Chrysalis Ch23: The Rite of Keeping (pt1) (Patreon)

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          As the lights over the bar dim for the night, they glint like a thousand tiny sunsets over the glass bottles that cover Trystan’s body. Despite the display, the little spectacle is lost on him. Both for being dismissively ordinary…
          And because he’s too focused on his work.
          The nymph studies a bottle of deep-red swirling smoke in his hands, before giving it a firm shake. The vapour swirls and images rise from within them. A woman leading a man to her bed, tinted lights.  A rhythmic twisting of forms as they delight in each other’s mutual ecstasy, giggling and laughing together in the hours before dawn.
          Until they disappear back into the crimson mist.
          Satisfied, Trystan locks the smoky mixture into a spider-legged brass contraption behind the bar. With a few deft movements, the bottle’s neck is locked into an angled tube, dials are turned, and orange-blue flames leap from the gas burner below. The images returns like before, spinning and swirling until coalescing into tiny blue droplets. They trickle into another bottle, one by one. Just like every other in his stock.
          Distillation, like many things among the fae, was its own little ritual.
          Trystan’s concentration is broken by the sound of footsteps echoing in the great hall of the Glade.  Without turning around he guesses at who they belong to. Far too heavy and sluggish for Madeline, Hedrick, or his heel-clad kin. With practised timing, Trystan slicks back his hair, wears a smile and turns around just as Ian reaches the bar.
          At just the right height to meet the boy’s eyes.
          The young human wears that enjoyably un-Market blue jumper, his hair dishevelled, his eyes red. He carries a satchel over his shoulder, brimming with bulbous roots coloured by phosphorescent pink flesh and glowing, kaleidoscope veins.
          Ian stops at the bar, but his eyes remain on the ladder leading up to the attic.
          “... Evenin’.”
          “Evening,” Trystan smiles. “Did you have a relaxing night?”
          A bead of sweat trickles down Ian’s brow. “I-I… how was your’s?”
          Trystan raises a finger, adjusting the gas dial to calm the blue flames. Better to not get distracted. Something is clearly on the human’s mind.
          "Active, as they come. But, eh, hardly taxing. After a thousand or so nights, they all start to bleed together.” He presses his elbows against the counter. "You didn’t tell me you were going to be off work. Or, for that matter, where. Following the precedent of our mutual singing friend?”
          Ian slowly turns his head, blinking at the pace of a funeral dirge. Poor boy looks half ready to melt.
          “L… d-din’t make it to her shift, huh?”
          Trystan smirks.  The boy is so obvious. “Something happen between you and the lass I take it?   I can be an ear, if you like.   Have some experience with these things.”
          Lethargically, Ian grins. "I thought ya said only fools trust Fae.”
          "I did," Trystan casts a quick smile back. "Of course, that advice also came from a fae. Conundrum, isn’t it?”
          Ian’s face starts to slowly sink into the bar. He’s clearly not in the mood for puzzles. A tragedy Trystan replays most nights; all this time behind the bar leaves him with so much time to think, trick, plan…
          “Alright. Here.” Trystan slides a shot glass across the bar into Ian’s arm, jolting him awake. It already brims with blue liquid. “That should help get the words flowing.”
          Ian casts him a sidelong glance. “When did ya pour-”
          “I’m handsy,” Trystan waves his extra set of arms.
          Ian manages a chuckle as he pulls up a barstool. He sets his bag on the table, one of the colourful plants - a turnip - rolling out. Its leaves sparkle in strange colours.
          "Ya know, Trys, I get that ‘ese spirits ‘ave a banger of an after-taste, but…” Ian pauses, lazily rolling the turnip with his hand as he thinks. “I was hoping to get drunk, er, the old-fashioned way?”
          “Old-fashioned for who?” Trystan smirks. “I’ve been doing this for a century.”
          “Wouldn’t happen to ‘ave Jamesons, would ya? Bells? Jack?”
          Trystan pulls a more mundane bottle from behind the counter, its amber contents poured into a new glass. "Of course, I’m a professional. That said, I don’t recommend mixing fae spirits and human, so be mindful.” He hands Ian the shot.
          “Don’t give me bloody ideas,” Ian grins, downing it.
          The turnip rolls out of Ian’s grip and into Trystan’s waiting claw. "Ah. Allow me to guess; an offering to a certain angry goddess?”
          Ian looks up, frowning. “... Issit ‘at bloody obvious?”
          “Your disagreements aren’t what I’d call subtle.”
          Ian gives a beleaguered sigh. “I really cocked it up this time.”
          Trystan nods, refilling Ian’s glass. “I won’t pry-”
          “Cocked it wiff a big fackin’ ‘C’. Dunno ‘ow she’ll ever forgive me…” Ian  runs a hand through his hair. “Fack, dunno ‘at I’d ever forgive me.”
          Trystan watches him in silence, slowly pushing back the glass. “So you’ve earned her ire? Something lost in translation?”
          “Understatement of the century,” Ian chuckles soflty.
          “Ah,” Trystan nods as Ian takes the next shot. “Hmm… Would you like the good news first, or the bad?"
          “Good. I’ve had enuff bad news today.”
          "You're far from the first to have found themselves in this problem. Humans and fae..." Trystan waggles his hand. "... we don’t interact often. Live in different worlds. It can create… dissonance.”
          Ian tilts his glass towards the stage and the hundreds of tables and chairs. “Ya call that dissonant?”
          “Places like this are exceptions, not rules,” Trystan answers calmly. “The Market’s new for everyone. There are still plenty of Fae that have only heard of your kind through folklore. You’re as alien to us as I’m sure we are to you.”
          “Only through folklore?” Ian chuckles. “What a bloody coincidence…”
          “What I’m trying to say is… we might trade the same goods, speak the same queen’s english, enjoy the same pleasures. But we aren’t the same. We think differently. We exist differently.”
          Ian scoffs. “How is ‘at good news? Just means I facked up ‘at much more.”
          “The exact opposite,” Trystan refills the glass as quickly as Ian can empty it. “However badly you think you might have offended her, it's entirely possible she'll have forgotten by the next time you see her."
          Another chuckle from Ian. “What, like a bloody cat?”
          “Like a nymph.” Another shot of scotch slides into Ian’s arm. “Of course, you already mentioned the other side of that coin. Folks like our little friend can develop something of a vindictive streak.”
          "Talking about fae, or women?" Trystan cuts off Ian’s laughter with a stern look. Better than having that boy’s smirk wiped off the hard way somewhere down the road. Before he’s lost a few extraneous organs.
          The longer Trystan looks, the more uncomfortable the human seems. “She’s… not gonna do somethin’, right?”
          “You’re not bleeding, which strikes me as a good sign."
          “Grand.” Ian looks over his turnip. “Well, good thing I’m prepared. Ya said fae like gifts, right?”
          “They do,” Trystan nods cautiously. “But I think both cultures might find the offering of vegetables somewhat unorthodox-”
          “But ‘is ain’t just any old vegetable, issit? Look!” Ian lifts from his seat, and pulls a wide-eyed Trystan into a better view. “Look at how ‘ose lights filter through the roots, ‘ose little patterns ‘ey make. Now, ‘at’s fresh, innit? Ever see a ting like ‘at?”

“Well, it’s pretty common for plants in the Wilds-”
          “Magic,” Ian cuts him off. “‘At’s some magic shite right ‘ere, she’s gonna freak. You’d never see a human turnip look like…”
          Ian finally looks up, catching Trystan’s confused face. The light in his eyes slowly dwindles.
          Ian slumps across the table, pushing the turnip away to roll off the back of the counter “You don’t ‘ave to say. It’s a terrible gift, innit?”
          “Ian,” Trystan catches the turnip. “She won’t like seeing you upset, either-”
          “She’s not gonna like anythin’ I do! I blew it!” Ian pushes himself to his feet, loudly snatching his bag from the table. He’s already walking as he talks. “To ‘ell wiffit. I’m goin’ up. You ‘ear a blood-curdling scream an’ the sounds of murder, don’t panic. Just an arsehole gettin’ what he prolly fackin’ deserves-”
          “Wait.” Trystan waits for Ian to turn around before placing the turnip back in his hand, offering an earnest smile. “... She’ll prefer it cooked. Check the spice rack for something called ‘ewin’dal.’ It will look like gilded salt.”
          “Trystan, look-” Trystan cuts Ian off with a finger.
          “And ‘chos-donnóg.’ There’s a smiling brownie painted on the glass. If Hedrick catches you in there, raises any fuss, tell him I’ll cover it.”
          Ian blinks. “I… th-thanks, mate. Yer a real life-saver.”
          “No trouble at all, mate,” Trystan winks. “If you’re serious about crossing that threshold, you’d best do it right.”
          Ian nods, as Trystan starts to slither back towards the bar. “Bollocks, Trystan!?
          Hundreds of glasses rattle in a calming wave as Trystan’s eyes turn back to him.
          “Whaddaya mean by ‘vindictive streak’ if it’s not… swearin’ me head off?’
          “Well, she’s Shorn, isn’t she?” Trystan frowns. “She never mentioned a Keeper.”
          Ian’s face grows puzzled. “Shorn?”
          “Yes, she isn’t Kept. No offence meant, of course. In the Market, Keepings are a bit more of a touchy subject, and I can hardly-” Trystan stops himself as Ian’s face never relieves. “Oh. She hasn’t told you.”
          Ian cautiously shakes his head.
          "Heh, just a nymph quirk, nothing more. We're meant to be looked after." He puts a finger to his lips. "Best not mention that in the middle of an argument, I think."
          Ian casts a hesitant eye. Something about that explanation doesn't quite sit right. But Trystan has already returned to his distillery equipment, flicking the flame back on.  He’s right, anyhow. The last thing Ian needs is to double down on the idea that his friend is anything different from…
          L. The same person he's known for over a year.
          So Ian simply nods, places the turnip back in his satchel with the others, and heads for the pantry.

+++

          Ian can tell from the quiet that the attic is empty. He wobbles as he steps into the room, scotch coursing through him. Setting a steaming plate by the vanity, he looks to the small, vacant corner, where salt crystals lay scattered.
          The room tilts a little as he watches. He only had three shots, right? Maybe he’s just tired. Listless.
          Relieved.
          Relieved to see her gone. Relieved to not have another fight. Relieved that, for the time being, she wasn’t about to lay the truth they both knew in front of him. Maybe she’s relieved, too. To end it as it ended.
          A twinge of regret pulls at Ian’s heart, but he brushes it aside. It doesn't matter where she is. It was certainly better than where he left her.
          Sighing, he looks longingly at the deep fried turnips. The leaves no longer curl. the vibrant roots now glow a gentle azure,  the veins speckled with gold. They look really tasty, but they’re not his to eat.
          … He lasts about half a minute before taking a bite.
          It’s surprisingly sweet. Soft, crisp flesh, with an airy, sugary flavour inside. The foreign spices taste like cinnamon. It’s more pastry than vegetable, but he won’t complain. Neith II nudges forward, her little body circling him in eager anticipation.
          “Ah, ‘ere’s our little pest! At least someone’s happy to see me." Well, she was probably just happy to see the turnip, but why let facts spoil the mood? Ian tears off an offering, and the alp-luachra quickly bites and tears in.Wherever she shovels the root inside, her body glows.
          Ian walks towards the corner and reaches for the phone, nestled by the charger. It’s unplugged, and he sees nothing but a black screen. Imagine his shock. The poor thing was practically a landline at this point.
          Plugging it in, he starts brushing salt crystals back into the abandoned canister. Sure, bits of lint and dust have mixed in, but a salt barrier’s a salt barrier, and if he wants to protect-
          His breath hitches. Protect what? Who? L can take care of herself; she got out of this, after all. And even if she didn’t…
          … He’ll get rid of this in the morning. The iron, too. Fold his clothes and sweep the floors and make sure all her dresses are clean and ironed. Leave the room pristine for when she comes back, and they sort this all out.
          He’s made enough messes.
          Something catches Ian’s eye. The calling card that politician gave, not far off from the phone. A sharp pain pierces his stomach. Probably just the alcohol, he tells himself. He hit it pretty fast.
          Ian picks up the card, reads its fancy black font. Sensations rush through him at dizzying speeds. Obviously, that’s the alcohol, too. Nothing else.

          He flops down on L's bed. Compared to his little nest on the floor, it was so much more comfortable. He wouldn't sleep in it. Wouldn't want her to return and find him there and think he was... that he... he just didn't want to do anything to set her off. But for a moment… it would be fine for a few minutes.
          He lays, staring up at the card, the numbers and letters starting to blur. For a moment his attention is pulled from the sight of the screen of his phone turning on. Finally at 1%, enough charge. He thinks about checking it, even as he feels too heavy to get up. Check on his mum. But... even THAT felt like some betrayal. Some further wrong doing.
          Maybe L and his mum were right; maybe he is the controlling asshole they accuse him of being. Maybe he was no different from all the other men who came into his life, and left just as quickly.
          Although it was usually the ones that stuck around that were the worst...
          He looks at the card again, imagining L and Spencer that night they'd first met. He'd watched, and he had seen her light up. He had never seen that playful smile on her before, those excited eyes, those fluttering wings. And it was when she was with HIM, with that... other person. Human, like him. He was able to give her in that moment something that he couldn't, or wouldn't. And maybe the best thing Ian can do is just trust that L knows her own happiness best.
          … This alcohol is really heavy. What did Trystan put in it? He’s… so…
          In the corner of the room, a small chirp erupts from the resurrected cell phone. A message flickers across the screen, glowing against the walls. ‘(1) New Voicemail’.
          But Ian is already asleep.

+++

          Ian opens his eyes into piercing daylight. He groans, pulling a blanket over his head as he snuggles deeper into L’s pillow. It smells like moonflower, sweet and rich. Absently, he notes that it’s her scent…
God. He really was a jealous asshole, wasn’t he?
          Even as the harsh golden light pulls him back to consciousness, he tries to cling to the silver, fitful remnants of rest.
          Ian forces himself out of bed, the last day’s clothes hanging to his skin. Changing will be good, he thinks. Shower, too. A fresh Ian for a fresh start.
          He checks the corner. Still no L. Panic settles as he realises it’s well past midday. Shit, did he really sleep in her bed, after everything? Had she come back and found him, had he given her a new cause for blistering rage? Fuck, he always made it worse.
          … and where the hell was she?
          He should check in with her parents. Shit, he should just buy L her own phone. It might look overbearing, but it was getting ridiculous to just rely on his dying machine, and nobody wanted her charging off without…
          He scoops his phone from the floor. He really needs to call.
          No new texts, and his last message to Mum was left on read. Probably just as well, given the shitstorm he’d - huh. New voicemail. From a number he didn't recognise.
          … It was probably a scammer, but Mum had a habit of calling from strange places. And the area code seems familiar, probably West…
          He looks at Harcourt’s calling card. No. No way in hell. She hadn’t been so angry as to actually go out with Spencer, right? There were fewer red flags in Beijing.
          Was that why she wasn't here? Did she spend the night with him?
          Ian gulps. He already knows the answer.
          Then why call? To gloat? To twist the proverbial knife? He can’t not listen. That’d be worse. But if this was just one more way to hurt him…
          Ian swallows again. Nothing he probably didn’t deserve. He hits ‘Play.’

+++

          Glass bottles rattle against scales. Trystan takes a final stock before the Glade opens for its afternoon hours. He bows deferentially as Hedrick stumps off to his office, and offers  a trundling, broom-clad Madeline his sedate wave. Odd; there’s a skip in her step. At least somebody is in good spirits.
          The nymph is about to squat down when a sound overhead catches his ears. The floorboards don’t muffle the sharp crack of the trapdoor being thrown open. Creaking wood and running footsteps shortly follow, and Ian slams into the counter.
          The human’s expression is white, bloodless. Trystan can only watch the boy's frantic twitches and wild eyes in confusion. He straightens up, bottles rippling like bells as he moves.
          “Afternoon, Ian. Looking a little pale.  Run in with a leannan sidhe?”
          Ian’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. He holds the bartop for dear life, a thousand thoughts plainly swirling through his face. “I need to get to London.”
          “London?”
          “Trystan,” the boy’s eyes sharpen. “I need to ask you the strangest question you’ll ever hear me ask.”
          “Don’t speak too soon, we’ve only just met.” Trystan calmly nods.
          “Do you know anybody who can break into a mansion?”
          Trystan’s face is unnervingly static. “When?”
          “Now.”
          “None you can afford. Why?” Ian melts deeper into the bar, and Trystan rises to keep his face in his sights. “My apologies, but there’s a throughline here that I’m-”
          “Goddammit,” Ian mutters quietly. “She’ll do it.”
          “She’ll do what-”
          “- if she don’t kill me first.” Ian looks back up to Trystan, his nails digging into his. “I need to find someone. Quickly. How?”
          Trystan studies him carefully. He really shouldn’t get involved. Always a crisis with these two, and he was getting tired.There are so many other important matters tugging at his attention, but…
          … it was hard to not feel for someone so lost in a new world. It wasn’t that long ago that Trystan felt the same. Relatively.
          One of the nymph’s many arms absently closes the bottom shelf’s hatch. He smiles at the human. “You have to pay the toll.”

+++

          "Absolutely not."
          Neith slams her hands into the glass counter. The proprietor hisses, but she’s not bothered. Let him pout as much as he wants while she leans over his annoyed sneer. Always more optimal to intimidate folks above eye-level.
          And pixies were one of the few fae she could tower over easily. “For… tch, a smear of cheap chocolate? That shite looks like it’s been cut with wood shavings-”
          “Oi, leave the quality outta ‘is,” the clerk squeaks, his pointed ears tilting. “I won’t be called a fraudster in me own bloody shop-”
          “You’re wearing ‘fraudster’ like a badge of honour. I’ve seen goblin brides with smaller price tags.” Neith scoffs, exposing her sharp incisors. Trying to hide the slight tremble in her hands.  Bloody Marketeers. Nothing better to waste their centuries on than squeezing everyone else dry.
          "Ah, ‘low it." The clerk’s tailored suit is designed to mimic oak leaves and flower petals. He’s wearing a fucking velvet necktie on his collar, like he’s running anything more than some pissstain hovel on the dirtiest edge of the Grand Bazaar. His transparent wings hum as he hovers expectantly over the sweets. “Not like you're ‘ere for the chocolate, right?”
          Neith snorts scornfully. She’d slam him into glass if there weren’t a hundred of his tiny clanmates watching behind lollipops or beneath glass jars.
          It would be like fighting gnats. And she’s wasting enough on this already.  She can feel the headache getting on.  She just needs to get the price point to drop a little.  A little more so she can afford it.  Push a little harder…
          “I have standards,” she adds, turning around. “You, back there? You hearing this? Are you willing to eat this shite?"
          At first, the large, hooded spriggan doesn’t move. Probably trying to play shrub until these two finish their shouting match and he can go about his day. Beady black eyes above three metres of thorns and brambles stare at Neith, pleading to stay out.
          “Oi, oi, eyes on me.” The clerk buzzes annoyingly until Neith relents. “Look. I’m not unreasonable. I can see the real problem ‘ere. So let’s do this anovver way. Just tell me ‘ow much you can afford and we'll pack the exact amount-”
That does it. Neith hisses, her eyes flashing violet as she presses close. “Talk like that and the only thing getting packed will be your bloody-”
          A rumble over her shoulder cuts her threat short. The other pixies all start rattling from their cases, scattered throughout the store.
          Definitely more than a hundred.
          The vendor grins devilishly. “See? I’ll ignore ‘at. Just cuz I’m nice. Cuz I know we can work something out. Be civil.”
          "Civil, sure,” Neith flicks her tongue over her fangs, still grimacing. “I ought to take my business back to Oliver's.”
          “- as if Oliver would even let you in the door.” The vendor’s smirk grows.. “‘At’s why you’re ‘ere, right? Didn’t wander this far for competitive pricing. ‘Ow fast you go through all ‘ose snakes this time?”
          Neith pushes herself off the counter. “I’ve got no idea what you’re-”
          “Oh, please. We’re both smarter than that. Sweet Guild’s gotta list of troublemakers, and your name’s right on it. You crawlin’ ‘ere, must really need a hit.”
          Neith refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing her face. “It’s been a bad week.”
          “You think we don’t talk? Everyone knows about your last visit. The broken glass, the bruised guards, the dozen geasa you hurled Oliver’s way? Bloody shame you folk get so crippled when you’re not topped off. You coulda done some real damage to his store, helped me margins.”
          Neith's scowl takes on a dangerous edge. "You’re right. I really could. So maybe think a bit harder before you start spouting hearsay, pixie stick."
          “Ohhhhh, pixie stick?” The vendor hisses. “How original.  ‘Ow bout you stop taking the  low blows and-”
          Neith smirks, eyeing the fae’s tiny frame. “Bet you’re used to low blows-”
          “Tch, arright then.  Be that way.” The vendor smiles wide.There's more teeth in his mouth than there should be, and each ends in a needle-sharp point. “You know the other vendors? ‘Ey just see you as street trash. Laugh at you while you waste away. They’ll give you squat. But me? I’m nice. I can tell you just need help-”
          “Save the fucking act,” Neith frowns. “You’re not a bloody charity.”
          “Never claimed I was,” the vendor shrugs. “Help always comes at a premium.”
          Neith freezes up, her eyes glowing violently as her voice rises. “Of course. These aren’t the market prices!”
          “You’re right. They’re your market prices,” the vendor folds his hands. “What are you gonna do ‘bout it?”
          Neith chuckles, trying to keep herself from seething.  She notices her hand, trembling again.   Pulls it into a fist to stop it.
          “You know what’s great about pixie sticks?” she hisses, “They’re so easy to eat. Just rip the top off and let the sugar-”
          “See you tomorrow, Neith,” the vendor nods, turning around. “You better come crawlin’ on your knees if you wanna make a deal. Heh. If the shakes don’t bring you down there, first.”
          Neith gives a final snort as she turns around, prepared to slam the by-standing spriggan into the mints on her way out. But before she takes a step, the door swings open, chirring a brass bell and filling the space with a sudden, soft warmth.
          The pixies around the store are illuminated by the dryad’s golden light.
          “Neith! I have a great idea!” Astraea says cheerfully, approaching the leanan sídhe. Hundreds of eyes follow her.
          “My Lady?” Neith has to force herself to look away. Even her rage can wither beneath Astraea’s light. “That’s lovely, but-”
          “Look what I found!” Astraea holds something out to Neith, literally beaming. “Is it not beautiful?”
          “Always, my Lady,” Neith tries to push forward, refusing to look. “But if you don’t mind, Astraea, I’d-”
          “Lady Astraea? The Dryad?” Neith pauses, listening to the vendor’s chirpy words. “My word! It’s such an honour to see you in our store!”
          Neith’s hands clench into fists as she turns around. She stares at the sea of pixies, all smiling at Astraea beneath the glass. The suddenly spirited spriggan offers the dryad a wave, a single red flower blossoming from his palm. Neith growls. Un-fucking-believable. He definitely did that on purpose.
          “Fortune favour you all,” Astraea offers them a divine smile. “Neith, have you found what you were looking for?”
          Neith scoffs, pressing a hand to her head. Withdrawal is hitting, and Astraea’s angelic glow is about to ‘uplift’ her into a bloody migraine. “Not worth your time. I’ll figure something-”
          "It’s going marvellously, my Lady!” The vendor flies above the counter, loudly squeaking over his buzzing wings. “We were just discussing our store’s new discount!”
          Neith ignores the pain in her head to sneer at the excited pixie. Her expressions grows as dark as Astraea’s turns bright. “Were we?”
          “Of course!” the vendor smiles. All his teeth have vanished. “We’re humbled to receive patronage from such a splendid Grove as Xylia! If we can provide even the barest of needs to its retainers, we would be immeasurably grateful.”
          For the briefest moment Neith considers it, and her hand begins to tremble harder in anticipation.   She grips it and can feel the sweat.   Feel the pulse in her wrist.  No, she already decided.  She wasn’t going to…
          Neith growls through the headache. “That’s it, pop rock. Before you grovel so low you’re eating sand, I’m not her bloody-”
          “Wonderful!” Astraea claps softly, her face radiant. She turns to Neith. “How fortunate for us that there should be a discount on the very day you tell me that Oliver was swindling you! I think we should keep this shop in our memories.”
          “Thank you, my Lady!” The vendor starts again, dozens more pixies whirring with him. “I-I’d never be so presumptuous as to a-ask for your endorsement-”
          “Hey, so, what’s that brilliant idea!?” Neith shouts loudly, snatching the mystery item from Astraea’s hands. A bronze circlet, embedded with onyx and rubies. As soon as Neith’s fingers grace the switch on the side, she groans.
          Of course it was a song. What else could it ever possibly be?
          Astraea smiles gleefully. “I have given this great thought. I believe it is time to endeavour my fortune.”
          “Endeavour your what?” Neith asks confusedly as she hands the circlet back.
          Astraea’s eyebrows lift, gently giggling. “A human expression, Neith.”
          The headache grows a touch more painful. Neith places a hand on her hip. “... Really? I’ve never heard any human say that.”
          Astraea looks at her, uncertain. “I hadn’t, either. It’s in their New Speech.”
          ‘New Speech’ meant ‘English,’ but Neith had long given up trying to explain that detail to her charge. “So where’d you hear it?”
          “A book,” Astraea answers shamelessly.
          Neith rolls her eyes. Of course it was from a book. Lady Astraea of the Grove Xylia was probably the first client Neith’s ever had to request more library runs than broken bones. “I didn’t know you could read in New Speech, my Lady.”
          “It’s a… translation,” Astraea smiles, clearly not getting the problem.
          “Say it in your tongue,” Neith offers.
          Astraea responds with ancient words, flowing like bows on strings. The pixies edge a little closer. For many, hearing a Dryad at all was like music; to hear them speak in the Court’s language, a gorgeous work of art. They didn’t need to comprehend the minute shifts in her hair, didn’t need to catch the series of wood-like creaks and unhearable whispers that would make those words legible.
          The speech alone was beautiful in itself.
          “Does that make sense?” Astraea asks, switching back.
          Neith chuckles. “It’s ‘try your luck’, my Lady.” The dictionaries were always trying to make humans sound fancy.
          “O-oh.” Astraea sheepishly nods. “W-well, either way, I think I will try my luck, and… and give L my very own hand-picked gift!”
          She wiggles cheerily, staring at her hands like she's holding some divine secret.
          "I don't think she'll be offended. I’ve always recommended these sorts of songs.” Neith glares at the pixies until scuttle back to their hiding places. Astraea continues. “You know me. Always planning ahead.”
          Neith bites her lip, aware she’s going to regret what she’s about to say. “... My Lady, may I offer my advice?”
          “Hoping to ensnare me, leanan sídhe?”  Astraea offers coyly.
          “You know I’d never. But have you considered that the moth might be a… lost cause? I know, I know-” Neith adds hastily, shielding herself from the look on Astraea's face. “I’m just saying… you shouldn’t be currying favour, right? You’re the Dryad!”
          She looks briefly at Astraea’s darkening grimace, then looks away again.
          “You have a Court position. Chasing a nymph only belittles you. You’ve made your interest clear. If she had half a brain, she’d have accepted by now.”
          Astraea blinks. “Are you saying that she lacks the intelligence to understand-”
          “Well, she’s half-nymph, half-human, that’s pretty far from a great combo.” The room keeps getting darker. “I-I’m joking, My Lady. But with all respect, this is becoming farcical…”
          Neith stops, taking a closer look at Astraea’s wrist. There’s a copper band inset with carved jade wrapped around it. Odd. That wasn’t there before
          “Farcical? Why? Why wait for her to pounce onto my feet, like one of my subjects? Would that be more proper?” Astraea shakes her head. “No. There are many things that are not proper about L and I, Neith.”
          The headache threatens to burst. Astraea’s words turn to muddled, blurry sounds in Neith’s mind. Why is she always like this?
          “Lyra… L… was always different, she always chose, was never told. To refuse to court her is… it’s insulting to those memories,” Astraea continues firmly. “I haven’t travelled this far and waited this long to return to Xylian Rites and hierarchy-”
          “Did you get two gifts, my Lady?” Neith finally looks up.
          Astraea’s eyes turn cloudy in confusion. “I… Sorry?”
          “Your new bracelet. Bet there’s a switch. Are you buying her two songs?”
          “Only one.” Astraea says, covering the bracelet with her free hand. “I’m… I’m giving myself a choice.  One is more melancholy than the other so I… well I wanted to ask your opinion. Like humans do.  Making choices, conferring with… friends.  Respecting the wishes of everyone.”  Her expression darkens,  “Something Evander and the Magistrates in Xylia could never-”
          “I’m not asking about your philosophy, my Lady. I’m asking if you bought both.”
          Astraea’s ears lift, her voice casual. “I haven’t bought either yet. I wanted to ask you your thoughts before making my purchase.”
          Neith blinks, her face growing in confusion. “You haven’t bought either? Just… walked out of the store with both?”
          “Is that… troubling?” Astraea takes a step away from Neith, her whimsical face giving way to a nervous smile. “I asked the Nøkker shopkeeper if I could borrow them a moment, and he said it was fine.’”
          Neith’s headache throbs. “Borrow? And he… d-do you have any idea how expensive these things are?”
          “He seemed excited!  Even suggested I take more!” Astraea’s eyes sparkle as she tries to mimic his voice. “‘Would hate to have a fine Lady like yourself leave displeased.’”
          “And the guards, they just let you walk out?”
          “They left the shop as I entered. I think they were going on a break?”
          “All of them?” Neith asks. “At the same time?”
          Astraea blinks. “They were huddled close and whispering to each other. I believe they are close friends. Friends enjoy each other's company, right?”
          “What guards enjoy has nothing to do with it, my lady.  Guards have a job to do” Neith replies curtly. “Namely, stopping people from walking out with merchandise they haven’t yet paid for.”
          Neith had the ‘privilege’ of meeting many Dryads in her centuries, and for the large part, Astraea was hardly different from the rest. Poised, regal, and purposeful in her movements. Exuding a grace so ethereal, so precise after decades of practice, that one could only assume divinity. But there was a key difference; she lacked her kind’s austerity. Her face was always expressive, her body always flowing, her thoughts always obvious.
          And right now, every fibre of that gilded flesh was twisted in worry.
          “Are… are you…” Astraea starts, “Neith, are you saying this isn’t… normal?  I am not t-trying to be a th-thief.”
          “Does the shopkeeper know your name?” Neith crosses her arms. “Did he ask you to leave behind some collateral? Did you sign a paper, promise a word, even cross bloody pinkies?”
          “But…” her face contorts. “I intend to give it back…”
          “But he doesn’t know that,” Neith replies. “And he certainly doesn’t think it.”
          The hovel is silent except for the subtle Market winds and the gentle hum of pixie wings. Astraea’s glow flickers, her hair’s tint drifting from sun-blonde to dull orange. She’s silent for what feels like forever.
          “Why?” She finally asks. “Why… why would he let me? Why would he hide it?”
          “Don’t insult yourself,” Neith replies. “You’re smart enough to know. My Lady.”
          At first, the glow of her skin shrinks into a small, barely visible dim. Neith steps back, cautious, already planning their exit.
          But the glow returns like a roaring flame. Brighter than ever before.
          “Vendor. Help me understand.” Astraea points a finger at the shopkeeper. Neith notes a thin trail of colourful steam, rising from the nail. “In this Market, we are equals. Is this right?”
          His expression melts into panicked confusion. “I… M-My Lady… I…” He looks to Neith for guidance.
          “I want you to speak the true answer. Not the one you think is correct.”
          “M-Milady, I-I…” The vendor raises his arms defensively. “Everyone knows the Dryad’s power, the Dryad’s strength! P-Please, understand that the King’s p-policies might say we are equals, b-but I for one would never assume-”
          Astraea scowls, and the pixie cowers at her displeasure. “And what if I say we are equals?”
          His eyes grow wide. “W-What?”
          “What if the Market’s rules are fair?” Astraea walks away from Neith, approaching a shelf filled with glass jars of sweets. Panicked fairies scuttle away as she stares in. The room feels hotter with each second.
          The vendor’s jaw drops open, and he twitches across the counter as he stammers a response. “Well, of course! We’re equals, always knew that! The King, she’s wise, just like you! Yes, I’m your equal, whatever you say-”
          He cuts himself off a moment too late. She turns around, eyeing Astraea cautiously. “My Lady-”
          “Whatever I say,” Astraea shakes her head, smiling to herself. “It’s always ‘whatever I say,’ always whatever is best for me. Not justice, or morality, or freedom. Just whatever keeps the Dryad happy…”
          “My Lady, I meant no offence,” the pixie lifts his hands defensively.
          Astraea places her hand on the counter, and the countertop hisses. “... Whether we want it or not.”
          “It’s just an expression! I’d never want to make trouble or displease-”
          “I want to be displeased!” Astraea snaps, straightening, the air crackling with her words. The pixie cowers, and Neith bites her lip. She can see the rail of smoke rising from her eyes. “I want you to make trouble, I want you to refuse me! If you insist you are my equal, why will you not stand for it?”
          Astraea plunges her fingers into the sweets, scooping a handful…
          … and letting them crush beneath her fingers.
          “Look! This is a crime in the Market, is it not!?” Astraea turns to the shopkeeper, revealing the crushed sugar and sparking aether in her palm. “Look! I am hurting your livelihood! Do you not care?  Will you not stop me?”
          The vendor doesn’t look. He covers his drooping face with his hands, lighting on the glass counter as nerves make his flight fail.
          “You told me we are equals. Are your other equals allowed to do this!?” Astraea’s eyes have shifted. The irises and corneas shrink beneath a sheet of white-hot flame. “Am I more equal than all the rest?”
          “Astraea,” Neith whispers, trying to step between them. “You’re losing yourself-”
          She reaches for Astraea’s shoulder, then pulls back with a hiss. Her fingers sear where they meet the dryad’s skin.
          “You look afraid,” Astraea’s eyes shift to the pixies in the counter. “All that honour and pride in seeing me, where is it now? Am I the villain you thought I would be? The monster taking everything you love, just like the rest of my kind? Then stop me! Right now! Just like your law demands, like your conscience bids you to! That’s all I want!”
          “Stop it.” Neith growls. “My Lady, you’ve made your point-”
          “Have I!? Because nobody ever listens! Nobody ever cares!” Astraea turns back, peering at Neith with wild eyes. Candies slip through her fingers. “Nobody ever asks how I feel about being treated like a god! I’m so tired of it all… I do not want it!”
          “But My Lady you’re-”
          “Nobody even thinks to tell me that I have wronged!” Astraea tightens her grip, her voice starting to crack. “They just tell me what I want to hear until I walk away, and make someone else pick up the pieces!”
          “Someone else?” Neith’s eyes widen as she finally puts together her charge’s nonsense. Behind her, the spriggan hustles out of the door. Smart. He’s heard the rumours, same as everyone in the Market. They all know what’s coming.
          “Where is my say in that!? Where is my chance to atone? To make things right? To have any choice in my fate?” The Dryad’s hands begin to tremble. The atmosphere in the room begins to visibly spark and snap. “I thought this place was free. That the Groves didn’t reach here! So why does everyone kneel like all the kepts back home-”
          “ENOUGH!” Neith roars.  Astraea finally lifts her head from the sweets, studying Neith’s grimacing face. The leanan sídhe points to the counter. “Look.”
          Astraea slowly turns, listening to the whimpers that echo around the store. The hundreds of pixies have dug themselves into the corners, burrowed within the walls, or stacked themselves like marbles into the sturdiest of the glass cases. Some still scuttle, even as she watches.
          Their eyes are wide with terror, their tiny bodies overwhelmed by fear.
          The heat in Astraea’s body dies. The glow slowly fizzles away, and a sudden chill takes its place.  She tries to reach out to a pixie, her face bent in worry, but the creature only disappears behind a dozen bottles. “I…” Astraea looks back at her hands, watching them dim. “N-no, no. You are all supposed to be angry. You are all supposed to see how unjust, how unfair-”
          “They’re not worried about justice or fairness, My Lady,” Neith rolls her eyes, pocketing some of the sweets now left unattended. “They’re not worried about following protocol, either. The only thing they care about right now is the woman who can turn them and their shop to ash.”
          Astraea slowly shrinks back down, studying all the different pixies. “Wh-what do they think I’d do? Kill them?”
          Neith simply stares until the answer is clear.
          “I’m sorry,” Astraea’s voice is shaky. She folds her hands together and tries to meet a single pixie by their eyes. “I am so sorry. I… I didn’t mean-”
          “In the future, ask for an advance. You’ve got the credit, if that was ever in doubt.” Neith offers before rising back to her feet. “But that’s not what this is about, is it? It’s about her.”
          At first, Astraea pulls back, the glow returning as her anger flashes. But it’s only a flash, and Astraea speaks quietly as it dies down. “Her? Do you mean L?”
          “No. Not entirely.” Neith watches the colour drain from Astraea’s face and hair, aether trailing back to its source in her heart. “Cadogan’s sweetheart. Was she your first kill?”
          There’s a pause. Astraea glares Neith’s way, her face surprisingly sharp.
          “First always sticks out in your head,” Neith’s smile is somehow both playful and pitiful. “I remember mine. Some poor brownie whose Keeper thought she’d got smart, tried to poison his meal. She insisted she was innocent. Said it over and over and over, till my fist finally-”
          “Neith.” Neith stops herself, staring into Astraea’s surprisingly sharp face. “Of course she wasn’t the first. I’m not an Otherworlder, like you. We don’t become killers.”
          “My apologies. Just seems like all those elders in those groves shielded you from the worst-”
          “They can’t shield us from the Wilds.  From the dark forest. Cannot shield us from the monsters that wait for us.  From the monsters that we are.” Astraea replies. “You may have visited the Groves, but have you ventured beyond our borders?  Death is a constant. And that’s the problem. The human books, they… talk about death as you do. Something… exceptional.  Some… imprint, some impress, a face that never leaves the memory…”
          Neith digs a hand in her pocket, allowing the rock-like textures to calm her nerves as she listens.
          “... but… I cannot remember the face of the first to attack me in that wood.  Never knew their name.  Couldn’t say who was the first to fall at my hand.  We kill, or we die.   We know no other way.”
          Astraea looks wistfully at her hand.
          “I only know Selkie’s face from a photograph. Her death was a flash I can’t remember. And… if that Merrow had not…” Astraea looks to the jewels hanging in her palm, glistening off her dimming light. “Cadogan alone cared for justice. Before him, I did not even know her name.”
          “Cadogan doesn't care about justice,” Neith snorts. “That shit about ‘wee folk?’ Every wannabe tyrant barks out the same chant until they’re finally given their throne.”
          “I know. So why was it him who demanded I face consequences? Why had I not even known, why…” Astraea sighs. “Why did someone else get punished in my place, without me even knowing?”
          “L made her choice. With you at her side, it’s a choice she can still make.” Neith kicks her shoes. “Whatever deal she made with the King-”
          “Only happened because of me.” Astraea lowers her head. “The humans believe murder to be the worst of crimes, did you know that? The Market, this place I was told was so much closer to human values… and yet they still don’t care. By human law, I’m a murderer, and yet I will never be held accountable for it here, there, anywhere.”
          Neith glares at her earnestly. They’ve both got better things to do than wax soliloquy. “Do you really want to be treated like a murderer, my Lady?”
          “No.” Astraea looks hard at Neith, before her voice grows soft.  “B-but I promised her I would be different. That we would escape the Dryad’s vices and cruelties,” Astraea’s hair turns a dull brown as she points to the shop. “This is another sign of failure. And… I fear that I will continue to fail. If no person tells me that I have wronged, how am I supposed to do right?”
          Neith’s fist tightens against a rogue sour in her pocket. She sighs. Doesn’t take a detective to know which ‘her’ Astraea speaks of. “Are you trying to act human just to get into Lolly’s-”
          “No.” Neith expects more, but Astraea stays silent. “But I wish that I was.”
          Neith crosses her arms. “Well, I can’t answer your… philosophy, but I have a bit of experience giving folks what they want. Should I share?”
          “Please,” Astraea offers, the hurt on her face softening.
          “Let the moth fly on her own. She wants air. Given the mess she’s in, I can’t blame her.” Neith’s purple eyes glint. “You’ve given her a path back to you, which is certainly closer than I ever thought you’d get. If you care about her choices like a human would, let her make them.”
          Astraea purses her lips, considering the words. Her eyes cast down to the brilliant jewellery. Some light returns to her skin. “I’m going to return one of these to the shopkeeper, and apologise for my behaviour. Even if he refuses it.”
          “One?” Neith asks, following her outside the store.
          “Of course. I am still giving a gift,” Astraea smiles, revealing the bracelet in her palm. “I am allowed to make choices, too.”
          Astraea turns around, Throwing her hood over her head and hiding her angelic glow.  A moment later and she’s already lost in the Market’s crowds.
          Neith watches her charge take off. She turns around, basking in the air heavy with mortar and brick for repairs, relishing in the scathing glances she casts every Merrow’s way. That vendor better not think he’s getting off fucking easy. The Lady of Xylia can moralise as much as she pleases, but Neith’s language is the Market’s. Their reputation is an opportunity, one she’d very much like to see getting her another fix.
          Maybe she’ll make him crawl-
          There’s never a chance. The heavy clopping of hooves thunders in her eardrums, forcing her back. An equine shadow towers over her, inky tendrils seeping from its body. The púca’s eyes glow, ambers wafting through a sea of smoke. She scowls at the man who dismounts from its saddle.
          Then chuckles, because it's clear from the way he trips on the stirrups that lolly’s friend has never ridden a horse.
          Neith shows fang as the boy digs change out from his pocket. Already, the Concierge blurs and bends, hooves becoming hands to more easily take his toll.
          Ian catches her, glares sternly, and acts like she can’t smell the fear wafting off him. And here she was just wishing for her migraine’s pain to double.
          “If it isn’t lolly’s little strawberry parfait,” she smiles sourly.
          Ian ignores her, staring over her shoulder. “Where’s Astraea?”
"Busy, dinner mint. She's busy." Neith slides to block his view, folding her arms.
          Ian retreats; his voice shaky, his skin is pale. “I need to talk to her. Now.”
          “Awwwww. I suppose I’ll let her know you’ve called.” She tilts her head, smiling, a fang digging her lip. “Although why she’d care to answer is beyond me.”
          The human towers with anger, and the vampire can’t help but chuckle at him. Looking at this human acting all big and mean and ‘scary.’ It’s kind of cute.
          “Look, I didn’t haul my arse ‘ere to get mocked-”
          “Best leave quickly, then,” Neith grins.
          “Piss off,” he snarls through gritted teeth. Neith responds with a playful growl of her own. “L… she…”
          “Flew into a window?” Neith offers. “Dove into an open flame? Got her feelers tied in a knot?”
          “Fackin’ ‘ell, I don’t ‘ave time for this,” Ian sighs, eyeing the leanan sídhe sternly. “It’s important, or I wouldn’t talk wiff you. Where’s the bloody tree?”
          He moves closer, his breath warm on her forehead.
          “Try a park.” Neith pokes his chest, slowly pushing herself back. “Lady Astraea, as she’s correctly known, is shopping. For lolly, in fact. Getting her a nice little gift.”
          She lets her finger slowly trail up Ian’s hoodie, until it taps the collarbone.
          She grins."You don't think they're patching things up, do you?”
          To her surprise, his confidence doesn’t wither. “Why?”  He asks, “Worried the competition might knock you off her lap?”
          Neith growls, fangs growing as she tosses her hands back. “Careful, marshmallow. I bite.”
          “But I want you to play fetch,” Ian nods towards the crowd. “Go find your master, an’ quickly, or she’ll be real mad when she hears you turned me away. I promise.”
          Neith eyes the boy. The sweat on his brow, the mohawk left slack by lack of gel. The beard that hid his age, those muscles he’s clearly never used. He looks like a total cream egg, and yet she’s tasting spice.
          He’d be a great feed. If she ever bit humans, that is. “I-”
          “Emergency?” Both bodyguards turn around. The colour has returned to Astraea’s face, the gift carefully wrapped in her hands. “What’s wrong?”
          Ian’s face melts beneath her radiance. Neith can feel his terror, his relief, his desperation long before she hears him sob.
          “Astraea, I…” Ian looks down, clenching his fists. It takes all his strength to stare into her eyes. His vision goes blurry with tears. “It’s… It’s-”
          But he can’t bring himself to say her name.


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Howdy y’all! Keira here!   

Another big chapter today! While its great to finally catch up with Ian (and nice to know he’s knocking himself over the head like he should be), I had the most fun working on Neith and Astraea’s interaction. Astraea is probably my favourite in the story, and I love how Rin has captured the way her privilege and society colour her views. Neith being Neith is always a cherry on top What are your thoughts? Are these two still villains, or mere products of their place and position? And, speaking of, where the hell is the King in all this?  

Tune in next time as we return to L and Spencer in Chapter 23, Part 2: The Rite of Keeping, set to release on March 3rd.

Until then, thanks for stopping by!