Page 19 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire

y dafarn

(THE INN)

The thrill of my small victory over Peg fades quickly.

We make slow progress from the cottage and I begin flagging behind Neirin.

I keep pushing myself to walk faster, but his legs are far too long, and he doesn’t seem to be burdened by human inconveniences like exhaustion.

I’m not so lucky, and I’ve been traveling for perhaps three days straight with barely a few hours of sleep spread sporadically between them.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” says Neirin.

I wave him off. “It’s nothing. We must keep moving.”

I carry on walking, but Neirin falls back. I let out a loud huff, gesturing toward the path of our forward march. Neirin remains rooted, eyes raking up and down my rigid, heavy body.

“As much as I admire your energy,” he says, “it’s getting late, and while I could keep walking, I think you’re close to hitting the floor and not getting back up.”

“So serious,” I scoff.

Neirin reaches my side in a few quick strides. He takes hold of my elbow, the light grip of his fingers burning even through the thick wool of my new coat. My eyes flick to his.

“In this, I am.” Neirin leans slightly toward me. “You are mortal, and so is your sister. You both get tired. You both need to rest. Sleeping will cost you very little, and we don’t have to bunk in the dirt.”

That makes a disturbing amount of sense by Neirin’s standards.

Maybe he’s starting to understand my sense of urgency.

He wouldn’t suggest stopping if it put us in danger of falling too far behind, because if my sister gets to Y Lle Tywyll first there’s a chance that I will not be the champion—which means Neirin will not win.

But Ceridwen shares my weaknesses, and I hers.

We both must rest, and the sky is darkening above.

If Ceridwen is on the road, she will stop soon, too. I hadn’t thought of it that way.

It still feels like losing time I can’t afford.

My brow furrows. “Yes, I imagine the inns around here are delightful. Their rats must be world-renowned.”

Neirin snorts. “If anyone opened an inn near Peg’s cottage she’d eat them before the first day was up. No, I was going to hurry us along to somewhere a bit more… civilized—and on our route, before you start yelling about your sister again.”

My limbs tingle at the thought of giving in, of going to sleep somewhere warm and comfortable, and I even have a spiteful moment of delight when I imagine my sister bedding down in the forest while I am treated to an inn.

I purse my lips. “Another magical horse?”

“Oh no”—he waves me off—“I prefer a bit of luxury. Though I wanted to check before I offend your sensibilities.”

“What sensibilities?”

“You’re rather proud of your”—he slouches as I do and affects an accent that’s supposed to mimic mine—“humble, salt-of-the-earth ways.”

“That’s nothing like me,” I say, even as I pull the same face. “Impress me with your extravagances, then.”

Neirin takes that as a challenge. He releases my arm, the heat of his touch falling away, puts his two little fingers at the corners of his mouth, and whistles like he’s trying to signal a dog that’s miles away. It rings in my skull.

I cover my ears. “A little warning?”

The quiet that follows stretches thin, until it’s sliced through by the sound of something thumping toward us.

There’s a flash of black, white and silver, and a carriage hurtles through the trees.

I leap back, certain it’s going to crash, but it screeches to a halt mere steps away. Neirin doesn’t even flinch.

“Evening, Iwan,” Neirin says.

For a second, I think he’s speaking to the carriage itself, until a small figure rises from the coachman’s perch and lifts his hat.

He’s a bwbach, slightly bigger than the ones I saw in the kitchen, and dressed in a footman’s lilac livery, his lavender hair sprouting in wild tufts from a head that seems slightly too large for his body.

“Sir,” says Iwan. “Am I to take you home? You’ve been missed.”

Neirin waves him off. “I’ve been gone longer before.”

“Not in a good while, sir.”

A muscle in Neirin’s jaw jumps as he tries to hold his smile.

“Regardless,” he says. “Take us to that little village north of here—Aberoedd. They have a fabulous inn.”

Iwan merely nods. “Aberoedd it is.”

Neirin steps up to the carriage and the door opens as if commanded.

The contraption looks human-made, including a little box with a perch for the driver, lacquered all in black and accented with silver, and doors that are white and shining.

The only difference, really, is that although the driver has pulled the reins taut, and though the bridles are holding the shape of horses, there are no horses to be seen. There’s no smell of manure, either.

I point to the carriage. “No horses?”

Neirin smiles. “As I said, I prefer elegant solutions—if I wanted to give you a fit, I’d have summoned an automobile.”

“What’s an automobile?”

“A carriage without horses.”

I jab my finger at the contraption again. “This is a carriage without horses.”

Neirin stutters. “All right, well, I don’t quite know how to explain it, but it runs on an engine, however that works. You ask so many questions. Don’t spoil all my tricks.” He holds out a hand. “After you.”

It’s the most gentlemanly thing he’s done in our acquaintance.

I take his hand and step into the carriage.

My feet ache from the walk, and when I spot the lone cushioned leather bench I almost flop down onto it, until I note how small the space is.

We’re going to be in very close quarters.

I tuck myself into the corner, as far away from his spot as I can get.

By contrast, Neirin gets in and lets his long, lanky legs unfurl. No matter how I sit, our arms brush together.

His eyes rake up and down me. “Sit comfortably, Habren. No one can see you.”

“You can,” I remind him.

“Ah yes, I’m going to be scandalized by your lack of ladylike grace in a carriage,” Neirin says. “Do you really think I’m that boring?”

I shrug, kick my legs out to reveal the petticoat beneath my skirt, and slouch.

He raises a hand to knock on the roof, and the carriage lurches forward, impossibly fast. I pitch forward, hands flailing with nothing to grab on to until Neirin catches me around the middle, arms locking around me to stop me from tumbling off the bench.

I let out a shaky breath. “Good catch.”

“Can’t lose my champion to a carriage accident before we even reach Y Lle Tywyll—imagine how mortifying that would be.”

“Perhaps it would humble you,” I suggest, keenly aware of his hands on my waist.

He laughs. “Do you think anything could ever truly humble me?”

“I think I could,” I say, and my face burns when I realize just how brazen that sounds when spoken aloud.

Neirin doesn’t release me. Not yet. He leans back, taking me with him, until we’re properly in our seats once more, and sitting far too close together.

His arms slip away, and I know I should remove myself to my corner again, but I don’t.

Our arms brush and I can feel him at my side, waiting for me to put distance between us.

I cross my arms and turn to look at him.

Our faces share the same headrest. My pale hair touches his dark, and we hold each other’s gazes for a beat longer than we ought.

I will Neirin to look away, to let the moment pass, but he doesn’t.

Something shifts low in my stomach, and though I should be staring out the window at Eu gwlad as it passes, I spend the short ride looking at Neirin instead.

The carriage vanishes into the night as we exit, leaving us in the center of the village. There are a handful of buildings on both banks of a stream cutting through a clearing. A small footbridge connects both sides.

The town is half asleep, tucking itself beneath blankets and winking out the lights.

We traverse a stone pathway passing mismatched cottages, shops—even a tiny schoolhouse occupied by a rabbit-eared teg in a blue scholar’s gown.

Nearby, a pwca is closing an antiques shop, which has a large front window filled with trinkets.

Some—like the globe and a box of newspapers—seem to come from my world.

A few people throw us a cursory questioning glance, but I suspect they’re merely curious about unfamiliar faces.

An inn squats at the end of the road, a thatched little thing with warped windows and an open door. Someone inside is playing a violin, and rowdy chatter leaks out.

I stand on the threshold as Neirin enters the tavern.

Many of the fairies look human save for the odd tell.

Goats’ legs beneath velvet breeches, foxes’ ears poking out of hair.

Sprites perch on a light fixture, imbibing from thimbles that glint like diamonds, while witches gather in a corner, sharing a brew.

The barman is some hulking ogre of a creature, dwarfing Neirin as they talk.

Instruments hover in the air, playing without fingers on the strings.

My foot taps to the beat of the music, but I resist the urge to join the dancers.

Among the fray, I spot a human man, clad in the pantaloons and tall boots of an earlier decade, carrying a tray of discarded cups.

Straggling strands of long gray hair cling in patches to his dry, flaking scalp.

His face is thin and gaunt as a skull, and the eyes that stare from it are as empty as the cups he collects.

When fairies bump into him, knock him off course, he snaps back like a bandalore.

His face is a mask of blissful, perfect happiness—and I could almost believe it, if it weren’t for the thin layer of filth that clings to him.

He passes me by without a hint of recognition of his own kind. Based on his worn shoes and hobbling gait, I don’t think he’s sat down in years.