Page 25 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire

I drop a swift pat to his back and reach for the door handle as he pads away. The shadow he casts on the wall is far larger than it ought to be. It bares more teeth as well.

I step into an encased garden that steals my breath.

Three glass walls flow into a glass ceiling, held together by whorls of gold binding.

Wisteria creeps up both the outside and inside, the air heady with its perfume.

Trees, bushes and flowerbeds burst from cracks in the marble floor.

Stone nymphs dance around a bubbling fountain, hands eternally entwined.

A piano plays somewhere. In the center of it all sits a large table, covered with mountains of pastel-colored sweets and orbited by smaller tables laden with fruit, cured meats and bread—but it’s the people occupying the chairs around them that crown the scene.

No, I remind myself. They’re not people. They’re about as far from people as anything could be.

Their skin glows in every color imaginable: I spot some almost human tones among the greens, the blues, the rose pinks and the midnight skies.

Their hair, too, shines in unnatural shades, woven with precious jewels, ribbons and sparkling metal strands.

There are wings and horns, clawed hands and cloven hooves.

There are limbs of vine, ivory, clean bone, and there are clothes I can scarcely understand.

Women wear trousers and men wear skirts, while some wear nothing at all.

Some sport attire from Tudor portraits, or Grecian togas, and still others wear fabrics covered in little silver disks that flicker in the light.

Neirin told me when we first met that his court is as fascinated with humans as he is, and it’s reflected in their fashions.

They attempt to emulate us, just as humans don wire wings and flowers in their hair for fancy-dress parties to pass as fairies.

One woman has molded clay to her ears, rounding out the points and making them abnormally large in the process.

Even those who aren’t as committed to the facade have decked themselves out with artificial irregularities: a gold cap on a tooth that doesn’t need one, neat bandages on uncut fingers.

Someone has even drawn pus-filled spots upon their chin.

But most common are the carefully placed freckles in every color—rainbows and sparkling specks, and some the same muddy mess as mine.

Now it’s clear why Neirin’s freckles are so unsettling. He draws them on.

Among the crowd of faux brethren, a woman sits near the head of the table, as human as I am. She sizes me up unsubtly and then returns to conversation her with Neirin, who is presiding over the gathering.

Neirin’s chair is no different from anyone else’s, and his clothes are no lusher, but he holds himself with an ethereal grace that would take me the rest a lifetime to learn.

It must be wonderful, to be comfortable everywhere.

He turns to me, and a bright smile blooms on his face. “Habren!”

Perhaps I’m a fool, but that smile doesn’t look practiced anymore.

Neirin waves a hand at the young man to his side, who vacates his chair and dutifully gestures for the fairy beside him to give him hers.

On and on it goes, each strange creature motioning for the next to move down, hopping from seat to seat in an elaborate show of willing for their lord, until the very last fairy, with skin like a sunset, is bumped from his chair and lands in a heap on the floor.

I scowl and mutter an apology to the displaced gentleman as I pass and take up my seat.

“This is she,” Neirin tells the other human girl. “Our new expert.”

The girl is tiny, with brittle arms and a small face that makes her features look overdrawn. But she’s pretty, and she’s dressed in a gossamer gown of butter yellow that leaves little to the imagination.

“I’m Beth,” she says, with that honey-and-lavender accent that girls learn from governesses and half-missing mothers. “What a strange dress!”

“Habren,” I reply stiffly. “This is just the fashion.”

“When?”

“1842,” I tell her.

“No way! I’m from ’98.”

“1898?” I say incredulously—she must be from London. Or Cardiff.

“1998,” she corrects me, shaking her head. “God, your life must be fascinating.”

“Not as fascinating as yours,” says the fairy beside her, who is green at every edge.

“Mabyn,” Beth chides her, before tossing a conspiratorial glance in my direction.

“We’re all brought to this court for a reason.

I intended to write a comprehensive study of the place and prove its existence, as no one believed me when I said I saw fairies in the bottom of the garden when I was a girl.

” She waves aimlessly. “So, you must have a purpose, too. Right, Neirin?”

Neirin ignores Beth’s question. A silver filigree butterfly perches just above his ear, and I almost laugh at his vanity until the damned thing flutters and floats down to his shoulder.

He lets it sit there undisturbed, the fine wings caressing his carefully rumpled collar.

“Eat.” He gestures to the cakes. “You can eat the food I offer you.”

Dad would tell me not to listen, but Neirin cannot lie. The food he provides is safe, but there’s still a nagging voice at the back of my mind.

“But not from anyone else?” I test, hand half edging toward a cake. Safe or not, the gnawing in my stomach presents its own danger.

“You can make your own decisions.” He shrugs.

I take a slice big enough to serve as a doorstop and lay it delicately on my plate. Beth has only a handful of dates upon hers, and most of the fairies eat nothing at all. I lift a careful forkful to my mouth, and the moment the icing hits my tongue, any care for safety is forgotten.

I’m starving, and this cake is the sweetest thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.

It’s gone in seconds. The tylwyth teg around me watch every bite with hungry eyes, and delight crosses their faces as I reach for a second slice and a then third. The cake sits heavy in my stomach, but I never feel quite full.

“Do you remember me?” Mabyn asks.

My eyes narrow. “We’ve never met before.”

“Yes, we have!” she twitters like a particularly colorful bird. “You were—”

“Mabyn can’t tell humans apart.” Beth rolls her eyes. “She’s probably thinking of someone who came here a century ago. Right, Neirin?”

Neirin laughs. “Mabyn’s a bit dim, poor dear—ignore her, Habren.”

He and Beth exchange a knowing look, and the cake churns in my stomach. Mabyn’s face turns a sallow color, but she continues to smile.

“If we feed you, do you get bigger?” she asks.

I blanch with the fork hanging near my mouth. “I’d prefer not to discuss that.”

“Why?”

“Ladies don’t like discussing their weight,” Beth interjects, her eyes hooded and knowing.

“But why?” Mabyn keeps pushing, her gaze raking up and down me. “You’re very different. Why are you so different?”

“I’m inadequate,” I grit out.

Mabyn roars with laughter. “Oh! I’ve never met anyone less than perfectly adequate before!”

As the evening unfolds, the teg only grow more animated—shrieking laughter across the table, chasing each other around the hall and tumbling into each other’s arms when caught—while my eyes droop. When they open again, Neirin is at my side, a hand outstretched.

“You must be tired,” he says. “The human body has to work hard to heal itself.”

I smile and nod, taking his hand in my own. Neirin gently leads me back to my room, which I’m glad for, as every step is heavier than the last, and I can’t stop yawning. He leaves me at the door, releasing my hand with a squeeze.