Page 6 of My Faire Lady

But the ground is completely flat.

3

An ache spreads across my shoulders, down the length of my spine, and eats at the muscles spanning my hips. I shut my door with a soft click and press my forehead to the knotted wood, securing the bolt.

With a groan, I unlatch the harnesses at my shoulders and shrug off the metal plates. They clatter to the rug, and I heave the breastplate off my chest, hanging it on the hook beside the door.

Nesbit purrs as she weaves between my legs, the tips of her feathers tangling in the fabric of my pants. Smiling, I reach down and scratch the space beneath her chin that she can’t quite reach with her serrated claws. She presses her face into the palm of my hand and flicks her tail, nudging me toward the corner of the room.

I laugh. “I know, I know. It’s dinnertime.”

The feathers spanning her body ruffle, and she trots to the food bowl, sitting dutifully beside it. I pull her food from the top shelf of the cabinet and pour her a heaping mixture of half cat food, half bird seed. She chirps and dives into the bowl, chin scratches forgotten.

Out the window, stars sparkle in the moonless sky, and I sink into the chair at my desk. Laughter billows from the belly of our compound and outside in the courtyard, where the creatures are all gathered for dinner, celebrating the opening weekend.

If only they knew.

The final notice sits heavy on the polished surface of the desk, but I don’t unfold it. If I leave it be, maybe it’ll grow roots and burrow into the ground, taking my worry with it. Blowing out a breath, I ease open a drawer and snake my hand to the back, pulling out my stack of postcards.

I drag a finger over the glossy images of landmarks and tourists attractions from all over the world. The Golden Gate Bridge, Sydney Opera House, Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal. I flip through each of them, landing on the oldest one, the one that has always been my favorite—statues of massive horse heads, as if they’re bursting from the depths of the earth.

The Kelpies.

The edges of the postcards are worn, the layers of paper splitting from the times I’ve studied the places I’ll never visit. I turn them over and reread my mother’s words as if it’s the first time.

She writes about her travels in the years before I was born. The people and culture and adventures she had while my grandmother was caring for this land. And the final one—The Kelpies, where she met my father. Her twin flame.

A sting pricks the back of my throat as I live vicariously through her memories, like it’s me climbing the Alps or kayaking down the Nile. Instead, my reality extends to the magical barrier of the consecrated land.

A privilege, I was taught, to provide refuge to other beings. And I truly, deeply care for the creatures that live here, even the ones who have tried to peel the skin from my body. But, in some ways, this ingrained privilege is spun out of a gilded cage of obligation.

The woman from today passes through my mind—her brown curls so dark they were nearly black, russet eyes even darker. The pronounced Cupid’s bow of her upper lip. I flip through the postcards. Has she traveled the world?

The locked bolt to my front door unlatches, and Boden strides into my living quarters.

I shove the postcards deep into my desk and slam the drawer shut. “You could have knocked.”

He smirks and shoulders the door farther open, balancing two plates of food. “Oh child, you know the fae don’t knock. Or ask for permission. And your thoughts might as well be yelling at me from two floors down.” Pausing at the mirror on the wall, he narrows his eyes at his reflection. “Do my ears really look elven?”

I give him a half-hearted laugh. “She really bruised your ego, didn’t she?”

“It’s insulting.”

Nesbit hisses at him, feathers standing on end, and Boden bares his teeth at her as he strides across my living room. I roll my eyes, and Nesbit turns around in her nest, settling herself with her back to us. Whatever grudge they have against each other—it spans far longer than I’ve been alive.

Boden sets one of the plates in front of me. “Shepherd’s pie, you’re favorite. Martha even burned the tips of the potatoes for you.” He lowers onto the edge of my couch and bites into a biscuit. Around a mouthful of food, he says, “Has she called you yet?”

I glance at the phone sitting on the corner of the desk—the one I hardly use. There’s no point needing one when I don’t know anyone outside of our land. But Boden insists, in case of emergencies.

Balancing the fork in my fingers, I saw the burnt potatoes off the top and shove them into my mouth, grimacing as they burn my tongue.

I shake my head. “She’s not going to call, especially after what the sprites pulled with the tree roots. I thought you told them to stop doing that. It’s only a matter of time before someone gets hurt and tries to sue us.”

He shrugs, spearing a carrot. “The sprites don’t listen to a word I say. And you know they can read your thoughts and emotions as well as I can.” His eyes lift to mine, and his fork pauses midair. “It’s been a while since you looked at anyone that way, if ever.”

I push my plate away and pull my braid over my shoulder, undoing the plaits. “Don’t start this.”

“Start what?” The space between his brows wrinkles in mock innocence. “Am I not allowed to point out when you find someone attractive?”