Young Immortals

Four: Finders Keepers

"Seen but never heard, responsive but never overbearing, capable but never more than them," I whisper under my breath, like a lunatic, as I tear through my towels and brushes. Even when I remove everything from the easel's cubby twice, I still can't find my sketchbook. "And above all, never attract their–oooooh gods."

I drop to the back of my heels, digging my fingers into my hair as a wave of panic crashes over me. My lengthy, detailed collection of Prince Devlin has disappeared. And with it, any chance of reaching my nineteenth name day.

Trying to stay calm, I walk the length of the garden three times. I sneak into the RA's quarters and hunt through their things. I tear my bedchamber apart, which doesn't take long, considering there's only enough space for a cot and a makeshift desk I constructed of books and a plank of wood.

Each time I fail to find my sketchbook, my chest tightens. I don't have any other solution. Hiding is impractical, and thanks to my mask, running is deadly. Actually, I might prefer getting my skull ground to dust over what will happen if my sketchbook falls into the wrong hands.

Hunkletoad made that point abundantly clear. A terrible insult when done to most fae. Treason when done to royalty.

The thought jolts me back onto my feet. I cross my chamber in two steps and jerk open the door just as Prince Silas knocks. He catches himself at the last second, stopping his fist an inch from my lips.

"Your Highness," I blurt out, my breath ghosting his knuckles.

His eyes flicker from the grass stains on my shins to my sweat-soaked uniform. All coppers wear the same shapeless brown smock, but mine is especially worn out, a hand-me-down that's seen more users than a communal dish rag.

"I hope you haven't wasted your whole day searching," Silas says. "Your sketchbook has been in my possession since this afternoon. The wind blew your rags off of it, falling on a rather–shall we say–detailed drawing of my brother."

All the blood drains from my face.

Silas stares back passively, his expression unreadable. "Can I come in?"

In a daze, I step aside. His body takes up half of the chamber. There's no future except a sleeping mat and a makeshift desk that I built by stacking a plank of wood over a few books.

While Silas leans down so his head doesn't hit the low hanging ceiling, I watch him from the corner of my eyes. I've memorized Devlin, but it's the first time I've looked at his younger brother for any extended amount of time.

Silas has always unnerved me, and not just because of the first time I met him, or the swift brutality he handles his sparring opponents. Even if he wasn't a prince, he'd be famous for his sparring skill alone, and that's fine. I can separate his job from his personality. I just can't get past his face. The sun is more pleasing to look at.

Since all fae age fifty times slower than mortals, Silas looks around my age, eighteen, and many coppers say he is the most comely prince. Too perfect. It's unnatural. Granted, calling a fae unnatural is like calling a giant tall, but Silas Vanguard is especially so.

He's the same mistake artists make when they fall in love with their muse–glossing over every flaw, painting something so beautiful it can never actually exist in real life. It's a cold beauty. Soulless. The embodiment of everything it means to be a fae.

"If you're wearing iron, charm, or anything that will disrupt my glamor, take it off," Silas says. I set my iron bracelet on the nightstand, and he pauses for a beat. "I can sense it, you now."

I remove two more bracelets, three arm cuffs, a necklace, an iron dagger, a string of rowan berries, and two charms tucked in the soles of my slippers until a small mountain of loot piles onto my desk.