Page 15 of The Filigree Key

The Stag Man’s lips and teeth met that part of my neck he’d bruised only an hour ago at breakfast. The hiss I released was one of disgust, but he easily mistook it for pleasurable pain. When he was done branding me with a hickey like some overenthusiastic high school jock drunk on his own ego, he released my wrists and I swept my braid down over my shoulder to hide the mark.

“No, let them see you’re mine,” he said, brushing my hair back. “And you are mine, Meadow Ní Violet, body and soul.”

For now.

With effort, I clamped down on the stolen bond, stifling the flow of docility he was channeling. With a smile that revealed nothing, I shimmied through the gap left between his body and the pillar and hurried off to find Mrs. Bilberry.

And maybe a shot of whiskey. Ugh, make it the whole bottle.

CHAPTER FIVE

With every curving step of the spiral staircase that led into the subterranean kitchen, ambient heat from the cook fire and ovens banished the chill of the rambler rose courtyard. The heat of the blue flames, which went dormant outside the prescribed cooking times, must be leaching out of the manila stones. It would be gone soon—a reminder that everyone’s comfort, even down to staying warm, was solely provided by the Stag Man.

“Mrs. Bilberry?” I called when I was halfway down the stairs. She might not even be in the kitchen, since breakfast was well and truly over, and I wasn’t scheduled to indulge my baking habit today. And if she wasn’t in the kitchen, I didn’t know where to find her. A delay I couldn’t afford when I had to charge the filigree and stage a full-scale rebellion in less than ten days.

As it happened, the matronly badger simply hadn’t heard me. Her mind was preoccupied with her own mutterings as she stood on a stool and bent over a sink filled to the brim with bubbles. Since there was no steam rising from the suds, the water had to be cold, or at least lukewarm.

“All the magic and power in the world at his command and he can’t even install me a dishwasher,” she grumbled. “Just look at my paws! All cracked up and split like walnut shells after they’ve met the business end of a squirrel’s jaws.”

She threw the wash rag into the sink, jettisoning foam three feet into the air, and smacked on the faucet to rinse off the tureen that had held the morning’s fruit salad. “Water colder than all an opossum’s tits in the middle of the winter freeze to boot.”

By now I’d not just entered the kitchen, I’d come across it completely, scraping my boots loudly against the stone floor in the hopes she’d hear me and cease her traitorous murmurings. The Green Mother forbid a Brother come down here looking for something and hear her!

“Mrs. Bilberry?” I tried again in a louder voice.

The badger screamed, lobbing the freshly rinse tureen right at my head.

A vine-like whip of green magic caught it, redirected the tureen to the drying rack, and disappeared.

I flexed my fingers, marveling at the new reaction time and agility of the vine. It had barely required a thought on my part. “Well, that was . . . interesting.”

“Oh, milady,” the badger wailed, snatching up her ruffled apron to smother the fat tears leaking out of her dark eyes. “Please don’t tell Cernunnos! didn’t mean— I don’t even know what a dishwasher is!”

Yes, she did. I fought to keep from smiling since the poor badger might mistake it for glee at her misfortune. Mrs. Bilberry knew what a dishwasher was because the Caer powder was wearing off. Brandi had succeeded.

I held out my hands, palm up. “Show me your paws, Mrs. Bilberry.”

Sniffling, she obeyed. My teeth ground together to smother a string of curses that would’ve made my cousin Rose clap me on the back. The badger’s paws were worse than she’d described.

She whimpered when I pressed my thumbs into her palms, then gasped as golden sparks and a vibrant green glow outshone everything else. It took only a moment to heal her, and I gave her an extra boost to thicken her skin against further wear. When the magic faded, she lifted her paws in wonder. Their pads were black and shiny and perfectly plump.

“Oh, milady,” the badger wailed again.

“None of that,” I told her firmly but kindly. “And I heard nothing. I wish there was something I could do, but these flames, and the plumbing, don’t obey me.”

“What are you doing down here?” she asked, looking around me to see if I’d come with an escort. She knew, like everyone else, that I shouldn’t associate with her outside of my baking habit. While I wouldn’t be punished for breaking the bounds of propriety, it was clear she knew she would be. “Did I forget that you were baking today?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” I crossed the kitchen to slouch against the edge of the worktable. “One, I’m starving and was wondering if you had any leftovers, and two, I came to inform you Ossian and I are getting married before the solstice. You will need to prepare a feast and a cake, please.”

The badger cook sounded like she was choking on a frog, for those certainly weren’t words she was making in the back of her throat. “C-congratulations!” she finally forced out. It was evident her mind was whirling faster than a hummingbird whizzing about in the height of summer, stressing over the massive quantity of food she’d have to prepare in such a short amount of time.

“Let’s tackle that discussion in a minute, Mrs. Bilberry,” I soothed. “Do you have any snacks?”

“Oh! Um.” She bustled over to the little refrigerator and threw open the door. “A little fruit, leftover cake from yesterday’s dinner, half a game hen—”

Sawyer immediately stabbed me through the foraging bag, his nails not just piercing my skin but flexing to drive his point home. He’d only had the two hard-boiled eggs I’d been able to sneak to him earlier and he’d been a good little kitty staying silent during the key charging.

“I’ll take whatever you don’t need or have reserved for another use, please.” I yanked the foraging bag away from my body and set it down—a little roughly—on the worktable beside me.