A Dance with the Fae Prince

One

When the money ran out, Joyce sold the paintings, then Father’s silver, then my mother’s jewelry and dresses, then everything of value in my corridor. She sold and sold to fund her parties and ambitions. She sold to try to reclaim some of the glory that died with my father.

Now there is nothing left.

So today she will sell my hand in marriage.

It hasn’t been said plainly. I just know it to be true. I’ve known it for over a year now—­I feel it deep in my bones, the same way I can feel a storm lingering just beyond the horizon, the air thick with anticipation. It started with little comments my sisters made, small things here and there. Every time, I was “unreasonable” for reading between the lines.

But that’s where the truth always lies, isn’t it? The unsaid between.

Then mentions of marriage and “suitable arrangements” for my age became common around the dinner table. I eat too much and do too little. Marrying me off makes the most business sense, and Joyce is a businesswoman before anything else.

The thoughts are as heavy and inescapable as the fog drifting across the rolling highlands that stretch from my father’s estate down to the dense forests that cluster at the foot of the Slate Mountains. These worries have been a constant cloud hanging over me for weeks. I shift Misty’s reins in my hands. She lets out a whinny and shakes her head; I pat her neck in response. She can sense my displeasure.

“It’s all right,” I assure her. But I honestly have no idea if anything is all right or not. Today’s the day Joyce will meet with the man who will purchase my hand in marriage. Everything hinges on discussions that I’m not even privy to. “Let’s go, one more run to the forest.”

Misty is a gray-­colored mare, but I didn’t name her for her coat. She was born in the late fall months—­around this time—­three years ago. I stayed up all night in the stables with her mother, waiting to meet her. I wanted to make sure that I was the first person she saw.

She’s the last thing my father gave me before his ship went down.

Since then, we’ve been inseparable. I take her out every morning, and Misty runs with a speed that makes me feel like my feet have left the earth and I soar with the birds above. Now, as we fly over the wet soil, cutting through the mist like an arrow, it crosses my mind, not for the first time, that maybe we should just keep running.

Maybe I could liberate us both. We would go . . . and never come back.

The trees come out of nowhere—­a solid line of sentinels, more like a wall than a forest. Misty rears back, nearly throwing me. I tug and twist, regaining control. We trot along the doorstep of the dark forest.

My eyes scan the trees, though there is little to see. Between the mist and the thick canopy, anything beyond a few feet is as dark as pitch. I tug on the reins lightly and bring us to a stop, trying to get a better look, though I don’t know what I’m searching for. The townsfolk say that they see lights in the woods at night. Some brave huntsmen who dare to go past the natural barrier of man and magic claim that they have seen the wild and wicked creatures of the forest—­half man, half beast. The fae.

Naturally, I’ve never been allowed into the woods. My palms are slick with sweat and I rub them on the thick canvas of my riding pants. Being this close always fills me with a restless anticipation.

Is today the day? If I run into the forest, no one would follow me. People who go into the forest are presumed dead after less than an hour.

The sharp cry of our rooster echoes over the slowly sloping hills. I glance back in the direction of our estate. The sun is beginning to tear through the mist with its obnoxiously bright fingers. My brief moments of freedom have expired . . . it’s time to face my fate.

The ride back takes twice as long as the ride out. Pulling myself away from the brisk twilight dawn, thick mist, and all the great mysteries that lie in that dark wood becomes harder and harder every day. It’s made no easier by the fact that the last place I want to be is the manor. The possibly fae-­infested woods are appealing by comparison.

When I’m halfway back, it strikes me that this is the last time I’ll make this ride . . . But I have no doubt that the freedoms I enjoy here, limited though they are, will completely disappear when I am married off to some rich lordling to be his broodmare. When I am forced to suffer whatever abuses he inflicts on me in the name of the most wicked thing in the world: love.

“Katria, Joyce is going to skin you alive for being out so late,” Cordella, the stable hand, chastises me. “She’s been out here twice already looking for you.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I dismount.

Cordella slaps me lightly on my upper arm and points a finger in my face. “Today you have an opportunity most girls can only dream about. The lady of the house is going to find you a smart, sensible match, a man who will care for you for the rest of your days, and all you have to do is smile and look pretty.”

I’ve had enough people “caring” for me to last a lifetime. But I say, “I know. I merely wish I had some kind of say in who that man is.”

“It doesn’t matter who the man is.” Cordella begins unfastening the saddle as I take the bridle from Misty’s mouth. “All that matters is that he’s rich.”

When Cordella looks at me, she sees a young heiress. She sees the house, the dresses, the parties—­all the appearances of wealth that Joyce can’t let go of. She sees the glittering facade left over from a time when we genuinely had all those good things, long before it was all hollowed out from the rot of poor decisions and my father’s death.

“I hope for the best,” I say finally. Anything else would sound as if I’m being ungrateful. Cordella is a woman of modest background and opportunity, and from where she stands, I have no reason to be anything less than grateful.

“Katria,” my youngest sister, Laura, calls from the veranda that wraps around the entire manor. The sun has barely woken, and she’s already dressed, looking like she is the one who will get betrothed today, not me in my old, threadbare, mud-­stained clothes. “Mother is looking for you.”

“I know.” I pass the bridle to Cordella. “Do you mind taking care of the rest?”

“I can make an exception today.” She winks. Cordella has made such “exceptions” more than once. Joyce decreed that if I was to have a horse, I would be the one who would take care of it—­that no further expenses could be had for mounts after father gifted me the foal. Never mind that my sisters have both had stallions boarded for years and hardly ever ride them. Their expenses have never been “too much.”

“Thank you,” I say earnestly and start for the manor.

“You stink,” Laura says with a laugh as I approach. For dramatic effect, she pinches her nose.

“Are you sure that’s not you?” I give her a sly grin. “I don’t think you bathed this morning.”

“I am as sweet as a rose,” Laura proclaims.

“A rose?” I waggle my fingers. “Then what are all these stinky thorns?” I descend on her, tickling her midsection. She squeals, pushing me away.

“Don’t! You—­you’ll get mud on my skirts!”

“I am the mud monster!”

“No, no, save me!” She roars with laughter.

“That’s enough.” Helen cuts through the brief moment of levity with a severe note. Even though she’s younger than me, she acts like she’s the eldest. Of the three of us, she’s the one who’s really in control. Mother’s favorite. “Laura, come,” she orders our younger sister.

Laura looks from Helen to me but relents and obeys Joyce’s second in command.

“You cannot keep acting like that,” Helen scolds Laura.

“But I—­”

“These childish notions. Don’t you want to be a proper lady?”

“Yes, but—­”

“Then you should start acting like one.” Helen’s short-­cropped blond hair falls over one side of her face. She has been coddled her entire life, and yet she moves like an assassin. She’s constantly lurking in the shadows, and in my nightmares.

Someday, Laura will wake up and be just like her. The sweet girl I know will be crushed under Helen’s and Joyce’s heels.

“What do you need, Helen?” I try to bring the attention back to me to spare Laura.

“Oh, I came to deliver a message.” Helen’s smile is like a snake’s. It’s the same smile as her mother’s. The same smile Laura will learn, in time. There are very few things about my father remarrying after my mother’s death that I consider a blessing, but knowing that I don’t share blood—­and that horrible smile—­with the woman who raised me is one of those things. “Joyce wants you to go and mop the entry for our guests today.”