Page 17 of The Wind and the Wild (The Keepers of Faerie #1)

At the very least, he understood the concern behind my question.

I’m not certain I believe him—not because he could be lying, but because he may believe something untrue.

But he knows the ways of Faerie and his own kind far better than a village girl who does not even know the proper name of the monsters who attacked her.

Of course, this point would be moot if I never returned to these lands.

“ Thank you,” I say kindly.

With a nod, he mumbles, “ Your hounds will be dispatched of shortly. You will be safe.”

His eyes flicker to my hand as mine fall to his cane resting against the steps.

Will you be safe? Not the question to ask—not when he is avoiding the rest. Gripping the basket handle, I edge toward him, sitting on the same step but leaving space between us. I do not know if my presence irritates him once he is not panicking over monsters.

“ Do you need to return to your village?” he asks.

Numbly, I shake my head, still feeling foolish and wishing I could look into his eyes again—not from across the room, but from under his chin as I did minutes ago.

“ Stay until the sun is high, if you can. I would walk you back to the border but... not today.”

Tightness lodges in my chest at how miserable he seems from just his venture down the stairs. It’s a far cry from yesterday and our little trek to the honey hive. I don’t wish to be incredibly blunt, not with this gentle creature, but my hints have gotten me nowhere.

“ Are you dying?”

His eyes find mine again. “ I hope not.”

Not the answer I was searching for, and not even a little comforting. However, I already asked him if I could help and was denied. I fear asking too many times might have him chasing me away.

What would be so wrong with that? Perhaps it is what I should be hoping for.

“ What do you have there?” He nods to the basket I cling to like a toddler’s blanket.

I look at the cloth covering the items. I cannot go back to our world—not for the next few hours.

“ Food. Can I borrow your hearth?”

His eyebrows twitch, and he glances away in thought. “ I believe there is something you’ll like better.”

Frowning, I follow as he finds his way through the bookshelves on the ground floor.

Directly above us should be the room where he’s taken up residence.

Pushing open another door blocked by a few fallen books and old hinges, he tosses a knowing smile over his shoulder and disappears inside.

Though I’ve long since determined I am safe enough within these walls, I follow as if the room will swallow me up.

When I find my way inside, my feet fall still.

“ Why does a library have a kitchen?” I ask, too thrilled to be properly confused.

“ Our kind often taken up residence where we make our work. The sprites and nymphs who resided in these halls would care for them, so it would have all the comforts of home. There are bedrooms close by. They were too dusty for my liking. The hearth upstairs was friendlier, anyhow.”

It is a small thing; no more than a dozen paces long and wide, the little kitchen is fitted with a large hearth of its own and has a sturdy dust-laden table in the center.

Any remnants of food are long gone, but pots and pans and utensils of all sorts hang along the walls.

Cupboards sit carefully closed, perhaps stocked full of plates and cups and bowls.

Wood is still stacked by the hearth, so ancient it has turned full of holes and old soot.

Spiderwebs hang in silky threads in the corners, their dust capturing the bright morning light from a high window.

Aidyn leans against the table, his back to me, observing the window or whatever lies beyond that his faerie eyes can better see.

The sun catches on the edges of his pale shirt and along the few stray hairs that aren’t combed.

He isn’t even looking at me, and I can’t imagine what must be going through the mind of such a creature.

“ What happened to this place?” I ask as soft as possible, unwilling to disturb the strange spell that’s fallen across the kitchen with the sunlight and Aidyn in its midst.

“ I do not know,” he mumbles in a matching tone. “ It must be an ancient place indeed for us to have abandoned it.”

His free hand gives a small movement, and the red-orange maple leaves strewn across the dusty stone floor go skittering around my feet before settling.

Not for the first time, my heart jumps into my throat.

I gaze up at him. My hand twitches to reach out and touch him again.

Ridiculous. He’s taken my hand once already.

There was nothing strange about it, nothing magical, truly, but suddenly, I wonder what it must be like to inspect the fingers that can send magic out into the world.

Finally, he checks back over his shoulder—hopefully I don’t look as if I’ve been gaping at his back.

What is your magic? I want to ask, but instead, worried of irritating him, I ask, “ What is your favorite food?”

Quirking an amused eyebrow, he seats himself carefully on the edge of the table, eyeballing my basket. “ Nothing you have heard of. What do you have in there?”

Forcing my feet forward, I set the basket down and begin taking out my store: eggs, milk (no more honey, considering he has eaten it all), smoked bream we had in the storehouse, potatoes, and an assortment of vegetables from the garden as well as what berries I’ve been gathering on the human side of the border this early in the spring.

They’re a tad pathetic compared to those that grow year-round just within Faerie, but I’ve been too nervous to go to my usual places.

Perhaps I should be more nervous to be here with this creature.

Without meaning to, I glance up, finding his eyes on my movements with that same predator-bird intensity of when he first startled me on the bookshelf. This time, he smiles. It does something human to his eyes.

“ What are you going to make?”

He looks so purely happy to have someone to make him something to eat—or perhaps only to have some company—that I can’t help a nervous giggle. “ I don’t know. I don’t suppose you have any of that honey in here? I could make the cake I mentioned.”

“ I actually did bring more in just for myself,” he says, eyes flickering to the door, and I realize he plans on hiking back up and down the stairs. “ I can—”

“ You”—I point at him, backing toward the door—“stay there. I’ll get it. Don’t... rot the eggs or anything.”

“ That is a myth ,” he calls, offended, as I trot back for the stairs.

Another giggle bursts out. It’s the uncanniest thing, joking with this creature. I have to wonder what Una will say about this development.

I take the stairs carefully, creeping into the room he’s taken up with more nerves now that I’m here.

This is his private place, and though he didn’t object to my presence, I don’t want to touch anything.

It is much as it was the day before, with his blankets and pillows by the dimly flickering hearth.

A few clean shirts and other things are folded neatly beside the bed as well.

Beside them is the crate of sleeping kittens.

When I lift the blanket, they don’t wake.

He has a few items stacked on the shelf near what books he’s taken for his own store—knickknacks and such, acorns and winter honeysuckle flowers and a small box of something I itch to look into but don’t dare snoop.

And several faded glass jars of honey. Taking one and sending a last inspection across his few private things he’s brought with him, I turn for the stairs.

Something glimmers under the blankets of his makeshift bed. With a furtive glance at the open door, I nudge the edge of the blanket up with the toe of my boot. A sword hilt sits comfortably among the pillows and blankets.

I’ve never seen a sword, unless I count the ink illustrations in our little excuse of a library.

We have no need for them in this little side of the kingdom.

Certainly, I know there are places where warriors and knights are common and that faerie weapons are considered the height of craftsmanship, but I didn’t expect to ever see one myself.

The closest thing we have are kitchen knives, and what pitiful comparisons.

My fingers twitch to pick it up, to take it from its scabbard and stare at the work of violent art, but again, these are his items, and it was covered up.

Did I not think his hand was rough from a sword and nothing else? I nudge the blanket back into place, then hurry down before he becomes suspicious.

I was not fighting at that time. Yes, that is what he said. Thinking of his walking cane, I wince.

Clutching the jar of honey to my chest, I trot back into the kitchen. He is brushing a thick layer of dust off the stovetop with the bottom of his cane, wrinkling his nose. The glance he sends my way has me thinking that perhaps he knows I was snooping, but he mentions nothing of it.

“ There are some cloths and such in the next room over, where the bedrooms once were. They’re old, but they’re probably fair enough for cleaning this place up a little. Would you rather me help with that or find a cookbook to translate?”

Whatever propensity fae have for liking to be cooked for, he evidently wants to involve himself. Considering his unsteady stance, I tell him, “ I’m going to make a cake, but you can find a book for next time.”

If he’s reading, he’ll have to sit down.

Another knowing glance, but it could be for anything. He taps his dusty cane on the edge of his boot.

With a tiny bow of the head and a flourish of the hand to match, he says, “ As instructed.”

I watch him disappear into the bookshelves and consider how I’m going to tell Una about the frightening faerie in the library who wants to help me bake a cake.