Page 26 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire

merch heb amser

(A GIRL OUT OF TIME)

I wake up to a wine-rich sunset leaking in through the window and caressing my face.

I pick a new outfit without a care and leisurely make my way downstairs to a strangely quiet house.

No doors are locked to me, and I wander through more sitting rooms and dining halls than anyone could ever need, but no teg cross my path. Not even a servant.

At the back of the manor, I find a gallery.

I’ve heard about great houses with rooms like this, lined with hundreds of paintings.

Vistas of unparalleled beauty and strangeness jockey for attention alongside portraits of snake-eyed ancestors and horned nymphs.

The frames are piled atop each other, stretching high up the walls.

I ignore canvases depicting cities bursting from the sea, a Wild Hunt roving the stars and the white palace I visited only a few days ago, in favor of one particular image.

I assume it’s from the future. It looks nothing like the art of my time.

The people are impressions, the seaside town barely a wash of chalk.

A half-empty audience watches a stage from abandoned deck chairs, and seagulls suspend themselves overhead.

Two men in red suits dance as the sun sets, turning the sky to milky tea, the dying day at odds with the forced life of the stage and its artificial, acid lights.

Exhaustion leaks from the brush strokes, like everyone trapped in the painting has lived the performance a thousand times and will live it a thousand more.

I wonder why Neirin’s given it pride of place, but there’s no one to ask.

I don’t know where the members of Neirin’s court go when he has no need of them. It’s lonely.

“You’ve been summoned.”

The voice startles me, and I whip around to find Beth. Something is… odd about her that I can’t quite place. I can count her bones as they move against her flesh. Her hair is thin and brittle beneath a veneer of shine that won’t stay in place.

I point blindly to the painting.

“What’s this?” I ask. “Where did it come from?”

She pulls a face. “Brighton Pierrots by Sickert. Another realm-crosser gave it to Neirin years ago; he’s rather attached. Can’t see why. There’s better miserable postimpressionism out there.”

I bristle on Neirin’s behalf, and though I try to clamp down on the feeling of irritation, I can’t. I like the painting too, and I think I can guess why it appeals to him so.

“We need to fetch your sword.” She pivots without another word, and I’m left to rush after her.

“My sword?”

I pepper her with questions as she leads me back to my room, but all are met with lackluster answers.

“Where is everyone?”

She waves her hand vaguely toward the end of the corridor. “Around.”

“What do the teg do all day?”

“Whatever makes them happy.”

I enter my room and don’t bother shutting the door as I fasten my rapier to my hip.

“How long have you been here?” I ask as we traipse back through the ever-shifting corridors.

Beth glances back, her pale eyes dull until they snag on something behind me, and she smiles. I try to follow her gaze but see only the hallway we just left. The hair on my arms stands at attention.

“Longer than you,” she says finally.

My brow furrows. That’s the most detailed answer I’ve drawn from her so far. “But in my time you haven’t even been born yet. I still don’t understand how any of this works.”

“You wouldn’t understand”—she tosses her hair—“you’re not like us.”

“You’re not teg, either,” I remind her.

Beth leads me to the tall front door. It’s heavy oak, carved with leaves and vines that curl around stained-glass panes. She doesn’t reach for the golden handle, but it turns for her anyway.

“I’m not,” Beth admits, “but I can see them as they are. I could come and go between our world and theirs.”

“I can see them, too.” It sounds petulant when it leaves my mouth, and Beth’s lips quirk unkindly. We both know I’m telling a half-truth, that I only see because Neirin allows it.

“He’s down at the edge of the estate, near the boathouse,” Beth says tightly, and she turns to leave.

“Wait,” I call, and she halts. We stand in silence for a beat, but she doesn’t look back at me. “You said you could move between the worlds. What happened?”

Her shoulders rise and fall with a silent, dry laugh. “What always happens. I lingered too long. I stayed for a boy, and now I can’t find my way back.”

The wind gets knocked out of me, just a bit.

I suspected that she and Neirin had some form of attachment, but that doesn’t make hearing the truth of it any less unpleasant—and it doesn’t make me any less stupid.

There is a deep imbalance between him and me, and Beth is a breathing reminder of what could happen if everything tips too far in Neirin’s favor.

He seems to have tired of Beth, and yet here she is, trapped. I could easily fall to the same fate.

“I have no designs on him,” I tell her, and I’m not lying. I like Neirin—perhaps too much—but I’m no fool. I won’t jeopardize my sister and my own dignity for a chance at his fickle attentions.

“Oh, that all ended a long time ago.” She looks me up and down pointedly with a sickly grin. “But it’s good that you know your place—that’ll prevent unnecessary embarrassment, won’t it?”

As insults go, I’ve weathered worse. She waits for a response, and I’m tempted not to dignify her with one.

I fix her with the same assessing gaze she used on me and return her smile. “Does it get tiring, being an unwanted houseguest?”

Beth recoils, blinking like I’ve slapped her. I doubt anyone has ever actually hit her before. I’d be overjoyed to be the first.

“I don’t know,” she says primly, a slight waver in her voice. “You’ll have to tell me once he tires of you, too.”

She storms away, leaving me at the door, a bolt of cold panic shooting through me. I watch her as she shrinks and disappears into the opulence of the house, another trinket Neirin keeps on a shelf. I’m dangerously close to ending up just like her.

I try to shake off the truth as I wind through the tiered garden, passing croquet grounds, abandoned picnics and empty dovecotes. I find Neirin at the base of it all, leaning against the wall of his boathouse.

Inside the wooden structure, two rowing boats bob on the placid lake, chained to the dock. Neirin pushes off the wall, his hands in his pockets, and jerks his head, gesturing for me to follow him around the building. Two wooden practice swords and a straw-filled dummy await us.

“What’s this about?” I ask.

“You’ve got that rapier for a reason.” He taps the scabbard as he passes, one finger just brushing my leg, so light I should barely feel it, but I do. “It’s time you learn to use it, before it’s too late.”

I arch a brow. “And who’s going to teach me?”

“I will,” he says, arms held wide as if to say, Who else?

“Forgive my surprise.”

“You saw me kill the pwca.”

My hands fidget at my side. “I assumed that was luck.”

He laughs, unoffended by my attempt to cut him down. “Well, luck is always a part of any fight, but you can’t practice it. You either have luck, or you don’t.”

And don’t I know it.

“Why use practice blades when I have the real thing?” I pick up a wooden sword, holding it out before me by the smooth hilt.

Neirin picks up the other, flipping it deftly in his hand.

“To remind you that this is pretend. You’ll have to use the real thing, eventually.

” It’s almost ominous, until he grins. “Plus, your rapier’s made of iron, so I don’t want it pointed at me.

You’re a bit haphazard and you’ve already marked me once. ”

He turns his palm up, revealing the circle of burned skin. I wonder if iron scars can’t be fully healed, or if Neirin chose to leave it there. Which leads to the lightly distressing idea that perhaps he wants to keep the scar.

“What do you know about sword fighting?” He adopts a wide stance.

I adjust my grip on the hilt. “Avoid the pointy bit.”

“True enough,” he says. “And you have an advantage. That sharp thing at your side is always lethal to us. A single slash is enough to burn a fairy. The trick for you will be ensuring you don’t let it go to your head and get yourself killed.”

I give him a sidelong look. “Are you calling me arrogant, Neirin?”

He returns it in kind. “I’m calling you cocky, Habren.”

We face each other, and the air between us crackles like the edges of a fire. I twitch, and this time Neirin frowns. Something like concern tracks over his features.

“What?”

Neirin nods as I compose myself. “That could be a problem.”

I don’t understand for a moment, until it becomes obvious. An ill-timed twitch could get me maimed, or killed. In a close contest, it could tip the balance away from me.

“It’s never got in the way of me winning a fight before,” I assure him—and myself.

His lips press together in thought. “There’s always a first time.” He gives me a sweeping glance, taking in every inch of me. “I find it hard to believe that you’ve won many fights.”

“Why?”

“You’re…” He searches for the right word. I’m not particularly small, and I’m not thin. He can easily see all the things I’m not, but what I am evades him. “Soft.”

I snort. “No one’s ever accused me of being soft before.”

“Untrained, then. Unprotected. You’re just… human.”

“I win because I refuse to lose,” I tell him.

Neirin nods and, miraculously, seems to believe me. Believes that I can do this. It’s strange, but something blooms in my chest at that. Something hot and quick, shooting through my whole body. If Neirin trusts my anger and stubbornness, I can trust them, too.

“You grip here”—he holds his practice blade aloft—“protecting your fingers with the knuckle bow, and you place your forefinger higher up the hilt to control the tip of the sword.”

I match him. My knuckles are white on the hilt, but the wooden blade feels secure in my hand.

“Yes, I thought that would be your issue. You’re holding it too tight.”