Tink frowned and scratched his ear. There was a purple mark there, like a bruise—except the Fae didn’t get bruises. A wine stain maybe. But what was it doing on his ear? “But you can’t eat feathers. No one can.”
“No one wants to,” the cook explained, seeing that Tink was still confused. “Think of it like wrapping on a gift.”
“I like gifts,” Tink confided.
“Everyone does, even the Dark Queen. Especially the Dark Queen. And this way, she can unwrap her dinner, like a surprise.”
Tink’s brow furrowed. “But it’s not a surprise. Underneath the swan skin, there will be a swan.” He blinked in confusion. He scratched that ear a bit more and to the cook’s surprise, the ear became entirely purple.
“What’s wrong with your ear?” he demanded.
It was a normal ear for a Fae, a bit less pointed than the most attractive ones, but perfectly serviceable. The color, though, was distinctly odd. If anything, Fae skin tended toward brown hues or the greens of the forest, maybe the silvery grey of tree bark—but never purple.
“My ear?” Tink echoed and scratched it again. “It’s itchy.” His claim made no sense.
It made even less sense that the ear fell right off.
They stopped together and stared down at it on the heath, both watching as the ear shriveled and curled. It looked like a dried leaf before it crumbled to dust and disappeared. The cook hadn’t smelled that scent of forest floor in a long time and he looked around, wondering what was happening to the magick.
Everything looked normal, at least at a glance, except that one of Tink’s ears was gone. He beckoned to his assistant with impatience and hurried toward the cage. “We need to keep the heads, too,” he instructed. “In order to make the illusion complete.”
“If you want a swan to look like a swan, why not leave it be a swan?” Tink asked, scratching the other ear. It was turning purple, too, and the cook had a strange feeling that time was passing too quickly.
He felt a twinge of panic. Time passed slowly in Fae, if at all.
He gripped the cord he’d brought to strangle the birds and hurried on. “So, we don’t want to damage the plumage,” he said to Tink, who looked at him blankly. “Since we need the feathers for later.” He shook his head with impatience. “Just hold them carefully but firmly.”
They drew closer to the cage. The three swans began to hiss. They stuck their heads through the wooden bars and snapped at the cook and Tink, obviously having an idea of what was in store for them.
“You go ahead,” the cook said cheerfully. “I’ll wait with the rope.”
Tink gave him a look that was surprisingly shrewd. “I’m the assistant. I’ll keep the rope.” He then scratched his other ear so thoroughly that the cook could see the purple stain spread across his skin like a flood.
“You’ll do what I tell you,” the cook said. “And stop scratching your ear!”
“It’s not my ear I’m scratching. It’s the purple freckle.”
“It’s not a freckle. Your whole ear is purple.”
“So is your cheek,” Tink retorted and the cook realized that he was feeling a considerable itch. He reached up to give his cheek a little rub as Tink put a hand over his remaining ear and rubbed vigorously. That ear fell off, too, shriveling up just like the first one.
Tink cried out in alarm as purple spots appeared on his arms and legs. He spun in place, swatting at them and complaining, but his voice rose high, then was silenced. The cook found a garter snake in front of himself, and no sign of Tink. It was particularly large garter snake and seemed to be as startled as the cook. It darted across the heath and disappeared, leaving the cook looking for his assistant.
“Tink!” he shouted, rubbing his cheek all the while. “Get your lazy self back here! There’s work to be d—” He finished his sentence with a strange croak and found himself crouched on all fours on the ground. He surveyed himself, amazed to find that he’d become a leopard frog, albeit one with purple spots that gleamed silver before they turned dark.
A swan snapped at him, that beak brushing against his back. He realized he could easily become lunch. The cook hopped away as quickly as he could, unable to explain his situation.
Much less change himself back.
Twelve
The story in Hadrian’s book was incredible to Rania, like a fairy tale—but one that had