“She asked for what?” Eamonn’s voice echoed in his chamber.

“The ingredients for bread, master.”

“She didn’t ask for the bread itself?”

“No. She said she wanted to bake the bread for Bronagh herself.”

He leaned back in the high chair of his desk. Steepling his fingers, he pressed them against his lips. “Why would she want to do that? The boggart is hardly something to waste her time on.”

“Perhaps she considers Bronagh worth her time, master.”

He hadn’t thought of that. Boggarts and those of the lesser Fae were traditionally beneath the Tuatha dé Danann. Their jobs were clear. Slaves, footmen, sometimes maids if they were pretty enough. Never in his life had he seen anyone take the time to treat them with respect.

The suggestion that the human cared was ridiculous. She had been so furious, charging into his throne room like she owned the place. Her eyes spat fire while her words seared his pride. He refused to believe her as kind as Oona thought.

There was a warrior in her.

Oona bustled behind him, cleaning every inch of his quarters. She was good at that. He had never seen another pixie so willing to do a maid’s job. She was the best, and the only acceptable maid to bring with him to this cursed place.

He much preferred the pixie without her glamour. The old woman’s disguise grated on his nerves. Pixies were lithe creatures, with a cap of flower petals instead of hair. Hers was a pale dusky lavender, matching the shimmering wings she wore draped around her shoulders.

“Where is she now?” he asked.

“The same place as last night, the hag’s hut.”

“She went back?”

“Without complaint, I might add.”

Eamonn leaned forward and pressed his elbows against the desk. “Why?”

“To cook bread for Bronagh.”

“Yes, but why else? There has to be a reason.”

Oona sighed. She crossed around to the front of his desk and knelt before him. “You will hurt yourself trying to understand the human. You know full well it’s impossible.”

“I cannot accept that as truth.”

“Then you will go mad. Let it go, master. Some things you will never understand.”

He couldn’t let it go. He closed his eyes and saw her flashing green eyes. Emeralds and rainforests hid in her gaze, equally dangerous and cutting. It was strange he would remember her eyes as the rest of her was unimpressive.

No self-respecting Seelie would ever entertain royalty while looking like they rolled in a pig’s pen. The woman had been disgusting. Seaweed stuck in her hair, clothing wrinkled and smudged with dirt. One foot bare, the other covered by a threadbare slipper.

Yet, she’d held herself with the grace of a queen.

Perhaps that explained how she’d bewitched him. She was an enigma, an oddity, a strange creature who made little sense. She shouldn’t exist, and yet, here she was.

“No human has ever come to Hy-brasil, have they?” he asked.

“Not that I know of, master.”

“So how did she get here?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s not my place to question how people arrive, only to take care of them when they do.”

He snorted. “Cian made quite the impression.”

“That was my fault,” Oona winced. “I said his name in front of the girl. I didn’t think she could hear us while we held our glamours, but somehow she did.”

“He’s angry at you?”

“When is he not?” She stood up from his floor and scowled at him. “You’re stalling. What are you going to do about her?”

“Who?” Eamonn lifted an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. For good measure, he lifted his booted feet onto the desk.

“Stop teasing me! It’s bad for my health. You know full well who I’m speaking of! She’s a nice little thing, and it’s not settling well with me that you were so rude.”

“Did I ask for an opinion?”

“No, but I’m giving one. She is the sweetest little thing that has washed ashore in nigh two hundred years! You need to apologize to her—” Oona lifted a hand when he opened his mouth, “—apologize, and then invite her to stay here. It’s not safe to live in that hut.”

Eamonn wanted to fly across the table and strangle her. Apologize? To that miscreant who shouldn’t be on this isle to begin with? He had more things to worry about than the feelings of a silly little girl.

Memories of his brother flashed through his mind. His throat tightened as it had when the noose cinched tight across his Adam’s apple. The gems at his neck cast a dim glow across his clasped fingers.

Oona made a soft sound of distress and looked away. “I meant no disrespect, master.”

“I’m certain you didn’t. You have always been one of my favored servants, and for that I spoil you. Do not make me regret that.”

She bowed and turned to leave. He met her gaze as she hesitated by the door. “Master, if I may be so bold, perhaps we no longer wish you to see us as servants. We see you as family, my dear, and someday we hope you’ll see us the same.”

Her skirts swirled as she raced from the room.

He frowned. Was that how his people saw him? As a mysterious figure who cared little for them?

Long ago, when he was young and drunk on the idea of power, he had thought that way. Eamonn stood, clasping his hands behind his back as he wandered to the portrait of his mother. Her golden hair fell straight without a single strand out of place.

He remembered her like this. Always perfect, no matter what the situation. Even when they hung him.

“What would you do, Mathair?” he murmured. “The girl is a problem. A distraction.”

She was the last thing he needed. There were only a few more months to prepare, even then he wasn’t certain if he would manage. Eamonn walked a path leading only to death.

But a fair red-headed lass haunted his steps. She had only been here for one night, and already he had not slept. What more would she do?

“Perhaps she is a witch,” he said. “A temptress sent by my brother to ensure I never return home.”

The thought was likely. Fionn would do anything to keep the Seelie throne.

Growling, Eamonn spun on his heel. Long legs carried him to a wall carved with the image of a great bird. He pressed his palm against a loose stone, pushing hard until the wall gave and revealed a crystal embedded within the structure. Gem touched gem, and the wall shifted.

Beyond, a room filled to the brim with Fae artifacts glowed. Magic swirled in the air. It danced upon his skin, skittering across the crystals of his face and neck. He was not cursed; Eamonn had tested that immediately once the affliction made itself known. But magic enjoyed touching him all the same.

Brushing the dust motes aside, he reached for a small handheld mirror. Carved roses twined from the handle and bloomed at the top. He thought it rather frivolous. Magical objects always were.

“Show me the red-headed lass.” He leaned forward and breathed on the glass. The mirror swirled with mist and cleared. No longer reflecting the room, it revealed to him the interior of the hag’s hut.

“What?” he growled. “There must be trickery here.”

That was not the girl who had marched into his throne room with anger burning her cheeks. The beauty spinning in circles looked more like a Fae lady.

Her hair, which he remembered as matted and oiled, spun around her in a wide arc. Curls bounced with her movements as she hopped from side to side, arms held as if a partner swung her around. The green velvet dress hugging her curves spun in a perfect circle as she twisted and turned.

He recognized that dance. The humans practiced it at Beltane. The women bent and swayed with lively music.

She danced alone. Her hands clapped in time to music that did not play, and the smile stretched across her face spoke of pure glee.

Eamonn’s lips quirked to the side. She was a horrible dancer. Far too bouncy, no control over her limbs or facial expressions, and obviously untrained. Yet, there was still something compelling about her joy.

“This is not the muddy creature with the personality of a shrew,” he murmured. “What other secrets do you hold, little human?”

The mirror heard his request, and the image shifted closer as the woman stopped dancing. Her ears were slightly pointed, he realized.

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

The burning need in his stomach expanded, blossoming into a full-blown red haze of want and desire. He had to find out more about her. Where she came from, why she was here, what her plans were.

Eamonn brushed aside the wonderment of how she was raised, who had taught her the secrets of the Fae, and why her ears were tipped with faerie points. These were frivolous things which held little weight. They weren’t important.

She wasn’t important.

And yet… He lifted his head and shouted, “Oona!”

The pixie hadn’t gone far. He heard the door open and her voice call out, “Yes, master?”

“Invite her to dinner.”

“Master, she requested privacy tonight.”

“What?” He dropped the mirror and strode into his parlor. “She said what?”

“She requested that Bronagh and she have a quiet evening to get to know each other.”

“Why?”

Oona shrugged. “I would imagine she wishes to rest after her long journey.”

“No, she’s too smart for that.” Eamonn couldn’t imagine she didn’t have some kind of plan. She was far too dedicated to her cause. Perhaps he was thinking too much like a warrior, and not enough like a man. “How much does Bronagh know about the castle?”

“As much as anyone, I would imagine. She used to live here.”

“Would she remember many of its secrets?”

“Maybe?” Oona blinked and twisted her hands together. “You don’t think the girl has any ulterior motives? Master, she’s been very kind.”

“Even the kindest of people can be coy. I would like to be certain she isn’t plotting anything sinister.”

Oona threw her hands up in the air. “She’s the least sinister person I’ve ever met!”

“And that would make her an incredible spy, wouldn’t it?”

He lifted an eyebrow and reached for his cloak. He would find out just how dangerous this woman might be. Although his people might think him indifferent, they were all he had.

With an embellished swirl, the cloak settled upon his shoulders, and he strode across the battlements.

* * *

“You see, Boggart, it’s rather easy to make bread!” Sorcha said as she kneaded the dough into a rough shape.

The answering squeak made her smile. It wasn’t a very supportive squeak, nor did it sound as if the faerie believed her. No matter, the bread would taste wonderful.

Homesickness overwhelmed her as the smell of flour and baking bread filled the small hut. Her sisters loved fresh bread, and Sorcha always made certain it was ready for them at the end of the night. They never wasted a scrap. The scent made the brothel feel more like a home rather than a workplace, and giggles had lifted their spirits to the rafters for hours every night.

She missed them more than anything else. Her eyes drifted towards the moon peeking through the window, and she sent a silent good night to her siblings.

All her hopes and wishes lifted into the air and drifted out to sea. She prayed they were healthy and happy. She hoped Rosaleen had taken up that kind nobleman and now lived in riches, and Briana remembered to relax. Sorcha made the sign of the cross over her chest and breathed her worry into the moonlight.

“Please keep Papa alive.”

She couldn’t force those things to happen, not from here. Sorcha resorted to wishes and dreams. Perhaps the Tuatha dé Danann would hear her and see that her family would think kindly upon her choices.

A squeak interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh?” Sorcha turned and placed a hand on her hip. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

Boggart still refused to speak although Sorcha was certain it could. Soft chirps were its only form of communication, and it remained glamoured.

Sorcha scanned the hut, trying to find whatever had made Boggart speak. The bread was over the fire, but it wasn’t burning. No bugs had come in through the open window. The fire was roaring at the correct rate and wouldn’t run too hot.

Nothing was amiss. Sorcha shrugged and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me. This would be easier if you would speak.”

Another squeak, much louder than the first, echoed in the room.

“I don’t know what you want, Boggart!”

Multiple squeaks came from the creature who shimmered into view. Boggart dropped its glamour and revealed its true form. Skinny, wrinkled, and lightly dusted with white fur that smoothed over bare breasts, she resembled an albino rat. Her head hardly reached the top of the bed.

She pointed a knobby hand at the door. Sorcha noted that Boggart's fingertips were bulbous before glancing where she pointed.

“The door?”

A crashing boom rocked the wooden frame, bending the wood inwards. Sorcha flinched. Her hip struck the clay pot containing all her flour which exploded on the floor. White puffs fluttered into the air and covered the floor in an impressive starburst.

She cursed and stooped. Her frazzled mind said scoop the flour into her hands and back into the pot. Sorcha dropped to her knees and pulled it all towards her, fruitless in her attempts to clean.

The banging on the door wasn’t stopping.

“Who is it?” she called out.

Perhaps the broom would be a more appropriate way to clean this. She looked dubiously over at the straw covered in cobwebs. She'd ruin the flour if she used that. There had to be something cleaner.

Boggart shrieked, bouncing up and down while pointing at the door. Impossibly, the knocking turned thunderous.

Sorcha leaned back, placed her flour covered hands on her thighs, and stared at the ceiling. When had her life turned into babysitting and terrifying moments? She refused to be frightened of someone who couldn’t enter the hag’s hut, protected by the spell splashed in chicken's blood.

“Boggart, stop screaming.”

She didn’t listen to Sorcha. Instead, Boggart screamed even louder. Its high-pitched whine dug at Sorcha’s ears, a headache blooming inside her skull.

“Please stop knocking!” she shouted. “I’m coming! I just need to take care of this before I—”

The knocking stopped.

Sorcha let out a relieved sigh. She’d taken care of the deep bass, now she had to make Boggart be quiet.

Leaving the flour for later, she charged towards the panicking Fae. Sorcha knew how to calm children down, in fact, it was one of her better talents. Boggart couldn’t be any different from that. She was the same size as one.

Sorcha slid her hands underneath the faerie’s armpits and picked her up. Like a child, Boggart wrapped her legs around Sorcha’s waist immediately. Panting breaths brushed against her ear, but at least Boggart stopped screaming.

“Shh,” Sorcha whispered as she rocked back and forth. “It’s all right. Everything is fine, you can stop screaming now, little love.”

Although her fur appeared wiry, Boggart was as soft as a rabbit all over her body. Unlike Cian, Boggart wasn’t wearing any clothing. One of her feet moved restlessly against Sorcha’s stomach.

She only had three toes, Sorcha realized with delight. Three thick, bulbous toes that ended in blunt little black nails.

The pounding started up again. Boggart squeaked and nestled her pointed nose in Sorcha’s neck.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Sorcha repeated as she walked them towards the door. “Nothing is going to happen to you, it’s probably Pixie with more food.”

She hoped.

With the faerie wrapped around her like a second skin, Sorcha stepped over the massacre of flour and grasped ahold of the door ring. She sent a silent prayer to whatever gods were listening. If this was a will-o'-the-wisp or something equally terrifying, Sorcha would faint dead away.

“Best be safe,” she whispered.

She opened the door just a crack, enough to see who was behind it but not let them in.

The dim twilight made it difficult for her to see anything. It was just a blank space on the other side of the door. No walkway, no moon, nothing but black.

Sorcha arched a brow. Now that was unusual.

Something shifted in the darkness, bringing her focus much closer. That wasn’t darkness at all, but a black cloth so dark it appeared to be night.

There was only one person on the island who would wear that.

Sorcha nudged the door open the entire way and peered upwards. Outlined by the moon, the master of the isle stared back at her. His cloak made it impossible for her to guess where he was looking, but she could feel the heat of his gaze as if it was a physical touch.

“Good evening,” she said. Her words were biting and quick. He was the last person she wanted to see tonight.

“What is that?”

Sorcha blinked. “You must be more specific.”

“In your arms.”

“Oh,” she glanced down at Boggart, who tightened her hold upon Sorcha’s neck. “This is Boggart.”

“I know who it is, but why isn’t she glamoured?”

“You frightened her.”

“I frightened her?” he growled.

“That incessant knocking would frighten even the bravest of beasts.”

The fire cracked, an ember shooting across the room. Its light cast a brief glow across his features, revealing a glint in his eyes which made Sorcha shiver.

“But not you.” His voice was a physical caress, dancing down her spine until it curled her toes.

“I am neither man nor beast, sir. You’ll find women are far more difficult to frighten.”

She turned away from him. He was ruining all her plans! Now Boggart was too scared for bribery, and Macha knew how long it would take until Sorcha could get her information. The tiny creature was fragile.

Anger coursed through her veins until a flush burned her cheeks. She wanted to fly at him, to scratch at the ugly crystals marring his face and scream that he had no right. The ridiculous, pompous, overbearing ass that he was.

Through all her raging emotions, her hands remained gentle upon Boggart. She soothed the creature with soft circular motions and laid her on the bed.

“There, there,” she murmured. “You stay here and I’ll make him go away. Will that help?”

Boggart nodded.

“Good. Hide under the covers and I’ll come get you when he’s gone.”

This would be easy. It was exactly what Sorcha wanted, and now she had an excuse to usher him away. Hopefully, Boggart would then calm down, and Sorcha could sweet talk her for information about the very man she was forcing to leave.

She wiped her hands against her skirt and marched towards the door with renewed purpose.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave,” she said.

“No.”

He said the word as if it ended the argument. As if just by imperiously inserting himself into her life, he could dictate what he wanted, however he wanted it.

She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“No.”

“Might I ask why you are refusing to leave my doorstep even though I have requested that your presence no longer darken it?”

“This isle, and everything on it, is under my command. I do as I please.”

He moved to step over the threshold. Sorcha ground her teeth, the muscles of her jaw flexing in anger. “If you take one more step, I will activate every protection spell on this cursed hut and expel you from this room.”

His foot hovered just above the interior of her home. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would dare much, sir, against a man who seemingly does not understand boundaries. You must ask a woman if you may enter their abode, and when granted approval, you may do so. If they request you leave, then you remove yourself. As far as lording over all who linger on this isle, I must inquire who named you king. They must be sorely lacking in wits!”

If he continued, she would figure out how to activate those spells. She was no witch, but he had no way of knowing she was bluffing.

He inclined his head. “You are correct. My apologies, m’lady, I was out of line.”

Sorcha found herself incapable of words. This man never ceased to surprise her. He was an ass, of that she was certain, but she hadn’t expected an apology. Let alone an admission of guilt. Was he capable of self-reflection?

She cocked her head to the side, looking him up and down. “What did you say?”

“I have not been in court for many years. My manners are not what they used to be.” He swept his cloak to the side, crossed an arm over his waist, and bowed. “I humbly request your presence at dinner this evening.”

“I’m eating here.”

“The castle can offer much finer dining.”

“Be that as it may,” Sorcha gestured towards the fire, “dinner is already cooking.”

“Then as forward as it is, I request you allow me to stay. You need not provide food, merely company.”

Sorcha panicked. She didn’t want him to stay! How was she going to get Boggart to speak? Stammering, she pointed towards the bed. “I’m afraid Boggart is quite frightened of you. It wouldn’t be polite to allow you to stay when—”

“Boggart is not afraid of me.” The head of his cloak shook. “She’s afraid I plan to take you away from her, like I did her hag. Might I come in?”

“I— Why did you remove the hag?”

“She was dangerous. Her spells were reaching the castle and wreaking havoc among my people.”

“You were protecting the faeries?”

“That is my job. They take care of me, and I protect them.”

Sorcha breathed in a slow breath, letting it out with a huff. There were no more arguments, no more walls she could erect. He was being polite. It would be rude to refuse him entry now, and he already thought she was little more than a peasant.

It would not do.

She gestured towards the table, “All right then. Come in and seat yourself. There should be enough for all three of us.”

He ducked, entering the hut like a storm. He was far too big. Sorcha gaped at his head which nearly touched the ceiling, and the wide spread of his shoulders which he had to tilt to even come in through the door.

It was no wonder his castle doors were two wide. The man wouldn’t be able to fit through anything less!

“I’m afraid I do not have a grand palace to offer, or even complete dining services,” she said as she walked towards the bed. “But two seats will have to do.”

“I’ve eaten in worse conditions.”

“Have you? I was under the impression ‘masters’ rarely ate outside their splendorous castles.” She leaned over the bed and pulled the blankets away from Boggart’s face. “He’s eating with us, but has promised I can stay.”

“I am no king, nor have I always lived here.”

Sorcha lifted Boggart into her arms and started towards the table. The faerie clutched at her dress, tiny claws digging through the fabric and into her skin. “A curiosity I have no desire to satisfy. I will not pity you, sir, if that is your aim.”

“I do not ask for pity, but for patience. It is I who am out of line. I remember manners, but they are no longer second nature. I’m afraid I lost them long before I came to this isle.” He sat on her chair, the wood creaking ominously for a few moments before silencing.

She hooked her foot around a stool and dragged it towards the table. She must have been a frightening sight, limping towards him with wood screeching, carrying Boggart who looked more monster than beast. He didn’t flinch in the slightest, Sorcha noted with disappointment.

Boggart plunked down on the stool and let go of Sorcha’s dress reluctantly. She let out a little huff when Sorcha left her side, watching her master with beady eyes.

“I will not call you ‘master’,” Sorcha said as she pulled the bread from the fire. “Do you have another name?”

“Some call me Cloch Rí.”

“The Stone King?” Sorcha quirked a brow.

He reached a hand forward, placing it in full view on the table. The crystals revealed on each peak of knuckle were just as startling as the first time. Violet toned and ragged edged, they turned his hand into more rock than fist.

“Ah,” she murmured. “Appropriate then.”

She set the bread down with a cloth underneath it. Steam rose into the air, the warm comforting scent easing the tension in her neck. She added cheese and fresh strawberries to the mix.

“Cian keeps an impressive garden,” she said as she sat down. The hut was suddenly too small, the air too close.

The cloak still covered his face, but she could feel his gaze. It lingered upon her hair, following the spirals of her curls across her shoulders and arms. Highly inappropriate. He had said he wasn’t a gentleman, and she believed him.

“He wouldn’t like you using his name so freely.”

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t. Perhaps that is why I use it.” She reached forward and broke off a piece of bread, the steam rose into the air in wispy swirls.

“You do so because it might anger him?”

“Annoy him. I would never use his name against him.”

“Many humans have said the same thing, and they always use the name.”

“Do you think I am like most humans?”

“I have yet to meet one who shatters my perception of your species.”

Sorcha popped the bread into her mouth, chewing to give herself time to think. “You think very poorly of humanity.”

“I have been given little reason to think otherwise.”

“I could say the same about your people.”

Boggart reached for a loaf and tucked it underneath her arm. She gave them both a suspicious glance before hopping off her seat and stalking back towards the bed. Her little chirping grumbles suggested she didn’t appreciate such tense conversation when she planned to enjoy her dinner.

Sorcha agreed with her. Mealtimes should be peaceful, a time for family to enjoy each other's company after a long day of work. But there was something about this man that pushed all her buttons, and she couldn’t help but argue.

“What grievances against the Fae could you possibly have?”

“Abandonment, for a start. You entered this world with full intention of molding it to your will, and then you disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” His hand clenched on the table. “Your people ran us out of our lands!”

“I find that difficult to believe when you yourself stated that the Fae are far superior to humankind.”

She watched his fist tighten until she heard the creaking of stone and crystal. Slowly, he released his hold in tiny movements. When his palm lay flat upon the table once more, the hood of his cloak tilted to the side.

“You are quick witted for a human. It is…intriguing.”

“That sounds like a compliment.” She reached forward for a strawberry and took a large bite. She would count this as a successful battle in their ongoing war. He might have won the first by throwing her into a nightmarish cottage, but she had recovered quite nicely.

The strawberry burst in her mouth. Sweet flavor coated her tongue, filling her senses with the taste of sunshine and summers spent hunting in the fields. For hundreds of years, Sorcha’s family had foraged the land for survival. Her mother had whispered the tales in her ear as they sucked the juice from these red bellied fruits.

Some of the ichor within the strawberry overflowed her lips, dripping syrup down her chin.

Sorcha didn’t see him move, but she felt the touch of his hand as though he branded her. His calloused thumb traced the line of liquid from chin to mouth. It rasped over her sensitive lip, catching every last drop of sticky juice.

One of the crystals on his palm scraped her jaw. Cold to the touch, it was a lightning bolt of sensation against the sudden, flaming heat of her cheeks.

She parted her lips in a silent gasp. The smooth texture of his nail touched her top lip, dipping into the warm breath she expelled before withdrawing.

She was undone, unmade, reborn as something else entirely. Her hands clenched in her lap as she stared in shock at the Fae who dared to touch her without asking, to slice through her stalwart resolve, and stitch the beginnings of attraction into the fiber of her being.

They stared at each other, frozen in time. Moonlight speared through her window and pierced the lining of shadow covering his face. It danced along the deep gashes of crystal, like a stone she had once cracked open to reveal the geode inside.

His eyes held a wicked intent that stole the breath from her lungs. Vivid blue, like a crystal clear sky, like the azure waves of the ocean, they saw straight through her.

He wanted her, she realized. He wasn’t playing a game; his emotion was too raw and hungry. She had seen the expression upon men at the brothel before, even sometimes cast in her direction, but never had she felt the emotions reflected in herself.

Her stomach clenched. She dug her fingernails into her palms and forced herself to swallow the remaining strawberry.

Sorcha’s eyes followed his hand as he lifted it towards his mouth.

The chair screeched as she shoved to her feet. “Boggart, have you finished?”

A squeak from the corner suggested the little faerie still had a long way to go, but Sorcha was quite done with tonight. She looked back towards the massive shadow seated at her table.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave, sir. As you can imagine, my journey has been trying and I’m finding myself faint.”

“From your journey,” he repeated as he stood.

She was once again overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Her head barely reached the center of his chest. She knew his hands were massive, and that she might wrap her arms around his shoulders if she tried very hard.

Sorcha blew out a breath. “Indeed. It was a grueling week-long sail, and then I swam the rest of the way here. Merrow men are not kind while chasing their prey, so if you would please,” she gestured at the door, unable to finish the sentence when the weight of his gaze pressed upon her shoulders.

“I have been scolded once tonight on respecting a woman’s wishes, I should not like to experience it again.” He swept into a low bow, his cloak spreading across his shoulders like wings.

“Yes, a shrew is not likely to keep her mouth shut.”

He chuckled. “The only shrew in this house is the boggart.”

Sorcha listened for the angry shriek, but Boggart had nothing to say to the comment. Perhaps she agreed.

Still, it made her cheeks flame all the hotter. She rushed to the door and held it open. “Thank you for the interesting conversation.”

He moved like a shadow, silent and smooth, hesitating only briefly in front of her. She inhaled the scent of mint and beeswax.

“It has been an enlightening, albeit short, evening.” He said before leaving the hut.

Sorcha sagged against the doorframe. All the energy he carried swept out with him and emptied her body of the adrenaline rush she rode. It had been a brief conversation, but her legs shook and her hands trembled.

A zing of awareness jolted up her spine. Spinning, she leaned out the door and shouted, “Stone!”

He paused, one foot on the dock to her hut and the other on his cursed isle. “Pardon?”

“You said some call you Cloch Rí. I shall call you Stone until you give me your true name.”

“You think I’ll ever give you that kind of power over me?” His voice wavered with humor.

“I would bet my life on it, Stone.”

“I look forward to your attempts, Sunshine.”

She hoped he smiled, although it seemed unlikely a man such as him knew how to twist his lips in happiness. There was a certain pleasure to making a man smile. She had forgotten what this was like. The courtship, the laughter, the teasing, everything that made butterflies take flight in her belly.

He started up the hill that led to his castle. The moon rose behind the imperious structure, silhouetting the jagged spires and crumbling peaks. It was a ruin, a relic of a time long ago when this isle might have been a sight to behold.

There was something hauntingly beautiful about this place. The emerald hills glimmered with dew in the silver moonlight. Fireflies danced above the wheat fields looking like magic kissing the land. And its king, the disfigured monster of a man, outlined as a shadow striding across his domain.

“You’re being fanciful,” she said. “Stop it, Sorcha. Go to bed.”

She couldn’t. She stayed where she was, pressed against the doorframe, watching him walk away from her.

A small hand tugged her skirt. Sorcha glanced down at Boggart’s strange, elongated face. Bread stuffed her cheeks, bulging them to the side and preventing her from squeaking.

Boggart tugged again and pointed towards the bed.

“Yes, it’s bedtime. Where are you sleeping, little one?”

The faerie pointed at a small lump of moth eaten blankets in the corner.

“Is that where you want to sleep? The bed is plenty big enough for the both of us.”

Boggart took off for her corner and burrowed underneath the blankets. Her long, whiskered nose poked out of the mound, sniffing for a moment before disappearing again. Sorcha could hear the slight sound of munching.

She must have taken the rest of the bread with her, Sorcha thought with a smile. Shaking her head, she disrobed and hung the velvet dress from the window. It was too nice to leave on the floor or fold into the chest in the corner.

Tomorrow, she promised herself as she got into bed, tomorrow she would explore the island and speak with its inhabitants. She would not be distracted by the handsome king. She needed to convince him to come back to the mainland with her and damned if she would fail.

The air vibrated with the sound of wings, wind brushing over her face as she snuggled into the pillows. A raven croaked as it landed on her windowsill.

“There you are, Bran,” she murmured quietly, so as not to disturb Boggart. “I wondered where you’d flown off to.”

He croaked.

“Of course I worried. We survived a near death experience together. And no, I can’t seem to sleep.”

The raven tilted his head, staring at her with one dark, beady eye.

“It has nothing to do with him!”

He flapped his wings, settled onto the windowsill for the night, and turned his back to her.

“That’s just rude,” she grumbled. “I’m not lying to you. I slept for a full day when I first arrived here. I’m not tired in the slightest!”

Perhaps it had something to do with the master of the isle. His gaze like ice, with molten heat in its depths.

She shivered and pulled the blankets high over her shoulders. Huffing out a breath, she resigned herself to a difficult night with little sleep.