tree.” Unable to lie, I told the truth, although not the complete story.
“I see.” He rested the butt of his gun against the ground and rubbed his brow. “For what purpose?”
“To get higher?” My arms aching, I let myself drop onto the roof. I landed more heavily than I’d expected, gravity apparently the only element that had an interest in me, and I nearly tumbled backward into the snow below.
Thatcher snorted. “Looks to me like you wanted to get on top of my shed.”
I gave him a sheepish shrug. “There’s a good view from up here.”
“A view of what exactly?”
When I didn’t respond, he hoisted his hunting gun so the barrel rested against his shoulder and took a few steps closer.
“In case you’re interested, that window’s too dirty to see through. So I’d suggest you get down. There’s nothing of interest for you here.”
Embarrassed, I slid to the edge of the roof and dropped to the ground, wincing upon landing. As the cold wind erased some of the heat from my cheeks, I labored over what to say. Did I owe him an apology? Should I risk asking him about the things that troubled me?
“Just go back inside,” he ordered, stepping past me to unlock the shed.
I nodded, but didn’t move, trying to perceive his character, to understand his motives.
“Out with it,” he abruptly directed, hand on the door latch. “What is it you want to know?”
I bit my lip hard and met his eyes. “Are you or were you a Fae hunter?”
He laughed shortly. “I won’t hold that question against you, Anya, but no, I don’t hunt your kind. I find the sport, if you want to call it that, barbaric.”
I offered him a weak smile, for I believed he was being honest. “Thank you. I’m sorry for doubting you.”
“No harm done.” He gave his string of rabbits a shake. “Now go inside so I can skin these.”
I headed back to the house, knowing I should feel better about Thatcher in the aftermath of our encounter. But something about his behavior still made me uneasy, and I finally realized what it was—he hadn’t opened the door of the shack while I was there.
Everyone else was up when I reentered the cabin. Shea cast me a quizzical look, but did not ask where I’d been, nor did I volunteer any information. I simply began to help with breakfast preparations. Human cooking wasn’t much different from Fae cooking, despite the ridiculous gossip in Chrior that they ate their food raw, drank blood and cannibalized one another when their hunger grew too great.
Thatcher came inside in time for the meal, and we all ate together, though I made no attempt to participate in the family’s small talk. When I was finished, I retreated to my bedroom and kept to myself the rest of the day, wanting to concentrate my energy on healing. I was recovering more slowly than I had from any previous injury, and I could feel the anxiety this bred building within my body. My attempt to cross the Road had made me acutely aware that I was in a race against time. I needed to find Zabriel and bring him to Chrior before Queen Ubiqua died; and I needed to do it before the last of my magic was gone. The Bloody Road would kill me—that much was certain. Likewise, the Sale tucked in my pack would kill me if my nature was fully human. But if I had a sufficient trace of magic left in my being, the healing power of the drink might be enough to see me safely back to Davic and the Faerie Realm. My plan was to find Zabriel, then consume the Sale, leaving my fate to the amber liquid in my flask.
In the late afternoon, after preparations for the evening meal were well under way, Shea took me into her bedroom and offered me a choice of two dresses to wear for dinner. While I didn’t have a problem changing out of my leggings and shirt, I wondered what was behind this particular convention.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Shea, why does your family change into fancier clothing for this one meal?”
“It’s my dad’s idea. He wants us to end the day in a more civilized fashion. And my mom says it’s a way to remind us of our manners and how we should behave in polite company.”
I stared at her in confusion, wondering what polite company they expected to encounter out here in the wilderness.
Ignoring my expression, Shea smiled and tossed me the dress at which I was pointing. “You might say it’s one of our little quirks.”
She returned the garment I had rejected to the wardrobe, selected a different one for herself, and headed for the door.
“I’ll leave you to change, and then you can join us. Don’t worry—you’ll get used to our traditions. Besides, it’s actually kind of nice to feel like a princess, however briefly.”
Shea departed, and I lay the dress down on the bed to examine it. It had more buttons and ties, ruffles and bows, than anything I’d ever worn before. Celebratory gowns in the Faerie Realm were loose and flowing, although they were often decorated with beads or bits of colored stone.
I scratched my head, not even sure which side of the garment was the front. Putting it on was sizing up to be more challenging than learning to read the night sky. Eventually I managed it, and I was pleased that my biggest worry hadn’t materialized—the dress wasn’t too tight around my chest. I’d pictured having to face the family the entire meal, maneuvering my body in order to hide the open back that was necessary to keep pressure off my injuries.
I went to examine myself in the mirror on the wall, and hardly recognized the young woman staring back at me. The hair and eyes were correct, but I looked more like a doll than a living, breathing person. I combed my fingers through my loose auburn hair, then entered the main room to take my place at the table.
This evening’s meal consisted of a delicious rabbit stew served with thick slices of bread. The younger girls talked animatedly, and the overall conversation was punctuated with murmurs of “please” and “thank you.” Maybe this custom wasn’t such a bad one, after all.
When everyone had eaten their fill, I helped Shea with the dishes, while Elyse did some mending and Thatcher drew his younger daughters around his fireside chair to entertain them with card tricks and shadow puppets. When Elyse rose to usher the girls to bed, Shea cast several glances at her father before finally posing a question that I sensed ran counter to her better judgment.
“Dad, will you be hunting again soon?”
“Yes, I want to fill the shack before the weather gets harsher. Why do you ask?”
“I want to go with you. We’ll bring back twice the game.”
Thatcher perused his daughter while he slowly exhaled his pipe smoke, and the tension in the room ratcheted upward. Knowing my presence was no longer needed, and likely not wanted by Shea’s father, I stole to the bedroom. I left the door open a crack, however, and peered out at the argumentative pair.
“You haven’t held a gun in months,” Thatcher asserted, giving Shea the same look I had received from him before he had locked me in the bedroom the previous morning: an assiduous stare that suggested something precious to him was being threatened. “I only taught you to use a pistol in case of an emergency. Besides, your mother needs you here.”
“She
