Blood covered her hands. The metallic smell burned her nostrils and overwhelmed her senses. Although she’d finished the surgery an hour ago, she still saw the gaping wound, the splayed open flesh, and the iridescent shimmer of the blood beetle feasting upon sinuous muscle.

Sorcha sat on the back stoop with her hands dangling off her knees. The chickens pecked at her soft leather shoes; the jabs helped to ground her. This weightless feeling always happened after a long, grueling attempt to extract a beetle.

“Shoo,” she whispered. One chicken shook its head, feathers ruffled in displeasure. She was certain the nasty redcap rode one of them. The faerie was secretive in his pranks, and likely thought she couldn't see him, but Sorcha always caught glimpses out of the corner of her eye. “There are tastier things than my feet.”

She tapped her foot against the ground. The chicken clucked loudly and beat its wings against her legs, rushing to the other side of the pen. Even though Sorcha fed them every morning and night, she would bear the brunt of their anger.

Chickens were vindictive little things.

“Sorcha!” A feminine voice shouted. “Get back in here!”

She stood, wanting desperately to dust off her skirts but knowing she would only smear blood on them. To waste new fabric would be the worst kind of sin. She stared down at the blood flaking off her hands, lips pressed in a thin line.

“It will have to do,” she muttered.

Their three-story home was at the edge of town, the only suitable location for a brothel. The stone walls were sturdy and clean, and the wooden roof free of rot. It was by no means elegant, but it was suitable for its purpose. For Sorcha, the cobblestone steps felt like stairs to the gallows.

Sorcha dunked her hands into a bucket of clean water near the door. Her sisters had meant it for cleaning, but if they wanted her to rush, then they needed to make the trek to the river once again.

She scrubbed her hands together, tainting the water with blood. It turned as red as the muscles in her father’s back that had been revealed when she pressed her blade deeper…

“Sorcha!”

Snapping out of her stupor, she wiped her hands upon the plaid wrapped around her waist. A breeze pushed red curls in front of her gaze, obscuring her vision. She huffed out an angry breath and shoved them back.

There was blood caked underneath her nails.

“I’m coming!” she shouted, pushing open the door.

The room beyond was still. Papa's room was always quiet, but now it was silent as a tomb. Sorcha prayed every night it would not become one.

She knew how to prevent children from being conceived, how to birth a child, and all the ailments that might come after for both mother and babe. She had guided countless women through the trials of labor and treated many a croupy cough.

But she wanted to be a real healer. Her soul yearned to do more, to set bones and find cures for diseases. Shelves of books lined her bedroom, each containing detailed notes for every herb, every technique to heal, even the right faeries to beg for help.

It was a shame the faeries had stopped listening a long time ago.

Trophies of Papa's travels decorated the walls of his room. A bear pelt covered the stone floor, a dark wood desk contained all his notes and a balancing scale to count his coins. His pallet bed covered almost the entire back wall, heavy curtains shrouding him from Sorcha’s view.

“Sorcha, his fever is back,” her sister said.

She rushed to his side.

Rosaleen was the youngest in the brothel and innately kind. The longer she stayed here, the quieter she would get. Kind people never lasted in this profession. They were either lucky, and some nobleman took them as a mistress, or they disappeared forever.

Rosaleen’s heart shaped face was pale with fear. She had tied her blonde ringlets with a leather thong, but a few escaped to bounce with her movements.

Such a pretty little thing would surely capture a nobleman's favor. Or a soldier's, at the very least. What man wouldn’t want a mistress such as her?

Sorcha pressed her hand against Papa's forehead and tsked. “We completed another treatment, and I thought rest would stave off another fever. I'm sorry, I was wrong. Can you get him hot water, please, Rosaleen?”

“Will it help?”

“It will. A spot of tea fixes a great many things,” Sorcha lied. He wouldn't heal tonight, in a fortnight, even in a year. He wouldn't heal at all. But Rosaleen was a delicate creature and lying eased her worry.

Sorcha watched her sister rush from the room with a troubled gaze.

“Good riddance,” Papa coughed. “They fawn over me as if I’m already dead.”

“They’re worried,” Sorcha replied with a smile. “And they have a right to be.”

“There will be another man to take my place. A business like this won’t be empty for long.”

“But will he be as kind? Will he be as understanding?”

“I am neither of those, and the girls shouldn't expect another man to be.”

Sorcha helped him sit up, her hand sturdy and strong behind his back. She remembered him as a tall man, broad and capable of taking on the world. He had thrown men out of this establishment without breaking a sweat. Now, he was skeletal. Each inhalation rattled and exhalation wheezed. His hands shook, and his eyes remained unfocused.

While he caught his breath, she plucked at the bandages and poultice packed around his ribs. “How does it feel?”

“Sore,” he grumbled. “Damn beetles are always moving.”

“At least we got rid of another hive mother.”

Papa snorted. “It’s something, but it won't save me.”

No, it wouldn’t.

A blood beetle infection was a death sentence, and no one had figured out how to cure it. They came from the skies. Swarms of green locusts, so beautiful the villagers wore their wings as jewelry in the first year. Then, they laid their eggs inside people. There was no catching up with them after that.

Sorcha sighed and laid her hand over one of the many bumps on Papa’s back. The beetles lived underneath the skin, eating flesh from the inside out. They multiplied while feasting slowly upon their hosts, but at least they didn’t spread until they exhausted their food supply.

Sorcha had figured out a way to extract them. She cut through skin, muscle, and sinew, carefully pulling the beetles out from behind. She then burned them and buried their ashes. It was the only way she could be certain they wouldn't fly off and infect someone else.

The bump underneath her hand shifted.

“I felt that one,” Papa huffed. “How long do I have girl?”

“A few more months. I’ve been trying to keep up with their reproductions, but your body won’t take this much trauma for long.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The door eased open and Rosaleen poked her head through. “Can I come back in now?”

Sorcha rubbed Papa’s back. “Yes, come on in. Can you pour the water in a cup for me, please?”

Pottery was scarce at the brothel. No one wanted to sell household objects to prostitutes, so they made do with what Sorcha received as trade from her midwifery. The mangled clay cup was lopsided, but it held water without leaking.

She packed yarrow into the cup and gave it a swirl. “Here you go, Papa. Drink up.”

“Is this that bitter tea you keep making me drink?”

“It keeps the fever down and helps stop the bleeding.”

“I don’t like it.” He sipped and made a face. “I think you’re poisoning me.”

“I think you’re being a child. Drink it all—” she paused. “All of it, Papa. And then go back to sleep.”

He grumbled, but laid back down on the bed without too much of a fuss. Sorcha drew the curtain so the light wouldn’t disturb him.

Rosaleen stared at her. The weight of her gaze was like a physical touch. There wasn’t much for Sorcha to say. She didn’t want to ruin their happiness, and income, by giving a date to their father’s death. They needed to stay strong, and later they could grieve.

She tucked her little sister under her arm and guided her from the room. “What’s the matter little chick?”

“I’m worried about Papa. Aren’t you?”

“You let me worry about him. I’m the healer, aren’t I?”

“Midwife.”

The word stung.

“I’m doing more than the healers would. They’d be bloodletting him when the beetles already do that. He doesn't need any leeches, he needs the beetles removed.”

“They’re still not listening to you?”

The sisters walked into the kitchen and main living space for the women. When they first moved to this city, only the family had lived in this building. Their Papa was a born businessman, and he set his sights on expanding their clientele. Now, there were thirteen women living and working under their roof.

The twins snuggled up near the fire, their heads pressed together as they shared secrets. Sorcha’s herbs hung from the ceiling to dry for later use. A worn table stretched from end to end, two benches serving as seats. They stored a cauldron in the back room and brought it out for supper to hang over the fire.

Briana, the eldest of their sisters, swung the opposite door open. Masculine laughter and shouts echoed in a wall of sound. “Rosaleen, you’ve a customer out front.”

“All right,” she squeezed Sorcha’s waist. “I’ll be back later, you’ll be fine without me?”

“You worry too much,” Sorcha replied. “Go on then. Make some money.”

As the tiny blonde skipped past, Briana gave Sorcha a measured stare. “You’re keeping yourself busy today I hope? There’s a long line of appointments and I don't have time to watch over you today. You’ll fend for yourself if you’re sticking around.”

Sorcha had never been like her adopted sisters. Her witch of a mother taught her too many things and her young mind had absorbed the information. Sorcha had more uses than whoring, Papa used to say. People paid more for healing than they did for bedding. And besides, no one wanted to risk laying with the devil's spawn. Papa never thought she was a witch or cursed, but she was whip-smart.

He made the decision for her to walk the path of a healer. From that day forward, she dedicated herself to helping others and tried to avoid the same fate as her mother. The acrid scent of burning flesh was seared into her memory.

Sorcha ducked her head and nodded. “I’ll be at the guild meeting most of the day and then need to stop by Dame Agatha’s.”

“That poor woman is pregnant again?”

“Seems so.”

Briana tsked. “That man needs to give her a break, or she’ll go to an early grave. Speaking of, I’ll need you to restock our own stores. We can’t have any children running around.”

“Of course. On the way back, I’ll gather more mealbhacán, but the wild carrot tastes awful.”

“I don’t care what you gather, or how bad it tastes. Just make it useful.”

Briana must have had a difficult client, Sorcha mused. Or perhaps it was the teeming mass of energy behind her. Men always grew excited on the Solstice.

She raced up the rickety wooden stairs, trying not to make eye contact with any of the male customers below. They lived in a large city, and most people knew her. She wasn’t in the market for entertaining.

“Sorcha! When are you going to let us love you like we love your sisters?”

Only when she crested the first flight of stairs, did she pause and lean over the railing. The long tangled mass of her hair hung over the edge. “Oh Fergus, someday you will make your wife jealous with talk like that.”

“She knows I’m loyal to her!”

Briana stood behind the man, waving her hands frantically.

Right. Sorcha wasn’t supposed to insult the customers, or they’d leave. She puffed out a breath that stirred the red curls in front of her face, conceding. “I’m a healer, Fergus. I don’t partake in your festivities, but a man certainly can dream!”

He let out a hearty laugh, his cheeks stained red. “Ah, and dream I do, my lovely lass!”

She raced up the rest of the stairs. Her skirt whirled in an arc behind her, the blue plaid fluttering with her movements. The last thing she wanted to hear was that Fergus, of all men, dreamed of her.

They all slept on the top floor, away from the rooms where they brought clients. A place they could call their own was important. Although, the more women they brought into their family, the less room they had.

Sorcha didn’t work in the brothel, so her room was the smallest. It had once been used as a storage closet, but now held a small cot and stacked chests. Books, herbs, and all manner of magical objects were scattered around the room.

The first chest creaked as she opened it. She reached into the dark depths, her fingers skimming over well-worn objects, until she closed her fist around her greatest treasure.

Her mother had passed down her knowledge along with sacred objects. Many feared Paganism, considered the work of the devil, and named those who practiced it witches. Sorcha knew better.

She pulled out a stone carved with a white dove. Pressing it to her lips, she whispered, “Good morrow, Máthair.”

Not a day passed when she didn’t miss her mother’s laughter, her calloused hands, and the scent of cinnamon in her hair. She hadn’t been a witch, just a healer who knew how to ask favors of the Fae.

Sorcha dropped the stone back into the chest and picked up a ceramic pot. Her mother had lovingly painted tiny flowers all around the edges, each stroke created with care and precision. She measured out a small bit of sugar and scooped it onto the windowsill.

“Share a taste of sugar with me,” Sorcha said, “in celebration of our dutiful work.”

Like her mother, Sorcha respected the old ways and the Fae. She believed in them where others did not. Her room was always clean, and her books always neatly packed away, all without Sorcha touching a single item. The brownies took care of her, and she took care of them in return.

She scooped up her medical notes and tucked them into a bag she slung over her shoulder. Patting her hair, she gave up on tying it back. The nest of curls would be free before she made it to the guild.

Tugging hard on her bodice, she pressed her hand against her chest. A hag stone, with natural holes bored through it by running water, hung around her neck. Another gift from her mother so she could always see through magic.

She turned and made her way back down the stairs.

Rosaleen was already exiting her room, closing the door gently behind her. Her hair stuck up in all directions, like a dandelion puff. She glanced over her shoulder and shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting that one to be so quick. He paid for a half hour, so I suppose he can sleep it off.”

“Someone new?”

“He wouldn’t say who he was. Looks like a nobleman; his clothes are too fine to be working class.”

Sorcha pulled up her sister’s sleeve which was dipping dangerously low on her shoulder. “Fancy catching this one for good?”

Rosaleen blushed. “Oh, he’s much too fine looking for me.”

“And you’re a rare beauty. He would give you a good life, away from working so hard.”

“I couldn’t leave all of you.”

“None of us would think less of you for it. You’d be safe, well-fed, and you could visit. If he’s kind, think about it.”

“He was certainly kind,” Rosaleen tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And I can appreciate a man who doesn’t take much work.”

Sorcha chuckled and touched a finger to Rosaleen’s chin. “Think about it, little chick. Go get yourself cleaned up.”

“The tea is downstairs?”

“Ask Briana. There’s a few tonics left, and I’ll bring back more.”

They walked down the stairs together, giggling as Rosaleen told stories about the customers she’d already that day.

“Will you be gone all day?” Rosaleen asked as they reached the ground floor.

“Briana’s asked that I make myself scarce. It’s a busy day, and I don’t need to be underfoot.”

“We might need you if anyone gets too rowdy.”

“The men don’t pay for healing anyways. I’d rather find customers who will at least trade.”

“Not Dame Agatha?” Rosaleen’s eyes glinted with mischief.

“You were listening!”

“Just through the grate while he was getting ready! I haven’t heard a single rumor about Agatha being pregnant again, so what are you really going to do? Are you hiding a man?”

“Not everything is about men, Rosaleen.” Sorcha lifted her bag and pawed through it. “I’m just visiting the shrine, that’s all.”

“I thought you were done with the faeries?”

“No one can be done with faeries, Rosaleen. They will always be there, and someone has to leave offerings.”

They had argued about this since they were children. Papa and his girls lived in the city where people had forgotten their ties to the land. Sorcha had grown up on the moors. She knew will-o'-the-wisps by name and had spied on goblin markets. She left offerings for brownies and whispered secrets to the Tuatha dé Danann.

If she had never seen these things, she might have questioned whether faeries were real.

Shaking her head, she pushed her way through the crowd of men in the front room. Briana hadn’t been kidding. They were unusually busy, even for this time of year. Perhaps someone had spread word of the mysterious brothel filled with golden women.

Rumors said that Papa's daughters came from a line of goddesses. They were all unnaturally pretty with milk-pale skin and heart-shaped faces. Their full lips were always red and didn’t leave berry stains on men’s skin. Loose blonde curls never needed a hot iron, and they were graceful as dancers.

There were some who wondered about their odd duck of a sister. In comparison, Sorcha was a startling red rose among daffodils. She was taller than her sisters, with waist length red hair and tight ring curls that billowed around her like a cloud. Freckles dusted her skin from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. And everyone found her slightly pointed ears to be unnerving.

Faerie touched, the villagers used to say. Her mother must have had a changeling child she refused to give back. Or perhaps that was just a sign she was touched by the devil, like her witch of a mother.

Whatever the reasoning, Sorcha was odd, strange, unusual.

She pushed past the last man and stepped out onto the streets. A horse and buggy waited out front, the emblem of an eagle painted on its side in gold. She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small shriveled apple.

Soft velvet lips plucked the fruit from her palm, and the horse groaned with happiness.

“You’ll be waiting for a while, my friend,” Sorcha said with a grin.

“Hey! Woman!” A whip cracked over her head. “Ain’t nobody ever told ye not to touch a stranger’s horse? Get out of here!”

She ducked away and disappeared into the crowd.

It was market day. The teeming mass of people all seemed to have something to sell. Unwashed bodies pressed against her, but all she could smell was fish, meats, and fresh fruit.

“Eggs for sale!”

“Flowers for your lady?”

“Fabric in every color!”

Sorcha kept her bag close to her side and tried not to make eye contact. She didn't need any trouble from the suspicious villagers who made the sign of the cross when she passed. Stalls lined the streets with food, billowing cloth, even jewelry from the far reaches of the land. Some vendors she recognized, others she did not.

A minstrel played his flute, filling the square with a jaunty tune. Sorcha recognized the song and covered her grin. The words were highly inappropriate. His hat on the ground overflowed with coins, so others must have appreciated the jest as much as she.

He winked at her when she placed a single coin with the others.

A woman selling dried herbs caught her arm and pressed a small jar of honey into Sorcha’s palm. “For Danu.”

“I will leave it in the forest,” Sorcha tucked it into her bag. “For anything in particular?”

“Good health.”

Nodding, she continued to push through the crowds of people. It wasn’t the first time someone asked for a blessing. They weren't willing to follow the old ways themselves—that was too risky—so they’d ask Sorcha to leave them for her. If she was caught, she'd be burned at the stake by the same people who handed her gifts to take to the Fae.

A few others passed her bits and pieces to leave as offerings. A small packet of sugar, a dried bunch of lavender, a tiny jar of fresh cream. Little things that the faeries appreciated, and might leave blessings for in return.

That was the deal with faeries. Their favors could not be bought or bribed. One had to continue leaving gifts and someday, maybe, the faeries would gift them a blessing.

Another woman grabbed Sorcha’s arm and pulled her away from the crowd. A dirty kerchief covered her head and a moth-bitten brown dress hung from her thin frame. “My daughter won’t stop crying. She’s screaming the nights away, and my husband plans to leave her on the hill tomorrow night saying she’s a changeling. Is there another way?” Her swollen eyes brimmed with tears, cheeks scrubbed raw and nose stuffed.

Sorcha patted her hand. “Bring her to the river and hold her in the water. No need to put her underneath it, just her legs will do. If they look the same, then she’s no changeling. If they look like birch branches, then you know you’re housing a faerie under your roof.”

“The river?”

“Faerie magic doesn’t work under flowing water and the glamour will break. If she’s no Fae, then bring her to the brothel. I’ll have a good look at her and see if I can give you something to help her, and you, get some sleep.”

“Bless you, lady. We have nothing to pay you.”

“I don’t ask for payment. Leave an offering for Danu when you can and apologize for blaming her children for your child's illness.”

The woman wrung her hands. “And if it is a changeling?”

Sorcha frowned. “Then you’ll leave it in the woods and hope they bring your child back.”

She pulled away and continued her journey with a troubled mind. Many families thought their sickly babe was a changeling, but rarely was it true. There hadn’t had a changeling in this area for years.

Yet, offerings to the Fae had diminished in the past years. With the blood beetle plague, the rising of other religions, and more outsiders in their lands, faerie stories faded into myth.

The people forgot the shrines. Cattle and lye tainted the holy waters. Many people didn’t leave cream and sugar on their doorsteps. No one remembered the old ways, and they were paying for that.

Sorcha shook her head. She hoped it wasn’t a changeling. Often, the Fae swapped out children for a reason. It was an unwanted, ugly babe, or it was an ancient faerie who needed a quiet place to die. Neither of those were a fair trade for a human child, and leaving it on a hill didn’t result in gaining their child back. The faerie would die alone on the hill, cold and unwanted once again.

But it was the only solution she knew.

She tried not to let her eyes linger upon the shadows at the edges of the street. Families cast out the infected from their home, fear of spreading the blood beetles giving way to panic. She couldn't stop her eyes from searching for them at the edges of the crowd.

Her gaze caught on a painfully thin man. He scratched at a bulge on his cheek which shifted every time he touched it.

Sorcha shivered and hurried along her way.

The Guild building loomed at the end of the street. It looked nearly as impressive as the church. Imposing and tall, the walls stretched so high she had to shade her eyes to see their peak. One of the more prestigious patrons had paid for full stained glass windows. On one side, a healer looked down at her with disapproving eyes. On the other, a priest held his hands solemnly before him.

Taking a deep breath, she hiked the bag on her shoulder higher. Noblemen worked here, their fine velvet clothing easily ruined by her dirty touch, their jewelry blinding her with its opulence. She was not a welcome visitor.

She walked up the steps, counting each one as she went. By the time she reached thirty, she was at the front doors.

“This time will be different,” she told herself. “They will listen to you. You'll make them.”

Sorcha pushed the doors open and stepped onto the marble floors. Her footsteps echoed, those closest to her glancing up at the intrusive sound. She didn’t let herself meet their gaze. She knew from experience their expressions would turn to shock and then anger. How dare a woman tread among their favored kind?

Confidently striding to the end of the building, she halted in front of a bespectacled man peering at ledgers. He didn’t look up.

Sorcha cleared her throat.

“What is it this time, Sorcha?”

“I’ve come to speak with the healers guild on the matter of blood beetles.”

He didn’t argue. They’d fought enough battles that minstrels should sing of their war. He lifted a hand, sighing. "Third hall on the left."

“Thank you.”

She told herself to stay calm. Yelling at these men would only make them dig their heels in further, and she wanted to help. The blood beetles weren’t going away, but maybe, just maybe, she could help the infected survive longer.

Her stomach rolled.

There wasn’t any reason to be afraid. They couldn’t lock her up or call her a witch. That would mean admitting they believed in magic, and these were men of science. The worst that could happen was that they laughed at her.

It shouldn’t bother her as much as it did. Her pride had always been a personal weakness, and one she had yet to tame. Sorcha wanted them to say she was right. Just once.

She pushed the door open and stepped into the hall.

A group of men gathered around a body laid out on a long table. A blanket draped over the dead man’s legs, but that modesty seemed unnecessary when they had his rib cage cracked open.

“Gentlemen,” she called out, “another blood beetle victim?”

The man standing at the head of the table raised his gaze. “Sorcha. I thought we threw you out last time.”

“You did! And yet, here I am again. I have information on extracting the blood beetles I thought you might find helpful.”

“I doubt anything a woman has to say would be helpful.”

The room was as cold as his voice. She swallowed her anger and stilled her shivers. “I have taken detailed notes, as you requested last time, including drawings of my findings. As you have one of the afflicted before you, I would be happy to perform a live demonstration.”

“Child, I appreciate your dedication, but you were never formally trained. We have no need for a midwife’s opinions over the domain of man.”

“Are women not afflicted as well?”

“I fail to see how this improves your argument.”

“You dismiss me because I cannot understand the domain of men. However, it also affects the domain of women. According to your logic, I would understand that far better than you.”

He sighed, bowed his head, and braced himself on the table, clearly taking measured breaths. “Sorcha. I should not have to explain this to you.”

“What is there to explain? I have information that may be useful. You should listen.”

Their collective gaze burned. She had known they wouldn’t want her in the same room while they studied. It still frustrated her to no end.

“Why won’t you listen to me?” she asked. “It’s not a difficult thing to do. I am certain you can hear me as none of you are so advanced in age that I must shout.”

Her eyes strayed towards the corner of a room where a handsome man stood. Geralt. His ink dark hair glinted blue in the strong light trickling through the glass ceiling. His lips quirked to the side in a smirk, and his cobalt eyes sparkled with humor. Supple breeches hugged his well-shaped thighs, a white linen shirt billowed at his elbows, and a green brocade vest hugged his broad chest.

He swaggered forward. “If I may, gentlemen?”

Sorcha held in her snort of displeasure. She had been the one speaking, yet he did not direct his question towards her.

The doctor took off his glasses and snapped his handkerchief in the air. He pressed it against his nose, as if Sorcha brought with her a rancid stench, and waved his hand. “Please do.”

“Sorcha,” Geralt said as he strode forward. “It’s not that we don’t value your opinion, we certainly do. It’s just that we are very busy and on the brink of great discovery.”

“That you can remove the beetles? I’ve told you this every time I walked in.”

“No, we have found a way to prevent them from breeding within the human body.”

She ground her teeth together, so hard her jaw creaked. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s not. I understand how badly you want to help us, and we appreciate it. But I am begging you,” he held his hands clasped before him. “Give us more time. More uninterrupted time.”

“I don’t have time,” Sorcha growled. “And neither do the rest of our people. The blood beetle plague gets worse with every season. You and your fellow ‘doctors’ hole up in this room day after day and you never find any kind of resolution. You take bodies like you’re one of the dullahan! All for nothing!”

Her shouts bounced off the high ceiling and struck the men like falling arrows. Some had the decency to flinch, others remained stoic. Geralt’s eyes narrowed upon her and, for once, Sorcha thought she had finally angered him.

The spark of fire disappeared.

“We are doing the best we can,” the cajoling tone returned to Geralt’s voice. “You are the bravest, most daring girl I have ever met. I appreciate your tenacity.” His hand pressed against her spine and turned her from the room.

“I’m not leaving yet, Geralt. I can at least watch the examination. Perhaps I might have—”

“Sorcha,” he interrupted. She could feel each finger burning through the fabric of her dress. “Perhaps you can explain why you don’t have time to wait? I would like to offer my help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“But I want to give it. So please, walk with me.”

She peered over her shoulder at the body. “If they would just listen, for once in their stubborn lives, I might be able to teach them something!”

“Not today, lovely. Not today.”

He propelled her from the room with such ease Sorcha wondered if he had cursed her. More likely he was overpowering her. Geralt stood a head taller and didn’t mind using his greater weight to his advantage.

There was little else she could do. Sorcha wanted to stay, but would only make a larger scene if she did. Perhaps someday they would let her linger, even in the corner or in the shadows.

But she was just a midwife, and therefore, a lesser being.

Geralt leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “Now, what is wrong with your father?”

“You know what’s wrong with him. He’s infected.”

“I know he's infected, but you’ve never used him as an excuse before. What has changed?”

“It’s progressed.”

Geralt nodded at another nobleman. The other did not return the gesture. Old blood rarely acknowledged new riches. “How far?”

She stopped in her tracks. “Why are you even asking? You don’t care how he fares!”

“Of course I care.” He pressed a hand against his chest. “I have always cared, Sorcha.”

Everything was spiraling out of control. Her gut clenched and her fingers curled into fists. “This is not why I am here, Geralt. I’m not having this conversation with you in the middle of the Guild.”

“Then let us walk outside.”

“We’ve talked this through so many times! Enough!” Her exasperated shout echoed. Men stopped in their work and glanced towards them.

Her face turned bright red, freckles standing out in stark relief against her pale skin. The last thing she needed was for these men to think she was hysterical. She already shouted enough.

Sorcha ducked her head and headed towards freedom, reminding herself to stay calm and composed.

“Sorcha!” Geralt called after her.

She rushed forward, bursting through the front door, and jogging down the steps. He caught up with her. The harsh tug of his hand on her arm would leave bruises.

“Would you at least listen to me?”

“I think I’ve heard it enough times.” She shook herself out of his grip and rubbed at her bicep.

“You would have everything you desire,” he said as she walked away. “You’d have a home, a husband, children.”

“Is that what I’m supposed to want?”

“A man who adores you. Who whispers poetry in your ear every night and devotes himself to your happiness.”

It sounded so good that she paused. He spoke of a life every woman desired. A loving relationship with a man who supported her every whim and passion. But she knew Geralt well. He wanted to believe he was that man, yet his eyes lingered upon the curves of other women. He drank more than he admitted and, above all else, he wasn’t as good as he thought.

“I desire a useful man. One who can help us in our hour of need.” She glanced over her shoulder. A curling red lock brushed across her face in the stiff breeze. “Words are of no use if no one is left to hear them.”

“You want me to be the hero? I can’t save everyone!”

“No, you cannot. You’re not a healer. You pay to be in that room among the brightest minds to satisfy your morbid curiosity,” she lashed out. “Why won’t you believe me when I say I can help?”

“You are a woman! What help could you provide?”

There it was. There was the anger, the red rage she saw so rarely. He buried his temper deep inside until it boiled over his edges.

“My sex doesn’t change how much I know.”

“You’re naturally weak. You cannot help that, and we all understand. Why can’t you?”

She drew herself up, squared her shoulders and gripped her plaid. “I am not weak because of my femininity. I do not look down upon you for not knowing how to birth a child or the right way to guide a woman through her first menses. Perhaps you should ask yourself why you feel the need to look down upon me.”

A crowd gathered around the edges of her vision. This wasn’t the first time she had screamed at a man in the street, or a woman for that matter. She gritted her teeth.

“You can’t change the world, Sorcha.”

“I would if I could.” She turned away from the town, from the villagers hiding smirks, from confused, handsome Geralt.

* * *

A crash shook the entire kitchen. Clay plates rattled, and a mug fell to the floor, shattering with an echoing clatter. The shutters slammed against the stained-glass windows with thunderous bangs.

The brownies flinched. They lifted their pointed, furred faces towards the ceiling. Nervous chuckles floated in the air with the bubbles from their dishes.

Oona, the only pixie in the kitchen, lifted her violet gaze and sighed. “The master’s angry tonight.”

“He was angry last night and the night before that!” The gnome walking into the room could look a sheep in the eye. His face was eerily similar to a bowl of mashed potatoes, with winged eyebrows always drawn down in an angry frown. He waddled to Oona and dumped a basket of flowers on the table. “For dinner.”

“Thank you, Cian. Are you bringing the master his supper tonight?”

“That grumpy thing up there? Howling like he plans to tear the whole castle apart? I will not, under any circumstances. He’s been too angry lately, the boy can go hungry.”

“He has a right to be angry.”

“No one has a right to be angry for that long.”

Oona turned, lavender wings fluttering in the air. High arched eyebrows lifted even higher. The leaf-like fan of her forehead vibrated in anger. She shook a long finger at Cian, the extra digit giving her tsking weight. “You know as well as I why that man is angry. His own brother banished him here. His twin! After trying to kill him, more than once, need I remind you.”

Cian crossed his short arms over his wide chest. “I have never felt bad for a king, and I don't plan to start now.”

“Not a king.” She shook her head. “A man who might have been king, if circumstances were different. Those he loved betrayed him, hanged him, and sent him to this isle with us. The least we can do is bring him supper.”

“You bring it to him, then. I don’t need to get thrown across the room like last time.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“Few would,” Cian nodded. “You’re a frightening woman, pixie.”

“And don’t you forget it.” She reached out and rapped him on the head with a wooden spoon. “Now where is the master’s dinner?”

He blushed, the red color highlighting on the peaks of his wrinkled skin. “Didn’t get him one.”

“Cian!”

“What? I told you I wasn’t bringing him dinner!”

“There’s not enough time to find him something to eat! And what do you think I’m going to do? Bring him pollen and honey?”

“Why can’t he eat what we do?”

“Because he’s a direct descendant of the Tuatha dé Danann! You think they eat like us?”

Oona spun and frantically searched the kitchen for anything she could bring to their howling master. He wasn’t a picky man. He rarely ate at all, but he couldn’t eat flowers, and he certainly couldn’t drink only cream.

She ended up with her hands full of bread, honey, and milk. It was the best she could do although it wasn’t likely to cool his anger.

Oona blew out a breath which stirred the petals of her hair and left the kitchen.

The stone steps to the master's quarters always made her nervous. No railings prevented her from falling straight down the center. Looking down the stairs, she gulped. The fall would kill her, so she was certain to tread carefully while making her way to the master’s quarters.

The peak of the tower opened to a walkway suspended over open air. Wind whistled past her ears. The vines in her hair turned to whips striking against her cheeks and neck.

She strode across the walkway while holding her breath. A stone door blocked the master’s side of the castle from everyone else, protecting them from his rage.

Oona placed her shoulder against the door and grunted as she pushed.

Sounds of shattering glass and splintering wood filled the room beyond. Her hands shook as she traversed the broken landscape of furniture and vases. The master had gone through his seating area and beyond into his bedroom.

She paused a moment and stared at a crooked painting. The Queen stared down from the wall with a soft smile on her face. Now, three ragged strips were missing. The sagging canvas warped her face along the sliced edges.

“Master has never harmed you before,” she whispered. “What happened tonight?”

The sounds of the master’s wrath silenced at her words. He'd heard her.

Oona took a deep, steadying breath, and walked towards his bedroom. She tentatively pushed the wooden door open with her toe, holding her breath.

“Master?” she asked.

“Go away.”

She peered into the dim light. The curtains hung over the windows, covered in dust, and tied down at the bottom to hold them tight. Shadows formed around a four-poster bed with one post snapped in half. She could make out his dresser, the chandelier swinging on the ceiling, even where his rug began. But she could not find him.

A bell rang in her mind. It warned her to leave and not let him lure her into his darkness. To preserve her own life and let him go hungry.

Her heart said the opposite.

She lifted her hand, snapped her fingers, and a warm faerie light danced in the air.

“There you are,” she said. “I could hear you from downstairs and grew worried. You did quite a number on the front room.”

“Go away, Oona.”

He huddled beyond the bed, folded in on his great height until he was little more than a ball. His face turned away from her light as he always did when he saw her.

Not for the first time, she wished he would look at her without prompting.

“Master,” she shook her head and marched to his dresser. “What have you done with your cloak?”

“I didn’t think I would have visitors.”

"Well, we share a castle. There’s more of us than there are of you. What would you have done if the will-o'-the-wisps wandered up here to clean?"

“Frightened them away.”

She reached into the top drawer and pulled out one of his many hooded cloaks. “Frightened them away. They already tremble when you walk past. Do you want them to run?”

“They should.”

“I don’t.”

“You find no value in your own life.”

Oona tsked. “That’s cruel and unlike you. What happened, Eamonn?”

The glow from her faerie light reached him. He lifted a hand to cover his face and the other to reach for the cloak. “Not now.”

“Yes, now.” But she gave him the hood, watching the silk trickle from her fingers like black water. “You can’t keep breaking furniture, we have a limited supply. Shipwrecks don't wash up every day.”

He pulled the cloak over his shoulders as if his muscles had stiffened. Oona knew better. Once he lifted the hood over his face, she knelt on the floor.

“Don’t—”

She didn’t listen. She reached out and pressed her hand against his. “What happened?”

Eamonn turned his hand, letting her fingers dance over his palm which now held an open wound. “Another careless mistake.”

“Oh, master. It’s just a cut.”

“You know it’s more than that.”

She glanced down, peeling her hand back from his. His flesh had parted from the meaty muscle of his thumb in a diagonal to his pinky. No blood welled from the wound. Instead, sparkling violet and blue crystals grew in the golden glow.

The wound would never heal again.

Oona curled her fingers over the disfigurement. “It’s not as bad as the others.”

“No, but it is a reminder of what I am.”

“You are our king.”

“I am an abomination and a pathetic excuse for Seelie royalty.”

She linked her fingers through his. “Those are your brother’s words, not yours. You are not ugly, nor are you deformed. In every way that matters, you are a Seelie Fae.”

“Except physical perfection. I can never be king.”

“Rules like that were meant to be changed. It isn’t right that you’re here and he’s sitting on your throne.”

Eamonn pulled away. He rose with creaking knees to his massive height. Oona was not a small pixie, but the Tuatha dé Danann were giants among men. The hood covered his face, and his hands glimmered in the light. His entire body was a geode cracking open with every slice to his flesh.

“Leave,” he growled.

“Are you going to be all right alone?”

He turned his back on her. “I always am.”

With a breaking heart, Oona solemnly left the room. She was careless on the stairs and nearly tumbled to her death before she made it back to the kitchens. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Cian peeked in through the garden door. “What’s he done now?”

“Nothing. He’s done nothing but chosen to be alone.”

“Ah, good riddance. All he’d do is break things down here. I like my garden the way it is.”

He disappeared, and her heart stung as if she had swallowed something bitter. She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head. “He shouldn’t be alone. He doesn’t deserve to be alone.”