#we adapt

Feyre didn’t like to be disapproving. Not in the way Nesta was, constantly snapping at them like her demands were of higher importance because she was the eldest. But Elain was staring at her with wide eyes as she held the book aloft, curious and open-minded in a way so few people were.

“We’re not to speak of such things,” Feyre whispered. Her eyes flickered warily towards the large window of their sitting room. It was shut, but the curtains were drawn back to reveal the stars above. It was never safe to speak freely in the night time. “Don’t waste your tongue on ill-truths.”

“This is a history book,” Elain insisted. “It says that the seat of power in the Night Court was a city called Velaris. And its occupant was a handsome, kind-hearted High Lord.”

A startled laugh escaped Feyre, one she instantly felt guilty of when she saw Elain’s crestfallen expression. She’d always been the one, among the three of them, to dream up tales of happy endings and handsome princes. Feyre stared at that large, leatherbound book and she knew that whatever was written inside had as much historical accuracy as the children’s books their nurse used to read them before sleep.

No one was permitted to write a word of objection towards the ruling Night Court. If the author of this history book had spoken the truth, that the Court was a place of unrivaled cruelty and darkness, then he would have been publicly executed. Or worse.

“It also says that Ama—”

“Shhhh!”

Elain immediately sealed her lips shut.

That was another word they were forbidden to say. Out of fear it might summon her, or grant her further power. Names were powerful invocations.

“She,” Elain corrected astutely. “Took the crown from the High Lord and put a curse on him so that he couldn’t reclaim it.”

It was a curious book, afterall, if it said such a thing about the Deceiver. It was remarkable the author had lived long enough to publish it. And Feyre worried about the consequences of being caught in possession of such a thing. Would their house be burned, to destroy the book and every person who’d cast their eyes upon it?

The Queen of the North had done worse for lesser folly.

“What kind of curse?” Feyre asked, knowing if she was wise, she would snatch the book from Elain and burn it herself.

Elain frowned, paging curiously through its contents. “It doesn’t say. Only that the High Lord’s mate is the only one capable of freeing him.”

Typical, Feyre thought. Everything magic seemed to boil down to a mate. By the state of the world, the convention was clearly not effective. Mates were rare. And Feyre supposed if she were to provide a fail-safe to a curse, she would choose something equally improbable.

“I think that history is a very generous word to describe that book.” Feyre nodded to the crackling hearth. “And you should throw it into the fire. Cauldron forbid someone with a grudge against our family discovers it.”

Her sister held the book protectively to her chest. “Grandmother gave it to me.”

Ah. Feyre remembered now. It had been so odd that someone would gift a book to Elain and not Nesta—who had instead been given a key. Their grandmother had refused to reveal what the key opened, which had angered Nesta so fiercely that she had immediately chucked it into the hearth.

It was probably still there, if anyone bothered to shift through the ashes.

And standing proudly on the mantle above the hearth was the gift Feyre had received—a small, wooden figurine. She hadn’t been terribly ecstatic, considering her father carved wood as a pastime. She and her sisters had plenty of figurines to show for it, and the small knight was simply another added to the collection.

Except Feyre did appreciate the paint on him. A navy blue suit with golden buttons. Boots to his knees laced with silver. Vibrant purple eyes.

She would have thought him dashing, if not for the knob of wood in his center that functioned as his mouth. His jaw could distend all the way to his stomach, and Feyre thought it was a frightening sight. Their grandmother had said it was for practical use—that he could be used to crush open nuts. Feyre didn’t have need for such a contraption, so she’d kept him on the mantelpiece.

Sometimes, her eyes felt drawn to it. And like the portraits her father hung in his study, sometimes she swore as she moved through the room, she could feel the wooden toy soldier watching back.

“Hide it,” Feyre said finally, snapping her eyes away from the mantel. Her face felt hot, but it was only from staring into the flames. Elain was watching through wide brown eyes, head craned to the side in that watchful way of hers. Always drinking in the world, never speaking to what it revealed to her. “If anyone finds you with it, they’d be able to charge you with treason.”

Elain slammed the book shut with a glare. “You and Nesta are both so paranoid,” she complained, tucking the book under her arm as she stood up.

Feyre watched her stalk towards the door and hardly flinched when it slammed shut. In a house with three sisters each as stubborn as the next, the sound was hardly unusual—to the unending exasperation of their father. Their governesses had once diagnosed that with their manners, none of them would ever be suited for marriage. That sounded just fine to Feyre.

She was happy with their small estate, tucked safely at the border of the day court. Their father had been able to broker a deal with the High Lord to bring the estate under his protective wards. Elain could call her paranoid all she liked, but Feyre had been in the office the day their father had written that letter to Lord Helion. She’d seen his white knuckle grip on the quill, and she’d snooped through his ledger afterwards.

However exaggerated the Queen of the North’s cruelty, their father was afraid of her. Desperately, truly afraid.

If Feyre was being honest—so was she. The past few nights, she’d dreamt of a horrible, pale woman leering over her. She scratched at Feyre’s bedroom walls and peered through the window as though searching for a way in. And always, there was a shadow in Feyre’s periphery. Watching. Waiting. Listening.

It was why she stood up well past the acceptable hour to finish her painting. And it was why, when she pressed her hand to the doorknob, she hesitated. She’d been having trouble sleeping in her bedroom, but maybe here against the caress of the steady fire and the watchful eye of the toy soldier, the nightmares wouldn’t come.

The settee was soft, if a little stiff. But the hearth was warm, as was the blanket she drew over her legs. It didn’t take long for Feyre to drift off, soaking in their combined heat beneath those watchful violet eyes.

She stirred when the clock struck midnight.

Feyre couldn’t say for certain, for she had been asleep, but she could have sworn it stopped on the eleventh chime. It was the very ridiculous strain of thought that could only be conjured on a half-conscious mind. But when Feyre sat up and peered over to the mahogany longcase, she could see the pendulum behind the glass, still suspended in the air. Like it had yet to fall back down.

Had the mechanism gotten stuck?

That seemed a far better explanation than her initial conclusion—which was that time had frozen still.

Better yet, she must still be dreaming. Feyre rubbed her eyes, like she might dismiss the strangeness of it all. When she dropped them, the clock was still standing proudly in the corner, the pendulum still askew.

And most curiously of all, there was now a man standing before her.

Nesta would surely have made fun of Feyre for the sound that escaped in her startlement, but fortunately Nesta was not there to witness it. Only Feyre, and the strange man standing before the flickering flame.

Light danced up the side of his face, pressing adoringly against his warm brown skin, sparkling in his violet eyes. He tilted his head in such a way that his raven black hair fell into his face, and as his lips unfurled into a smile, something familiar tickled the back of Feyre’s mind.

She didn’t know how he could be familiar. He was easily the most beautiful male she had ever seen—not a remarkable feat, considering she’d seen so few of them. But this one, she was certain, must be the most beautiful. And if she had ever seen him before, she would surely know.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, in a voice that reminded her of molten chocolate.

Warm and rich and something she wanted to put her tongue against.

He laughed, and the sound evoked the same measure of delight. “You’re not afraid of me at all.”

“This is a dream,” Feyre said. “And you are the nicest thing I’ve dreamt of for days.”

“Not everything pleasant on the surface remains so,” he warned, but she could tell by the way his eyes crinkled that he was pleased by her assessment.

“If you ever met my sisters, you would know I understand that better than anyone,” Feyre said, with just enough lightness that she hoped it didn’t sound cruel.

“Perhaps.” By the twitch at the corner of his lips, she thought he was holding back another laugh. Feyre felt the strangest flush of pride that he found her joke amusing. “Even so, lady, I urge you to take caution. A poisoned sweet looks as lovely as any other.”

With a great deal of restraint, Feyre had moved on from staring at his lips, to rove over the long navy coat he wore. It was adorned by golden buttons and embroidery, graced by an epaulet on each shoulder.

“You’re my soldier,” she blurted, swept in awe as reassessed him.

He bowed, far more graceful than she would have expected from a wooden male, and reached for her hand so he could draw it to his lips. “At your service, Lady Archeron.”

“You know my name.”

He stared up at her through thick lashes from where he’d brushed his soft mouth against her knuckles. If he were truly the civilized male he was pretending to be, he would have released her by now. But he continued holding her hand, stroking his thumb across the back of her palm.

“Feyre,” he whispered, to prove it. Her eyes fluttered shut at the sound. She had never cared much for her own name, but if he continued speaking it like that she might reconsider. “I know so much more than that.”

“Prove it.”

He chuckled like he found the challenge endearing. “Allow me to sit with you.”

A glint of metal caught the corner of her eye, and Feyre’s attention latched to the long sword sheathed at his side. “Is that real?”

Metal sang against metal as he unsheathed it in answer. “Hold out your hands.”

Feyre obeyed readily, watching on stilted breath as he rested the flat edge against her palms.

“Have you ever held a sword, Feyre?” he asked.

“Father says it’s unladylike,” was her response. She watched him frown, but she shot him a conspiring grin. “So I’ve been sneaking into the guardroom to train in secret ever since.”

“You keep it, then.” He nodded toward the golden sword, which she was certain must cost a fortune even by her father’s standards. “It’s a useful skill to have.”

“Don’t you need it?”

“Not yet,” was his answer. “You can keep it safe for me.”

Considering this was a dream and she wouldn’t be able to take it with her when she woke up, Feyre felt no reason to argue with him. She glanced up, eager to thank him for his kindness, but in her haste she altered the balance in her palm just enough that the sharp edge of the knife cut into her skin.

She hissed, yanking her hands away so that the metal clattered to the floor.

Then, Feyre was gasping awake at the strike of a clock.

12:01.

The handsome male was gone, as was the sword that had clamored to the ground. She could see the toy soldier on the mantelpiece, standing just as she had left him. But… his sword was missing.