“Well?” I asked.
“I give my word that I will never touch you without your permission, except if I need to spare you from harm,” he declared. To his credit he said it in a regal tone, with none of the petulance I expected.
I sighed in relief. “Thank you, Rook.”
“You’re welcome,” he said automatically, and frowned. This was like bowing; he had to respond to common courtesies whether he liked it or not. He recovered from the indignity by flinging his arm out theatrically. Two of the trees hiked up their roots and shuffled aside, in a rather hasty, anxious way, as though they were a pair of bewildered matrons at whom he’d just hurled a billiard ball. Their bent trunks formed a new archway to the forest beyond.
“Hurry along, then.” He swept toward the archway. A leftover root whisked solicitously out of his path. “Not only do I expect your little mortal legs will cover a disappointing amount of ground, we’re already an hour delayed.”
And whose fault is that? I thought.
However, as I crunched after him through the brambles, which disintegrated at a touch, my eyes fell on the neat pile of twigs and leaves he had taken from my hair—and despite myself I smiled.
We passed slender, white-barked birches, their yellow leaves shimmering and clattering like gold coins in the breeze. We passed stony brooks that wended between hillocks of moss, their water the color of milk with snowmelt. We passed ash trees that had shed half their foliage at once, pooled about their roots as a maiden might drop a shift. A stag and doe paused to watch us go by before they leapt away through the light-filled mist, casting their shadows against the air like a paper screen.
The first unpleasant landmark we came to was a riven oak. It had been struck by lightning sometime long ago, and sections of its trunk were charred black, the bark raised and glittering with beads of hardened sap. A few brown leaves still clung to its lower branches. Rook stopped to examine it. It looked out of place among the birches, watchful, malevolent. A prickle of unease warned me to keep my distance.
“Is that an entrance to a fairy path?” I asked, crunching along parallel to it.
He spared me a glance and resumed walking. “Yes. But we won’t travel that way.”
“You can’t bring humans on them?”
“Oh, we certainly can. I merely find it inadvisable.”
By that he could mean anything. Perhaps the effort would be a drain on his power, or it would alert the wrong fair folk to our presence. He didn’t seem open to further questions, and I didn’t see how learning more might help my cause, so I didn’t bother asking.
Midday came and went. The sun shimmered through the leaves, freckling the ground in dappled patterns I would have found captivating if I’d been less preoccupied by my growing discomfort. My thighs and buttocks ached from last night’s ride. I was dirty; I had mud all over my legs, and my skirts were stiff with burs and dried horse sweat. I knew for a fact I smelled abominable. And god, I was starving.
Meanwhile Rook looked exactly as he had when he’d come to fetch me the night before. His boots shone and not a single wrinkle marred his coat. The only thing disheveled was his hair, but that didn’t count, since it always looked that way.
We arrived at a long embankment descending into a ravine. Rook descended gracefully as I shuffled and skidded through the leaf litter until I finally considered the possibility of giving up and sliding down on my rear. While I frowned at the ground, Rook’s hand extended into my field of vision. I didn’t want his help, but it was better than making a fool of myself, so I placed my fingers in his. We seemed able to touch each other without a word as long as I was the one who initiated it.
His skin was cool and his grip deceptively light. He helped me down the embankment and back up the hill on the other side as though I weighed no more than a feather. My stomach rumbled when we crested the top. To my dismay it wasn’t an ordinary rumble, either: my innards summoned forth a booming growl, followed by a series of long, drawn-out squeals.
Rook started back in alarm. Then, catching on to my condition, he gave me a knowing smile. Which was interesting—most fair folk didn’t understand the concept of human hunger, not truly. And earlier, he’d spoken as if he’d already tried taking a human on the fairy paths himself. Had he traveled with a human before?
Honestly, I should have suspected even earlier. He had human sorrow in his eyes, after all, and there was only one way he could have learned it.
“I haven’t eaten since supper yesterday,” I said when my stomach finally, mercifully went quiet. “I don’t think I can go on much longer without food.”
“Only yesterday?”
“I assure you, most humans aren’t accustomed to going a full day without a meal.” He continued looking deeply skeptical, so I added in a steadfast tone, “I’m feeling quite poorly. In fact, I can’t take another step. If I don’t eat soon, I may die.”
His hair practically stood on end. I almost felt bad for him. “Stay here,” he said urgently, and vanished. The leaves he’d been standing on eddied as though stirred by a draft.
I looked around. My stomach somersaulted, and my mouth went dry. The sparse, mossy undergrowth afforded a clear view into the far distance. I saw no tall figure, no raven winging through the forest. Rook truly did appear to be gone.
Run, I thought. But trying to urge my feet to move was like being four years old again, shifting at the foot of my mother’s bed after a nightmare, unable to speak a word to wake her. The forest slumbered too. How easily would I draw its attention, and was I really prepared for that nightmare?
As it turned out I needn’t have even bothered thinking about it. Something thumped into the leaves behind me, and I turned to find Rook standing over a dead hare.
“Go on,” he said when I didn’t move, glancing between me and the animal.
I shuffled forward and picked it up by the scruff of its neck. It was still warm, and watched me with its shiny black eyes. “Um,” I said.
“Is there something wrong with it?” His expression became guarded.
I was ravenous. I was sore. I was terrified. And yet looking at Rook I imagined a cat proudly bringing its master dead chipmunks, only to watch the two-legged oaf lift these priceless gifts by the tail and fling them unceremoniously into the bushes. Before I knew it I’d dissolved into laughter.
Rook shifted, torn between uneasiness and anger. “What?” he demanded.
I sank to my knees, the hare on my lap, gulping in air.
“Stop that.” Rook looked around, as if concerned someone might witness him mismanaging his human. I howled even louder. “Isobel, you simply must control yourself.”
He might have traveled with humans, but he most assuredly hadn’t dined with us.
“Rook!” I half-wailed his name. “I can’t just eat a rabbit!”
“I don’t see why not.”
“It’s—it needs to be cooked!”
For an instant, before he slammed the door shut on his expression, horror and confusion gripped him. “You mean to say you can’t eat anything at all without using Craft on it first?”
I took a shuddering breath, calming down, but knew I’d go off again at the slightest provocation. “We can eat fruit as it is, and most nuts and vegetables. But everything else, yes.”
“How can this be,” he said to himself quietly. That was all it took; I gave a strangled sob. He crouched and scrutinized my face, which I’m sure at that moment looked anything but attractive. “What do you require?”
“A fire, to start with. Some . . . some branches to make a spit out of, I suppose. Or maybe we could cut it up and skewer it? I’ve never cooked a rabbit outdoors before.” I might as well have started reciting an incantation. “Wood,” I revised for him. “Some kindling about this size”—I spread my hands—“and a long, thin, sturdy stick with a pointy end.”
“Very well.” He rose. “I will bring you your sticks.”
“Wait,” I said, before he could vanish again. I held up the hare. He tensed. “Can you skin this for me? You know, remove the fur? And it needs to be in pieces, too. I can’t do any of that without a knife.”