A Court of Hearts and Hunger

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.Copyright © 2023 by Rebecca F. KenneyAll rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.First Edition: March 2023Kenney, Rebecca F.A Court of Hearts and Hunger / by Rebecca F. Kenney—First edition. “The Bones” — Maren Morris“White Rabbit” — Jefferson Airplane”“Wonderland” — Taylor Swift“Playground” — Bea Miller“Pass the Knife” — No/Me“Mad World” — Within Temptation“Twisted” — AViVA“Mad Hatter” — Melanie Martinez“Fallin’ With Me” — The Struts“Licorice” — Elle Lexxa“I’m Not Sorry” — Royal & the Serpent“Unsweet” — DNCE“Tightrope” — Nia Hendricks“Trust” — Boy Epic“Animal” — Chase Holfelder“Change My Ways” — Burn the Ballrom“Walk You Home” — KarminaSPOTIFY PLAYLIST Murder, gore, violence Light bondage, primal play Public activities, sexual threat Reference to past sexual abuse Medical play, size play Cannibalism, drug use 1The Fae child I’m trying to paint won’t sit still.He flits back and forth, butterfly wings moving incessantly. His chubby cheeks dimple, and his round eyes fix on the wide archway leading to Fin’s area of our shared shop.His mother, a slim fawn-colored Fae noblewoman, keeps lassoing him and drawing him back to his chair with tendrils of vine-like magic. He bursts into giggles every time, like it’s a game. Like he’d be pleased with either outcome—reaching the sparkling candies in Fin’s shop, or being swirled through the air and planted in his seat again.Finally I give up trying to paint a traditional portrait of him, and I yield to the true nature of this precious creature of motion and light. Children, Fin tells me, are rare treasures among the Fae. Long-lived as they are, they have no need to reproduce often. In fact, they are only fertile once every few decades.This little one looks about two in human years. I don’t worry about a perfect, still-life image of him—instead, I focus on capturing his vibrancy, his joy. Once I have a good start, I let him and his mother go to the back garden where he can expend his energy while I keep working.His little sunshiny face is imprinted in my mind. I reproduce it as closely as I can, but his body, limbs, and wings are more impression than precision, vaguely the right shape, but melted into swift swirls of rainbow color. More splashes of color dot the canvas around him.When I’m finally satisfied, I rise from my stool, stretching my stiff legs and rolling my neck as I walk to the back door. “You can come in now,” I call.The Fae mother doesn’t have wings, and from what she has told me, neither does her husband. Their son was born in the fourth turn of a Wind Year, after a great storm, while a rainbow glimmered in the sky. Fin once told me that a Fae’s aspect and powers are determined by the timing and setting of their birth. A strange thing indeed. They must transform magically as they’re leaving the womb.The Fae mother holds her little son firmly on her hip as I lead her to the painting. She gazes at the canvas, her lovely features immobile.Over the past few months, ever since Fin and Lir returned from purging and stabilizing the kingdom, I’ve learned that the Seelie of the Capital are a deliberate, elegant, and reserved species. Those from other areas of the kingdom are often wilder, more mischievous, and more unbridled in the expression of their emotions; but the Fae who live in the royal city of Beannú prize perfection, education, and restraint. They’re a haughty, proud, self-important people, much like Lir. But like him, I’ve also found that they have depths. Concealment of emotion doesn’t equal its absence.Unfortunately, when it comes to the Court Fae, it’s tough to tell whether they like something or not. And it’s the agony of the creative, to care deeply about the reaction of those who consume one’s art.The little one cackles and reaches for the painting. But when his mother doesn’t move or speak, I venture, “I can try again, if you don’t like this one.”Her head whips toward me with an unnatural Fae suddenness that makes my heart jerk. “You will not try again.”“Oh—um, very well…”“Your human talent is a marvel.” Her eyes glisten. “When I look at this painting, I can feel him. I hear his laugh. I see him fly.”“Then you like it,” I breathe, relieved. “Oh, good. It will need to dry, and then I will have it framed, wrapped, and delivered to your home.”“Thank you, Clara,” she says. “And you may call me Saiorse.”She gave me her name.Living in this city, at the Court, I’ve overheard the names of various Fae called and exchanged in passing—but for a Fae to actually tell a human their name is still a mark of trust and friendship. I press my hand over my heart and repeat the words Lir taught me and Louisa.“Thank you for the gift of your name, Saiorse.” My own eyes are wet, and she’s blinking hard, though her beautiful features are perfectly calm.“God-stars,” drawls a light male voice from the doorway. “Two beautiful women weeping, on such a fine day? A travesty. You must excuse me, Saiorse, because when my darling cries, I am compelled to kiss away her tears.”Finias pushes himself away from the doorframe and comes to me, taking my face between his long-fingered hands, his rings pressing cool against my flushed cheeks. Despite his casual words, his golden eyes are full of tender concern.“Happy tears, Fin,”