Jenna Black - Sirensong

When we were finally ready to depart again, one of Henry’s servants directed me to my assigned wagon. It was more comfortable than riding horseback, but not by much. The only seats were hard wooden benches. As if that weren’t uncomfortable enough, two of the baggage wagons had been beyond repair, and their cargo was stuffed under the benches so there was only one seat where you could actually put your feet on the floor. The servants put me in that seat, but I couldn’t help feeling guilty when I saw the rest of them contorting themselves to find a place to put their feet. The women, who had to deal with the ridiculous bustles right over their butts, had an especially hard time of it. I wondered if all the crap in those crates was strictly necessary, but I knew better than to think Henry might leave something behind for the comfort of mere servants.

I don’t know if it was a result of post-traumatic shock, or if Henry’s servants were so beaten down they’d lost all desire to be sociable, but try as I might, I couldn’t get anyone in that wagon to speak to me in more than monosyllables for the entire afternoon. They all rode with their heads bowed, not looking right or left, not talking to each other any more than they talked to me. I thought surely I could strike up a conversation with the redheaded girl, Elizabeth, since I guessed she was near my own age, but she was even quieter than the rest. Her eyes went wide with what looked like fear every time I tried to strike up a conversation. I felt so sorry for her I wanted to go over and give her a hug, but of course, I didn’t. I was sure she wouldn’t have appreciated it.

I expected Henry to commandeer someone’s house for the night as he had yesterday, but apparently he had other plans. Maybe we were too far out in the boonies to find a convenient host.

Whatever the reason, our caravan came to a halt in the middle of what seemed to me a nondescript patch of road. The servants in my wagon practically stampeded in their hurry to get to work as soon as we came to a halt. Magic pulsed in the air, and the surrounding forest began shifting in a way that I didn’t think I’d ever get used to.

I assumed everything was going to move out of the way and make a big clearing like the trees had at yesterday’s rest stop, but that didn’t seem to be what was happening. As far as I could tell, the trees were scurrying about as haphazardly as the servants. I jumped down from the wagon and tried to stay out of the way so I wouldn’t be trampled.

After a couple of minutes, I realized with a start that the trees and bushes were forming themselves into a multitude of enclosures, like they were the giant, living walls of a cubicle farm. The tallest of the trees bent over each of the enclosures, forming roofs.

“Cool,” I murmured, forgetting for a moment to be weirded out.

I wandered through the crowd until I found my dad and my friends. Servants were unloading wagons, carrying luggage and crates into the enclosures. Others were tending to the horses, while still others were setting up what looked like an open-air kitchen.

“If Henry can manage all this,” I said to my dad, “why did he have to invite himself and the rest of us to stay over at someone’s house last night?”

“I’m sure you can guess the answer to that,” he responded drily, and he was right. Commandeering someone’s house like that had been a power play, something Henry did just to show that he could. What a jerk! And because the Fae were completely fixated on their archaic class structure, they just had to take it.

Eventually, a servant came for us and led us to a cluster of tree-lined enclosures, informing us that once again, Kimber and I, and Ethan and Keane would be sharing “rooms.” I doubt Henry’s people planned it that way, but Finn decided to join Ethan and Keane, which seemed positively forward of him. I immediately suspected he was worried about what kind of trouble the two of them might get into if left unsupervised.

When Kimber and I entered our “room,” it was to find our luggage already delivered, suitcases stacked neatly in the corner. There were two feather mattresses on simple wooden frames, and there was a wooden folding table, complete with a basket of fruit, a pitcher of some dark liquid I suspected was wine, and a couple of silver goblets. Considering we were basically camping in the forest, this looked suspiciously like the Ritz. Not that I was complaining, mind you. My body was just as sore after hours in the wagon as it was after hours on horseback, and, to tell the truth, I was still seriously shaken up by the Bogle attack. I collapsed onto the bed, heedless of the fact that I stank of horse with a hint of dead Bogle. Kimber stood in the doorway for a moment, then said, “Be back in a few,” before slipping out.

“Where are you—” I started to ask, but she was already gone. I was too tired to get up and see what she was up to. Instead, I closed my eyes and tried hard not to think.

I had almost fallen asleep when I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. I cracked my eyes open and saw that Kimber had returned, carrying two ceramic mugs and an earthenware pitcher from which wisps of steam rose. I sniffed the air as I propped myself up on my elbows and caught a whiff of a familiar scent.

“Hot posset?” I asked, my mouth automatically watering. I’d never even heard of hot posset before I came to Avalon, and now it was nearing chocolate at the top of my list of best comfort foods ever.

Kimber looked very proud of herself as she filled both mugs to the brim. “I figured we could use it after everything that happened today.”

I forgot my exhaustion as I wrapped my hands around the mug Kimber handed me. “Where did you get hot posset?”

“From the kitchen,” she answered simply.

Ask a stupid question …

I sniffed at my mug before taking a sip, and the smell of whiskey practically made my eyes water. “Geez, Kimber, how much booze is in this?” She knew I wasn’t a big fan of alcohol, so she usually used only a touch of whiskey for flavor when making hot posset for me. Except when she took it upon herself to prescribe “extra-strength,” that is.

Kimber took a sip of her posset, then gave a satisfied sigh before answering. “Just enough.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t have the energy to protest. I blew lightly on the surface of my posset, then took an incautiously large sip. Not only did I burn my tongue, but that sip kept burning all the way down my throat and into my belly. No doubt about it, this was the extra-strength version. I drank it anyway.

The second sip burned less than the first, and the third less than that. The flavor was rich and heady—no skim milk here—and I started to relax almost in spite of myself. Until I thought about my mom, sitting at home enjoying similar beverages in much higher quantities. My heart squeezed in my chest, and the sudden sense of loss made me feel hollow inside. I’d had Sober Mom for a grand total of about four weeks, and thanks to Titania and her “invitation,” that was all gone now.

“What’s wrong?” Kimber asked, sitting on the bed across from me.

I forced a little laugh. “After everything that happened today, you have to ask?”

But Kimber was coming to know me uncomfortably well. “It’s not that,” she said, not a trace of doubt in her voice.

Kimber knew about my mom’s drinking problem—she was the only person I’d ever told—but that didn’t mean I liked to talk about it. I’d considered my mom my shameful secret for so long and was so used to covering up for her that it was always my first instinct to avoid the subject. I took another couple swallows of posset without answering, hoping Kimber would decide to change the subject. But she doesn’t give up that easy.