“But look at this one, this is what I really wanted to show you.” Pansy seized my hand and led me further down the corridor, past several paintings. “There.”
I followed her pointing finger.
Two young, handsome faces stared down at me. Identical twins, and the only men I’d seen in the gallery. Both had matching shocks of dark, floppy hair, and piercing pale green eyes. Both faces looked as though they’d been carved by angels, but my attention snagged on the silver circlet perched atop one dark head. A crown.
“Are these—”
“The fae princes.” Pansy gave me a sly smile. “Handsome, aren’t they?”
Damn her, but they were. Handsome was an understatement. They were… breathtaking. If this was an accurate representation of the fae, it was no wonder droves of women had gone to their deaths for their chance to marry one. They were almost human in appearance, but their ethereal beauty and pointed ears marked them as other. Had such creatures once walked in my world, enchanting unsuspecting humans?
“That’s Anwir.” Pansy indicated to the crowned man. “He’s the rightful king.”
My promised reward. Anwir smiled down at me from under his crown, his grin slightly lopsided, but all the more alluring for it. His eyes were bright with what I imagined was mischief. He looked the sort to have a sharp tongue and an even sharper sense of humour. Trouble, in other words. I shifted my gaze to the younger one.
“What’s his name?”
“Idris.”
Idris, in contrast to his brother, looked sullen. His head was angled in a way that had him staring from under a frown, but he was beautiful all the same. My eyes slid back to the spellbinding elder prince.
“Wow,” I breathed, all the confession I was going to make. “They don’t make men like that where I come from.” They didn’t make anyone like that where I came from, not even princes.
“Males,” Pansy corrected. “Fae prefer to be known as male, or female. Man and woman are human terms.”
With a face like that, I’d call him anything he asked me to.
He possessed an other-worldly beauty, like some higher being. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the princes sprouted feathered wings and stripped to loincloths. A blush crept up my neck. What would I look like on the arm of Anwir? Like a pig fresh from a sty, no doubt. I’d never lacked confidence, content with my looks, but next to such perfection… No human stood a chance, especially not me. Every little flaw would be magnified to a hideous deformity.
It was a good thing I had absolutely no intentions of marrying anybody, least of all a fae runway model. An angel, or perhaps a demon if that smile was anything to go by. A heartbreakingly beautiful demon. I tore my gaze from the painting.
“I’m a bit tired.”
Pansy looked crestfallen. “Oh. Of course, follow me.”
I followed the witch back through the castle, my thoughts of escape warring with mysterious, pale eyes and lop-sided grins.
Back in the solitude of my fairytale room, Pansy lit the candles before disappearing through a door. The hiss of running water drifted through the gap, and when the witch reappeared a few minutes later, she came in a cloud of fragrant steam.
“Is it alright if I check your wounds before I go?”
I blinked, flexing my fingers. Apart from the slightly annoying bulk of the bandages, I’d almost forgotten my cuts and bruises. No pain, not even the slightest sting or ache, answered the movement. And my knee… when I bent it experimentally… nothing. Just a normal knee, stiff only due to the dressing.
Dumbfounded, I sank into the nearest chair, stretching out my leg. The witch knelt, tiny, warm hands brushing my skin as she unravelled the bandage. It fell away, and she procured a cloth from inside her apron pocket, gently wiping away the thick green paste Sage had made.
Smooth, pink skin was all that lay beneath. No grazes, no bruising, just skin.
“Impossible…” I muttered under my breath, straightening my leg.
I could see where the cut had been; the skin was definitely new, soft and pink like a newborn’s, but otherwise, it was perfect.
Pansy glanced up at me. “Do you not have anything like this in the human world?”
No, we certainly did not. I shook my head, my mind reeled. The things I could do with that paste. Would it work on surgery wounds? Take away the need for the cone of shame? And humans. The hospitals would go mad to get their hands on this stuff.
“Your hands?”
I shoved both hands at Pansy, keen to see what miracles had been worked on my ruined nails. The bandages couldn’t unravel fast enough, but lo and behold, within minutes, I was admiring my perfectly uninjured hands, complete with neat, strong nails.
“What’s in that stuff?” I breathed.
Pansy laughed, rising to her feet. “It’s Sage’s own recipe, but it’s all natural. Your bath should have run by now. You’ll find everything you need laid out. Get some rest.”
Pansy headed out into the corridor, half closing the door but continuing to talk through the gap. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“See you later.” I wasn’t exactly sure how my foggy, battered brain managed to string the words together when it was so full of that painted map, magical healing creams, and handsome princes with crooked smiles.
No sooner had the door clicked shut than I darted for the desk tucked under a tall window, tripping over my feet in my hurry. Dragging open the drawers, I laughed in relief at the sight of crisp sheets of paper laid within. I snatched up the black quill and unscrewed the ink pot. I couldn’t pretend I’d ever used such outdated writing implements before, but I’d seen enough movies to have some idea. Dipping the quill, I began to draw.
When I was finished, I leaned back in my chair and admired my work. I was no artist, and geography wasn’t my strong suit, but my map was a passable copy of the emerald one. I’d drawn as many landmarks as I could remember, but the western portion was sparse due to my inattentiveness. It didn’t matter though; it was The Blood Gate I needed. I stared and stared at the little black blotch that would lead me home.
When I finally padded to the bathroom, intent on washing away the grime of my ordeal and the new splotches of ink staining my miraculously healed fingers, I was once more stunned into silence. It wasn’t a bath, not like the ones at home. It wasn’t white, or porcelain, or even really a tub. An enormous half-boulder of palest pink crystal glinted by the light of countless candles scattered around the chamber, its edges raw and unpolished. Curls of steam rose from the carved hollow, large and deep enough to comfortably hold two people. Tentative feet carried me closer, and I peered inside. Milky water, dotted with rose petals, swirled gently inside the smooth centre of the crystal. I dragged my fingers through the hot, silky water, as an alluring scent drifted to my nose. Jasmine, I guessed, or something like it. On the thick sides of the bath, a stack of fluffy towels and an assortment of glass bottles waited. I didn’t need telling twice. Stripping off my filthy garments, I sank beneath the waters.
The heat dragged a gasp from me as I stretched my legs. It was a luxury I hadn’t experienced for many years. I’d grown too tall for the little bathtub back home at approximately ten years old, and since then, I’d been forced to fold my long legs into increasingly uncomfortable angles, never able to fully submerge myself. Eventually, I’d given up altogether and settled for showers.
