“Yes. She’s the seamstress in my village.”
“Which village are you from?”
“Moonhollow, near the border.” I peer at her. “Do you know it?”
She pulls back, hiding again. “I’ve never been to the night realm. Lesser fae aren’t allowed to travel freely like the high fae.”
“Oh?”
“We’re, after all,lesser.” The word is a bitter rind that she spits rather than says.
I don’t know what to say. The scars on my back are a testament to the fact that trying to stand up for yourself—whether you’re a changeling or a lesser fae—will never end well. Her anger won’t get her anywhere, but I suspect she already realizes that fact, given her employ in the palace.
I change the subject. “I shouldn’t be here. Not really. I’m older than past consorts.”
“Past consorts? There haven’t been any in quite some time.” She lowers her voice. “Except King Olarin had a secret harem. Everyone knew about it but his wife, the queen.”
“What happened to those nightlings?” I know they never returned to the night realm, but we all thought—or rather, wewantedto think—that the consorts continued living in bliss here in the day realm. That’s the story we were told around fires and before bed, warm tales of changelings living happily under the sun.
“Don’t know.” Her voice is back to normal as she steps from the canvas.
My eyes widen when I see two smaller arms jutting out from beneath her coat, a brush in each hand. One of them twirls its brush absentmindedly around its knuckle.
She shrugs. “I actually have another set of arms, but they’re just buds, too small to be of use.”
“Sorry.” I force myself not to stare as my cheeks heat.
“Don’t be. It’s an uncommon strand of lesser fae. Hooves and six arms? I’m practically a treasure.” She raises a finger. “That color in your cheeks. Yes. I knew it would strike.”
With a rapidity I envy, her hands go to work as her great, googly eyes stare at me and glance preternaturally quickly from me to the canvas and back.
I try to relax. Even though I’m naked. Even though she’s staring at me. And eventually, I do. The room is quiet, peaceful except for the sound of her strokes on the canvas. I almost doze off when she stops and lets out a heavy sigh.
“How’s it going?”
“Art.” She shrugs and pulls up a chair. “It’s ephemeral, maddening, challenging, foolish, silly, serious, with a dash of deep soul-crushing secrets and a hint of truth.”
How can I respond to that?
“Tell me about the king.” She adjusts her glasses.
I grab my robe and drape it over myself. She doesn’t seem to mind me nude or clothed.
“Don’t you know him?” I ask.
“Me?” Her nose wrinkles near the tip. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“I’m lesser, darling.”
“You’ve never painted him?”
“Only high fae can depict high fae.” She rolls her enormous eyes.
“I didn’t know that.”
“One of many rules here. Some are written. Some are silent. All are more restricting than a boned corset. Don’t you have high fae in your village?”
