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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 THIRTY
SAOIRSE FELT HER LUNGS COLLAPSE. Her breath departed her on bone-weary, exhausted whisper of an exhale laden with acceptance.
It was as she had thought. She had been deliberately cursed with the name of another creature of magic. And with it, she had inherited their magic, their curses, and their fate.
Saoirse's mouth trembled as she tried, in vain, to consolidate her thoughts--to integrate the realization into her reality without protest. But she could not. She didn't even belong to herself; what a terrible, painful thought. A terrible moan, a poem of sorrow, scratched and clawed at her throat, willing release. But Saoirse refused to give in.
"She is never to be spoken of," The Selkie hissed, eyes narrowed in a glower. "Why do you wish to know about her?"
Saoirse's tongue faltered. "I--my mistress knew of an individual named Saoirse. What little I've heard about the mortal matches what I knew, so I wondered if they were one and the same."
The Selkie perused Saoirse in silence, then a slender arm uncrossed from her chest and snatched Saoirse by the wrist. With the flick of a wrist, Saoirse was pulled into The Selkie's room and the door was closed behind her with a firm thud.
Unlike Saoirse's room, the Selkie's walls were clothed in tapestries of silken waters and seas. Her bed was a vast slender of grey furs and plump pillows. She had no hearth. As such, the room had a brisk chill to it, but Saoirse paid it no heed, frozen in her wallowing.
"You reek of iron, Changeling," the Selkie's lip curled.
Saoirse couldn't summon the energy to laugh--not even in bitterness. Instead, her eyes shadowed and her stomach shrank. Was that the root of her iron magic? Was she cursed with such a gift because she bore the name of another who had resided in Elfhame? In addition to inheriting all that the mortal had afflicted her with?
Without asking permission, Saoirse slumped into the cushions strewn across the floor. She was weary beyond belief.
The Selkie didn't seem bothered by the fact that Saoirse hadn't defended herself, or that she hadn't asked her permission. Instead, the Selkie lifted a decanter of wine that smelled heavily of violets and poured a goblet full. With a flick of her fingers, a thread of water pulled from the vast tub frothing with foam and soap, and carried the goblet to Saoirse.
"Drink," the faery urged Saoirse.
Saoirse didn't even lift a finger. She merely eyed the goblet absently, knees drawn to her chest as she struggled to find purchase on the ground once more.
Without a care in the world, The Selkie loosened her flimsy robe and cast it to the side. Lithely, the faery glided towards the tub, shimmering grey hair tumbling and swaying with her every step. She stepped into the tub delicately, a sigh slipping from her lips. She tossed a look over her shoulder, glancing at Saoirse, and snorted. "I do not gift it with trickery or malice. Drink."
