Three weeks later, Claire tugged on her pendant as she walked out of the library. Graduate school was harder than undergraduate by an order of magnitude, and she knew she needed to focus on this paper. These professors would not take the fluff that had carried her so easily through her first four years.
She relished the challenge, and realized that for years she had been bored. Busy, but bored. The busyness had prevented her from realizing how very bored she was, how unchallenged she was, and how desperately she wished to do something that mattered.
Once I wished to be the hero. She still wished it, if she were honest with herself. This degree wouldn’t exactly make her a hero, but she thought it might give her some tools to work with. Organizations needed people with analytical skills. Surely she’d be able to do something heroic. Maybe she’d work at a nonprofit doing… something. Helping children in poverty stay in school, or get medical care, or something equally altruistic.
It did seem rather vague, when she thought about it. But isn’t that why we’re all in grad school? Because we don’t know what to do yet with our lives, and we’re stalling. Or maybe that’s just me.
She walked home through the cool twilight, letting her mind wander. I wish I could do something that really mattered.
Entering her apartment, she tossed her keys on the counter and wearily slung her backpack to the floor.
The thought of making an “adult meal” seemed overwhelming. PB&J, then. At least it’s better than cereal. She poured herself a large glass of milk and drained it. She pulled pieces of bread from the bag, then spread one thickly with peanut butter. Knife still in hand, she opened the jar of strawberry jam and slapped a generous portion of pink sugary sweetness over the other bread.
A flicker in the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she whirled to face the mirror in the hallway.
She gasped.
Feighlí stared out at her, dark eyebrows drawn down in worry. “There you are,” he growled. “We need you.”
“What?” Claire couldn’t seem to find her voice. “I thought you were…”
“Dead?” Feighlí gave a mirthless chuckle. “Not quite. I got over it.” A flash in his dark eyes made guilt twist inside her.
“I… yes. Or maybe you were a dream.” Claire couldn’t take her eyes off him. His face was just as she remembered it, sharp and suspicious, eyes gleaming with irritation.
“Don’t you think if you were dreaming, you’d dream someone prettier than me?” He smiled nastily at her.
She made a soft, offended noise, and he waved a hand dismissively.
“You’re human. You see what humans see. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we need you now. His Majesty is gone.”
Claire blinked. “His Majesty?”
“We’re at war. We need him. You are the only one who can find him. Ergo, we need you.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “It ain’t fair and it ain’t what anyone wants. I argued against you being brought into it. But the wish holds, and there you have it.” He extended his hand toward her.
“I… I…” Her heart thudded irregularly in her chest. “This isn’t real, is it? I’m dreaming now.”
Feighlí’s eyes bored into her. “Will you come?”
Her mouth felt dry. “Shouldn’t I pack a bag or something?” I’m stalling. Surely this can’t be real.
Feighlí’s expression grew bleak. “It took seven months to reach you through this portal. If I lose sight of you, it could take another seven to reach you again.” He stared at her, neither pleading nor relenting. “Will you not help us?”
Claire swallowed. “All right,” she whispered. “What do I do?”
He indicated his outstretched hand, and Claire, feeling as though she were dreaming, put her hand in his.
She stepped through the mirror.
She stumbled, and Feighlí’s strong hand caught her. “You look pale. I hadn’t noticed that through the magic.” He studied her, his sharp eyes taking in her shaved head and the long scar without additional comment.
Her mouth felt even drier than before. “Are you going to go with me?”
Feighlí frowned faintly. “I don’t think so.”
Claire glanced over her shoulder to see a large, ornate mirror standing against one wall. It reflected only the room in which she stood. The floor was covered in a deep blue rug, and a massive fireplace covered most of one wall. A row of windows lit the room with warm golden light. A third wall was covered in book cases filled with thick, leather-bound volumes. The fourth wall was lined with layers of maps pinned atop each other; they appeared to have been made by an exquisitely skilled cartographer, colored in delicate watercolor washes and labeled in a precise, flowing hand. “Where are we?”
“His Majesty’s study.”
The space looked so intellectual, so cultured. Claire’s eyes roamed over the room, taking in the worn, elegant desk and the equally worn velvet-cushioned chair behind it. The top was empty but for a quill pen beside an inkwell.
“Does he really write with that?” she wondered.
“When he’s here.” Feighlí nodded her toward a door she had not noticed. “Come. The others will be glad to learn my efforts have at last succeeded. Perhaps there is hope after all.”
The hallway was tiled in white marble; Feighlí’s small boots clicked authoritatively as he led her into a larger room a short distance away. At his entrance, the dull roar of conversation abruptly died, and Claire’s gasp of surprise sounded deafening in the resulting silence.
Half a dozen Fae stood just to her left. They were tall and fair, their angular faces reminding Claire uncomfortably of the nightmare king. To her other side was a pair of smaller creatures that appeared to be made of dense smoke twisting sinuously in place. At her awed glance, one of the clouds formed a mouth and hissed at her. Other creatures of various types she could not name spread out before her, some appearing to have just stopped conversing with their neighbors. A flock of smaller fairies hovered in the air above, their wings buzzing almost inaudibly in the echoing silence.
“Peoples of the Seelie court, our long search is at an end. Behold, I have brought Claire Delaney, who will rescue His Majesty the king.”
The room erupted into agitated murmurs.
Feighlí glowered. “I thought they would be more appreciative.” His grumble was nearly lost in the heated arguments that filled the air.
One of the Fae stepped forward, and the murmuring abated a little. He addressed Feighlí with barely a glance at Claire. “You said you could bring a hero to find and rescue His Majesty. This is nothing but a thin, weak, wounded child.” His voice rang with scorn. “Your judgment has always been suspect, but even I did not expect this.”
Feighlí glared up at him. “She will do it.”
The crowd had begun growing louder, arguments beginning in earnest.
“She is doomed!” a voice cried. “This is ridiculous, Lord Faolan! How can you send a pathetic child into the dark lands? She will die, and she will cost us everything.”
Who is Lord Faolan? Claire wondered.
Feighlí said more loudly, “I am not mistaken in this. She is the hero and she will do it.”
“I object!” another voice rang out. “It is wrong to send a defenseless child into the very heart of the dark lands. No human and no child should bear such a burden!”
“Is this not the human who freed Fintan?” The thin voice rang out from somewhere in the back. “I think it is. Perhaps there is a little hope.”
“No! That was different! Fintan was…” The words were lost in the growing clamor.
Someone close by grumbled, “Even if it is the same one, I see no reason to trust her.”
“I don’t see a hero.”
Claire closed her eyes and sighed. Everything had a sense of unreality to it. Her stomach growled, and she thought longingly of the peanut butter sandwich she’d left sitting on the counter. Then, with some surprise, she realized the butter knife was still in her hand. It still had quite a bit of jelly and a thin layer of peanut butter smeared over the metal. With a mental shrug, she raised the knife to her mouth and licked the peanut butter and jelly from the blade.
Silence fell over the room just as Feighlí roared, “SHE IS CHOSEN!”
His words echoed as everyone stared at Claire.
“What are you doing?” one of the Fae asked in a strange voice.
Heat rose in her cheeks. “Sorry. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten dinner yet.”
The Fae’s eyes flicked over her once before going back to the knife.
“By whom was she chosen?” another voice asked.
“By His Majesty.” Feighlí did not blink.
That can’t be possible. Are we even talking about the nightmare king, or is there another one? Surely I’ve gotten confused somehow. They can’t be talking about him, can they?
“Then so it shall be.” The Fae bowed formally to Feighlí. “I was not aware that His Majesty had chosen her. I withdraw my objection. I see there is more to her than there first appeared.”
“So it shall be.”