Ellie
After leaving Ashbourne, Taran takes a moment to adjust my glamour—it seems I was right about Merfyn seeing through it. Heat rushes through me as he rests his fingers gently on my face, and I pray my cheeks haven’t turned red as he scours my features.
“You’re not making me look worse, are you?” I ask, hoping to ease the tension.
His eyes flick to mine, and his hand wavers against my skin. “What? No.”
“So, better?”
He breaks eye contact, his cheeks flushing. “Different. More fae.”
“Does it suit me?” His gaze shoots back, and I quickly stammer, “I mean, since Merfyn saw through the old one.”
“It doesn’t,” he says, his voice catching. “Which may be why he did.” His hand lingers another second before he turns away. “Let’s go.”
I swallow, but the lump in my throat won’t go down, my stomach rising to meet it the more I try. It must be my worries about Merfyn. So I catch up, attempting to dig out information on how Taran knows him. He doesn’t share much, outside of Merfyn’s family having long served as caretakers of the royal deer. The more I question, the more curt his answers become, until it’s clear I need to stop or risk drawing his ire. So I back off, reminding myself that a lifetime of anti-fae propaganda has likely colored my perspective. But the tightness in my throat builds, as if I’m holding back for the sake of his ego.
I don’t like it.
He leads us north, out of the forest and into a valley where we continue westward. Sheep cover the surrounding hills, with the pungent smell of manure wafting on every breeze. After a while, it’s clear we’re headed directly toward one of the herds. Barely visible fae—at least by my human eyes—weave between the grazing sheep.
I hurry to Taran’s side. “Why aren’t we hiding?” After all the sneaking around we’ve done, my stomach’s twisting from being so conspicuous in our approach.
“Cadoc’s an old friend. His people would never betray me.” His voice is firm, as if countering my earlier questions.
“Since when are princesold friendswith shepherds?”
Taran pauses, his brow furrowing. “Are shepherds not respected members of mortal communities?”
My body’s about to fold in on itself. “Not really, no.”How is it I always manage to say the wrong thing?
He frowns. “Our lives depend on those who tend the herds. We use every part of the animals for food, clothing, and other necessities. As leader of this community, Cadoc is one of the most respected people in the region.”
My mouth’s completely dry. “I’m sorry—I had no idea. I didn’t mean to insult him.”
Taran’s face softens. “You had no way of knowing. Now you do.”
This time, he leaves me behind at the edge of the herd while he makes his way to a gathering of small, tent-like structures I assume are the herders’ homes. Whether to avoid the risk of Cadoc seeing through my glamour or me questioning his intentions, I don’t know. Chewing my lip, I sit on the cool grass and rummage through my bag for my sketchbook. Drawing has always relaxed me, and the sheep are kind of cute—if I ignore the dark stains on their rear ends.
Their bleating fills the air as I flip open my sketchbook and land on a page filled with drawings of a handsome, dark-haired man.
Where did these come from?
I skip a few pages ahead and find more of them.
Did I draw these while daydreaming?
I scrutinize the charcoal drawings. The face… A warm glow builds in my heart as I absorb its features. He looks vaguely familiar…
My stomach clenches as it hits me—he looks like Taran.
I frantically flip further through the book until I reach the pages I’d marked when Taran proved my curse’s existence. I haven’t drawn anything since.
How did I draw Taran before I knew him?
Inspecting the sketches, it becomes apparent: he isn’tquiteTaran. His features are softer. I rub some lines with my finger, blurring them, each smudge like a bruise in my mind. I pick up my charcoal and make some adjustments—a straighter line here, a sharper angle there. About a minute later, Taran’s face is staring back at me.
What does this mean?
