Another sprite hovers over Furia’s long neck, his beady green eyes leveled with mine. “Where are you riding off to so fast, lad?”
Lad?I may have snickered at his decidedly not very keen grasp of physiognomy had I not been so relieved to be mistaken for a boy.
Afraid my voice will give away myunmaleness, I point to my lips and mouth words, pretending to be mute.
“Speak up.”
Definitely not bright, this one.
I shake my head and point to my mouth again.
“I b’lieve he’s sayeen he can’t speak.” Unlike his partner, the sprite holding onto Furia’s halter has a strong Racoccin accent.
“A mute, huh?”
I nod enthusiastically, my shoulder-length locks rushing around my cheeks. Had I shorn them off, I would’ve attracted less attention. Perhaps none. My heart pinches at the idea of putting a blade to my scalp. What would Dante think of me bald? He’d be disgusted. Not only would I look human, but I’d look . . . unladylike. I’m too vain for my own good.
I will Bronwen to intervene. Or Morrgot. Where is he anyway?
I glance past the gesticulating sprite hoping to catch the flutter of black wings. Until I realize the crow showing himself would send the sentries soaring toward Silvius, which would surely put a damper on my illicit bird reaping.
“So what’s a halfling doing running off in the middle of the night?”
I mouth,Ailing grandmother.
“For Cauldron’s sake, what’s he saying?”
I mimic writing.
“Methinks he’s askeen fur an ink pin.”
“Do I look like I have a quill and ink-well on me, lad?” The green-eyed sprite opens his arms wide as though to display his lack of writing accoutrements.
Or maybe it’s to show off the hollow stick hooked into his baldric. I’ve heard sprite darts are dipped into a poison that will knock out a full-blooded Fae for several hours.
“We could tyke him to the seer’s hut. She must ’ave some ink and pins.”
“The only things that harridan’s got are zany eyes and a zanier mind,” the other mutters. “We’ll take him to the garrison.”
Stupid me and my ploy to come off as mute. I almost break and reveal I can talk, but that would only win me a one-way trip to the Tarelexian barracks instead of the Racoccin ones.
I gesture to the forest and mouth,Must go. In a hurry.
I twist the reins incessantly around my sweaty fingers while keeping my heels flush with the horse’s briskly pumping body. If I give Furia a firm kick, he’d take off, and the momentum would fling the sprite holding onto his halter into the bushes. They may pursue us, but surely my steed could outrun them, especially under the cover of the night. But then what?
The sprites would report a rebellious boy riding a black stallion, and I’ll have a whole battalion of Fae on my tail.
I rue Bronwen for putting me in this situation. If only she’d let Antoni come with me. If anyone could dig me out of this mess, it’s the sweet-talking boat captain. After all, he’s been working against the crown for years, and no one has been the wiser.
A full minute ticks by, and no one comes to my rescue, not Morrgot, not Antoni, not Bronwen.
Think, Fallon. Think.
My gaze drops to the dart stick hooked into the sprite’s belt. Before I lose my nerve, I drop Furia’s reins and snatch the unsuspecting sprite around the torso, pinning both his arms and wings to his body.
My hand is so slick, that he almost slips out of my grasp, but I crush him harder as I pluck his hollow stick and carry it to my mouth. It takes me several attempts to thread the toothpick-sized reed between my lips.
The captive sprite squirms and yells, which makes his partner spring away from Furia’s halter and jolt upward.
