. Food and warmth and constant light. Can you imagine? Everything bright and shiny?”
“They don’t know what they’re missing.” I peer out the window at the gentle night, fireflies humming and stars lighting the cobblestone street. Once I’m finished with my chores, I intend to disappear into the shadowy forest, dance naked with the nymphs, and worship the night as the Ancestors intended.
“One thing’s for certain.” She points her carrot at me again. “If you don’t finish darning Lord Morton’s socks, we’ll lose this week’s pay. You’re already a day late.”
“I’m working on it,” I grumble and pull the top sock from the stack, then grab my needle and thread. “It won’t take long. He’s missing those two toes on the left, so I can always cinch it up with—”
A sharp knock at the door has us exchanging a look.
“Probably the lord’s laundryman looking for those socks.” Her sharp tone hides a hint of worry underneath. No one comes knocking at our cottage. Those that know us just walk right in. She stands and wipes her hand on her dark blue apron.
I give up on the sock and turn to face the rough-hewn front door.
She takes a few steps and opens it.
Two Dayland fae soldiers walk in, their presence filling the tiny room, one of them tall enough that his crest brushes the splintery rafters.
“You have a daughter of age, old woman?” He looks right at me as he asks the question, so I naturally find him to be quite stupid.
“Old?” Mama scowls and pushes her shoulders back. “You need to look again, Daylander.”
The other one snorts, his head also grazing the thatch ceiling. “Changelings all look the same to me.”
Mama puts her hands on her hips and gives him a look that usually makes people wince. “What’s your business here, your lordliness?” The sneer at the end is perfection.
