A Vow of Thorns

Chapter Three

                                                    CHAPTER THREE 

THE LETTER HAD SAID 'TOMORROW,' BUT FOR ALL SAOIRSE KNEW, THAT COULD HAVE MEANT ANYTHING.

   Fey folk, the ancient ones at any rate, seemed to have lost their grasp on time as years passed.

   Years passed in the blink of an eye. Centuries swept past them in nearly as much time as it took to play a jaunty melody on the piano. Humanity, or so it seemed to them, had only sprung up in the last hour. Especially given the mystifying idea that humans appeared to expire most unceremoniously, often without the slightest provocation, a befuddling notion to creatures who had lurked in the dark since before the dawn of time.

   Thus, Saoirse determined she was allotted the slightest bit of nervousness as the clock inched forward later that afternoon.

   To them, tomorrow could have meant a thing vastly different than what it was to her. 'Tomorrow' could have meant 'half-past midnight', or 'three hundred years from now.' Whereas for her, it meant somewhere in the next twelve hours.

   Saoirse gritted her teeth against the thought. "They wouldn't," she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "They wouldn't be so rude to a mortal."

   But to their own kind, of course.

   Saoirse gave a half-turn about the parlor, eyeing the lush rug beneath her feet, the large windows, and the different cushiony divans scattered about the room. Copious amounts of jeweled trinkets littered the surface of an oak table, many, many leather-bound books dotting the shelves of a gargantuan book case. Upon a tufted settee sat the cloak and jewelry box Saoirse had received, heavy curtains fluttering through the open window.

   "If it was enough for one princess, it shall be fit for two," she decided, pursing her lips.

   Besides, as it were, it was not her cottage to change or manipulate, so she had no right to alter anything.

   A fleeting twinge of guilt struck her in the stomach, but she quickly dismissed it. She had been doing such things for a long time – before her dear mother had passed, to keep a shelter over their heads, to entertain her mother when she had been dying.

   Saoirse gave a long, slow blink, envisioning her beautiful mother who had given everything to raise Saoirse.

   Lengthy, tumbling waves of fire-flecked auburn, crystalline eyes of glass, and a sweet, generous smile. Of an incredibly personable nature, Saoirse's mother had differed greatly from her kin of the Spring.

   Saoirse's heart thumped, thinking about her mother's plight.

   For being so different, her mother had been shunned by all fey alike. After her dalliance with the king, it had worsened, for she had known that her child would be a Child of Iron. So, she had run to seek refuge amongst mortals. She had given birth so Saoirse hidden amongst them, and thus had begun their trickery. As a Faery of Flesh, Saoirse was taught to steal and don the faces of mortals and faeries alike, pilfering faces from nightmares, weaving them into true beings. Saoirse's mother had changed her appearance with less regularity, and it had been far more difficult for her to do so, for she had been a Faery of Vision. It had taken great magic to twist others' perceptions of her appearance. They had traveled from town to town together, from one Mortal settlement to the next. Though it was Saoirse who changed her profession with each face she stole, her mother hadn't done the same. Her mother had taught the ways of the Fey to suspecting Mortals, the few who believed. She had created ointments and grown flowers that allowed Mortals to look upon the fair features of Fey. She had taught them of ways to ward themselves of Fey trickery, such as finding a hag's stone, and leaving sugar and cream for the mundane faerys. She taught them to try and barter for Faery favor, and though many had scoffed at her nonsense, there had been believers. They had played their manipulations for sixteen years before the consequences of using magic had taken her mother's life.