Free Duainfey by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

her, Becca took a biscuit and bit into it. It was a little dry, and not, Becca thought privately, up to Cook's best, but perfectly edible. She had another bite, and then a sip of tea.
    "If there is ever anything I can do for you, Miss Rebecca," Harin said so softly Becca had to strain to hear her, "I would be honored by your trust."
    Where, Becca thought, had this girl come from?
    As if she'd spoken aloud, Harin smiled.
    "I hail from Lunitch."
    "At the Boundary," Becca murmured. "You must have seen Fey, then?"
    "Now and again," Harin said slowly. "You'll be thinking of the gentleman making his stay with Lord Quince?"
    "He has . . . rather odd manners, and I wonder if that's usual."
    Harin chewed her lip. "The Fey were here before us, so my granny told it. They stayed hidden for a time, watching us and learning our ways, but even so when they first came 'mong us there were misunderstandings and bloodshed. The Border Lord thought the Fey could be taken and used, and he captured himself a pair or three—this is years upon years ago, now, Miss."
    Becca nodded, astounded to hear such a spate of words coming from quiet Harin. "But," she asked, "used for what?"
    "Well, now. The Fey have their ways—magic some call it. My granny, she just said that the land loved them better than it does us—which only makes sense when you think on it, since they was here well before us, and the land has known them longer."
    "So, the Border Lord wanted the Fey to teach him their . . . magic?"
    Harin shrugged. "Mayhap. Or he might have wanted to break them to his service. Whatever his intention, and for all the care he'd taken to bind them in nothing other than iron—for it's known that the Fey have an—an allergy—to iron, and prolonged exposure weakens them. For all the lord's care, though, his pair escaped—one through dying, and one through the window, or mayhap through the wall. All they ever found was the dead one, and the coils of chain on the floor."
    Becca took a breath. "I'd think that the Fey Board of Governors would have sent an—an envoy—to the Border Lord."
    "Aye, but that's not their way."
    "What did they do, then?" Becca asked, barely noticing as she reached for another biscuit.
    "Do?" Harin raised her cup and sipped, leisurely. "They didn't do anything, Miss Rebecca. To this very day, Fey come 'cross the Border, as the fancy takes 'em. They bring horses to trade, like Lord Quince's guest done. Maybe pottery, or silver work, or carving. They'll come three, four years in a row, then not be seen for seven or more. My granny said the Fey woman she'd bought her best pottery jug from told her that time ran different on the far side of the Border, but my granny didn't know how that could be, Miss Rebecca, and neither do I." She tipped her head, and gave a sly, storyteller's smile. "That jug, though, that she had off the Fey potter? No milk stored in it ever went off, now matter how many days, or how warm the weather. She'd leave it out, on full moon nights, in case any thirsty travelers passed by. She said, though she whispered to me it was the Fey folk she left it out for, to show that the one who lived there meant them no harm. And for everything of that, Miss Rebecca, my granny told us never to trust a Fey, for they're not human folk, and their ways aren't anywhere near the same as ours."
    Becca took a breath. "That is . . . quite a story," she said finally. "I think you've missed your calling."
    "Oh, the mistress tells stories enough. She says it's a good thing for a healer to have a store of nonsense and fable to babble, to put those who're fretful at ease."
    "She may be right," Becca said. "I see I'll need to apply to you for lessons."
    Harin shook her head. "Everyone finds their own stories, Miss. You know that."
    "Do I? I'd never thought of it." Becca finished her tea and put the cup down, casting an eye at Cook, who was busily pinching the tops onto her pies. "If I've eaten enough to satisfy Cook, we can get that