“Okay,” he says. “Well, I’ll see you at dinner later.”
I brush his hand goodbye and then enter the Illusion kitchens. Built for scale and efficiency, six-foot-tall hearths flank the space, firing up pies, stews, stocks, vegetables, preparing feasts for the Illusion nobles at court and the parties they throw. Piles of potatoes, onions, turnips, and cabbage line long wooden tables.
I stare at the spot on the third table where my mother and I prepped meals for most of our lives. Her gentle hands would wrap around mine, position my fingers on the handle of a knife, mimic the methodical, rhythmic chopping that would forever remind me of her.
I thought we would spend the rest of our lives as Scarps—cooking, laundering clothes, repairing shoes. Before, my mother thought she’d always remain a Base in the fields with her family, until a late-blooming ability with fire graduated her to the kitchens as an adult. Two years ago, death came for her, and shortly after that, my mistress came for me, propelling me from Scarp duties in the kitchens to a coveted Day Crest position, a personalservant to the High Fae. A cruel irony, as if we can only ascend to a new layer of wealth after shedding loved ones.
“Coming in!” I shout into the noise of lunch preparation. “Lady Kassandra requests croissants and grapes for her late-morning snack!”
“How does that little thing eat so much?” a cook grumbles, glancing at the table of pastries and fruit.
“You know how the High Fae are,” I say. “Insatiable.”
Lies and truths fall out of my mouth faster than rotting teeth, and one day, someone will catch on.
Just not today.
The noon bell rings out as I exit the kitchens.
I am already late.
Chapter Two
The sun-drenched cream walls burnmy eyes with their brilliance. In the parlor, plush round chairs and rose settees are artfully arranged on a soft white rug. High Fae love white décor for its clean look; faeries hate maintaining it.
Lady Kassandra stretches out on a settee, delicate fingers twirling her long silver hair. Though we are both in our late two hundreds, her skin is smooth and unmarred by any debt rings. The sight of so much untouched flesh is still a shock each shift, but this is the kingdom of Amyria. You either owe or you own.
The servants’ door clicks closed, and those pale eyes cut to me like blades. The plane of magic pitches with a tug from her genius, stronger than any faerie’s. The hairs on my forearms rise with the static, like a storm fomenting on the horizon.
Shit.
My own genius scratches the back of my skull, desperate to escape notice. Lady Kassandra tilts her feline face back to her tutor, a curly-haired male standing several feet away, arms full of parchment paper.
“I can’t possibly take any more notes,” she tells him. “My hand will cramp, and I need it for later.”
“L-Lady Kassandra, it’s imperative you understand the Head and Heart rule,” the tutor says, his name still unknown to me. He’s only been around a few months.
Her unflinching look could split the plane itself. “The Head and Heart must never share a body, only a bed. One must lead, and the other must wed.”
“Y-yes, but what that implies is—”
“As Heart of Illusion, I am to be bred like some country cow while my brother, the Heir of Illusion, will inherit the House. So, unless you’re here to tell me that our future king shouldnotput a babe in my belly, I don’t care. And my brother and father don’t care either, until that happens.”
The tutor drops his papers. “Lady Kassandra, it’s very complex—”
“You may leave,” she sighs. “Send in the next one.”
He rushes out the main entrance and into the front hall that only High Fae and halfling guards can use. I approach with the pastries and fruit and a pot of coffee that warms the silver tray.
“Hold it,” she commands, examining a split end.
“My lady?”
“Hold the tray until I tell you to put it down.”
My hands singe with the heat of the coffee. A chestnut side table with scalloped edges and ornate legs is tucked at the end of her settee, only a few feet away. Practically within my reach, but even if I had permission, I’d hesitate to put the hot tray on the delicate wood.
Her cool face remains expressionless like a statue in the Illusion courtyards. A gentle, comforting breeze filters in through the propped door, and I wonder if winter has gasped its last frigid breath.
