A Dance with the Fae Prince by Elise Kova

Chapter 4

I jolt upright,clutching the covers to me as though they are armor. The screams stop as quickly as they started and echo only in my ears. My heart races; my breathing is short and fast. I look to the door wondering if some bandit or worse is about to break through and murder me in my bed.

But nothing happens. The air is still and quiet once more. There’s not even a breeze rustling through the trees of the woods outside. I do not hear the songs of nighttime bugs or the soft creaks of an old house.

I don’t know how long I sit like that, but it’s long enough that the muscles of my back begin to spasm from holding me so tall and rigid. I exhale and try to release some of the tension as I slip from the covers. Throwing a shawl around my shoulders, I lean against the door to my room, listening. I still hear nothing.

Knowing I must certainly be mad to venture forth, I crack open the door. Gray moonlight, little better to see by than a single candle trying to illuminate the whole hall, streams in through the windows. I look around and see no one.

I dash across the hall and lean against the wall by one of the windows that face the drive. I peek outside. The gravel is empty and smooth, as though Oren just raked it. I keep moving forward as though lingering in the moonlight too long will make me a target in this brisk and eerie night.

Finally, at the door at the end of the hall, I press my ear against the wood. There’s no talking, no movement, and no screams. My hand falls upon the handle, trembling. I was given four very clear rules. But that was before I heard screaming. What if there’s an attack? What if we’re in trouble?

I push down on the handle. It doesn’t budge. I’m locked in.

My heart is in my throat as I back away from the door. I shake my head, silently pleading to no one. I’m no longer in the hallway. I’m in the long closet underneath the stairs of my family’s manor. The door is locked. Helen tells me that Mother has thrown away the key and that I will never see sunlight again.

I rush back to my room and curl up in bed, drawing my knees to my chest. All night, I stare at the windows that overlook the dark woods and remind myself if I needed to escape—truly needed to—I could shatter them. I have a way out.

Even if that way out is into the woods I have sworn to everyone never to venture into.

When morning finally comes, I breathe easier. There were no more sounds. No other strange things happened in the night.

I venture to the bathroom. I only inspected it briefly the night before. It’s the third door in the hall, situating it between the study and my bedroom. It’s a strange room with water that flows hot and cold from the tap by a magic I don’t understand. I test this phenomenon twice during my morning ablations. Both times the water steams if it runs long enough.

This is a strange place indeed.

Dressed and ready for the day, I stride down the hall. I’m far more confident in the sunlight than I was the night before. The door handle turns effortlessly, granting me access to the rest of the manor. I step out and am drawn to the dining room by the aroma of freshly baked bread.

A plate has been laid out for me. Two eggs have been fried and laid over cooling slabs of toast. Half a sausage is nestled beside them. It’s a breakfast fit for a queen and I make quick work of it.

There’s no sign of Oren, or Lord Fenwood, however. And I had desperately been hoping to catch one of them. I wonder if there was an accident last night that prompted them to leave early in the morning and take the carriage to town.

The scream still resonates in my ears.

When I’m finished, I collect my dishes and head to the side door I saw Oren step through the night before. Sure enough, it leads to a well-stocked kitchen. I can’t fight my instincts; I look through the pantry at the dry and jarred goods. It’s enough to feed ten people for two winters, easily. There’s another door that leads down to the basement that I presume is cold storage. I’m not brave enough to venture into the dark after last night.

I walk along a preparation table to the back of the room, where there is a large basin sink set into the countertop, and tidy my dishes. The open shelves along the wall opposite the hearth allow me to return them to their proper place with ease. I emerge back into the dining room, half expecting Oren to be there, ready to scold me for daring to lift a finger.

But there’s still no one.

The silence is unbearable. Especially since the last sounds I heard in this manor were those screams. I head back to my room with renewed purpose. I can’t stay in this building a second longer. I can’t live with that noise as my only company.

I change into a far simpler dress, one that only goes down to my knees so it doesn’t get caught in brambles and with slits high on the sides to give me mobility. Underneath, I wear a sturdy pair of leggings. I take my lute, sling it over my shoulder, and venture back out to the main hall.

I come to a stop before the front door and repeat the rules Oren told me to myself. I am allowed to leave right now. It’s daytime. And I am only venturing out in front of the manor, not behind. It’s within their parameters; I’ll be safe. I slowly glance over my shoulder. I might even be safer than in here.

The morning is crisp and refreshing. The air, even at the foot of the mountains, feels thinner and lighter. I can smell the dense pine of the forest behind me. The small saplings that make up the woods before me pale in comparison to their ancestors.

Out of curiosity, I follow an offshoot of the drive around the side of the building. Sure enough, it ends at a carriage house and stables. The horses are in their stalls. Carriage parked. So it appears they didn’t head into town.

I almost go over to the horses but immediately think better of it. They’ll remind me too much of Misty and that wound is still too fresh. Instead I turn on my heel and walk along the drive all the way back out to the main gate. It’s closed, and the gravel here shows no sign of the cart being driven out this morning. Then again, I’m no real tracker—if I had been, my family might have eaten better—so it’s hard to be sure.

Feeling braver, I walk along the wall among the brush and bramble. My sturdy work boots give me sure footing. Somewhere between the wall, the manor, and the drive, I come to a glade. Arrows of sunlight strike the ground in beams that pierce the thinning canopy above. The coming winter is making these trees shed and they’ve bled on the ground in shades of orange and red. At the center of the glade is a massive stump. It must have been one of the old trees, felled long ago to stop it from encroaching too far into usable land.

I sit and brace one ankle on the opposite knee, lute in my lap. Holding the neck with one hand, I lightly strum with the other. It’s out of tune. Of course it is, it’s been weeks since I last played. I make my adjustments and strum again, repeating until I’m pleased.

Pressing down with my fingertips, I pluck a single note and allow it to hold in the air. I hum, adjusting the pitch of my voice until it matches with the resonant sound in the body of the lute. I allow the harmony to fade and take a breath, before my fingers begin to dance atop the strings.

Pluck, pluck, pluck, strum. The introduction rises to a swell before stopping in a sudden silence. Then, the first note. I sing with the second.

“I knew you,

When the trees

Were on fire.

“I saw you,

When you were

Not a liar.”

A brief interlude.I rock with the music. Swaying with the trees and breezes that round out my merry troupe. Strumming as we reach the chorus.

“Our song, rode on the mists of mountains high.”I close my eyes, feeling the music within me as much as around me. The forest has fallen to a hush, as if listening to me play. It’s been ages since I had a space to play and sing. “Our song, lurked in crypts of kings gone by.”

I shiftmy fingers on the neck, transitioning back to the verse, now playing each note in harmony as I find the melody once more.

“I saw you,

When the—”

“Well aren’t you a surprise?”

I’ve only heard his voice once before and yet I would know it anywhere. That resonance is deeper than a bass string. Richer than dark chocolate. I jerk, startled, and glance over my shoulder on instinct.

“Don’t look,” he reminds me.

I quickly stare forward again. “I didn’t see anything. Well, just your shoulder again.” He’s hiding behind a tree.

“You’re going to make me think you have some kind of obsession with my shoulders.”

I let out a soft snort of laughter and play along. “Well, so far as I can tell, they are quite nice shoulders.”

It’s his turn to laugh. The sound is as bright as sunlight and as sumptuous as velvet. I have to force my hands to stay still so I don’t try and harmonize with it on instinct. I know how annoying I am with the lute in my hands.

“I didn’t know you can play the lute.”

“I suspect there’s much about each other we don’t know.” He hadn’t seemed interested in opening up the night before to discover such things.

“Where did you learn that song?”

“I’m not sure…” The taste of metal explodes in my mouth, like I ate something burnt or bit my tongue and now have blood on the insides of my cheeks. I hate lying. Whenever someone tries to tell a lie to me, I smell smoke. Whenever I tell a lie, I taste metal. Either way, lies are unpleasantness I try to avoid at all costs. “I must’ve heard it somewhere when I was very young. I’ve known it for a long time.” Half-truths are easier.

My mother was the one who taught me that song. It was my lullaby. But as I grew older, and Joyce entered our lives, my father always told me to keep the things she taught me a secret.

“I suppose those sorts of old songs have a way of lingering in places like this.”

“I suppose so.” I grip the lute protectively. “Is it all right that I was singing it?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

I think back to Helen, my mother, and their scolding. Laura’s encouragement is weak by comparison. “I’m not a very good singer, or player.”

“I’m not sure who told you that, but they were lying. You’re exceptional.”

The air is still crisp and clear; my nose isn’t singed. He’s not lying. He really thinks I’m good. “Thank you.”

“Will you finish the song for me? It’s been a very long time since I heard that one performed,” he says softly. I can hear in his voice how unsure he is of asking. How hesitant. Maybe he feels bad for how he treated me last night.

“Only if you answer a question for me first.”

“Yes?”

“Last night… I heard screams. Well, one scream. It ended quickly… Is everything all right?”

His hesitation is horrible. “Is it possible you had a nightmare?”

“I know what I heard.”

“I didn’t scream last night.”

“I never said it was you.” I can’t stand his evasiveness. The way he’s speaking to me right now feels the same as when Joyce would talk down to me, tell me I was mistaken when I knew I wasn’t. Looking for any excuse to explain away or belittle how I thought or felt. “I went to investigate but couldn’t because the door was locked—”

“You tried to leave your quarters at night?” There’s almost a growl at the end of the question. Rage is a palpable thing and I can feel it radiating off of him. “There are explicit rules for your well-being.”

I want to glare at him. I want to look into his eyes and tell him how unreasonable it is to lock me up like an animal at night. “Maybe I wouldn’t have tried to leave if I hadn’t heard screams. I thought I was in danger.”

“That is precisely why you were told to disregard anything you heard. You are not in danger. The rest isn’t a concern to you.”

“But —”

“You are safe here.” Those words should be reassuring but the way he says them, filled with such anger, pain, and frustration… It almost sounds as though the safety he gives me is begrudging. As though it pains him to look after me. I truly am more ward than wife. The same burden I have always been.

“If I am safe then you don’t need to lock me in my wing.”

“Clearly I do, because you disregard simple instruction.”

“I am not your prisoner.”

“But you are my responsibility!” The outburst silences even the birds. I hear them take wing to avoid this awkward confrontation. “I made an oath to protect you. That is what I’m doing.”

I inhale through my nose and let it out as a sigh. My eyes flutter closed. If there’s one thing Joyce and my sisters have taught me, it’s how to let things go and move on. Bottling up anger only makes matters worse in the long run. Most of the time, I try and listen to my own advice.

“Please,” I say as plainly as possible. I try and pour every drop of invisible pain into that singular word. It is as close to begging as I ever would like to be. “I cannot feel like I am trapped. I swear to you, no matter what, I will not leave my quarters at night. So please do not lock the door.”

“How do I know you will keep your word?” He sounds skeptical. I can’t blame him. He did give me just four rules and I admitted to trying to break one last night.

I wish I could look at him. I wish I could see his expression—that I could meet his eyes and show him that I’m being sincere. How do I communicate those things when I can’t look upon the face of the person I’m speaking to?

“You’ll just have to trust me, I suppose.”

He scoffs softly. “Trust… Such a hard thing to give to your kind.”

“Has a woman burned you that badly?” I instantly cringe at my wording. For all I know, he’s had a wife before. Maybe she did burn him. Maybe his face is so horribly scarred that he won’t allow anyone to look at him. My back aches and I straighten my posture.

“Maybe that’s what I’m trying to protect myself from.”

The words still me. I hear the faint whisper of “stay out” and “stay away” dancing among them. I wonder who wounded him. A blow like he has endured—like I have—doesn’t need to leave physical scars; it is much deeper than flesh.

“The vow you took was that I would never be left wanting. I want the door unlocked.” I play my last card and wait, curious to see if it will work.

He lets out a dark chuckle. I can feel him wanting to resist and yet… “Fine. But know that the moment you leave those quarters at night I can no longer guarantee your safety.”

“Deal.” I can hear him move to leave. Leaves crunch under his light feet. I wonder what he was doing out here to begin with. It couldn’t be checking on me. “Wait.”

“What now?”

“You never heard the rest of the song.” I adjust the lute in my lap and still avoid looking at him. “Would you like to?”

“Yes.” That word is wrapped up in somber yearning. I wonder what this old folksong means to him as I adjust my grip and begin to play once more.

When the last note has faded among the trees I know he is long gone.