Page 52

CLAIMING

M al sat at his spinning wheel, straw in his hands, but the device lay silent. His expression was that of someone staring into an open coffin.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, double-checking the dismae were in place before stepping over the threshold.

“It’s gone,” he said in a hollow voice. “The magic. I can’t spin straw into gold anymore.

” As if to prove it, he set the straw in place and the wheel began to turn.

Instead of transforming smoothly into shining metal, the straw remained, well, straw-coloured, bits of broken straw falling to the ground around Mal.

“Maybe your magic just needs longer to recover,” she said, even though it looked even worse than yesterday, where at least glimmers of gold had shown even if they’d failed to properly catch, his power too burned-out to complete the transformation.

Today, his insignia hung thick in the air, paper and metal strong on the back of her tongue, but there wasn’t a single golden glimmer to be seen.

Mal threw the straw aside. “No, I can feel the change. It’s gone .

I don’t understand—” He broke off, his eyes widening.

His shields tightened, with such strength and abruptness that it made Gisele stumble.

She could sense absolutely nothing through the bond.

“Moulding bloody depths ,” he swore, which was almost comical enough to make her laugh, except for his tone.

“Are you going to explain whatever dramatic revelation you’ve just had?” she inquired.

His ears pressed low against his head, but his expression threw her off. It was almost… guilty? “Claiming,” he said grimly and as if this explained anything at all.

She made a go-on gesture to this effect. His ears flattened further, and his expression grew decidedly more hangdog.

“I gained the ability to spin straw into gold in exchange for the return of my true name. Or if that failed, I would claim the firstborn .”

“I don’t underst— Oh.” Heat swept her cheeks. “That’s an awfully archaic interpretation.”

“I know!” he said, pained. “I never meant— I didn’t think. Damn it. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Been unforgivably thoughtless.” He sank back down onto his stool, his earlier burst of energy exhausted.

Gisele teetered between competing emotions but most of all a strong sense of unfairness .

A breath of mirthless laughter escaped. When had anything in her life ever been fair?

Why had she expected that now? But oh, why couldn’t she have had this one nice thing without it being tainted?

Why did magic have to ruin everything once again?

Mal would always look at her now and see loss .

He hadn’t wanted to claim her in any permanent sense.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Mal looked up sharply. “No,” he said with sudden resolution.

“You are not to be sorry for any of this. This magic was never mine to begin with; I bought it at the cost of your life. It’s right that I should be rid of it.

And you'll have your own magic now, untainted by mine, as it should always have been.” He got to his feet, attention on her wrists. “Where’s the key?”

She took a step back. “There’s too much gold in here.”

His eyes flashed. “There isn’t . Your magic won’t react to it now. Let me show you.”

“I’ve already wounded Skymallow enough!”

His gaze softened. “It gave its magic freely and of love. The house bears no grudge.” She felt Skymallow’s silent reinforcement of his words. “Gisele. Let me help you trust yourself again.”

Reluctantly, she pulled out the keychain and undid the dismae. Mal spirited them away almost as soon as they released, as if afraid she’d re-don them if he didn’t. She stood in the centre of his workroom, itchingly conscious of all the piles of raw and worked gold, not daring to move a muscle.

Mal returned holding a heavy rope of golden thread. “Here,” he said.

She refused to hold out her arms. “This doesn’t seem like a good idea, if your supply of gold is now limited.”

He only stepped closer, until there was no room to evade either him or the metal. “Take it,” he told her.

With a hiss of frustration, she did. Nothing happened. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “It doesn’t always happen.”

His gold-blue eyes were inescapable. “Think of the skin of your magic, within yourself. Extending no further than your fingertips. The pulse of it beating in time with yours.”

Despite herself, she fell into the hypnotic rhythm of his words.

A whisper of yesterday’s euphoria swam through her, that green-gold river of joy, and for a moment she was aware of herself as part of the current that ran through the house, through walls and floorboards and rafters.

The world was magic, and she was part of it.

The chain stayed exactly as it was, but beneath her feet, the floorboards creaked.

She sagged back against the wall. “Skymallow? Are you all right?”

The house hummed a reassurance in her mind.

Mal lost his edge of intensity. His ears set sheepishly. “Ah. Yes. The house also contains wood. But I hope I proved my point?” He seemed weirdly cheered.

She was substantially less cheered. “All very well to say so, but it renders the illusion spell we found last night rather useless,” she pointed out. “It was specifically for gold.”

“Perhaps we can find a plant-based equivalent,” he said with unwarranted optimism.

She eyed him narrowly, unsure whether to trust this mood change.

He’d been spinning straw into gold for longer than she’d been alive; surely you couldn’t shake off the loss of something like that after thirty seconds?

But she supposed he was right in that there was nothing for it but to make the best of things.

You couldn’t exactly un-claim people in that way.

Wait—maybe she should check that assumption too.

Mal stared at her blankly when she asked and then began to laugh.

“I’m trying to help!” she grumbled at him. “Faerie is full of silly rules—how am I to know what’s possible and what isn’t?”

“I’m somewhat offended that you’d like to retract the experience. I don’t wish to at all, even if it were possible. Maybe you’d like to be further convinced?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

A wash of relief went through her. She’d thought he’d be firmly opposed to anything more between them, after this result.

She nonetheless pretended to only casual amusement at his comment, as if she hadn’t been terribly fussed either way. “It seems to me that if that hunter spell is going to return soon, and our illusion ritual is now rendered useless, we have other priorities.”

“Alas,” he said mournfully and then took a sharp breath, as if he’d realised something. “The bond between us. We ought to test it again—you might be able to leave now.”

The words were a blow to the stomach, her lungs unable to expand properly. “Are you suggesting I ought to simply leave you to your terrible fate if I can?”

“Yes,” he said, without apology.

She took a deep, calming breath to stop herself from committing homicide. “Let’s see whether it’s even possible first, before I pull out every one of your tail-plumes for being an insufferable martyr.”

He swished said tail, entirely unrepentant. “You can certainly try .” But he grew quiet as they went down to the meadow. She couldn’t sense what he was thinking—was that because the bond had gone or because he was shielding himself so tightly?

“Go on, then.” She gestured, taking up position by the front gate. “It’s your turn to tromp across the meadow.”

“Very well,” he said slowly and began to walk away.

It didn’t take long. He stopped partway across the meadow, his shoulders tensing. He turned.

She could feel it too, the directional pull. Relief crashed through her, followed by something like panic, because she couldn’t possibly be relieved to find herself still bound.

Except, if she hadn’t been, she would have had to argue with Mal in order to stay and face his enemy with him, for his own damn good, and she loathed the idea. “It’s still there,” she said, unnecessarily.

His mouth was a hard line. “Yes. Claiming must extend to ongoing physical proximity. Or perhaps the magic has gone on too long to untangle so easily.”

“You’re stuck with me, then.”

His expression softened. “Your presence is not a burden, Gisele.”

“You just tried to get rid of me,” she pointed out.

“To keep you safe!” he protested as they climbed the steps.

“And what about your safety, you absolute turnip?”

Crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes. “Not my name.”

“It might as well be,” she grumbled, opening the front door. Once inside, he gathered her up and matter-of-factly kissed her.

The next several minutes reduced her ire considerably, but when things threatened to turn in a more distracting direction, she reluctantly extracted herself. “No, hang on; I had an important thought when I was coming to find you before, Absolute Turnip.”

He laughed. “Yes, princess?”

“House-locked objects,” she said, remembering. “Can Skymallow make them?”

He blinked, sobering. “Normally I would say, no, it’s far too young, but it’s already budding off new rooms by itself, so it may be possible. What’s in your mind?”

“You told me that fairy houses try to be useful to their people. What if Skymallow is already doing that? What if it’s been making something to help you find your name this entire time? Is that possible?”

He cocked his head to one side. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly, but she could see excitement building in him. “Maybe. We’ll have to persuade Skymallow to let us have a look at that room.”