“Wish I could, but I need to finish up here first.” She hefts the bucket.
“Do you need help?”
“I’ll manage. Save me a seat, will you?”
“Of course.”
I continue, weaving between tents and wagons. To my right, three acrobats are practicing handstands. Sera waves at me from upside down, her face flushed from the exertion. I wave back.
Near the edge of camp, I spot old Marcus sitting cross-legged, mending one of his juggling clubs. His fingers work the needle. He’s been with the troupe for years and years. I think he’s been here the longest, even longer than Master Roland himself.
As I get closer to the cook fires, I notice the fae hovering at the edges of our camp, watching us. A small group stands near one of the wagons.
One of them, a female with pretty features, steps forward as I pass.
“You,” she says, her voice cutting through the noise. “Human.” Her eyes are a beautiful green. Her hair is long and flowing about her shoulders, her ears pointing through the golden strands.
My heart lurches. I stop, turning to face her with what I hope is a respectful expression. “Yes, my lady?”
She looks me up and down, her gaze lingering on my hands, my face, my worn clothing. “I take it that you’re one of the performers?”
“I am.” I keep my voice steady, even though my pulse is racing.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a singer.”
Her lips curve into something that might be a smile but doesn’t reach her eyes. “Sounds…boring.”
“There’s more to my show than just singing.”
“Oh? Do tell.” She cocks her head.
“You’ll have to come to the performance to find out,” I tell her, trying hard to maintain my smile.
“Maybe I will. I have heard that you are all very good,” she tells me.
One of the male fae is leering at me. I suddenly wish I had worn my coat. Like most of the troupe, I am wearing hose and a simple tunic with riding boots. It’s practical travel attire. Only, here at the fae court, women tend to wear dresses.
“Thank you, my lady.” I incline my head, careful to show deference. “I hope to see you on one of the days,” I lie.
The fewer fae in attendance, the better, as far as I’m concerned.
She waves a hand, and I take it as permission to leave. I turn and walk away, forcing myself not to hurry or to show the fear bubbling up inside me. My hands are clammy, and my heart won’t stop racing. It’s silly. I need to stop this.
They can’t tell that I can wield magic just by looking at me.
I may have fallen at the Ice Court, but that wasn’t my fault. I can’t help it that my magic doesn’t work very well in such cold conditions. I was so sure I could perform unassisted, and I was wrong.
My arm pained me for weeks after. So much so, I was too careful at the last show. Master Roland wasn’t very happy with me. But who can blame me?
Three strikes and you’re out. If I don’t do well at this court, I will be booted from the troupe. Master Roland doesn’t keep slackers.
This show will be perfect. I know it will. I’m very good at my guise. Besides, I’ve been practicing day and night for a whole moon-cycle.
I’m so focused on putting distance between myself and the shadowfae that I don’t see the tent master until I nearly walk straight into him.
Speak of the devil, and he will appear.
