(Continued)

I paused and sniffed the air. Under the strong scent of blood that came from my snack was a softer, sweeter smell. I licked my lips: Honey. A brief search of front doors and windowsills rewarded me with a large bowl filled with milk and honey. None of the fae, not even the most patient of craftsmen or musicians, were patient enough to raise cattle or goats, and beekeeping was too painful an experience to be worthwhile. I tucked the partridge under my arm, lifted the bowl and bent my head to drink--

And paused.

I dipped my head down close enough that my nose almost touched the milk and studied it with eyes given strength by the power of the Wild Hunt, and didn’t bother fighting back the growl that rose up in my throat when the smell of blood overpowered the more savoury scents of milk and honey. Oh, yes, I dearly enjoyed the taste of blood, but even the fierce impatience that the Wild Hunt brought out in me was enough to silence the caution that had been instilled in me from centuries of stories of humans binding unwary fae. All it took was an accepted blood offering, and the faerie didn’t even have to be aware of the choice she was making.

“What do you want?” I demanded.

No answer. I placed my partridge on the ground, put the bowl of honey and milk and blood next to it and shoved my fingers into the cracks in the shutters, reaching for the glitter of eyes I’d seen seconds before. I’d nearly bent the wood enough that I could fit my entire hand in through the hole when a timid voice said, “You aren’t welcome in here. Stay out.”

I snarled, but retreated. I wouldn’t have been able to enter uninvited in any case. “What’s in the bowl?” I asked instead.

“Milk. Honey.” It was a high voice, probably a child’s. “Chicken’s blood. Father told me that the fae like milk and honey, and I thought you might like the blood too.”

I said nothing.

“There’s a bit of mine, too,” the child finally admitted.

I frowned. “I can’t drink it, then. Get me a new bowl.”

“I’m not allowed to open the door at night!”

“Then promise me you won’t bind me.”

A silence, then, “Fine. May the Wild Hunt take me if I lie.”

I grinned sharply, for the words sounded ridiculous coming from a child, and picked the bowl up once more, gulping down the rich mixture. The milk had cream in it too, judging from the heavy flavour, and the sweetness of the honey balanced the tang of blood. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve once I was done, and then, in a sudden burst of inspiration, picked up the partridge. “Want some?”

“Not allowed to eat faerie food. Father told me--”

“Your loss. I quite like partridge.” I cut off another piece, slightly disappointed by how fast the blood had cooled, and chewed it thoughtfully. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Not allowed to do things for the fae.”

I sighed, popped another piece of meat into my mouth. Winced, spat it out once more. Gristle. “How old are you?”

“Ten. What about you?”

“I can’t remember.”

Laughter. “Can I show you something?”

“Are you going to open the window?”

“No. I’m--”

“Not allowed to open the window for faeries. I know. It was worth a try. Fine, what is it?”

There was the sound of footsteps and then a long silence, in which I finished the better part of the partridge. Just as I was wondering if it would be worth starting on the liver, the footsteps approached the window once more, and I heard the child clamber up onto something, perhaps a table.

“I play it whenever father comes home,” the child announced proudly. “But it’s really old.” A quiet tune started up, a song that had been written by one of the more patient fae, and I stared through the cracks in the shutter at the human behind them. The child--a boy?--was as clearly defined as Tam had been, and then I knew.

“You played the flute yesterday,” I said when the maybe-a-boy had finished. “Just after sundown, when your father came back.”

“You heard that?” he asked, sounding embarrassed. “Why were you here?”

I shrugged, remembered that he couldn’t see me all that well, and told him, “I liked your father’s violin. Play me something else?”

He complied, and I enjoyed the partridge’s heart, all but smothered with blood and dense enough that I had to wrench my head back to tear off bites, as I considered my options. Tam wouldn’t want the flute, then. I had no reason to wait here to convince the child to awaken his father. But I also didn’t want to go back to the court with the flute, for that would suggest that I had messed up. So, when Tam’s son finished his second song, I said, “I liked the milk.” I’d enjoyed the heart, too.

“I can’t give you more. I’m not allowed--”

“To open the door for faeries. I know. But you might decide I owe you something, so I’m going to leave you a present.” I removed the flute from my belt and placed it in the bowl on the ground. “And you can always leave me more milk, if you like. Just without your blood.”

“Thank you,” Tam’s son murmured. I didn’t reply. The impatience of the Wild Hunt, dulled by the honeyed milk, blood and music, surged through my veins once more, and I took off into the night. There would be other chances to catch my fiddler.

***

Two weeks later, I was more than ready to scream my frustration to anyone listening. Tam refused to go to the border of the forest, always walking away from where I might have been able to snatch him up and take him back to the court. I’d even found the violin, although now, knowing what he had told his child about doing anything with faeries, I wondered if he’d take it. Still, his son hadn’t said that he wasn’t allowed to take presents from us, so perhaps I still stood a chance.