Overdose

I have made friends with anger. It is a substitute for the passing conversations I used to have with Ashford. Rage has become my new companion over the past week, my only companion.

I don't even eat with him. I don't want him to feel my presence any more than a puff of air, barely there. The river is still dark. Sometimes I just stare at it, sometimes I try to reach for it. I never break the water's surface.

He tries to make it up to me. Apologies are not his style, so he leaves me silk and food on my bed. He writes a note for me to meet him outside and I leave him stood up. If I had thought staying here before was hard, this is so much worse.

One day, I mistime lunch and catch him in the corridor. He blocks my way before I can move past him. "We need to talk about this, Jennifer." My name on his tongue makes me see red.

"You know what all I have to say, Ashford." I spit his namesake with disgust. He has the manners to look hurt.

"You're not seeing this from my perspective-"

"You're right, I'm sorry if this is too hard on you." My words are laced with venom and sarcasm. I want to scream at him, yell and stamp, but most of all, I want to cry.

He sighs. "It isn't forever."

I look up. I know those words are binding for him. If he says it, it's a promise. "Then why even do it?"

He looks down at me with those eyes and I see the turmoil there. It only makes me angrier when he refuses to answer.

Fed up, I say, "If we're just going to stand here, I'd much rather be elsewhere."

"Jennifer."

I pause. I hate that I pause. I meet his eyes again. "I hate you."

He doesn't so much as blink. "I know you do."

Another, more oppressive quietude falls upon us. I am just about ready to push past him when he speaks again, "Your hateful company is better than silence."

He is selfish. I can see him now as a prince, only interested in hedonism and bringing shame to his name. I see that immature boy in the man in front of me. He has not grown since then, it seems, not in a way that matters.

This time, I do push past him. He lets me. I don't see him for the next few days.

***

Ashford and Besta talk heatedly in the kitchen. I am positioned by the entrance, peeking out through the door frame to catch the gist of the conversation. I am also hungry, and waiting for them to leave.

"The girl will not forgive you, Master Ashford," Besta says. Something in her voice seems changed.

"If I give her time, maybe she will-"

"Bitterness and resentment is all that time will foster for her."

"You don't know that."

Besta sighs. It is a heavy sound. "Her likeness to Rosia should not inform you, Your Highness."

There is a lull in the conversation. My view of them is obscured from where I stand and for a moment, I think they are gone, but Ashford replies, "I know."

There is a sound of shuffling. "Maybe it was easier when she wasn't here, hm?"

"I don't want easy."

Some part of me softens just that little bit. I know that I am the first non-Besta face he has seen in 57 years and some part of me acknowledges the reasons behind his difficulty in letting me go. The rest of me hardens to make up for it.

"That ship I saw on the horizon is ever-closer, Master Ashford. It may be possible it is set to dock here."

My heart stutters.

"How can that be?"

I have a hard time breathing in.

"It carries the royal mark, my prince."

I don't realise I've stepped into the kitchen until they both turn to look at me, surprised. "Someone's coming here?" I ask.

They share an incredulous look. Ashford is the first one to speak, "How do you know that?"

I frown, irritated. "You two were just talking about it. I overheard." They share another look and my annoyance increases tenfold. "What?"

"We weren't speaking English, Jennifer."

I don't know how to respond. I know he can't lie and yet, he must be. There is no other explanation. "Yes, you were. I heard it."

"We were speaking Gaelic. A Faerie dialect of it at that." He looks as perplexed as I feel.

"I don't speak Gaelic. That makes no sense."

For maybe the first time since I've known him, he is speechless, with no hint of arrogance or cunning in those eyes, just pure, unadulterated shock. Then something catches all of our attention; outside the window and over the sea, just scraping the horizon is a sail. It doesn't take a genius for me to work out what it must be.

"Shit," Ashford mutters. Then he catches my gaze and his eyes narrow. "Jennifer, no."

I'm running before he can say anything else, the door to the gardens the only thought on my mind. This is my way out. This is my way back. The large wooden door draws nearer and my hand almost closes around the handle when arms wrap around my torso and drag me backwards.

"

No!

" I scream, flailing wildly in his arms.

"Stop struggling," he whispers coolly in my ear, grip like iron.

"Let me go!" I protest, trying desperately to kick any part of his body and failing completely.

"I will let you go when you stop struggling."

Even knowing his words are binding, it takes a moment for me to relax against his chest. True to his word, he releases me. "Do

not

try to go outside again or the very same thing will happen," he warns me.

I heed it and turn to face him. "Let me go outside. Please." I don't even feel embarrassed that I'm begging, I'm far too desperate for that, far too far gone to be embarrassed about anything.

"You don't understand. Queen Mab will not relinquish you out of some human notion of

pity

or

empathy.

She will find out how to use you to control me in a entirely different method of torture."

"It has to be better than this," I spit.

He flinches. Then he looks away. "You do not know my people, sweet Jen. She would feed you Faerie fruit until you lost your mind if it would make me wince."

"I hate you," I say.

He meets my eyes again. "I know, and—"

"My prince, the queen is nearly here," Besta interrupts.

Ashford sighs. "I think you might begin to hate me more."

"What—"

"Hide. In the best place you can find. Do not come out until I call you. That is my final favour."

My legs begin to move of their own accord. I am running past him, up the stairs before I can even protest and my eyes are frantically looking for somewhere to conceal myself. "

Fuck you!

" I yell down the stairs as I ascend to the third floor, then the fourth. I am sweating profusely as I run from room to room, my body not stopping until it's found something that meets its arbitrary standards.

That's how I find myself in the attic curled up in a toy box listening to my own breathing and internally cursing out Ashford in every way possible. My legs are already cramping but my muscles refuse to obey me, caught up in the glamour Ash placed on me.

"My son," I hear a regal voice speak. It is very faint and I realise it must be carrying from the open window that I had passed before hiding.

"Mab. What brings you here? I had no time to even set the table." Ashford's voice is colder than I have ever heard it. I can finally hear the way his voice clips and how the sounds he's producing are found nowhere in English. It's Gaelic. And somehow, it sounds more familiar to me than English.

"I come bearing good news."

"You're dying?"

"50 years hasn't calmed your tongue, I see. Neither has it lessened your disrespectful nature."

"57," Ashford corrects with a steely voice.

"Well, your years of solitude are complete, even if I believe you should suffer decades more. Rosia, it turns out, is a human."

A gasp falls from my lips.

"What was that sound?" The feminine voice asks. I hold my breath.

"What sound?" There's a wobble in his voice.

"What was that? What are you hiding?"

"Mab, I—"

"

I call for all glamours to be removed

."

If Ashford's commands feel all-consuming, his mother's are obliterating. Instantly, I collapse from my crouching position, free from the constraints of his magic. Then I'm running outside. I don't care what he warned me, now that Mab has cleared my glamour, I can go home. I can leave. I just need to make it past them both.

I open the door. I shield my eyes as daylight blinds them.

"Holy shit," is all I hear in response. It's Ashford. When my eyes adjust, he is staring at my arms, at my legs, at the space over my shoulder. I look down. Lilac skin stares back at me. A panic grabs me and I scrub at it, waiting for my flesh to return but the purple hue remains. I want to throw up.

"What did you do?" I accuse him, ignoring the beautiful woman who stands to his right.

"You're a pixie." He seems in shock. Following his comment, I feel along my back with a hand and, sure enough, I touch wings. I feel sick.

I feel sick.

"Change me back," I demand, now addressing the both of them.

Mab is stunning in the same way that Ashford is; with a razor-sharp edge. I almost forget my anger and confusion as I stare at her pale face. Her skin is smooth and sallow like skimmed milk. She bares none of the azure undertones that Ashford has, but there is a resemblance in them both that I can't quite find the origin of.

"Who is this?" She sounds annoyed but intrigued, like a scientist finding a new insect to categorise.

"It doesn't matter," Ashford answers, tearing his eyes away from me.

"It

does

matter. Change me back."

Mab draws nearer to me, a slow, patronising smile donning her face. "Did you think you were human?"

I am human. Right? I feel my wings flutter behind me involuntarily.

"How long has she been here?"

"You expect me to have counted the days?"

He can't say he doesn't know because it's a lie, I realise. Under Mab's curious gaze, I feel like a fly caught in a spider's web. This is too much.

"You

care

for her," Mab remarks, surprise and delight painting her delicately sharp features. I begin to understand why Ashford had warned me about her; her delight is certainly not innocent.

"I can assure you, he doesn't," I cut in.

Ashford stays silent.

"Tell her," I insist.

"I have no affectionate feelings towards any human, Mab."

"Ah, but she isn't a human, is she? It's obvious; she's a changeling. Rosia is the one who was snatched at birth."

"I know what I am! You've put some spell on me," I argue, sounding like a petulant child.

"Quite the opposite, dear. You've got quite a proficiency for our language. How about you come back to our grounds? I promise to explain everything to you—"

"No," Ashford interrupts. "She's not going there."

A flash of contempt shrouds Mab's face just at the same time as the river catches my eye. It is still dark. The temptation is overwhelming - one dip and I'm back to familiarity, back where things make sense and I don't speak Gaelic and my skin isn't lilac.

I'm running before I can think about it—

"

No!

"

—And then I'm submerged in dark, murky waters.