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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 TWENTY-NINE
SAOIRSE'S BRUSH ABSENTLY STROKED THE CANVAS.
A shimmer of white glided in an elegant, faint smear above The Alder King's cheekbone, and along the rim of his crown, casting a glow upon his features.
Saoirse pulled away from the canvas, breathing deeply of oils and paints. The painting was largely beyond halfway complete. But with his eyes left to paint, and much of his cloak to paint, and then embellishments to be added, there was yet work to be done. The Alder King's likeness was easily as beautiful as the King himself. There was a strange essence captured in the sensuous, insouciant curve of his mouth. Saoirse knew that it, too, would be arrested in his eyes when she painted them.
Saoirse exhaled swiftly, setting down her paints. Her fingers ached, and the crick of her neck was sore from canting her head this way and that to admire and appraise her work from different angles. She had returned to her chambers in a frenzy to continue his portrait, something quiet in the recesses of her mind urging her to work on it. She had spent time mixing paints with berries and plants brought up to her by Mairi or Tatterleaf, and she imagined she'd worked on his portrait all throughout his dinner with Isibéal.
Saoirse rose from the ottoman, setting her paint down.
"All finished for the night, child?" Tatterleaf beamed from the doorway, carrying bars of soap in her hands.
"Yes," Saoirse nodded. "I believe I am."
As Tatterleaf set about filling the copper tub with buckets of steaming, piping-hot water, Saoirse covered her painting with a draped cloth. If she so chose, she could have used her magic to dry the painting, blowing a gust of wind. But she didn't.
Saoirse tucked herself into the bathtub, sighing as the warmth ensconced her.
"You must be so weary, child," Tatterleaf announced, smoothing her knobbly fingers through Saoirse's hair. She drew Saoirse's head into the bathtub, lathering her hair with rose-scented suds.
Saoirse lifted from the water with a slight gasp, wiping water from her eyes. She laughed, "Not as tired as you, I imagine."
"The Goblin guards have told me The Alder King dines with the other Changeling tonight," Tatterleaf spoke with a lingering note of disapproval.
Saoirse took the small bar of soap lathering it over her skin, relishing in its sweet smell. "It is only fair," she spoke softly.
Tatterleaf harrumphed loudly, mouth curled in a tight frown. "I do not like the looks of it."
"You think The Alder King would take a portrait over a changeling to keep for all eternity?" Saoirse twisted her head, peering at the imp over her shoulder.
"I think he would be a fool not to," Tatterleaf surprised Saoirse be announcing. "There are changelings and mundane fey aplenty whom he can charm into servitude. However, there are not many individuals with a gift like yours."
