I pull my lips into what I think is a warm smile. I’m sorely out of practice, but Foxglove deserves to see my gratitude. As gaudy as the room is, and as disappointed as I am to learn the futility of our offerings, I know his heart was in the right place. “Of course, Foxglove. I love it.”
I take a seat on the couch as I wait for my guest. A few minutes later, Lorelei brings in a tray of tea, cookies, and salt. She freezes when she enters, looking around the room in terror. “What in all the rotting oak and ivy is this awful mess?”
I hush her. “Foxglove worked really hard on this.”
“I can see that. The question is why?”
“He thinks it’s what a human parlor looks like. Which is beyond me, considering he’s the ambassador to the human lands.”
She sets the tray on the table, nose wrinkled in disgust as she eyes her surroundings. “So you’re saying every parlor doesn’t look like this?”
“No, but don’t tell Foxglove.”
Noise sounds down the hall, and I rise to my feet. A moment later, Foxglove enters with a woman. A human woman. Her eyes widen as she enters the room, but other than that, her expression remains blank.
“Miss Fairfield, I’d like for you to meet Doris Mason,” Foxglove says.
The woman curtsies, then takes a seat in the chair across from me. I return to my seat on the couch, pondering the familiar name.Doris Mason.Where have I heard that? Then it dawns on me. “You’re the Chosen from the last Reaping.”
“Yes,” she says, her voice light and breathy.
“We’ll give you some privacy,” Foxglove says. Then he and Lorelei leave the room.
I’m left staring at Doris, a mingle of shock and confusion running through me. Doris was one of the Chosen from one hundred years ago. Yet she looks no older than Mother. Her eyes are distant and watery, their shade a dull gray, her hair is brittle wisps of dirty blonde, and she wears a thin green dress that barely reaches her calves.
“Is that tea?” she asks, eyes falling on the tray between us.
I shake my head to clear it. “Yes. So sorry. Where are my manners?” I pour two cups, then offer her a plate with a cookie.
As she sips her tea, a hint of clarity seems to focus in her eyes. “I haven’t had tea in ages. Not like this, at least.”
“It’s a nice change from wine, isn’t it?”
She nods.
I feel a flush of anxiety building as I search for what to say next. These situations have never been my forte, considering I’m not one for small talk. An intellectual debate with a magister would be more in my comfort zone. “Might I ask what village you were from?”
“Marchvale,” she says. “I barely remember what it was like anymore. I’m sure it’s changed since I last saw it.”
“And you were sent to Faerwyvae with your cousin, right? To the Summer Court, if I remember correctly?”
“Yes, but Nadia passed away many years ago. It’s been over sixty years that I’ve lived without her. It gets harder every day to remember her face.”
Finally, a topic that piques my interest. I can think of no other way to pose my question but to be blunt. “How are you still alive when your cousin is not?”
She ponders my question, eyes wandering the cluttered walls. “You won’t age the same way you used to,” she says. “Being in Faerwyvae will change you a little. You’ll be open to a very small amount of its magic. You can live longer than you would in Eisleigh, age less quickly. And so long as you live, your family and their descendants will be compensated back home. So, at least there’s one motivation not to take your own life.”
She says the last part so casually, it takes me a moment to realize she wasn’t being sardonic. I make the firm decision not to laugh, then consider everything else she said.Faerwyvae will change you. You’ll be open to its magic.I want to tell her I don’t believe in magic, but the statement seems childish in this circumstance. Here sits a woman who wouldn’t be alive, were she still in Eisleigh. Yet she hardly looks a day over forty. I know there’s a scientific reason for this, but I haven’t the slightest idea what it could be. “What about your cousin? Did she not age as slowly as you did?”
Doris shakes her head. “Nadia didn’t fare so well. Probably because she had no children to live for, nor was she well-loved.”
“Was her husband unkind to her?”
“I don’t know if one could call a fae kind or unkind,” she says. “They simply are what they are, despite the clothes they wear or the food they eat. Nadia and I were married to the Summer Queen’s cousins, neither of whom wanted us. Neither kept us well, but I doubt either of our husbands thought they were doing anything but their utmost duties. Nadia’s husband never visited her bed and chose to live with his favored lover instead. My husband visited my bed many times. But just as many times, he visited the beds of his numerous mates. I was breeding stock to him, a conduit to provide him heirs. And heirs I gave him. Many. I think that’s the only thing the fae like about humans. We conceive well.”
My stomach churns at that. “How are the children treated, being half-fae?”
“They are well,” she says. “You’d hardly know they are half-fae at all, aside from their appearance. The magic here seems to favor them as if they were fully fae. My sons and daughters will far outlive me. Many of the children of the Chosen who preceded me are still alive today.”
