“’Tis but a taste of what we can conjure,” Corra said. “No need to send for supplies, to build your own cook fires, to learn how to roast your own meats. Let Corra provide.”
“That’s awfully generous of you,” I hissed. If Rogan kept catching me talking to myself, he was going to think Tír na nÓg had addled my brain.
The mouse blinked its adorably huge eyes. “We ask but one small favor in return.”
“Of course you do.” I turned on my heel. “You can keep your food, which will likely prove to be dust or sewage instead of nourishment. I have no intention of doing anything for you.”
Corra followed me, jumping one by one into the myriad carvings etched on the castle wall: a writhing sea monster, a honking goose, a crow with a beak carved from polished mica.
“The food is real and nourishing. We would not endanger you—if you wither away, you’d be no use to us!”
I waved a hand at the sprite, dismissing it.
“’Tis but a trifle! All we ask is you tend the garden for us.”
I stopped in my tracks. A vision of the ruined greenhouse and its surrounding gardens crept into my mind. Once upon a time, it must have been magnificent. Rogan and I could travel into Tír na nÓg only at the full moon, leaving twenty-eight days out of the month that had to be filled with something. And who knew how long it would take to rescue Eala.
Perhaps—
I narrowed my eyes at Corra. “Why?”
The glittering bird flapped incised wings and gave me a shrewd wink. “The days are long, chiardhubh. Being busy is better than being bored.”
“I’ll take up knitting.”
“As the willful mistress pleases.”
“Hmph.” My stomach rumbled at the smells wafting from the table—tempting aromas of fresh bread, warm stew, roast meat. “I’ll think on it.”
“Mind you do, chiardhubh.”
I sat and made myself a plate, mouth watering. But I continued glaring at Corra, not wanting it to know how hungry I was. “Next time, I want pie.”
“That’s awfully demanding of you.” Rogan chuckled. “I imagine the villagers will bring us whatever they have on hand.”
I bit my tongue and ate. Everything was delicious. I had to remind myself none of this was real. This food was made with Folk magic. Rogan and I were dining on lies.
And if I was going to take on a thankless project in return for such dubious provisions, then I might as well demand pie.
Chapter Seven
Crouched low between the trees, Rogan and I waited for the full moon to rise. The dim wood was eerie at dusk, the stone monsters’ shadows quietly lengthening. My unease was polished to a hard sheen, although I wasn’t sure whether my nerves were born from fear of what lay beyond the bridge… orlongingfor it.
What waited for us beyond the gate? Lost love and magic? Or cold heartbreak and sorrow?
Rogan elbowed me through my cloak.
“Ow!” I scowled at him. “What was that for?”
“You’re making one of your grim, dire faces, changeling.” Rogan smiled, a sharp dazzle of nervous humor. “What are you thinking about?”
“Your bruised, crooked nose.”
Rogan made a face and gingerly patted the nose in question, which was neither crooked nor particularly bruised.
I was quiet for a long minute. And then: “The Gentry tánaiste beyond the gate—the one who holds the swans captive. What must he be like?”
“I’ve heard many stories of the Folk Gentry.” The twig Roganhad been idly scratching in the dirt took on a purpose, scoring the hard earth with deft lines and curves. A rough picture began to take shape—staring eyes, hooked claws, crooked limbs.
