Page 4 of Twisting Twilight (Homesteader Hearth Witch #9)

CHAPTER THREE

“Wait.”

Shannon turned from the archway, a forcibly mild expression on her face. Mine wasn’t the only patience nearing its end.

“One does not tell the high lady of the Court of Beasts to wait ,” Ler was quick to yell at me from the other end of the rotunda.

Every female ignored him.

“So, um, how do you know I’m not an Unseelie in disguise?” I ventured. “Fionn had to examine my friend’s blood to determine that.” Sort of.

I’d been more or less told to follow the high lady, but I wasn’t leaving an area I knew for a trap elsewhere. Fae were crafty, creatures of nuance, and I still wasn’t convinced the high lady was an ally. Though I really, really wanted her to be.

Shannon lifted her hand, palm up as she gestured to the white dome above us, with the same grace of a swan stretching its wing.

I seriously had to get over how graceful she, and every other fae, was. There was danger in the allure of her elegant, smooth movements and stunning features. Not to mention the aura exuded from every high fae’s skin.

Theirs is the magic of deception and illusion, designed to lull and distract, then strike , my mother’s voice whispered in my ear.

Shannon was no different than an orchid mantis, as beautiful as a flower yet deadlier than nightshade.

“You’ll notice this rotunda has no decoration of any kind,” she answered. “That is so no other shadow is cast in the moonstone’s light other than those belonging to its visitors.”

I glanced down at my feet where Ler had so pointedly looked and found no darkness beneath me. “B-but I don’t have a shadow!”

The high lady’s lips lifted in the small smile people reserved for calming children. “Of course you do. Lift your foot.”

Blackness pooled directly beneath my lifted boot, shrinking and vanishing as I set my foot down.

“If you were Unseelie, or another such creature, your shadow would be stretched out behind you, its ugliness on full display. And I would kill you.” Her deep blue eyes glittered.

“You didn’t kill Sh—Quills,” I said stubbornly. Then elaborated: “My friend with the glasses.”

The high lady’s expression softened. “She is an innocent. And she will never step foot in this place, nor the inner grove, for her own safety. The rules are absolute. Shadow-casters must not be allowed to live.”

Sawyer shuddered between my ankles at the high lady’s words, and I shivered as the same high lady’s grave tone was replaced by a lighter one as if flipping a switch.

“But you are not Unseelie or a torn soul,” she said with another soft smile.

“You are a witch. And a powerful one at that. And…” Her attention drifted down to my chest, and, not for the first time, I wished Shari hadn’t designed my faux wedding dress with such a low neckline.

Shannon’s gaze wasn’t lascivious as she stared at the top of my left breast, though, but empathetic.

She cut herself off from elaborating and indicated the flower garden once more. “Come.”

The high lady whistled this time, and her sighthounds rocked forward off their haunches and trotted behind us with staccato clicks of their nails.

Glided , more like. While they didn’t bark or curl their lips to show us their fangs, it was clear from their alert expressions and bright brown eyes that they expected us to obey their mistress and come . If we didn’t, then teeth would follow.

Sawyer kept pace right beside me as I obeyed their prompt, his focus split between watching his shadow slide directly under his paws and the fairy hounds trailing behind us.

At the archway, two of the high lady’s attendants waited for us and the dogs to pass through before following.

“The rear guard,” I told Sawyer. I’d seen the men of my family perform the same maneuver around my grandmother half a hundred times to recognize the pattern in others.

The tabby tomcat gave them a wary look and quickened his trot.

He didn’t reply to my observation, at least not with words.

The bond that connected us emoted an entire host of agitation and anxiety and every related emotion in between.

The young cat wanted the comfort of a cuddle too, but with not-friends surrounding us, that reassurance would have to wait.

Mulch flexed underfoot as we followed a path lit by fairy lights to a stone bench nestled beside a bed of violet hydrangeas.

Sweeping her skirts under her, Shannon sat and indicated I join her on the bench.

Sawyer nestled between my ankles, ready to dart forward and give the fairy hounds a taste of his claws if they got too close.

Or bolt into the bushes, whatever seemed tactically advantageous.

Shannon’s ladies didn’t join us. Instead, they spread to three different parts of the garden.

From somewhere behind a cluster of white trumpet flowers, I heard the splash of a bucket and the squeak of an axel as water was drawn up from a well.

The high lady seemed content to wait for her attendants to finish their tasks, gazing at me like she would a painting she found particularly captivating.

I did my best to ignore her and map out a plan of escape.

As inconspicuously as possible, of course.

I pretended fascination with the gardens—which barely took any effort, since there were so many species here I didn’t recognize—and wonder at the night sky—which was eerily fascinating since I didn’t recognize any of the constellations.

Three moons. I shivered.

“The Healer, the Protector, and the Smith,” Shannon supplied. “Only one sun, though, like in your realm.”

I wanted to delve deeper into how well she knew my home, but her ladies reappeared.

One held the bucket from the well and a silver dipper, another a palmful of something that looked like pink periwinkle blossoms but smelled like honeysuckle, and the third held a daffodil.

I’d never seen daffodils with trumpets the size of pilsner glasses before, nor a cultivar with twilight-colored petals speckled white to resemble a star-studded sky.

In quick, efficient movements, the stamens were plucked free of the daffodil and the periwinkles were crushed into juice.

The female held her hand steady as she squeezed, letting each pink drop oozing out from between the seams in her fingers drip into the daffodil’s trumpet.

When no more juice was forthcoming, the third attendant carefully added water to the crenelated brim.

“After your lady is served,” I said politely, “could I trouble you for some water? A sip or two from that dipper would be plenty.”

Shannon released a single laugh, blue eyes sparkling. “This is for you, witch.”

The daffodil was thrust into my hands, and I was momentarily taken aback at how light it was.

“Drink up.”

“If this is some kind of truth serum, I won’t need it. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Anything I don’t mind sharing, that is.

As if the high lady could read my thoughts, she shook her head.

“We fae are only clever because you mortals have proven yourselves untrustworthy with each generation. You are selfish, manipulative liars. And if not liars, you are omitters of the truth. You’ll say whatever suits your narrative, your truth, regardless of fact.

So you will drink that, witch, or I’ll have you swear a fae bargain.

Which would you prefer? Something temporary, or something binding?

” Her aura shimmered, impressing upon me to make the decision to drink.

Rude.

Sawyer pressed against my leg. “You can drink it. I’ll protect you.”

So long as this pink drink didn’t affect our bond, we had a backup plan.

Still, I sucked in the bottom corner of my lower lip for a contemplative gnaw.

Potions affected the body differently than external magic—it’s why even with a fully bonded core, that toirchim tonic had affected me even though Caer powder hadn’t.

And this was fae magic in the land of the fae.

Surely they had some sort of home-court advantage here.

On the other hand, I was Violet’s Heir and Violet had been fae. Maybe I had an advantage too.

And what secrets did I have to keep anyway besides my identity? Probably something I wouldn’t know to keep hidden until too late.

It wasn’t the high lady who cleared her throat at me, but the brunette attendant. She had eyes as brown as her hair, flecked with blue, which regarded me with the same intensity of an unfriendly Rottweiler. This was the attendant who had walked into the gardens beside the high lady as if her equal.

That’s rabid best friend energy and no mistake.

The other two ladies, one with brindle skin and raven ringlets and the second with long sunshine-colored hair, were clearly part of Shannon’s inner circle but didn’t share the same bond with their high lady as Rottweiler did.

“Perhaps a show of good faith?” I asked, resting the supersized daffodil on my lap. “If I’m going to blabbing away like I’d just French-kissed the Blarney Stone, tell me your names.”

Names had power, and fae would not relinquish them easily.

Rottweiler snorted while the other females tittered at my brazenness. Until Shannon said, “A fair trade. Ladies?”

“ Fair? ” her best friend sputtered.

“You can go first,” was Shannon’s reply.

“Laoise of the Lake Court,” Rottweiler spat. With her arms crossed, she dropped a crisp, half-hearted curtsy.

“Orla of the Marshes,” the brindled beauty replied. Her curtsy was far more polite.

The last made a show of sweeping her long blonde hair back past her shoulders in such a way that it caught the moonlight and shimmered like the underbelly of a fish. “Agnes of the Vernal Pool.”

“And you are?” Laoise demanded.

“Violet’s Heir,” I answered, and took a sip from the daffodil’s potion.