Chapter 13: The Doe

The lavender woman, Maeve, was less robotic than her taffy counterpart. She led Sasha out to the sprawling courtyard and gushed about the stronghold’s amenities with honest excitement. 

The change in climate had affected the courtyard. It now prioritized function over extravagance. In place of topiaries and flowers, the space was used to grow fruits and vegetables, an intricate maze of them. 

Sasha was surprised by how healthy everything looked: plump tomatoes and berries, flowering zucchini, cucumbers, beans, cornstalks, lettuce, pumpkins, turnips – the list went on, hardly any of it seasonal. 

There had to be a secret there. The crops in Sculpin suffered due to the increasing humidity and general unlivable-ness of their cramped bubble, which became more polluted by fire smoke and toxic smog each month. 

“Malmuir is known for its cream liqueur, made fresh with…” Maeve’s features pinched as if perceiving something Sasha couldn’t. She forcibly wrestled her composure back down. “Made fresh with fresh milk thrice a day. Divine.” 

That was odd, but so was everything about this place. He should go where the milk was gathered first, considering his secret note had been written in it. The kitchens next. Might have been the work of a scullery maid. 

Lark knew the staff well – very well, if his claim of having slept with all of them rang true (doubtful). Those flitting about the grounds like aproned doves seemed wary of Sasha. He doubted they would speak to him alone. 

After this prepackaged tour was over, he would find Lark. Then, their investigation would officially begin. 

Maeve led him up to the courtyard’s crowning glory – the palace, which was breathtaking, he supposed. Tall and well-appointed, cherubic statue fountain. Green on gold on green on gold, as if Lark had thrown up all over it. 

There were smatterings of fancy people in fancy dress both inside and out, sipping champagne. They gawked. After a week without a proper bath or polishing his armor, he was sure he looked like an off duty dullahan plodding in behind Maeve. 

Your skin needed to be thick to withstand the judgment and scorn of Sculpin’s salty fishermen. One man had been convinced Sasha was several children stacked in a suit of armor given how little and how simply he spoke. 

Noble whispers were more degrading, like he was a piece of meat. His heightened hearing allowed him to catch every word – ‘egads, a lumbering oaf,’ ‘impressive stature, no doubt lacking wit,’ ‘wonder what’s under his metal skirt.’ 

Still, they didn’t bother him. He was lumbering, he did lack wit, and he too was confounded by what the skirt concealed. 

He came to a stop before a monumental painting the greeting room. He knew it was of Queen Hellebore because she was the sole subject of every other painting. 

“Beautiful, is she not?” Maeve marveled at his side. “Many men have pursued her, some drawn by this very portrait. None have prevailed.” 

Human attraction also confounded him. He could appreciate that some faces were built well. He could never see himself looking at one and thinking ‘that is a beautiful human – I must pursue them.’ 

The brushstroke woman before him had sharp bones, medium skin, hazel eyes that leaned gold, and a bounteous halo of spiraled brass-and-copper curls. She was dressed in white, dappled in heavenly acrylic light. Made her look like an angel. 

An angel wouldn’t hide away in her palace while her people died, wouldn’t hoard resources while they starved. An angel wouldn’t drive someone to drive a desperate plea in the hopes someone might hold it to the light. 

“You speak so little for such an agreeable voice,” said Maeve as they exited the greeting room and wandered…somewhere else. Everything was starting to look the same. “Come, now. You must have questions.” 

“How do you grow such healthy crops?” Sasha asked. 

“The elves can grow in the most barren soil. Without their techniques, we would have surely starved.” 

“What techniques?” 

She laughed, a practiced sound that let him know she was either about to feed him a lie or a half-truth. “If only we knew.” A lie, then. “My turn?” 

“Sure,” he said. 

“You and the fool are close.” 

“That’s not a question.” 

“How close are you?” 

“Why does it matter?” 

She cast him a sideways glance. “This isn’t Sculpin. Get defensive like that here, they’ll eat you alive. Again – how close?” 

He frowned, Lark’s voice in his head. Friends. “He is my friend.” 

“Better. Not terribly convincing, but better.” 

He didn’t know what that meant, nor could he fathom why she was inclined to ‘help’ him. She resumed their tour, bringing them down a long corridor that had a vaguely sinister ceiling mural. 

He tried to follow the mural’s story with his eyes as they walked. It depicted a white-eyed, night-skinned bog creature – the famous Maulian kelpie, he assumed – shifting into a black horse, being mounted by a golden warrior, and riding off to…unite the South? Conquer it? 

Confusing storyline. Lots of blood. Not his favorite. 

When he and Maeve turned the next corner, she announced their arrival in the eastern tower. Although each tower had a front entrance, they and the main palace were all connected by these long corridors. The interior of the stronghold was, in essence, a giant square. 

More green marble (he never thought he could be sick of green), more gold leaf, more queenly paintings, weird statues, sculptures. A flight of stairs. Then they reached his room. 

Maeve shoved open the double doors and turned to him with a smile. “Welcome to your piece of paradise,” she said. 

He stepped into a small mansion. Canopied bed, green silk sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows, gold-spun drapes, green crystal chandeliers, gold-flecked artwork, breakfast nook, fireplace, connected washroom, golden clawfoot tub– 

His head spun as he took it all in. He counted eleven rugs on the floor. Eleven. 

So much abundance. Nobody needed this much. 

His muscles went rigid when Maeve wordlessly closed both doors, trapping them inside. He turned to find her eyes wide, lavender lips slightly parted in wonder. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” she breathed.

He took a step back. “Do what?” 

“Seeing you makes me feel…strange.” Her slender, amethyst brows knitted together. “I think I wanted you here, though I don’t why. Things are returning in pieces, like memories from a drunken stupor. Did I…write to you?”

From her, he sensed genuine confusion, maybe the teeniest sliver of nervousness. He took another step away, just in case.  

“I’m here because of a cry for help,” he corrected. “Written in milk.” 

“May I see it?”

Against his better judgement, he pulled the invitation – absolutely ravaged post-journey – from his pocket and handed it to her. She skipped to the burnt bottom, lips parting again. 

“Those are my h’s,” she said. More genuine surprise “I did this.” 

Well, that was easy. “Are you in danger?” he asked. 

“No. I don’t know. I…” Her anxiety skyrocketed in a matter of seconds. She handed the invitation back, shaking her head. “I have to go. Now.” 

“Wait –” 

“Find me tonight, at the pre-pre-party.” Her eyes, large and pleading, sought his through the helmet. “I beg of you – speak of this to no one. Not until I…” 

She never finished the thought, not directly. With a harried half-curtsy, murmuring under her breath about ‘her,’ she left.  

༻❁༺ 

In hindsight, Sasha should have followed Maeve. Or at least found Lark, wherever he was, and asked his opinion on the encounter.

Sasha did neither. He paced back and forth, wondering whether he was being too naive.

What if Maeve was lying? What if the guards were already on the way to lock him up for treason or something equally outrageous?

No guards came, not even several hours after the fact. As late afternoon transformed into early dusk, he stopped lapping the room, undressed, and creaked open its tall armoire.

His wraps were in a sorry state, stiff and travel-worn. He stripped down some nightshirts and wound them tightly around his neck, chest, back, arms, legs, waist. He always felt better freshly wrapped.

Clothes on top of that, the largest and darkest trousers and tunic he could find. Padding. Armor. It must have looked such an ordeal, him getting dressed, but he found comfort in the routine.

Claws came next, filing them down. Facial hair, shearing it to stubble (shaving too close put him at risk of breaking the skin). Hair, unbraiding and re-braiding. The tips of it now touched the middle of his thigh.

Gauntlets and helmet last, thus concluding his impromptu ‘get ready with me.’

All in preparation for the pre-pre-party, though he had not signed up for three parties. He wasn’t even committed to the one. As he followed the lanterns (and chittering groups of guests) to the main palace, he cursed Maeve for forcing him to attend.

Faint music drifted on the muggy breeze, lots of string instruments. The grand facade of the palace was illuminated by soft light, imparting a deeper appreciation for its carvings. Blooming jasmine was laced around its arches, enough to make his eyes water. 

He entered through the reception room as he had earlier that day. The doors to the ballroom were closed; attendees amassed eagerly in the vestibule, drinking and mingling, garments flowing as freely as the cream liqueur. 

And there, by the ballroom’s entrance, stood Lark. He was juggling for a crowd. Three glass balls slid along his fingers and up his arms in such a way that they appeared to be floating. 

He was still green and gold, still harlequin, but his new ensemble was fancier and far less decent. Sheer organza from top to bottom, so puffy and fragile it looked like spun sugar. 

At least the important bits were reinforced with some real cloth.

So, he was coiffed and groomed, dastardly mullet somewhat back in check, but something felt off. It took embarrassingly long for Sasha to notice the shackles around his ankles.

They were gold and shiny, like the multitude of earrings clinking in his ears and the locket dangling from his neck. The shackles looked heavy, though, belaboring his every step.

What was he being punished for? The stupid ‘viscunt’ joke still? Sasha was about to go to him when a man got in the way.

“You must be the anon ‘savior’ these humans have been on about,” the man drawled, speaking too slow even for Sasha.

But ‘humans’ derailed Sasha’s entire line of thought. He blinked, regarding the man before him and realizing he was no man at all. 

An elf. A flesh-and-blood…wood-and-sap elf. 

The elf was light-haired and grey-eyed, as long as Lark yet twice as regal. His ears were pointed, but his skin was the real identifier; like the polished bark of a golden gum tree in both texture and color, it shone in the candlelight. 

“I could call you my savior too,” he continued, ignoring the commotion behind him – a fresh gaggle of partygoers had flocked to Lark. “I am adrift in monotony here, but you have held a finger to the thready pulse of life beyond these walls.”

With the initial shock over, Sasha’s attention kept flicking over the elf’s shoulder. The crowd was hassling Lark, begging him to show them something – words Sasha didn’t understand in the context. ‘Artful manipulation?’ ‘Physical poetry?’ 

Lark was obviously torn, grimacing at the shackles. The crowd kept hounding, relentless. A resigned look crossed his face. 

The elf sidestepped into Sasha’s field of view. “Tell me, is it true the plebians have resorted to eating each other? So deliciously vile.”

Losing patience, Sasha pushed him aside in time to see Lark reach up to the ceiling, take a breath, and fold backwards to form an upside-down ‘v.’ The crowd gasped when his palms hit the marble, then applauded. 

He didn’t stop there. As if he had no bones to speak of, rear end making a concerning amount of contact with his back, he lowered himself onto his elbows.

His head threaded under the shackles between his legs. He cracked a joke. You should see what I can do without clothes. The crowd loved that.

Things took a turn when he popped up on his hands with his back still folded, thighs around his ears, feet off the ground. The bend strained with the added weight of the shackles.

In short, he teetered and collapsed on himself like a house of cards. Ouch.

The crowd – the bastards – they laughed. Loudly, cruelly, chanting for more. Lark got up, flushed and flustered, and tried again. Sasha wanted to step in, but a gut feeling stopped him.

The ruckus had drawn the elf’s attention. His hard lips quirked in an insufferably self-satisfied smirk. “The harlequin looks better in chains, does he not?” he mused.

“Who are you?” Sasha snapped, irritated.

“Viscount Nathair,” the elf replied. That explained it. “Of Glac na Nathraichean.”

When he offered a stiff wooden hand to shake, the voice in Sasha’s head whispered something it had never whispered before.

Predator.

The ballroom doors creaked open and the reception hall came alive, depriving him the satisfaction of denying Nathair’s handshake outright.

The pre-pre-party had commenced.