Page 13 of Disillusioned (A Lay of Ruinous Reign #2)

Lilac obliged without question. She dumped her bag at the bar with a warning look at Bastion before walking around it and parting the beads. They were heavy. “Silver?”

Lorietta was squatted near the far wall, where sacks of potatoes, wheat, and a couple crates of vegetables were stacked.

She selected another potato and added it to the others in the crook of her arm.

“Iron. Everyone might be welcome to eat and drink here, but no faeries of any kind are allowed in my kitchen.”

The scullery opened up into a much larger room than it’d appeared from the outside; the cooking hearth sat in the nearest corner, and above it hung a large cauldron filled with the delicious-smelling pottage Garin had mentioned.

Three large silk cushions lined the floor before it, colorful and woven with intricate patterns, while a small round table and chair sat along the wall, where a row of mismatched utensils hung.

Along the left wall, beside the crop storage, there was a tall cabinet filled with bottles of herbs and spices, and beside that, a smaller fire that burned green beneath a mini cauldron. There was a large woven rug at the back of the room between two barrels and a liquor cabinet.

Lorietta brought the potatoes to the table, where she began roughly halving them with the knife she plucked from the wall.

Lilac stepped in, letting the iron beads fall behind her.

During her journey through Brocéliande, she’d learned how several of the “rules” on interacting with Daemons had turned out to be superstitions.

It was good to know that one was true—that even Kestrel and his terrifying jury of faeries had a weakness .

The house suddenly shuddered, the timber above them creaking in place.

The witch set down her knife. There was a book open on a stand between the table and the pot; she ran a finger down the open page. “Do me a favor and cut those last few for me, dear,” she said, turning to the pot and lifting the gigantic wooden spoon that sat in it. “It’s time for me to stir.”

Lilac was glad to have her hands occupied instead of going over her memorized notes again. She picked her way around the pillows and began slicing the potatoes while Lorietta stared and muttered at her book. She began stirring counterclockwise with both hands.

“This is my grimoire,” the witch said, feeling Lilac’s eyes on her.

“It must be very old.”

“A few years younger than Garin, I think.”

Reminded of him, she glanced through the curtain of beads. Bastion was still alone at the bar.

The potato in her hand rolled, and a sharp stab of pain slashed across her knuckle as the knife slipped. Lilac dropped both and cradled her finger. “Shit.”

A bead of blood—more than a bead—pooled at her knuckle.

“What’s the matter, dear?” asked Lorietta without looking up from the pottage. “Nervous, are we?”

“Yes,” she said, swiping her finger against her dress and sucking off the rest. “Extremely.”

“Well, I can’t have you bleeding into the food.” But Lorietta turned her head ever so slightly and winked. “You can’t start any discussion without all parties here—or at least Kestrel, if Garin’s informed me correctly about your foolish faerie bargain.”

“That’s right.” She knew the witch was one to speak her mind, but there was something about her comment that ate at her. “We had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice. While there may not be a way out of striking a deal with them, you as one of the agreeing parties can adjust or add to the terms. It’s a gamble.

It all depends on how much you’re willing to divulge.

Out of all the faerie courts of Brittany, the Court of the Valley is the most amicable. ”

Amicable ? A violent shudder ran through her, imaging Kestrel’s seemingly limitless power. There was nothing amicable about her experience at Cinderfell, Kestrel’s manor.

Lorietta frowned.

“What is it?”

She cocked her head at the blank brick wall at the back of the kitchen. “There’s an ingredient I seem to be missing. The pottage is nearly done. Will you retrieve it for me in the cellar?”

Lilac glanced around. “And… where is this cellar?”

“Move the rug.”

She shifted the corner of the woven gold and maroon rug aside to reveal a wooden panel—a square of embedded into the floor. A single rung lay flush against it. A door.

“Oh,” she said, attempting to hide her grimace behind a smile. “Could I maybe stir the pot for you?”

“No. My repetition spell has been set on the spoon, and it will stir itself every few minutes until it’s of the perfect consistency, which, if I get that ingredient, should be around the time everyone starts arriving.

” She smiled. “We have time, but I do have to keep a close eye on it. And finish those potatoes.”

What was the point of a spell to stir the soup for her if she couldn’t leave the cauldron?

But Lorietta wouldn’t take no for an answer, so Lilac lifted the rung and opened the door, resting it gently on the wall.

Shallow stone steps led down into the cellar, which seemed well-lit.

It was hard to tell; the stairwell bent off to the right.

“And what is it I’m looking for?”

“You’ll know. It’s hard to miss.”

She bent, bracing herself on the floorboards as she lowered herself down the first few steps. She had to duck after nearly whacking her head on the ceiling of the cellar, and as she descended, the glow of a flame grew brighter. It was much too bright to belong to a torch, or even several.

The steps led into a thin passageway. Lilac continued along it, hands on each side of the wall, until she finally came to a sharp corner.

When the room opened up, there was neither barrel nor bottle in sight.