I press them open and gesture for the little creature to leave the castle grounds, to run as far from this place as possible.
The trees ruffle their leaves: in approval or condemnation I do not know.
The unicorn presses its little head and the jagged nub of its horn against my leg, then disappears into the night.
Chapter Fifteen
The lawn is dusted with frost like icing sugar that crunches beneath my feet and sparkles under the stark morning sun. Faeries usually sleep well past midday, so it’s only me in the gardens this morning.
My fur-lined ice-blue cloak hangs heavy on my shoulders. I pull it tighter, fighting the wind that whips between hedges.
Emmett emerges from the mist like a vision. Golden sun reflects off his dark hair and the chill has turned his cheeks rosy. He’s wearing a thick brown overcoat, similar to something he would have worn in London, but this one has metallic vines embroidered up the sleeves.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.
“I’ve always come when you’ve asked.”
I feel the fresh wound of our fight yesterday. I don’t know how to act natural around him. We both said we’re sorry, but I’m not sure how to go about healing. I’m terrified we’re both too wounded to ever overcome what we’ve gone through and go back to the people we used to be. I long for the simple pleasure of bickering, toe-to-toe in a boathouse.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Emmett smiles softly, like he’s afraid I might spook. “To meet some friends of mine.”
The walk takes us from the castle grounds through the hillside village and down into the glen where a few homes and businesses are scattered. Emmett talks blandly about the landmarks we pass. “This is the night market, it runs nearly every day after dark, except when the vendors forget,” he says as we pass the empty stalls on the winding streets surrounding the castle.
He explains that faerie magic can’t make something from nothing, but it can expand and transform. So unlike in England, where so much of our land and time is dedicated simply to the task of feeding the populace, the Otherworld has no real need for organized agriculture or farmland. A single berry is as good as a million berries. If you have enough food for one, you can simply wave your hand and have a feast for one thousand. A lack of agriculture means an economy never had a need to develop.
Those who do work, like the castle staff, are paid in the only finite resource in the Otherworld—land of their own. They earn mere inches a month. It can take a faerie centuries to earn a plot big enough to live on. The lords and other landed families are the lucky ones.
“The population of the Otherworld isn’t focused on survival, only entertainment. It’s why they’re so obsessed with humanity. It’s not just the way we make them feel, though that’s a big part of it, it’s that we’re the model they have for society,” Emmett says. I nod along as Emmett explains all of this, interested, but also concerned about all I’m missing back in England. I was supposed to talk with my advisers this week about building a hospital in the East End. They won’t have access to the Crown’s funding without me there to approve it.
“They call it Little Londinium,” Emmett explains as we pass through the town square. “Most things here are a copy of something they saw in England, but the door was closed back in the 1400s, so it’s turned into a bit of an off-kilter time capsule.”
That explains the buildings, with their white plaster and dark wood, the strange fashion, and the odd way the Others sometimes speak.
“Some haven’t been back to England since the Romans ruled. You’ll sometimes see faeries wearing togas or poorly copied bronze armor. Some are nostalgic for the Middle Ages and still stage jousting matches.”
He points out more businesses as we go: a dress shop where the seamstress insists on being paid in sugar; a tailor that went out of business after the proprietor made a bad bargain and was forced to speak only in limericks; a tavern that serves exclusively fermented fruit pies.
After walking for thirty or so minutes, the buildings thin and we reach the outskirts of Little Londinium.
We come upon a storybook cottage. It’s got a thatched roof and a chimney gently puffing smoke into the clear morning sky.
Emmett opens the gate in the knee-high fence and gestures for me to go through. “Ladies first.”
I’m hit with a blast of heat the moment I step inside the building, which I realize isn’t a home but a tavern.
“Uncle Emmett!” In a blur, two figures dart from the kitchen and throw themselves at Emmett.
He scoops the smaller of the two up off the well-worn wooden floor and tosses him high in the air. The boy’s giggle pierces the room. The little girl at his ankles screams, “Me next, me next!”
The smell of pastries baking is nearly overwhelming. At this time of the morning, the small pub is empty, filled only with dust-flecked beams of light spilling from the rafters above. There are a dozen or so long tables and a stage in the corner with a few instruments propped up.
Emmett sets the little boy down and picks up the girl, who squeals with glee. The boy puts his chubby hands on his hips and looks up at me suspiciously. “You look like Queen Lydia, but you’re not Queen Lydia.”
“I’m her sister.”
He gestures to the girl being swung around by Emmett. “That’s my sister. She steals all my sweets and never goes to sleep when Mama and Papa tell her to.”
