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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 NINE
ACCORDING TO 'LAVINIA'S' CALCULATIONS, THERE WERE ONE HUNDRED DIAMONDS TO BE COUNTED IN THE JEWELRY BOX.
Leaving her with nearly three months to fulfill the bargain.
King Madoc has scowled at her when her first payment of blood, as promised, had backfired on him. With a glass shard from the shattered table, a shred of gossamer pixie wing, she had prick her finger and drawn a single bead of blood to the surface. It spread along the glass, coloring the wretched wing, deepening the atrocity. Utilizing her inherited cunning, she'd unceremoniously dropped the iron glass work to the floor of The Spring Castle, watching it splinter to irretrievable splinters.
"There, your first payment, my King." She has spoken, gracefully plummeting into a taunting curtesy before him, and stride away from his infuriated features, his family, and his dining hall before another word could be said.
Saoirse would not fool herself into thinking that he would endeavor to ever build a fatherly relationship with her. She was a bastard; a mistake, one to be ashamed of. She reviled him, and he, her. She would never forgive him for having entertained the thought of killing her beloved mother. She would never forgive him for so evidently not being a faery if his vows, and tearing his accord with his consort, Elowyn. And she imagined, she could never not hate him for his cruelties.
It would be hypocritical, of course, for she could oft-times be of a cruel nature as well. In fact, Saoirse imagined, she was very much like him for all of what she hated about him. She was tricky, just as he was. She was cunning, just as he was. And she was just as fiendish as he was, if not, possibly, more.
But she imagined the slight he had paid The Alder King was one that had never borne on his conscience until the revered King has marked him for the Hunt. Madoc of Spring was a man who bore no qualms for his lack of morals, his lack of honesty, and his lack of fairness as a ruler and faery. As such, he was the type of Air Folk her mother had warned her of, and his treatment of Elowyn before her eyes had only further soured her view of him.
But, she could admit with a cruel smirk, she would enjoy playing him for the fool every chance she got.
Saoirse swept into her chambers calmly, fingers toying with the latticework of threads embroidering the front of her gown. She stared blankly at the dawn-colored bed, an oasis of plump pillows of goosefeathers, and mesmerizing pastel-hued sheets. She bit down on her lip, her vow had sprouted multiple dilemmas. Firstly, she couldn't dare trust the servants in The Spring Palace. If one of them had overheard her avowal with their King--and Saoirse determined that quite a few had--then they would know how to identify her. By appearance, and by voice.
"And if it were to get out..." Saoirse mulled over the thought. Well, it would very well be the end of her before she even stepped foot into The Alder King's Court.
