I called to her, “Peasblossom, there’s no need to hide.”
Frost had moved up on the other side of the sink from Galen, who was chatting away with the tiny blue fairy on his shoulder. She’d cuddled close to his neck, hands as delicate as pale blue petals, stroking along the bareness of his ear. Mug had a real “thing” for sidhe men. I’d never asked, nor wanted to speculate, what pleasure she and her masters had gotten from each other. She was smaller than a Barbie doll and more delicate looking. I did not need the visuals. I was able to look at them and keep an eye on the curtain without staring at it. Galen gave us all a reason to look in that direction.
Frost said, “Come down, little one, so we may question you.”
The tiny face scooted back among the good china, like a mouse ducking back into its hole. Her voice was like the sighing of the wind, a delicate spring breeze that warmed the skin and made you believe that the flowers merely slept under the snow. And were not dead. Her voice brought a smile to my face before I had time to think glamour.
“I don’t remember your voice being so sweet, Peasblossom,” Galen said.
“I’m frightened,” she said, as if that explained it.
Maggie May translated, “When the demi-fey be scared, they use what defense they have.”
“Their glamour,” I said.
“Aye,” she said. She was watching us all with narrowed eyes. She knew something was up.
“Come, little one,” Frost called, and even extended a hand like you’d offer a perch to a bird.
“I fear you, Killing Frost, as I fear the Darkness,” the voice said from among the cups.
“Do you fear me, Peasblossom?” I asked.
Quiet for a moment, or two, then, “No, no, I do not fear you.”
“Then come to me,” I said, and held my hand out to show I preferred a less intimate perch for her.
“You will protect me from the Darkness and the Killing Frost?” she asked.
I fought the urge to smile. It took concentration to fight off that pleasant sound. Touching would make it harder still, but I wanted her away from the sink area. She was a civilian, and if whatever was under the sink fought, I didn’t want any civvies in the line of fire.
“Come, Peasblossom, I won’t let them hurt you.”
“You promise?”
Doyle interrupted, “She cannot promise, for we do not know you are innocent.”
“Innocent,” she said, her voice rising with her fear, the wind clanging among chimes. “Innocent of what, Darkness?”
He stayed kneeling by Onilwyn, who had not risen to bait or answered questions. He was either that hurt or feigning. “It is but a step from finding a body to pretending to find a body that you put there.”
I frowned at him. No wonder he’d scared her.
He gave me a calm flick of his eyes, as if he saw nothing wrong with what he’d said.
Peasblossom was moaning in terror, hysterical. The illusionary wind was not warm now but cold with that icy threat of storm on its edge.
The teacups rattled with her frantic attempt to shove herself tighter against the back of the cabinet.
I had to raise my voice to be certain she could hear me. “I promise that neither Frost nor Doyle will harm you.”
Doyle said, “Merry,” as if I’d surprised him.
Silence from the teacups, then in a very neutral voice, “You promise?”
“Yes,” I said. I didn’t think she was guilty of anything, but just in case, I’d promised only that Frost and Doyle would not harm her. If she took that to imply that I’d promised her none of my guards would harm her, that wasn’t my fault. I was sidhe enough and fey enough to split the difference with her and not feel guilty. Every fey from least to greatest knew the kind of games we all played. To lose meant you were careless. Your own damned fault. She eased around the china cup and came to the edge of the shelf. She was one of the rare demi-fey that had skin like a human’s. Her hair was dark brown, falling in waves around her face. Only the delicate black lines of antennae ruined the perfect doll look. That and the wings she flicked across her back.
Her dress looked like it was formed of brown and purple leaves, though when she stepped off the shelf the “leaves” moved like cloth. She flew toward me, and a glance from Doyle made me move farther away from the table, farther away from the curtain.
One of the other guards called, “Maggie May, could you come here for a moment?” I think if she hadn’t been suspicious, she’d have argued, but she let herself be called out of the line of danger.
Peasblossom adjusted her angle to follow me and put delicate feet on the palm of my hand. Her feet were not as baby soft as Sage’s had been, but her weight was like his, heaver than it should have been, as if there was more to her than a doll-size body and butterfly wings.
Ivi and Hawthorne moved in front of me, so my view was blocked, but they were offering their very bodies as shields to keep me safe. I could not protest.
Ivi whispered, “I hope I get to fuck you before you get me killed.” Hawthorne smacked him in the chest with his mailed fist.
He made an oof sound, then I heard cloth rip and the shouting begin.
Peasblossom darted to my shoulder, hiding in my hair, screaming wordlessly and in terror.
Such a small creature to make so much noise: I heard the men yelling, but what they yelled was lost to Peasblossom’s shrill screams. The broad bodies of the guard kept me safe, but also hid the action from me, so I was left unknowing, unseeing, and could only trust that nothing too bad was happening. I took it as a good sign that the guards were still merely standing in front of me and didn’t feel the need to hide me between the floor and their bodies. Things weren’t deadly, yet.
Peasblossom clung to my hair and jacket, shrieking right next to my ear. I fought the urge to grab her and stop the screams. I was afraid I’d crush her wings, and with Beatrice’s death, I was no longer certain what would and would not heal on the lesser fey.
I put my hand between her and my ear but jerked it away, because something pricked me, like a thorn or pin.
She stopped screaming and started apologizing. Apparently I’d caught my fingers on her rose-thorn bracelet. My fingertip held a minute spot of blood.
Doyle’s deep voice cut off Peasblossom’s babbling apology. “Why were you hiding from us?”
A rough male voice said, “I wasn’t hiding from you; I was hiding from him.”
I tried to peer around Adair and Hawthorne, but when I tried to move around them they moved with me, blocking my view and keeping me safe.
I called, “Doyle, is it safe?”
“Hawthorne, Adair, let the princess see our prisoner.”
“Prisoner?” the rough voice said. “Princess, there’s no need for that.” There was something vaguely familiar about the voice.
The two guards moved, and I was finally able to see the hairy, smallish figure Frost and Galen held between them. He was a hob, a relative to the brownie.
Harry Hob, he’d worked in the kitchens off and on for years. Off when Maggie May caught him drunk on the job, on when he could control himself. He was only about three feet tall and covered in so much thick, dark hair that it took a minute to realize he was naked.
“Why are you afraid of Onilwyn?” Doyle asked.
“I thought he’d come to kill me, the way he killed my Bea.”
I think we all took a breath and forgot to let it out.
“Did you see him do it?” Doyle asked. His deep voice fell into the silence like a stone thrown down a well. We waited for the stone to hit bottom.
But it was Onilwyn’s voice that came first. “I did not.” His voice was thick, not with emotion, but with blood and the broken mess of his nose. “I did not know her well enough to kill her.” He struggled to his feet, and with no prompting from anyone, Adair and Amatheon took his arms, as if he were already a prisoner. In that moment I knew I wasn’t the only one who disliked Onilwyn.