Page 29 of The Wind and the Wild (The Keepers of Faerie #1)

Instead, all I do is what he’s done to me: I brush the tips of my fingers over the back of his hand. He glances at it, then at me. I offer a smile and take my hand back before I can feel even more like a fool. My skin feels warmer where it brushed against his.

He puts a slice of peeled uncooked potato into his mouth, the blade of his knife uncomfortably close to his lips. “ Your... kittens , when they grow, will only ever have one litter.”

I blink, uncertain what provoked that tidbit of information. “ Oh? ”

“ I told you of the Gentry and the Unblessed—of the differences in aging and how many children they bear. Your kittens are much the same as the Gentry. The parents would bear one litter in their lifetimes, so they are quite rare. You should be proud to have saved as many as you did.”

My face heats at the genuine honesty in his tone.

Pulling out another pot, I get to work on his custard, cracking a few eggs.

His long fingers snatch the discarded shells, and he pops them into his mouth without a blink.

I stare at him while he crunches. His eyebrows pull together, and he offers me one.

Another laugh bubbles up. “ No, thank you.”

His frown deepens. “ You do not eat them?”

“ No, not generally.”

Casting me a glance as if I am the one missing out on a great delicacy, he tosses another daintily into his mouth.

I give him the rest. “ What else can you tell me about the kittens?”

Squinting as if my plans are obvious, he takes the rest of the eggshells and launches into a quiet lengthy description of every little fact it seems he can conjure to mind: that their fur is warm enough they have been known to travel into the far places where nothing but snow exists; that despite the size they will grow to, they are incredibly able to fit through small places, as if they can bend their very bones into any spot they wish; that despite their shyness and elusive nature, they have been observed taking in other small creatures when lost; and many other such things.

Once this topic has been exhausted, he begins on a variety of other animals I’ve never heard of and have no prayer of keeping in my mind.

I stir the custard carefully, avoiding making it foam, keeping the smile off my face at my successful distraction.

He is speaking again and seeming to enjoy himself.

Evidently, the answer to my question is animals . He enjoys studying, if he knows all these facts, but he must love raising the little creatures themselves, if the lists of detailed stages of their development he rattles off are any indication.

His eyes light up when he speaks about a certain strange creature he claims is no larger than my finger but flies about with a dozen tiny wings like dragonflies.

I attempt to commit it to memory, though I do not understand the name he speaks.

His long fingers turn the rings on his hand, and he’s staring offhandedly at the hot custard I’m stirring over the stove, a slight smile on his face as he speaks.

His eyes remain tired, but the enjoyment appears genuine.

I may as well be listening to poetry—certainly, I would not sound so elegant if I were trying to describe to him how to perfect a soufflé.

More like a prattling child in comparison. The thought doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

“ Where are you going?” he asks once I’ve slid a bowl of soup his way and he’s wandering after me with it clutched between his hands like an offering, ignoring the spoon I brought and sipping at the rim.

“ Don’t touch the custard until it cools.”

“’Tis not what I asked. Where are you going? ”

“ None of your business.”

“ You’ re in Faerie —it is my business.”

“ Nope. ”

“ Flower! ” he calls. At some point, we moved from Bluebell to Flower, which is more amusing than perhaps it should be. He can call me anything he likes. All words sound sweet from his voice.

“ I’ll be right back. Eat your soup.”

Before I disappear into the shelves of books, I glance back and catch him staring, baffled offense in his eyes.

Pleased with myself, I head to his room with the quilts.

I’ll leave most of the other items hidden in the basket, uncertain if too many things at once will leave Aidyn’s pride wounded—he seems the type to never take aid until tricked into it. .. or introduced in small doses.

With a few blankets under my arm, I trot up the steps before he can snag my arm.

“ What are those?” He is hustling after me the moment I glance back down the railing at him.

Stubborn creature.

Ignoring him, I take the extra quilts into his makeshift bedroom.

I have never been in Faerie in the dead of night—and have less intentions of ever doing so now, with the things I have learned from Aidyn—but for all I know, it may grow bitterly cold.

And from the way he keeps the fire lit and his room too hot even in the muggy heat of the day, I’d say he struggles to keep warm in whatever state of recovery he finds himself.

“ Quilts,” I say in an obvious tone, though I’m certain his question is hinting at why .

Let him ask.

Depositing them, I stop myself from straightening out the old ones he found here.

Well aware of the long blade that was once hidden beneath them but now sits by his side, I don’t want to bring it out into the light, to make him feel as if he must answer questions about it.

I do not wish him to become someone else with the reveal of a weapon of war—but perhaps he already has.

Turning, I find him in the doorway, squinting at me, expression unreadable. His eyes dart to the bowl of soup cradled against his chest as if he’s just realized I’m making him soup and bringing him blankets, and both those things together are like I’m attempting to care for him.

Which, of course, I am , but who’s to know how a creature of Faerie will react to such a situation.

His eyes do much more flickering about, such a stony expression in place while the kittens wake and squeak at us in their basket that I have a hard time keeping a straight face.

Finally, he nods his chin to the topmost blanket on the pile and says, “ That is beautifully made.”

Better reaction than I expected. “ Thank you. Well, my mam made it, so I’ll tell her you said so.”

His shoulder twitches. “ Does she know you took them?”

“ They’re away on business,” I say, wandering up to him, enjoying the stark difference between what my heart does when I stand three steps from him and when I stand three steps from Blain. “ But she wouldn’t mind.”

His lips press into a thin line. It’s a human expression on an otherworldly face, and that, as well, has me wanting to giggle.

Get ahold of yourself, Niamh.

Finally, he says, “ Hmm,” and turns on his heel, returning to the kitchen. “ Come along, I’ll find a book to translate for you. Tomorrow we shall go out onto your side of the trees, yes? We might attempt to find what attracted the beasts.”

Grinning, I prance after him, skirts in hand as I take the steps two at a time, trying not to slip on fallen leaves.

Again, trying to imagine him in the human sunlight is impossible. I suppose I shall know tomorrow, when we brave the mortal side of the trees together.

Tomorrow I’ll sneak the medicines and salves in when he isn’t paying attention.