Despite the noise, Fi heard the ringing of the bell above the front door and scuttled into the vestibule, ready to offer a meal and a bed to her newest patron. When she saw me, she halted as though she had encountered a barrier, the momentum of her body pitching her slightly forward. Her lips parted, her short brown hair almost standing on end; then she rushed forward to thrust her arms around me. Her embrace was reassuring, the heat from her body enough to melt the ice that had formed in my gut at the moment of Zabriel’s execution.
“Anya, I’ve been so worried,” she exclaimed, holding me at arm’s length to examine me. “Are you all right? You dealt me a blow with that blond hair. And that black eye you’re sporting. You look...”
“Dreadful?” I supplied with a feeble laugh. “Not exactly what you’d expect from Fae royalty.”
“It’s not that. Just you’ve surely been through a lot. But I’ll fix you up in no time.”
Her wide-set blue-green eyes told me it wasn’t just her naturally maternal personality that had set her to fussing.
“What’s going on, Fi? Why so worried?”
“Lots of unsettling things these days. For one, there’s been another execution, a Faerie no less. That’ll stir up the Fae-haters in this city. And Luka and his Constabularies have been asking after you. I told him you wouldn’t do anything bad, and he said it was about keeping you safe.”
Her mention of the execution hit me harder than I expected, and I stumbled to the fireplace mantel, putting a hand upon it to steady myself.
“It’s not my safety that interests Luka,” I scoffed.
If possible, Fi’s eyes grew larger, and her hands dropped to her skirt to fidget with its folds.
“That pirate they executed. Brought here from Sheness. You didn’t have anything to do with him, did you?”
I hesitated, unsure how to answer her question, and my throat tightened. I fought the sensation, afraid that if I let my emotions filter into my voice, it would make her more inquisitive. She didn’t know who Pyrite was—who he had been—and I wasn’t sure I could make myself say the words.
“You can’t tell Luka I’m here,” I implored, choosing to address Fi’s original assertion. “It’s very important that you don’t tell anyone.”
She took my hands, her jaw set. “Don’t fret, Anya. I won’t say a word to Luka. But when he was here, he swore to me he wasn’t out to harm you. If things change, you can go to him. I know it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
I held back a sigh, shifting my gaze to the window. In the aftermath of the horrific outcome of my relationship with Shea, I would always err on the side of caution when dealing with humans, and Fi would always err on the side of trust. Albeit trust well-placed, as far as I could tell. The temptation to put faith in Luka Ivanova was a pulsing force, a tide reaching ever closer to land. He almost single-handedly funded the Fae-mily Home and had proven himself sympathetic to Fae causes and human faults. He’d begged Shea to hand over her father so that he wouldn’t be forced to punish her in Thatcher More’s stead. Indeed, he’d shown outright disdain for the law that made Thatcher’s wife and three daughters collateral when he’d fled arrest, thus subjecting any of them to serve his sentence. Luka appeared to be a friend, and it would have been easy, a relief even, to give my fate over to him. But still I took care, for my ability to trust had diminished right along with my Fae nature, the actions of the hunters and Shea’s betrayal eating away at my core.
Fi’s voice pulled me from my deliberations. “You need to eat, and I’ve got a room where you can stay out of sight. It’s not but a closet, but it’ll keep you from the cold.”
“Sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
“One thing more. A message arrived for you like you said it might.”
My heart leaped—Gwyneth. Before we’d parted company in Sheness, I’d told her she could contact me at the Fae-mily Home. News from her might lift some of the gloom I was feeling.
“Where is it?”
Fi waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not going anywhere. Dinner first. You look starved.”
Though I wanted the letter, I hadn’t had a full stomach in days, and the promise of food proved irresistible. I followed her to a room at the rear of the shelter, near a door that led into an alley. She lit a lamp on a small table to reveal a space that met her description with no embellishment—it was cramped, with a cot between the night table and the wall, a washbasin and mirror in the corner, and a narrow window that was set too high to open or offer a view. But it met my most important criterion: it was secluded. I would be comfortable and, in all likelihood, safer here than anywhere else.
“I’ll fetch you a plentiful meal,” Fi offered, cheeks tinged bright pink as she darted about to wipe away dust from the little-used space and give the linens a healthy shake.
“No need for that.” I laid a hand on her forearm to bring her fussing to an end. “The room is perfect. Thank you so much.”
She hustled away, her blush deepening to red, and I deposited my pack on the floor near the bed. By the time I had washed my hands, she had returned with a heavily laden platter—chicken, warm bread with cheese, cooked vegetables, and a mug of spiced cider. The aroma washed over me, and despite the manners that had been drilled into me over the years, I fell upon the food like a starving animal. I sat on the edge of the bed, shoveling forkfuls into my mouth, almost swallowing the first bites whole. Fi left again while I ate, returning with an armful of clothing and a medicinal compress.
“I don’t want you cold on the street.” Her voice contained a trace of a scold as she set leggings, socks, a tunic, and a sash on the bed next to me. “You’ve worn through your old ones.”
I nodded, unwilling to stop chewing.
“And this,” she added, giving the compress a shake before setting it atop the pile, “is for your eye. It’ll bring down the swelling.”
“Thank you.” I spit out a bit of bread along with the words then mumbled an embarrassed “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. But you might want to slow down—there’s plenty more where that came from.”
When I finally set down my fork, Fi reached into a pocket hidden among the folds of her layered skirt and produced a rolled and wax-sealed letter. Too excited to be polite, I sprang to my feet and snatched it from her hand. Though my brain told me it was crazy, I couldn’t quell the wild surge of hope I felt that the paper would reverse the events of the past couple of days. Perhaps, against all odds, Zabriel had survived the fall and made it safely back to Sheness, and this was the letter that would explain everything. Hands shaking, I broke the Dementya family seal, but what I read when I unfurled the note was a simple statement of shared grief.
Anya, I’m so sorry. There was nothing you or I could have done. He was dead the moment he was betrayed, though I still can’t grasp what happened. And I still can’t believe he’s gone.
Write me. Please. Come and stay with me and my father in Sheness if you like. You’re always welcome here.
I’m thinking of you.
G.
At the bottom, hastily scrawled as though she had considered not including it, was an added message:
If you retain any care for Shea, she’s in danger now that he’s gone. His friends are unforgiving.
I crumpled the letter in my hand, angry at Gwyneth for even mentioning Shea. Whatever happened to my former friend was out of my hands. More than that, it was of her making.
“Is