“I meant the tools. Don’t touch thetools. Bloody Unseelie fae,” he mutters under his breath as he ambles over to the edge of the canyon, joining two other grumpy looking fae with silver-streaked hair who are bent over a map of the bridge they are hoping to build.
It would seem I must find someone else with whom to share my humor.
I tie Dusk to a post next to two horses that look like foals next to my unicorn. They seem as wary of him as these Seelie are of me.
On my walk through the site, I see many tools I would love to have in my possession. Like the one right over there. “What does this do?”
The fae holding the tool jumps at the sound of my question. His voice trembles like a leaf in a gale. “I-it’s a level, sir.”
“Maddox Finch.”
“W-what?”
“My name is Maddox Finch, not Sir.”
“Oh. Yes. Right. M-my name is Tim. Tim Peck.”
Peck is what birds do to the ground. This Seelie looks a bit like a bird, so his name should be easy to remember. “What is this level, Tim Peck?”
His brow furrows as he glances down at the tool still clutched in his white-knuckled fist. “I-it shows when things are s-straight.”
Interesting. I use my eyes for this purpose.
On the makeshift table in front of him is another contraption I have never seen before. My hands itch to pick it up, but I do not wish for the foreman to give out to me again. Instead, I must make do with pointing. “And that is a . . . ?”
“A compass.”
“That is not a compass.” My father had a compass that he used to tell the direction. I remember it vividly: the faded brass casing and the sound of the glass cracking when I accidentally dropped it. My father’s terrifying roar when he found me playing with it.
No, this cannot be a compass.
“It’s for drawing circles. See?” Tim places the pointy tip against the tabletop and swivels the other side around, drawing a perfect circle.
I must trace my mugs or plates for circles.
What will they invent next?
“Thank you, Tim Peck.”
“Y-you’re welcome, sir. Maddox Finch. Sir.”
I leave the Tim to continue walking through the site. Everyone seems to be working away, no disruptions or disagreements. Just fae building a bridge. Albeit slowly.
If the Unseelie were to help, they would finish twice as quickly.
Perhaps I will suggest this to Ever.
None of the workers smile as I make my way back to where the blood was splattered, hoping to find some clue we missed. Only a handful of specks remain, the rest stamped into the earth by the many boots traversing this area, destroying any chance of tracking the culprit.
Orculprits.
Three fae are missing, after all.
Did they all vanish at once, or were they stolen one at a time? The former would have to involve more than one fae.
“What’s that green bastard doing here?” a voice to my left whispers. A Seelie guard dressed in those ridiculous leathers, perspiration already clinging to his brow beneath equally damp ochre hair.
Were they not informed that I would be helping this day?
