Page 24 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire

gwledd i ffyliaid

(A FEAST FOR FOOLS)

There’s a soft bed beneath me, and the air smells pleasant. Everything is quiet save for birdsong nearby.

My first thought is that I’m dead, but that would make no sense—this is too comfortable to be hell, and I know I’m not bound for heaven.

I stare up at a canopy of leaves, blinking at my surroundings, before propping myself up slowly. I expect pain in my stomach, but it doesn’t come.

The room is almost shabby, but I like it immediately.

The powder-blue walls are littered with intricate murals of trees.

Three mismatched rugs cover the old wooden floor.

An armchair sits beside a decorated wardrobe and a chest of drawers bears a washbasin.

The bed has a patchwork quilt and its four bedposts stretch up into a canopy of leaves, from which burst small yellow flowers.

At the very end, just below my feet, is a great, slumbering dog.

I jerk my leg away from it, and the dog stirs. His eyes are dark marbles, and heavy lids slip down immediately, as if he’s disappointed to see me awake. He yawns, thuds down from the bed and leaves through an open door.

It’s daylight outside, but I’m too well rested for this to be the same day that I last left behind.

Ceridwen.

I curse and swing my legs out of bed, black spots appearing in my vision. I manage to stand, but sway and fall seconds later. I paw at my soft stomach through the linen nightgown but there’s no pain.

I’m just hungry. And I’ve been asleep far too long.

Which means Ceridwen could be in Y Lle Tywyll by now. She could be dead.

My sister could be dead.

I force myself up and lumber for the door, but the moment my hand grasps the wood, Neirin appears on the threshold. I startle and stagger forward, colliding hard with his chest. He catches me, and my face burns hotter than coals.

Neirin’s changed too, into a billowing lilac shirt that he hasn’t bothered to lace, revealing three silver chains adorned with charms that match his earrings. He grips my elbows, the soft silk of his shirt cool against my skin.

“You should be abed.” He frowns.

“I should be in Y Lle Tywyll.” I try to push past him, but my legs give way. One of his arms snakes around my back to steady me, his hand splaying between my shoulder blades.

“By all means: you seem more than ready to—”

“Point taken.” I cut him off, still grasping his arms to stay upright. He’s strong beneath his foppish shirt, and warm. “Where am I?”

“My court. I’ll get the healer—”

“I’m fine. Just… hungry, I think.”

“Habren”—his tone is cautious—“you’re lucky your wound didn’t fester, and that we got here as quickly as we did.”

I squeeze his arms. “Thank you, but I need to go. You know I do.”

Neirin gently pushes me back into the room, and I don’t have enough strength to fight.

He directs me to the bed and lowers me to sit.

Then he kneels at my feet, his hands resting on my knees.

There’s linen between us, but I lose all color as I wonder who put me in this nightgown and pray it wasn’t him.

“Time moves differently here,” he says. “I can manipulate it. For you.”

My stomach turns itself inside out. Can I afford to rest here?

While Ceridwen is still not found? I almost can’t believe it, but it must be the truth.

More than that, he’s given me the gift of time.

A gift that makes my heart race at the possibilities and stills my quick tongue.

I have a moment, stretched to infinity, to breathe.

A moment I can take for myself, without endangering my sister.

Neirin bows his head, and my fingers itch to touch his dark curls as they bounce against my lap—but before I can gather the courage, he rises and steps away.

“Stay here, I’ll bring you tea.”

I open my mouth to protest, but why should I? If time is holding still, then everything else has been turned upside down, too. Someone can wait on me for a change. I try not to look too thrilled when I nod.

Neirin disappears, but I do not heed his advice.

I pull myself up from the bed and try to shake off the shackles of exhaustion from my legs.

I’ve never been one to sit still, and even now that I have the chance it seems pointless.

There’s much to see, even in this room. In the wardrobe I find a bizarre array of fabrics, some of which I’ve never seen before.

I open another door and find a bathroom with pipes that look like the ones in the palace kitchens that produced hot water on demand.

That will be getting tried later. The more I move, the better I start to feel.

I touch my stomach again, and I can feel no sign of a wound or even a scar.

I pause at the window, looking out over rolling grounds ringed by a pretty stream.

There’s no one around, and I wonder if we’re the only people here.

“I told you to stay put,” Neirin says.

I whip around as he enters. He’s carrying a tray bearing two cups of tea and some biscuits. He lays it on the bed and sits down. I join him without any of the fuss I entertained at the inn a mere night before, the tray forming a small barrier between us.

“When have I ever listened?” I ask. “Is this safe for me?”

He glances at the tea and shrugs. “I prepared it myself.”

It’s not quite an answer, but, despite myself, I trust him. I trust that Neirin wants to win the favor as much as I want to reach my sister, and that, strangely, he likes me. I don’t think he would want to see me come to harm.

I reach for the tea, which looks weak until I put it to my lips.

It tastes exactly how I would make it for myself, with just the right amount of milk.

The biscuits too look rather plain, until I bite into one and taste shortbread—the fancy stuff Gran gets from the baker at Christmas. Magic has some rather remarkable uses.

“You seem recovered,” he says.

“I was tired, I think. Your healer seems to have dealt with the worst of it.”

His eyes flick low on my abdomen, and his lips go thin.

“What?” I say. “It’s fine now.”

“Yes,” Neirin replies, face drawn and eyes narrowed, “but I don’t like the thought of you getting hurt in the first place. Isn’t that odd?”

My brows shoot up, and I quickly try to hide my surprise. “It’s… nice of you, I suppose.”

An agonizing silence falls over us. Neirin looks away, stares at the wardrobe instead, though I suspect he’s not really looking at anything. Something is bothering him, and that something, remarkably, is me.

I clear my throat, searching for anything I can say to free us from this suddenly uncomfortable moment. “Where are the clothes I got from Peg?”

Neirin starts, his expression quickly turning jovial again. “They’re ruined.”

I grimace. “Oh. I liked them.”

Neirin sets his cup aside with a smile. “I’ll see what I can do. As you are insisting on getting back on your feet quickly, would you like to join the rest of my court for lunch?”

My instinct is to say no, but that’s the reply Sabrina would give when threatened with any social event in Llanadwen.

For now, I’m Habren, and I’m not stuck in the village, faced with the prospect of another ghastly dance in the town hall.

This is another world entirely, and I am here as the guest of the lord of the manor.

Curiosity courses through me at the prospect of meeting Neirin’s people. I nod.

Neirin rises, and he heads for the door. He glances back and gestures to the tray. “Leave that when you’re done. Someone will take it away.”

My eyes widen. I could get used to this. Neirin leaves without another word, only to be replaced by his massive dog, who stares at the wardrobe against the wall expectantly.

I take the hint and rise with a sigh, moving slowly to make sure I don’t overexert myself. I’m still tired, but I’m more certain on my feet as I throw open the wardrobe doors.

The items inside would be indecent for a grown actress on stage, let alone a sixteen-year-old shopgirl. I dig in, raking through spiderwebs and silks.

“He may as well send me down naked,” I mutter as I pull up a gown of morning dew.

Deep in the wardrobe I find a dress that is just enough for me. The lightweight taffeta is a rich green like my coat. The sleeves sit off the shoulder, but, other than that, it covers everything and clings to nothing. The wide skirt swishes grandly, and a bow droops at the waist.

I check the mirror when I’m finished getting into it, expecting a new girl to be looking back at me.

A girl called Habren Faire—whoever that is.

But in the glass, it’s still just me: Sabrina Parry, neither tall nor small.

An ordinary face with strange, wonderful hair.

I meet my own green eyes. While I’m not transformed, I can’t drum up the unique loathing I usually reserve for my reflection.

The hound leads me to the dining hall. It’s an energetic beast, light on its feet despite its huge body, leaving a trail of slobber for me to follow. When I look behind us, the drops have already vanished.

There’s a shimmer to the walls that I hadn’t noticed before—a ripple in the air that shines when the sunlight catches it.

As I approach each sconce, they light themselves, and woolen flowers burst from the carpet to cushion my every step.

Inside a glass cabinet, crystal birds begin to flutter, and blooms unfurl, the faint clink of glass echoing through the corridor as they move.

We approach the stairs, and the dog leads me down.

The oak risers split like a ribcage, framing a rug shaped like an anatomical heart.

The newel posts are carved sculptures of beautiful teg.

Chandeliers made from warped branches hang overhead, warm-hued orbs of light floating above the arms. I hitch up my skirts inelegantly and hurry after the dog.

We halt at a nondescript door. The hound looks up at me, wide-eyed and expectant.