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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 NINETEEN
SAOIRSE AND ISIBÉAL STAYED CLOISTERED IN HER CHAMBERS.
The wraith-like handmaidens returned twice to her chambers. Once, to divest Saoirse of the glittering ornaments they'd bejeweled her with, leaving behind a shift for her to change into. The second was to bring in a platter of food, as they had not been invited to dine with the Alder King's Court.
Likely, too much exposure to Mortals would make them rather irritable and testy, Saoirse determined. Especially seeing as neither she or Isibéal were to be gobbled by then, nor put to work at their whim.
The fireplace crackled, the light of the flame bouncing about the walls woven of bramble and thorn. They warmed her feet, ensconced in the carpet of roses. Isibéal has slowly grown less solemn as the evening proceeded, until she abandoned all pomp and finesse, and sat slumped in the seat across from Saoirse.
The platter of food sat between the enticingly. Fruit glistened—plump wreaths of jade-green grapes, pomegranate gemstones glittered tauntingly, apples brighter than rubies and nearly as large as Saoirse's fist. Tarts piled high, looking divine, with sweet custard and cream. Slivers of honeycomb sat next to a fat wedge of cheese marbled with bluish veins. Thick slices of bread, golden and emanating a pleasant aroma of salt and rosemary, beckoned to be slathered in butter. A bountiful mountain of goose and hare sat before Saoirse, hare dripping of fat, and the goose honeyed and spiced.
She didn't quite know what to make of it all, however, Isibéal immediately snatched a tart and a handful of grapes. She hadn't been given such meals the previous two nights. In fact, all she'd had to eat this far had been fruit and cheese. At that though, Saoirse's stomach grumbles rather noisily, roused at the sight and smell.
She looked around in askance, instantly searching for silverware, and found none.
Well of course they have no silverware, Saoirse chided herself. Eating with silverware is something Mortals do. Indeed, faerys with their grace and long, delicate, spidery fingers could deftly demolish a meal spilling nary a crumb.
"You eat so...freely?" Saoirse questioned Isibéal, head tilted to appraise the Changeling.
Isibéal blinked once, absently chewing a morsel of cheese which was chased down by a tart. "Do you not?" It was as if the thought had not occurred to her.
Smiling, Saoirse plucked a grape from the vine and rolled it between her fingers. "Haven't you heard the tales? Of food keeping mortals prisoner in Eldhame for hundreds of years? Of food being laced with enchantments, perhaps bread enchanted so as to then turn a mortal into a chicken, or of wine stealing the mortal of their vitality?"
Isibéal's brow furrowed as she considered Saoirse's words. "We are already prisoner here, I see little good in denying ourselves food and nourishment when we cannot change circumstance."
