Chapter 16
Atray arrived, brought by a squat little man who scurried off before Tamsin could give him even a single word of thanks. To her relief, the food was nothing like the elaborate, almost-certainly-glamoured dishes served at Maeve’s feast—just a simple bowl of chicken stew, warm slices of bread dripping with salty butter, and a creamy round of goat’s cheese.
“Of course, it could still be magic,” she said to Angus as she fished out pieces of chicken for him. “For all I know, we could be eating dry leaves and slugs right now.”
Angus licked his nose, clearly untroubled by this possibility. Then again, he did consider kitty litter a delicacy.
By the time the door opened again, every bowl had been polished clean, and Angus was asleep belly-up in front of the dwindling fire. Tamsin was half-dozing herself, but she jolted upright as Cuan slipped into the room.
“My apologies,” he murmured, closing the door behind him. “That took a little longer than I’d thought. Though it was also easier than I expected. The guards apparently do not anticipate anybody wanting to break into Lady Maeve’s dungeon.”
Tamsin blinked at him. “Okay, I can’t say I’m surprised to learn that Maeve has a dungeon, but I am now really worried about what you were doing breaking into it. Please tell me it’s not a sex dungeon, at least.”
From the way Cuan’s mouth hung ajar for an instant, sex dungeons were not something they had in fairyland.
Cuan shook his head a little, a wry look crossing his face. “I am not certain I want to understand what you mean by that. In any event, I assure you, I was not infiltrating the cells themselves. I just needed to obtain something from the torture chamber.”
“Not reassuring, Cuan.”
“I possibly could have phrased that better.” He offered her a leather pouch. “Here. I have a gift for you.”
Tamsin eyed the pouch without taking it. Cuan was holding it outstretched between the very top of his forefinger and thumb, as though it contained a live cobra.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing that can harm you,” he said, stressing the last word. He laid the pouch down on the bed next to her and stood back. “On my blood and honor, I swear it. Though I apologize in advance for, ah, how it looks.”
Gingerly, Tamsin pried open the bag. She shook it and out fell…
“A bondage collar?” she said in disbelief. “Are you sure Maeve doesn’t have a sex dungeon?”
“What possible use would a collar be during—” Cuan stopped, massaging his forehead. “I would regret asking, wouldn’t I?”
“Possibly.” Tamsin smirked. “Possibly not.”
She picked up the strip of black leather. It was very definitely a bondage collar, albeit a very upmarket one. The leather was soft and supple, studded with a series of small, gilded spikes. It had a couple of rings for attaching…well, whatever one wanted to attach. There were a lot of possibilities.
The collar dangled open at the moment, but could be clasped by a delicate gold padlock that looked more ornamental than functional. There was no key, nor any hole for one that she could see. The whole thing could have been a tastefully erotic piece of jewelry.
She waved it at Cuan, about to ask him what, and more importantly, why—and he flinched as though she’d snapped a whip at his face. He’d retreated to the far side of the room, back pressed against the wall.
“Uh.” Tamsin lowered her arm. “Why are you looking at this thing as though you expect it to lunge for your throat?”
Cuan’s jaw clenched. “Turn it over.”
Perplexed, Tamsin did so. On the reverse side, the collar was plain, apart from a line of dull gray metal rivets. If someone was wearing the collar, the rivets would be pressed against their skin…but they weren’t sharp. It was hardly a torture device…
At least, if you were human.
“Iron,” she breathed, getting it at last. “Cuan, this is cold iron, isn’t it?”
“So humans do still remember that piece of lore.” Cuan peeled himself off the wall, stepping closer. “Yes. Steel and other alloys do not trouble us, but no fae can tolerate the touch of iron. Lady Maeve occasionally locks this around the necks of those who…greatly displease her.”
Tamsin looked up into Cuan’s grim face. “Has she ever done it to you?”
“No,” Cuan’s voice dropped, roughening. “But I have seen it done. Iron does not physically harm us, but it is…not pleasant.”
The collar suddenly looked a lot less pretty. Tamsin dropped it with a shudder, rubbing her fingers against the bed furs as though she’d been touching something greasy.