Summerkin by Sarah Prineas

Author:Sarah Prineas
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-03-14T22:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

A note arrived in Fer’s rooms. The contestants would have the rest of the afternoon to recover, Lord Artos informed her, and in the evening, they would meet in the nathewyr for the final part of the competition. There, they would each demonstrate their mastery of the glamorie.

Something else was written at the bottom of the note from the bear-man, an extra note for her, written in different handwriting.

Remember, Gwynnefar, the note said. The contest is a test.

“Oh, I bet I know who wrote that,” Fer muttered to herself. It sounded like one of the High Ones’ completely confusing statements. Winning was losing, contests were tests. What were they up to, exactly?

Fer shook her head, setting aside her confusion. She had other things to worry about now.

The next part of the contest was going to be a problem.

Fer didn’t like the glamorie. Having it on made her feel cold and calculating. It made her feel not very much like her own self. It was hard to believe that her own mother had worn it, but she must have—she’d been a Lady, after all. So Fer would wear it too, just for today.

After having a rest in her room, she washed her face, pulled off her jeans, T-shirt, and patch-jacket, and put on the clothes she’d found in the chest back in her little house in the Lady Tree. Her mother’s clothes—the slithery-smooth silk shirt, the trousers and boots, the vest embroidered with oak leaves. Then she laid out her mother’s soft, knee-length green coat on the bed next to her patch-jacket. Which one should she wear? The fine coat matched the glamorie, but Grand-Jane had stitched protective spells and herbs into the jacket. She gnawed on her thumbnail, considering.

Then she nodded. Just for this evening, she would be a Lady, through and through. She picked up her mother’s coat and put it on over the vest. Then Twig combed her hair and braided it.

“Now this,” Twig said, setting on Fer’s head the crown of undying oak leaves. “And this.” She handed Fer the wooden box with the glamorie in it.

Taking a deep breath, Fer reached inside and pulled out the shimmering web of the glamorie. A flick of the wrist and she tossed it over herself, shivering as it clung to her hair, her face, her arms. As it set its chilly hooks into her skin, Fer shuddered, and then, as the glamorie took effect, she felt the nervousness about the next part of the competition fall away.

“There,” breathed Twig, crouching and gazing up at Fer. “You’re a Lady. Head to toe, you are.”

Yes. She was. Fer felt the high collar of the shirt brush her chin, so she gave a proud tilt to her head and went out to the main room.

Rook, his usual barefoot, grubby self, was still asleep on the pillows. Her bee rested on his elbow.

“Wake up the puck,” she found herself saying to Fray.

Wide-eyed, Fray bowed. “Yes, Lady Gwynnefar,” she whispered.

Fer shook her head. Her

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