Free Ivy's Choice (The Fey Quartet Book 3) by Emily Larkin Page B

concentration to placing the stitches. Her thoughts tried to bend themselves in directions she didn’t want them to go, but by focusing absolutely on each stitch, on its placement, on the tautness of the thread, she managed to hold them back.
    Morning ripened slowly towards noon. The dew dried on the bluebells, bees buzzed and hummed, the breeze grew warm—and Ivy sewed calmly and methodically.
    When the sun was high overhead, she laid aside her sewing and ate a slice of bread with cheese, and then sat for a long moment, enjoying the quiet beauty of the dell—the rich blue flowers, the lazy murmur of insects, the breeze bearing mossy forest scents. Somewhere, a squirrel chittered.
    The skin at the back of Ivy’s neck prickled sharply. She glanced around. Nothing had changed. Bluebells nodded in the breeze. Birds sang. Bees hummed. The prickling became stronger, climbing up her scalp. Someone—something—was watching her.
    “I know you’re there,” she said quietly.
    A piece of shadow detached itself from a rowan tree and stepped into the dell. For a moment, Ivy saw right through the shadow to the trees behind it, and then the shadow firmed, solidified, sharpened into focus.
    The Faerie was as her mother had described: slender and imperious and inhumanly beautiful. She had marble-white skin, ebony hair bound with pearls, a gown as red as blood—and eyes that were as black as night.
    Ivy’s heart beat faster. Calm, she told herself, but it was hard to remain calm when confronted by such cold, cruel, perfect beauty. She reached for her crutch and slowly stood. “Good day.”
    The Faerie made no answer, just stood and stared haughtily at Ivy, contempt glittering in her black eyes.
    She despises me, Ivy realized. Because I’m human, a crude, lowly creature . The knowledge didn’t cow her; it stung her pride. She lifted her chin. “I hope your daughter is well?” she said, coolly polite.
    Again, no answer.
    Very well, let us dispense with courtesies . “I want you to remove the gift you gave my sister Larkspur,” Ivy said bluntly. “That is my birthday wish.”
    The Faerie blinked, and then suddenly smiled, revealing sharp, white teeth. “That’s not what you truly want.”
    Ivy gripped her crutch. “Yes, it is.”
    The Faerie stepped gracefully across the dell, bluebells bending themselves out of her way. She halted in front of Ivy, close enough to touch. Her smile glittered cruelly. “You want to be rid of that crutch.”
    “I want Larkspur as she was,” Ivy said, firmly. “Take back the gift you gave her.”
    The Faerie’s eyes narrowed. She seemed to stare into Ivy’s skull for a moment. “Ah . . . You’re in love with the Lord Warder’s son.” She laughed, a tinkling, disdainful, bell-like sound, her sharp teeth glinting. “Shall I give him to you as a husband? I know that’s what your heart craves most . . .”
    Ivy tightened her grip on the crutch and matched the Faerie stare for stare. The woman was playing with her as a cat played with a mouse. Well, I am no mouse . “Take back Larkspur’s gift,” she demanded. “Now.”
    The Faerie lost her smile. Her cheekbones were suddenly knife-sharp beneath her pale skin. Her black eyes glittered with pure malevolence.
    Ivy’s throat dried.
    They stared at each other for a long, breathless moment. Ivy’s lungs were frozen. Her heart scarcely dared to beat. And then the Faerie shrugged lightly and turned away. “As you wish . . .” She snapped her fingers carelessly.
    Between one blink of Ivy’s eyelids and the next, the Faerie vanished, as utterly as if she’d never existed. The dell was empty. The scalp-prickling sense of being watched was gone.
    Ivy released a slow, trembling breath. She loosened her grip on the crutch. “Merciful gods . . .” she whispered.
     
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    IVY LEFT THE basket and sewing where they lay. She hastened through Glade Forest, hobbling over tree roots, ducking beneath low branches, her heart beating