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Saoirse's blood dances with iron and trickery, a secret she has managed to sheathe from all faery alike.
Until now, that is.
When Saoirse's cunning and charade is shredded to bits by the malevolent interfering of fa...
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CHAPTER SEVEN
HOWEVER GENEROUS AND BECKONING EIMEAR'S STATEMENT HAD SOUNDED, THERE WAS LITTLE TO HIDE THE FACT THAT IT WAS AN ORDER -- ONE THAT BROOKED NO ARGUMENTS.
As such, Saoirse had found herself clad in the beautifully embroidered, sumptuously velvety cloak Eimear had given her nearly two days prior. The beautifully-cut gemstones and their box had been stowed in her pocket, jangling once she'd sat astride upon the steed the Spring faerys had brought with them.
Her gaze was flinty as she began to put the clues together.
Eimear had not arbitrarily chosen for Saoirse to paint a portrait, of course. They had cottoned onto her existence well before. And the gifts -- the ones Saoirse had known to be tainted, for that was elementary faery trickery -- had been given to serve a greater purpose than what their appearance belied them to be.
She hadn't had the faintest idea of what the gemstones were to be for. But she knew the cloak was yet another cruel game. And she knew that the rose had been a test -- to see whether she was of Iron magic, as they'd suspected, or not.
Saoirse gritted her teeth in silence as she rode, dutifully, beside the faerys. She'd played into the game like a fool, that was why she'd found herself in the position she was now in. And she was not wont to forget that.
If, by some means, you manage to escape Spring alive, Saoirse began, do not forget how easily you can be fooled.
She had known she couldn't live her life, especially that of a faery's span, without being discovered. But that didn't mean she'd never hoped for such a thing to happen.
Saoirse pinched her lips further, feeling the elegant fingers of the wind tangled through her auburn hair. It whipped silkily against her cheek, and for a moment, Saoirse was lost in recalling her true appearance. How strange it was to see fire-speckled hair on her head instead of that of coal-black or flaxen, duller hues borne by the humans she had masqueraded as. How strange it was, as well, to look down and see her hands undressed -- the spidery web of frail yet deadly iron scars weaving round and round her hands. They clutched the reins of the horse, knotted about the velvet and leather, urging it on.
They rode to Spring. But Spring's true location remained a mystery to her. She had heard whispers, certainly. Some said Spring lurked where the Wind's cries grew silent. Some said it lingered in a vale long since lost to the Mortal world.
Despite yearning for an answer, Saoirse kept her mouth closed. She refused to show her ignorance, and instead, maintained a cold silence.
Their beastly appearances having since receded, Amoret and Eimear rode with ethereal majesty. They refused to deign a glance at her. As if they were of a similar vein of thought, they hadn't acknowledged her since they'd departed The Painter's cottage. Whereas Amoret's silence was cruelly cold, Eimear's appeared of a more surly, childish one. She was pouting, as if Saoirse's lack of fear -- or any reaction, really -- had denied her something.
