Page 36 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Chapter Nine

Stepping sideways between worlds was not as disorienting as being defended by the ruthless Professor Thorn.

Pippa would have predicted turning into a unicorn before any such thing. Taking tea with a kraken. Braiding a mermaid’s hair without being drowned for it.

Lachlan only held out his hand for hers. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist. Frost coated her bracelet. He scowled down at it but did not comment.

They landed outside Thorn Hall, mists swirling thickly around their ankles and hanging in tatters from the bare branches of the thorn trees. Red velvet ribbons were tied around gray trunks and around stone urns shaped like owls, like a tapestry pattern Pippa could not discern. A lady with a unicorn, a dragon? A knight with a bloody banner? It was impossible to tell.

“If you get lost,” Lachlan said, “follow the ribbons. They all lead back to me.”

She was not sure if that was meant to be a comfort or a warning.

“You know your knot magic, do you not, Miss Cavendish? Binding is almost as effective as being someone’s undoing.”

He was written in a language she did not know. And she knew how to read twenty-seven languages, not including the three dead languages impossible to speak by human tongue. There was a reason Librarians were called word eaters. She had literally eaten scraps of paper, swallowing them down to gain the knowledge to read other languages.

But Lachlan remained indecipherable. She could eat a hundred books and still not know his secrets.

The mists grew thicker as they neared the house. Hoarfrost clung to the gardens tucked close, dusting them like fine sugar. It covered the yew hedges, the green stalks of roses and brambleberries. Even the thistles wore white dresses.

They were on the edge of the garden with its formal white gravel paths and mossy stone boulders. The fountains cradled stone mermaids and leaping fish and ran with something that clearly was not water. There were owls silently landing on the roof to welcome them. Or glare at her disapprovingly; Pippa could not be sure.

The windows shone with ice, with more dripping from the ledges and the rooftop points, sharp as thorns. It crept over the red door, the silver knocker, and the dark cobblestones underfoot.

“Mind your step.” Lachlan’s voice was mild. His expression was not. It was as cold as the creeping ice, as sharp as the thorns. But he was not looking at her, despite his solicitous hand hovering near her elbow. He was looking at his house.

“The back stairs behind the main Library desk are permanently iced from the time someone dropped a book written in the blood of a winter king,” Pippa said. “Believe me, when you have skated down three sets of steep stairs entirely encased in black ice while balancing a stack of books and a cup of tea, you can walk anywhere.”

“I had no idea Librarian work was so hazardous.”

“Why do you think the tests are so arduous?” Pippa asked, and then immediately regretted mentioning the Librarian Trials at all. She had failed them, after all. And there would not be another chance. Not now. Wish or not.

Mustn’t dwell.

She pushed her shoulders back. If she stood like a witch who could take on the world, maybe she would feel like one.

Ha.

Lachlan handed her a length of ribbon, the red velvet soft and bright under her fingertips. “Don’t lose this. It will bring you back here,” he said. “Should you need it.”

He tied it gently around her throat like a necklace.

Or a noose.

His fingertips skimmed over her collarbone, hovering as though he were keeping himself from touching her. She had not bothered with proper hair twists or pins. The Fae did not consider loose hair to the purview of children or scandalous women. Or witches working a spell. They barely wore clothing enough to cover themselves, and half of them had flowers or poisonous vines on their heads. Pippa had a feeling that the length of her hem or the state of her hair would not make a difference.

Before he could step closer or she could step back, the tall, cathedral-like door swung open.

“There’s Himself.”

“Hedgewort.” Lachlan dropped his hand as if scalded. Pippa touched her cuff, just to be sure, but it was not particularly warm or uncomfortable.

Hedgewort was a short, squat house hob wearing green breeches with gold buttons and leaning on a shillelagh cane. He had thick white hair on his head, but also for eyebrows and sprouting from his ears. If he was not at least three hundred years old, Pippa would be surprised. Four hundred years old, even. His wrinkles were craggy. His eyes were bright green and a curious combination of cheerful and deeply cross. He glowered up at Pippa.

She adored him immediately.

“Hello,” she said.