Sophie Oak: Beauty

Where was sweet Flanna now? Probably buried in the wide mass graves she’d seen Torin’s men digging as she’d fled the palace.

She shook off the thought and looked down at little Ove. “So tell me, little one, why were you looking for me?”

“The mayor’s coming.”

Three words and her whole day was wrecked. Micha O’Donnell was a pompous ass who eyed her with far too much familiarity for a man twice her age. Unfortunately, he was a pompous ass with power in this backwater part of the world. This village might be the ass end of the plane, but Torin still had some measure of control through the officials even here.

Bron set the brownie on her feet. “Did your mum know why he’s coming?”

Of all the people left on the plane, only Mags had figured out who she and Gillian were. The brownie, who sometimes helped with the house and the fields, had slipped up once a few years back and called Gillian by her title. It seemed she’d been born on the Unseelie plane. Bron had despaired in leaving her tower since it had become her home, but Mags had taken to one fragile knee and pledged to defend the Unseelie princess with her life. It had satisfied Gillian, and then they’d had an ally.

“Mum said she overheard there was talk of new restrictions.” Ove’s eyes grew round, a wealth of fear.

Bron took a deep breath. New restrictions meant new laws against magic and non-sidhe creatures. She took Ove’s hand and began to wind her way out of the field. She needed to change clothes if the mayor was coming. He tended to call her to task when she was seen in public in the soft leather pants she’d come to favor.

She regretted leaving the field. She could think out there among the wheat she’d planted. She could close her eyes and almost feel her Dark Ones. What would the mayor think if he knew she dreamed at night of two lovers, one with dark powers and the other who could light up the night?

He would be horrified and possibly accuse her of witchcraft. It was what they accused everyone of these days.

When she travelled to sell her wheat, they were everywhere—bodies strung up on the side of the road. Witchcraft. Collusion. Improper contact with non-sidhe creatures. Whispering the names Beck and Cian. All offenses punishable by hanging.

There were rumors that the ones who had been hanged were the lucky ones.

Gillian stood at the edge of the field, a stern look on her face. She’d dressed for the occasion in a sturdy but respectable gown that would prove completely impractical in the fields. “Where have you been?”

Bron looked back at the field pointedly.

“None of your sass, girl.” Gillian sighed and shook her head. “If your da could see you now.”

He would be perfectly horrified, but the thought brought a bit of a smile to Bron’s face. “He would demand to know where his daughter was. Well, if he noticed at all. Now Mama, on the other hand, would have a fit of vapors, and my brothers would laugh.”

“Go on then, I see the little ones have already brought the news.” She winked down at Ove. “Go back to your mum.” She passed her a small container. “Morning milk, to thank her. Stay out of sight. The less they remember you exist, the safer you will be.”

Ove nodded her scraggly head and took off, the shafts marking her progress.

Bron was halfway up the stairs when Gillian caught her.

“You have to be more careful. If the guards caught you holding hands with Ove, they would have every right to arrest you.”

Anger curled in Bron’s stomach. “Then perhaps we should do something about the guards.”

Like gather together and show them what a mob could do .

She marched to her room and flung her clothes off with a reckless hand. She slammed open the door to her dresser and pulled out her work dress.

Gillian sat down on the edge of the bed. “Could I talk you into the blue cotton?”

The blue cotton was her best dress, the one she wore to weddings and festivals. “I won’t waste it on him.”

She hated the mayor with his covetous eyes. She’d selected her work dress because it covered her chest and masked her curves. The mayor was looking for a wife, and he’d already asked Bron. She’d been trying to put him off.

“Will you please try to remember what your main job is?” Gillian asked.

This was a lecture Bron had heard almost every day of her life on the run. “I don’t know. Remind me.”

Gillian huffed a little. “One day you are going to make some men insane. I simply know it. Your job is to stay alive. Your job is to be a living, breathing woman when your brothers return.”

If they returned. “I will endeavor to not become a corpse in the next few hours.”

Gillian came up behind her, working the buttons up her back. When she was done, she turned Bron around and looked at her, smoothing down the small bit of scalloped edges of the neckline. “I am sometimes deeply glad that Torin planned his coup when you were a youngling since I could never make you pass for a boy now.”

Bron smiled, but it was a sarcastic thing. “I prayed for bosoms all my life. Now I rather wish I was slender.”

Gillian shook her head. “No, you don’t. You’re beautiful just the way you are. Don’t let the current palace fashions make you think otherwise.”

There was a knock on the door. Even his knock sounded short and officious, like the man himself.

Gillian took a deep breath. “I know you’re angry, love, but hold on for a bit longer. Things are happening. I can’t see them clearly yet, but something changed a few months back. I felt it. I still feel it. Something’s coming.”

“That might not be a good thing, Gilly.”

“Please.”

How in all the planes could she deny this woman? Bron nodded, giving her a silent promise to behave. Gillian called out the window to let the mayor know they were coming, and Bron followed her down the stairs.

Gillian had been a princess. She could have gotten out. She more than likely could have negotiated with Torin for her release. Torin had been looking for allies, desperate for them. He would have loved having the Unseelie king in his debt, yet Gillian hadn’t abandoned her. She’d sought a way out for them both, and when that failed, Gillian McIver had made a home for them here.

No matter how much Bron wanted to take her weapons and practice on the mayor, she would hold her tongue.

The door was opened, and there stood Micha and his ever-present guard.

“Ladies,” he said, bowing slightly.

She could hear him. Even in a backwater province, courtesy is required. She wondered if he would be so courteous when she gutted him.

Bron did what was expected and curtsied, though not as deeply as he would have wanted.

“May I come in for tea?” Micha asked with the smile of a man who knew the question was mere formality. “The palace has set forth some exciting new plans. I thought I would talk to my favorite citizens before they’re posted in the square for all to see.”

Gillian managed a bright smile. Bron’s stomach churned. He acted like it was exciting news when it more than likely was a new and inventive way to kill those Torin despised. Fae were starving across the plane, but Torin seemed more interested in coming up with ways to dispose of his enemies.

“Of course, Mayor, please make yourself welcome.” Gillian invited him in, her hand sweeping gracefully across the room, as though she were welcoming him into a palace, not the sad tower that was their home. “And your guards?”

Micha’s nose wrinkled as though it was common to even acknowledge they were there. “My guards will do their duties. Two will remain outside and one in the hallway. They have no need for anything so delicate as tea.”