I marched down the ridge.
The outbuildings were set in a grotto behind the fort, through a copse of blackthorns netting slender branches against a chalky sky. The sharp air crackled in my lungs, and my boots squelched through russet slime studded with acorns and pine needles.
The clearing might once have been beautiful. Only weeds and tight-curled ferns grew here now, but the ground was scored where rows of flowers once flourished, the stone walls scarred by the outlines of fallen trellises. A fountain spluttered sadly beneath an ancient willow. And at the center of it all stood… well. I wasn’t sure the namegreenhousestill applied to this…structure.
Archways of rough iron swooped gaunt as a skeleton’s ribs. Huge walls of tempered glass hung shattered in their panes, like gaping mouths full of broken teeth. Delicate finials of hammered brass dangled askew; bronze sconces cupped shadows instead of flames.
And what time hadn’t ruined, wild nature had reclaimed. Birch and alder trees burst through the ceiling, reaching for fresh air and sunshine. Knotted vines older than I coiled greedy fingers around metal frames, crushing as they climbed. Shrubs and undergrowth fought for space with grasping weeds.
I shoved at an iron door hanging off its frame. The hinges squealed in protest, but the door shuddered inward.
The warm-rot scent of loam slapped me in the face. Daggers of sunlight slashed down over long rows of tables whose lame legs sagged toward the ground. Potting supplies were scattered—trowels, vats of dirt, baskets of desiccated seedlings.
“You’re back, chiardhubh!”
I jumped back from the shouting voice, steadying myself against one of the tables. I glared up at an ancient topiary, so old and disheveled it looked more like an unshorn sheep than whatever prancing steed it was meant to be.
“Stop sneaking up on me, foul beastie,” I growled.
“Wasn’t sneaking!” Corra swiveled a bushy head to peer at me with spindly shoots for eyes. “’Twas only peeking.”
“More like spying.”
“What would we see?” It was hard not to laugh at Corra trying to make an overgrown topiary look innocent. “And who would we tell?”
“I told you to leave me alone.” I wagged my finger with as much menace as I could muster. But my curiosity won over my contempt. I gestured to the ruined greenhouse. “How long has it been like this?”
“Has to be decades.” Rogan’s voice drifted through the door.
I spun. The broken door framed him, lending him silver edges and casting his face in shadow. I swiftly quelled the shiver of elation the sight of him still elicited.
“You’re up,” I observed.
“I am.” He kicked at a pane of glass. It splintered around his boot. “I came looking for breakfast. But I don’t suppose there’s anything.”
He looked like he’d slept about as well as I had—purple circles bruised the skin below his eyes, and his golden curls made a disheveled halo around his head. It did little to dampen his light—if anything, it made him look more real, more tangible. Less a prince and more a man.
Princes were meant for princesses. But men—men could be touched. Men could be had. Men could be loved.
“Not unless you’re fond of eating dirt.” I pushed past him, out into the clearing. I gestured to the pool beneath the willow. “But there’s fresh water, at least. This looks spring fed.”
Rogan stared askance at the scummy surface strangled with reeds and clogged with dead leaves.
“It just needs a little clearing out.” I rolled my sleeves to the elbow and dunked my hands in the frigid water. Dredging the slime with my fingers, I brought out handfuls of muck. The water churned with dirt, flinging shards of my own reflection back at me. One green eye, one brown eye. Finally, the struggling fountain spat a stream of clear water.
I rinsed my hands, then cupped the clear liquid, bringing it to my lips. It was so cold my teeth ached, but the water was sweet, tasting of new honey and winter melt.
As I drank, the water leapt and splashed with such vigor I imagined it was laughing.
No—the fountainwaslaughing.
“Spluuuuurgle!” chortled the fountain. “Rrrrghghgurgle!”
The spray spurted higher, taking on shapes. A clear-glass goblet. A fat-bellied fish. A dancer in pirouette, elegant arms draped in diaphanous veils.
I gritted my teeth. This Folk beastie would drive me mad.
“Gurgle,” said the water more clearly. “Murmur! Splash!”
