“The Butcher of Stone Ninety-Four,” the ambassador says, like it’s supposed to be obvious. “That man is a menace. He comes hunting near the wall and enters Faerwyvae between stone ninety-four and stone ninety-five on the Spring axis. He enters only as far as he can get away with and leaves traps, hoping to catch the kind of fae he can sell for parts. Is that the man you speak of?”
“No, of course not! Hank Osterman would never—”
“He was injured just yesterday, right? Caught in his own bear trap? Fae trap, more like.”
I hesitate. Mr. Osterman hadn’t said if it was his own trap or not, but it’s possible. “Yes, and one of your lesser fae—”
He hisses a sharp intake of breath. “Ah, we don’t use that term. That’s a human convention. Lesser fae and high fae are labels we in Faerwyvae take offense to. We prefer unseelie and seelie.”
I glower. “One of yourwhateverfae tricked him into mangling his hand. He had to have his entire lower arm amputated.”
The ambassador cackles. “Oh, Lorelei. What a scamp.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “A scamp. That’s what you call a creature that tricks a man into losing his arm?”
“It’s not like he didn’t have it coming. She isn’t the first fae the Butcher of Stone Ninety-Four has terrorized. He caught Lorelei’s lover too. Probably sold her wings to a merchant and dumped her body in a ditch. Don’t even get me started on the unicorns. I don’t know how much longer I would have been able to cover for his treachery. Lorelei’s little stunt likely saved us from war.”
I’m at a loss for words. The ambassador must be mistaken. The fae may be adamant that they can’t lie, but I’m sure it has more to do with cultural custom than physical ability. Besides, even if he were incapable of lying, it wouldn’t mean he’s telling the truth. He must notknowthe truth. Because the Hank Osterman I know would never hunt unicorns or kill fae. Would he?
“The lesson is, don’t set traps and you’ll be fine,” the ambassador says.
“A simple matter then.”
“Exactly!” he says with an approving nod.
I frown. Another stretch of silence falls over the carriage until a new question comes to mind. “Which are you? Seelie or unseelie?”
“Obviously, I’m seelie. I’m dressed in regal clothes and riding in a carriage, aren’t I?”
“Is that all the difference amounts to?”
“Do you know nothing of Faerwyvae? Are you not taught our ways growing up, like we are taught about yours?”
We are, but I don’t say so out loud. For the things we are taught about the fae are hardly flattering.
He huffs. “I’m an ambassador, not a nursery maid. Regardless, I’ll educate you. All fae once were unseelie, which you so callously deem lesser fae. Back when the isle was ours alone and no human had set foot here, we were different. We were…creatures, you might say. Spirits. Animals. We were so alive back then.” His voice sounds wistful. “Or so I’m told, at least. I’m hardly old enough to have been born that long ago. In any case, we didn’t start to change until your kind came to the isle.”
I find myself leaning forward, genuinely curious to hear what he has to say. I’ve been told about the war between the humans and fae, the repercussions, the treaty, but never anything about what the Fair Isle was like before.
He continues. “We were curious about these newcomers, and they were equally curious about us. There were mishaps and misunderstandings, of course, but for the most part, we were friendly with the humans. Then the humans started leaving us gifts, sharing their food. You taught us words, made us clothes. That’s when we began to change.”
“How did you change?”
“We began to feel like you, look like you, hurt like you. It was a curse. And a blessing. We experienced things we never had before. Love. Hate. Rage. Passion. Sorrow. Some of us welcomed these changes, exploring the vast array of new experiences. The others retreated from human settlements, vowing never to eat human food or wear human clothes again. That was the beginning of the divide between seelie and unseelie. The unseelie considered seelie fae unnatural, an abomination of what we were meant to be. They wanted the isle back, for the humans to be eradicated. The seelie, meanwhile, weren’t willing to give their new identities away and wanted to protect their friends, the humans. And…well, you know the rest.”
I’m not sure I do, but I can’t find the words to admit it.
“Which one is my husband?” Amelie’s voice startles me. It’s the first time she’s spoken since we left home. “Seelie or Unseelie?”
“Well, at present both King Aspen and Prince Cobalt are politically seelie,” the ambassador says. “However, King Aspen tends to shift unseelie from time to time, both physically and politically. He has a temper, you know.”
Amelie blanches, her hand clutching her rowan berries. “Which am I to marry?”
“That depends. Marriages from previous Reapings were made according to age. By the way, not all got to marry kings and princes, you know. You’re lucky. The last Reaping from a hundred years ago paired the girls with minor cousins of the Summer Court Queen. Now, which of you is Evelyn Fairfield?”
“I am.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Evelyn Fairfield,” he says with a bow of his dark head. “My name is Foxglove. Forgive me for not introducing myself until now. I wanted to make sure the two of you had a good and proper sulk. Young human females seem fond of doing such. I take it you are the eldest?”
