“What is it?” She eyes it curiously.
“You’ve never had a peach?”
She shrugs. “Those don’t grow in the Nightlands.” She waves a hand. “None of this does. Do you have bitterberries?”
“No.”
“Juniper thistle?”
I shake my head.
“What about blood beets?”
“No, and I’m glad, because that sounds disgusting.” I offer her the peach.
“We make pies of them. They’re actually quite good.” She sniffs the fruit. “This smells painfully sweet.”
“Try it.” I lean against the tree as she gives me a suspicious glance, then takes a tentative bite.
When she moans, I force myself to stay put, because what I want to do, well, that would be a bit more than simply “forward” as she said in the carriage earlier.
“What in the Spires is this?” She takes a bigger bite, and a drop of juice lands on her chin.
I move to her and wipe it away with my thumb, then lick it, tasting both the utter sweetness as well as the fruit. Even here, under the trees, her skin is luminous and pale. So unlike anyone I’ve known in the day realm. I never saw a single one of my father’s consorts. When he mated my mother, he no longer had need of them—though perhaps he kept his harem under Mother’s nose. I’ve heard talk of that, a secret crop of consorts taken from the night realm every ten years or so, but I’ve never seen proof, never gotten close enough to a nightling to touch one with familiarity. Emma is new to me, but I’d be a fool to think it was just her appearance that drew me.
“Tell me about your life.”
Her eyes open as she licks the peach sugar from her palm.
My cock acts up, so I back away and lean against the tree again. If I see her pink tongue dart out again like that, I’m going to have trouble keeping my hands off her. What’s worse is that she doesn’t seem to realize what she’s doing to me. Is this innocence or guile? I can’t tell. Not yet.
“My life?” She frowns as her teeth scrape the pit.
“Yes, in the Nightlands. I’m curious.”
“All right.” She shrugs. “I’m a seamstress.” She stops and throws the pit as far down the row as possible, the exuberance of it bringing a smile to my face. Strange creature.
“A seamstress?” I prod.
“Well, I’m not much of one. My mother, she’s the seamstress for all the nobles in that area of the Nightlands.”
“You make clothes?”
“No. We aren’t fine dressmakers or tailors—though Mama makes rough dresses for the villagers. Mostly, we repair things.” She runs her fingers along the curled pear tree leaves. “And not finery. We aren’t allowed that. Those nice fabrics and fancy frocks go to lesser fae to create or repair, not changelings. But we work on underthings, simple clothes worn to do regular tasks—riding gear, pajamas, pants, socks, and everyday tunics—things like that.” She keeps walking through the orchard, and I follow.
Her red hair lights in a brilliant orange glow whenever she leaves the shade, the sun illuminating her like a stained-glass window. Though she’s a nightling, the day loves her.
“So you’re good at repairing things?” I ask.
“No. Like I said, Mama is the one with the skill. She taught me as best she could, but I mainly worked on darning socks.” Her voice takes on a tinge of sadness. “In fact, I left a huge pile of socks behind. I suppose she’ll have to do them herself. Or maybe she could hire someone.” Her shoulders sag just a bit.
“I’m sorry.” The words just fall out. I’m not in the habit of apologizing, especially when I haven’t done anything especially wrong.
She stops and turns, her emerald eyes squinted. “Are you just saying things to get under my skirt? Or are you mocking me?”
“What? No.”
“Then why are you apologizing? If you wanted to, you could send me back to my home.”
