specific method used on you is.”
“What do you mean method?”
“Did you not hear any fables at court? Or were they considered silly peasant tales you didn’t bother your refined mind with?”
I let out a weary groan. “Enough with the mockery. You’ve already made it clear you despise royals and nobles, so just get to your point.”
He made a sound like when Amabel fluttered her lips. “You’re no fun.”
“I can’t be fun when I need to be saved!”
“Fun and the pursuit of salvation are not mutually exclusive.”
I pulled a face at him, thankful that no one who knew me was around to reprimand me for making the ugly contortion, and that my true face wasn’t at risk of developing frown lines. No one liked a sour-faced princess.
But then, no one had liked my perfectly smooth, graciously composed one, either.
I had no idea what expression he made in response as he continued to run, not even out of breath as he said, “So, Miss Dreamer of the Woods, how did fairies make you ‘sleep’? Had a flower spray poison in your face? Tricked you into eating a fairy fruit? Made you prick your finger on an enchanted spinning wheel?”
“What are all these bizarre methods you’re suggesting?”
“They’re the fables’ suggestions for unnatural slumber.”
“Yes, but a spinning wheel? Do I look like someone who weaves?”
“You spin yarn on a spinning wheel, you weave on a loom.”
“How should I know the difference?”
“You mean you never learned such skills in your ladylike grooming? What about crocheting or knitting?”
I wrinkled my nose at the thought. “I never worked with my hands. It’s beneath me.”
Robin scoffed. “Anyone who makes anything with their hands is above you idle courtiers.”
I gasped, having never heard such a notion. “Workers are useful, certainly, but their place is undisputed. As for hand work, it is unthinkable for me because I wouldn’t have nice, painted nails or fingers worthy of precious rings. Working women’s hands end up looking like men’s.”
That had been exemplified by Cora. Despite having long, golden hair and fine features, she could have never passed for a girl of breeding. Her broad build, mannish muscles, wide, rough hands, and especially her tan, had betrayed her as someone who toiled in the sun.
And then there were the freckles, something I’d thought I was immune to, thanks to my mother’s heritage. But I’d met a Cahramani noblewoman whose face had been covered in them. Seeing how she’d carelessly ruined her skin had reinforced the importance of the practices drilled into me from childhood, of walking with parasols, and keeping to the specially built shades in gardens. Ladies had to retain their skin in the condition the gods had bestowed upon us.
Not that having pristine skin had done me any good. All I could boast now was being a magically embalmed body in perfect condition.
I could almost feel the disdain in Robin’s unseen gaze as he said, “They end up looking strong. And like they’ve done something more than sit around, looking pretty.”
I frowned up at him. “Why would a lady want to look strong? That’s what men are for.”
“And what are you for, pray tell?”
“Being your foil, of course. Gentle, graceful, delicate, untouched by the harshness of labor and war.”
“And what about the women who have to bear such harshness?”
“They are wronged, and I pity them.” I then remembered his earlier jab at ladies. “What’s wrong with sitting around looking pretty? That’s a very hard thing to achieve.”
“What’s wrong is that you’re a person and not a painting. Oh, wait, you’ve probably never been near a paintbrush either, since that is messy hand work, and it would ruin your perfect nails and soft, useless fingers.”
It was a good thing I was incorporeal, or else I would have picked up the nearest rock and chucked it at his head. That was how much every sarcastic snipe out of his big mouth irritated me.
Seemingly as annoyed with me, Robin blew out a forcible sigh. “This is why I can’t wait to get her back. Talking to girls like you makes me appreciate her even more.”
“Is the ‘her’ you’re going to Faerie for, a relative, or a…?” For some reason, I didn’t want to finish that question.
He didn’t need me to, as he said, “Not a relative.” Then I heard a smile entering his voice. “I wonder if she made it into any of the stories and songs about me?”
Oh, so he wasn’t just biting the tender flesh of nobles like the rampant pest that he