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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-THREE
A FRISSON OF UNEASE STRUCK SAOIRSE.
She held the painting close to her, gingerly. Once she had left the Alder King's chambers, she had only slept for a time in her own before awakening once again. She had elected to bathe and dress herself without Tatterleaf's help. She told herself it was because she had come to reply on the imp far more than she liked, but really, she didn't want the inquisitive faery nipping at her heels with questions Saoirse was loathe to answer. She had lathered herself with soap scented deeply of patchouli, scrubbing furiously until her skin had glistened. Once finished, she had slipped on a frothy robe, and removed the cloth draped over the painting.
With a flick of her finger, Saoirse undid the enchantment on it, and sighed.
"Why so weary, Saoirse dear?" The Painting queried.
Saoirse watched as the figure in the painting cocked his head, eyebrow raising quizzically. His eyes glimmered brightly, an enchanting smile curling his mouth as he sought to pluck answers from her. She said nothing, instead choosing to watch him. Having spent time with him and, of course, the true Alder King, she found it difficult to reconcile the prince she saw on canvas with what she imagined the Alder King to have once been.
She couldn't imagine The Alder King having flounced about calling everyone "dear". Saoirse's nose wrinkled at the thought. The faery in the painting seemed far too lively and mirthful to have been the very same creature that warred with other fey, conquered kingdoms, and grew powerful enough to command the Wild Hunt.
A soft smile graced the faery's mouth, as if he was attuned to her thoughts. "Ah," he said. "You have painted me how Saoirse the Mortal wished he could be at all times. He was loving to her, most times. But he was jaded and wounded. He was harsh and cold, and could not comprehend human emotions; what he projected was a facsimile, a mimicry of her own expressions, until he learned to value them and feel them himself."
Saoirse smirked. That sounded more accurate.
"She wanted something impossible," Saoirse propped her chin on a closed fist, appraising the painting. "If she wanted a foolish, mindless, blething fop of a male, she might as well have married a Mortal serf who had never experienced war, famine, poverty, or loss."
The faery arched a brow. "Is that not another impossibility in and of itself?"
Saoirse's grin was more tooth and claw than mirth. "Precisely."
There was no one in the Mortal Realm untouched by devastation, unawares of the pains of famine and war. Saoirse wagered that though fey likely knew nothing of starvation and poverty, they knew a great deal about war. So, whatever kind of male Saoirse the Painter had wanted was unattainable, for no one of such caliber existed.
