Out of Time (The Ice King Chronicles

Book 3) Shannon West

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The Ice King Chronicles:
Out of Time

SHANNON WEST
 Out of Time
Copyright © 2022 Shannon West
Published by Painted Hearts Publishing

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Out of Time
Copyright © 2021 Shannon West

Publication Date September 2022

Author: Shannon West
Editor: Mildred Jordan
All cover art and logo copyright © 2022 by Painted Hearts Publishing

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part,
without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or
dead is strictly coincidental.
 Author’s Note

Most fairy tales move in an unreal world without definite locality or definite time or even
definite creatures. They're often filled with marvels not found in the real world. Fairy tales, by
their nature, are not only untrue but could not possibly be true. And this is all part of their magic
and their haunting beauty.
The setting of the previous stories in the trilogy took place in an unreal, fictional country,
very vaguely based on the forests of the now vanished and defunct countries near East Prussia.
The time in the mortal realm was intentionally left hazy but meant to suggest sometime circa the
turn of the twentieth century, although Fairy tales are mostly timeless.
In this story, however, the third of the Ice King Chronicles, I’ve brought Glorfindel, the
handsome, treacherous, magical Fairy prince, to a real place and a real time—Salem,
Massachusetts in the current day, because life wasn’t working very well for him in the Fae realm.
Glorfindel needed redemption, and he couldn’t find it where he was and considering what he’d
become. After his behavior in The Sword of Light, he needed rehabilitation by someone who is not
only strong, but who has a fierce, no-nonsense approach to life. So, in this book, he meets the
powerful ally he so desperately needs.
In the never-never land of the Quendi Forest and the village near the Ice Poles—and
sometimes even in our present world, heroes exist, winning wars and gaining kingdoms. A peasant
might marry a prince, a handsome Elven Lord or maybe even a king. Or a Fairy who has lost his
way might cross both distance and time to find redemption and his one and only true love.
 Prologue

Glorfindel

The reason I had to leave my father’s kingdom only a week after I returned to it was simple
—I was no longer trusted. Not by anyone.
Betray one or two Elven kings, deal out a few treacherous spells, turn a couple of people
into frogs, and this was apparently the result. It was all so unfair. I had to admit the stories about
my character weren’t totally undeserved, but they were at least highly exaggerated.
It seemed as if my reputation had definitely preceded me. I’ve been told time and again that
I’m treacherous and tricky, false-hearted and faithless, and perhaps there’s some small measure
of truth in that. It’s not all my fault, but after seeing the looks of fear and mistrust on one too
many insipid face and after my own nephew flinched when I bent over to greet him with an
affectionate—all right, semi-affectionate—pat on the head, I decided I should never have tried
to come back to my father’s palace.
At least part of the blame lies with a double-crossing, treacherous little pixie, who
wouldn’t take no for an answer, and who blamed me for her so-called “broken heart.” She laid a
curse on me—one that’s been in place for many, many years—since long before I went to the
Elven realm. Surely at least some of the criticism from my legion of detractors has to fall on her
shoulders, but it seemed as if no one remembered her role in all of this.
The curse she laid on me years ago was wicked and so what if I used my magic to take a
small measure of revenge on her? Personally, I think the misshapen humpback I gave her only
improved her looks—made her much more interesting, and surely that was an uphill climb in and
of itself.
Besides, what was I to do? She hadn’t been willing to lift the curse she laid on me first, so I
had likewise refused. And since neither of us harbored any trust whatsoever in the other, we
remained at a bitter impasse.
I believe it was strictly because of the curse that I found myself, one bitterly cold winter’s
day, kicked out of yet another lover’s bed onto my ass…quite literally. The lover in question was the
Dark Elf ruler, King Stefan, and I had been thrown out of the Dokkalfar’s capitol city in the snow
with only the furs on my back and a lowly donkey.
King Stefan had unfortunately found me in bed with his handsome captain of the guards and
caused an awful scene. Elves, I had learned, could be quite touchy. Which was how I had found
myself traveling on what must surely have been the coldest day of the year, back home to my
own realm and father’s castle, seeking shelter. I was sure my father would take me in—well,
mostly sure, though he claimed to be getting a bit tired of my disastrous romantic escapades.
It was one reason I stayed away from home so long, though I often told people, including the
Elven kings, that it was because I was unhappy there. It was a shameless bid for sympathy, when
the truth was, I hated to see the look of disappointment in my father’s eyes when yet another of
the betrothals he made for me fell so miserably apart, a direct cause of the curse.
The donkey Stefan sat me on was supposed to be a way to humiliate me. The Elves, like
King Tarrak’s Quendi tribe, rode magnificent white stags and many of the other Fae tribes rode
the big, heavy draught horses that originally came from Scotland, near the River Clyde. To seat
me on the back of a lowly ass was intended to be a deliberate insult, but the donkey was a beast
I was only too happy to have. The little animal may not have been glamorous, but he was a
hardy, sure-footed, little thing in the damnable ice and snow that blanketed the Elven world, and
I was happy not to be on foot.
I was told to never darken the door of the Elven king again—either one of them—on pain of
death, and I had no intention of doing so. I don’t really like Elves. Never did—I might have been
half Elven on my mother’s side, but I rarely, if ever, laid claim to that heritage.
When I finally arrived back at my father’s castle, however, everyone, from the guard at the
gate to the scullery maid was surprised to see me back home—and not in a good way.
“What do you mean the Elven king kicked you out? So soon?” My father, King Lorimach of
the Woodland Fairies said when he first caught sight of me. But he wasn’t done with me yet. He
put two fingers up to pinch the skin between his eyes, and his face grew increasingly red, beads
of sweat popped out on his brow. I began to fear a bit for his heart.
“No, don’t even tell me about it!” he cried, a bit dramatically, I thought. “It will only give
me indigestion again. Just go up to your room and think about what you’ve done. Go on,” he
said, waggling his fingers at me. “Take yourself away. I keep the room in readiness for you,
since you’re here with such alarming regularity. You were actually gone longer this time than
usual. I suppose I should be grateful for that much at least. But I need to think about what to do
with you, Glorfindel!”
As he usually called me “Glori,” I knew I was in serious disfavor.
Don’t look at me, I didn’t name myself, and if I had, I would have chosen something much
better. My mother named me, but then she was a member of the Quendi tribe of Elves, and there
was little accounting for their tastes. My true name was known only to me, my mother who’d
given it to me, and possibly my father, though he’d no doubt forgotten it by now. A fairy’s true
name, one of their middle names, was kept secret from everyone else, so that no one could ever
use it to control them. If someone had my name, I’d be forced to do their bidding, no matter what
it was.
For myself, I would have preferred to be called by some affectionate nickname and not just
a shorter version of my name. Though I had to admit, when my father failed to do even that much,
it was hurtful.
My father had, for reasons known only to him, decided to take an Elven wife many years
ago, who subsequently bore him a son. She was, like all the Quendi’s, extraordinarily beautiful,
yet as cold as the heart of an Unseelie queen. After she came home with him, my poor father
must have felt as if he’d lassoed a whirlwind. Exciting to look at, but once you have it in your
home, what in the world are you going to do with it?
My parents had soon discovered they were totally unsuited, and it had probably been my
mother’s unearthly beauty alone that made my father offer for her in the first place. I doubt my
mother ever looked back when she left him, either at her husband or the result of that brief, ill-
advised union—me. She had left him shortly after I was born and took herself off to parts
unknown.
To be fair, my father was remarkably dull for a fairy, and not possessed of any great wit.
Even as a young man he liked to spend quiet nights dozing by the fire, and it was undoubtedly his
own beautiful face and starless dark eyes that induced my mother to accept his suit in the first
place. But then all fairies are beautiful. It goes with the territory.
With three older brothers ahead of me in line for the throne, I’d never have a chance at
being king. My father used me and my younger brothers instead as political pawns, betrothing us
to first one royal after another as soon as we came of age.
In my case, it hadn’t been long after the curse, so naturally, things didn’t go well. When
these betrothals kept on producing disastrous results, you’d think he’d eventually have seen the
error of his ways. He never had. He continued making alliances with one strong, powerful king’s
daughter after another. All of them failed miserably, because he had forgotten to account not only
for the pixie’s curse, but for one other important thing—right out of the womb I had always
preferred males.
When I told my father my preference, he was taken aback, but after his marriage to my
mother, he had learned resilience. He decided to switch to the kings themselves.
 Alas, the pixie’s curse was stronger and even more powerful than even my father’s dogged
persistence. I managed, within a remarkably short period of time, if I do say so myself, to
sabotage, ruin, and wreck every single relationship with every man the king ever betrothed me
to.
And now this latest debacle—I had dreaded to hear what my father would have to say when
I showed up at his door yet again, and he hadn’t disappointed me. He hurled one final sally at
me, as I left the throne room.
“You’re getting older, you know, Glori. The bloom will soon be off the rose!”
Heartily offended, but not deigning to show it, I put my nose in the air and took myself
upstairs to my bedchamber. Bloom off the rose, indeed. I had long been celebrated as one of the
greatest beauties in all the Fairy Kingdoms, a not insubstantial feat in a realm where beauty was
simply a matter of course for all its inhabitants. I kept my mouth shut, though, and didn’t yell
back at him.
I didn’t even have the heart to tell him that when this latest disaster with the Dark Elf king
struck, I’d been on my second Elven king, having been already spurned by the first one he’d sent
me to, King Tarrak, also known as the Ice King.
 Chapter One

Glorfindel

After I had fucked things up with King Tarrak rather royally—if you’ll excuse the pun—I’d had
no choice, really, but to transfer my affections to the Dark Elf King Stefan or else go home in disgrace
again. Since there was no love lost between the two Elven tribes, I had to buy my way into Stefan’s
affections by delivering a purveyor of the potentially demonic or harmful magic called Infernal
Magic. Since this man also just so happened to be the brother of King Tarrak’s witch Pavel, who’d
killed their former king by making him dance off a cliff, King Stefan was only too happy to receive
him. His name was Sergey, and Stefan had tried his best to put him in his dungeons.
Unfortunately, Sergey fought his way out of the trap I set for him, burning the city gates as he left,
and King Tarrak had come after him to rescue him, later defeating King Stefan in a showdown
between them. He had used the fabled Sword of Light, and Tarrak had even eventually made Sergey,
the boy who did Infernal Magic, his consort, despite the fact that I had been the one originally
betrothed to him.
Anyway, I transferred my affections to the handsome King Stefan, which had worked out
beautifully until Stefan caught me in flagrante delicto, to use the Latin phrase—or in other words,
naked on a bed in an anteroom just off his throne room—with his equally underdressed captain of the
guard. I have to say Stefan took unusually strong exception to it. Hence my ignominious dismissal and
retreat from the king’s Dokkalfar domain.
I was delighted to learn from my servants that my clothing had been packed up and sent home by
King Tarrak, as I literally had nothing to wear other than the clothes I’d arrived in. I was shocked that
Tarrak had bothered, but thought it must be the work of Pavel, his wizard, and my only friend during
my time in the Ice Kingdom. My servants had hung them carefully in my wardrobe cabinet, so I
immediately called for a bath to be drawn for me so I could burn the rags I had on. In the rush to leave
King Stefan’s palace, Stefan had at least tossed me some old clothing so I wouldn’t freeze, as my own
things had been lost in the kerfuffle that had occurred after the captain and I had been discovered.
Later, as I was lying in the warm, perfumed bathwater, I wondered why I’d ever left my home in
the first place. I knew I could have talked my father into indefinitely postponing my betrothal to the
Elf King if I’d really tried. It wasn’t as if my feelings were involved—or ever had been, for that
matter.
It seemed to me that the word love got thrown around more and more, but people told the truth
about it less and less. I was firmly convinced that “true love” just didn’t exist. Lust, yes, and a
craving for romance, but true love? Not a chance. That was simply a story told to gullible idiots, and I
certainly had never experienced it or even seen it in action.
Perhaps Pavel’s love for his handsome Elven Lord Juul came close, but it remained to be seen
how long it would last. If Pavel were wise, he’d make love, but never truly believe in it. Listen to the
words Juul spoke, but never allow his heart to believe them, and always, always be the first one to
leave, before he himself was left.
The door to my room flew open suddenly and my elder brother Radiense stood in the entryway,
looking in at me.
“Ah,” he said, “So the rumor is true; you’re back home again. What took you so long this time?”
“Radiense, don’t tease. I’ve only just arrived after a long and tedious journey in truly awful
weather. Just look at these chilblains on my fingers. Father was rude to me and not at all welcoming,
and now here you are to jeer at me and abuse my feelings even further.”
He laughed and came farther into the room to lounge in a chair near the tub. “Ah, Glori, if I truly
thought you had feelings, I might regret my words.”
“Et tu, Radiense? I thought you might be the one person who could best understand how hard it’s
been for me.”
Radiense was only three years older than I was, and like me, had little to no chance of ever
ascending the throne. He’d been resistant to my father’s attempts to marry him off too, and I had a
suspicion that, like me, he preferred males, but he had yet to admit it.
“It’s only been hard for you, because you don’t really try.”
I sat up and glared at him. “I might remind you I’m under a curse.”
“I know all that, but I also know you, and you’re stronger and cleverer than anything like that. If
you set your mind to it, you could beat the thing.”
I lazily ran the sponge over my arm and thought about what he said. Could I defeat the little
strumpet’s ill-wish? Perhaps, though I hadn’t been able to figure out a way yet to do it. The curse was
perverse and stupid, just like the one who laid it on me, but I thought it must be remarkably strong.
It usually took one of two forms—either the object of my intended affections had little interest in
me, as was the case with King Tarrak, or if they did care, I quickly found a way to fuck it up, like I
had with King Stefan. Trouble seemed to follow me around, in fact, like a lingering odor.
King Tarrak, for instance, was kind enough, in his way, but all of his interest lay with another,
and I’d known it almost from the moment I arrived. No matter how hard I tried, he rarely gave me a
second look. On the other hand, King Stefan, of the Dokkalfar, had been attentive from the first, and
I’d liked him too.
I hadn’t been in love, though. Not really.
Since that wicked curse, I hadn’t felt any such emotions, though I’d respected Stefan and thought
him handsome. We could have been happy, I think, if I could have stayed away from his Captain of the
Guard, but there was some perverse part of me that deliberately sabotaged every relationship I tried
to have.
I thought it was all because of the pixie named Drusilla. I had first seen the little hussy at a party
given by my brother, Charmello, not long before I left for the Quendi forest and my betrothal to King
Tarrak. The creature had been naked as the day she was born, a custom of the pixies.
It had been in a glen in the middle of the Fairy woodland during Midsummer celebrations, and
we’d all been exceedingly drunk on dandelion wine. I had apparently over imbibed to the point that I
had allowed myself to be drawn into some rather dirty dancing around the fire with a woman—my
friends had assured me that much was true at least. But then according to her claim, I had taken her
aside to have a sexual encounter of some sort with her and asked her to become my bride. How that
so-called sexual act was even possible considering how much wine I’d had, and my decided
preference for men, and how all that had then translated into an offer of marriage, I was unable to
work out. No one could corroborate her story. But they couldn’t definitively say it never happened
either.
The creature had the nerve to shake her fist at me the next morning when I left her behind and
refused to take her home with me, and she vowed revenge for the promises I had supposedly made to
her. I’d been far too drunk that night and far too hungover the next morning to form complete
sentences, but I had serious doubts. Personally, I thought she was a wishful thinker. Not to mention, a
gold-digger and a liar.
It was the next week after that drunken celebration that Drusilla appeared in my father’s throne
room. It had been Midweek, the day King Lorimach had set aside a century or more ago to allow the
common Woodland Fairy-folk to come to him with their problems and concerns. He always insisted
his sons attend him, and so on that day, all but one of us was there. My eldest brother, Prince
Fabulosa, was attending the wedding of one of his wife’s sisters in the Gwragedd Annwn Kingdom.
The Gwragedd Annwn was ruled by Queen Angharad whose subjects were all lovely female fairies
who had a great affinity for lakes and rivers. The wedding was being held on the banks of the River
Dee in Wales, so Fabuloso would be gone for a few weeks.
The rest of us were all in attendance that day, however—me and my brothers Prince Radiense
and Prince Charmello. Radiense was lounging in his chair, inspecting his nails as if he were
examining the map of lost Atlantis; Charmello was soundly asleep with his mouth slightly open, and I
was idly flirting with one of my father’s handsome courtiers. It was a typical Midweek, in other
words, until a sudden commotion disturbed the dozy peace of the great hall. I glanced up to see a
familiar face show itself at the back of the hall. It was the pixie from Midwinter—Drusilla. Her pretty
features were twisted in fury and her amethyst-colored hair flew madly about her bare shoulders.
Pixies are not at all the tiny creatures folklore and legend would have them be. They’re only
slightly smaller than members of the other Fairy tribes and are most notable for their small butterfly-
like wings and their masses of hair in all colors of the rainbow. This one claimed to have just enough
magic to make herself really annoying. Personally, I was skeptical.
Pixies were notorious for their refusal to wear clothes, though on that day, Drusilla wore a few
green vines strategically draped across her nether regions—no doubt in honor of the occasion of her
appearance at court.
She came in glaring daggers at me, marching up to my father’s throne and dropping a sketchy
curtsy in front of him. “Your Majesty, I have a grievance against one of your sons, and I demand to be
heard.”
My father was an easy-going, well-liked monarch, but it’s never wise to make “demands” of any
king. The only indication of his irritation was one slightly raised eyebrow. He sat back in his throne,
steepled his fingers and regarded the creature.
“Oh?” he replied, that one imperious syllable dripping ice, though she was far too oblivious to
notice.
“Yes, sire, and I also demand that you hear my grievance.”
Still frosty, he glanced over at the three of us. “I can hardly not hear it madam, with you
screeching at the top of your lungs. Pray tell me, to which of my sons are you referring?”
She pointed one long finger at me. “Glorfindel!” she dramatically intoned.
My father turned toward me. “Glori, can you shed any light on this?”
I stood up and took a few steps closer to her. “Your Majesty, I must admit I’m at a loss. I have
met this person once before...but I confess I have no idea what grievance she could possibly have as
far as I’m concerned.”
That went over about as well as you might think, and the creature flew at me, her claws extended.
I raised my hand, calling out, “Lár! Pusta!” and Drusilla froze in mid-air, still hissing like a cat.
It was old Elven magic, taught to me by my nurse as a child, and it had stood me in good stead
over the years. The ability to freeze one’s enemies in place had come in handy on many occasions. It
had been taught to me by the lady who had accompanied my mother to my father’s castle when she
first came as a bride. She had then stayed behind when my mother left in order to care for me. Her
name was Raquela, and she was the closest thing I’d ever had to a mother. She left to go back home
years ago, and I had cried myself to sleep every night for weeks thereafter.
My father sighed and said, “Release her, Glorfindel. Let us hear what she has to say.” He then
signaled to the guards who had come forward to stand beside her and make sure she didn’t try
anything else.
I waved my hand and she fell to the floor on her plump little posterior. She leaped back to her
feet, swept her mass of purple hair out of her face and fixed me with a malevolent glare. “You left me
without a word after making me a promise of marriage! Then you refused to see me or answer my
letters,” she shrieked. She turned to my father with a hand stretched out in appeal. “We had an
understanding, Sire. A proposal of marriage is binding in the Woodland world.”
“We had no understanding, Father, as there was no proposal. Surely you’re not going to listen to
this.”
“I hardly see how I can avoid it, Glori, with both of you shouting at me so. Did you, or did you
not make promises to the pixie?”
“My name is Drusilla!”
“Yes, yes. Glori, did you promise marriage to uh, Drusilla?”
“I most certainly did not.”
My father turned back to the pixie with a look of appeal. “As you see, His Highness denies your
claim. I really don’t see what more I can do about it.”
She squealed with outrage, and the guards standing beside her seized her arms. “If he plays me
false, I’ll be forced to handle this myself!”
My father sighed, leaned back in his throne and waved his hand. “You must do as you see fit.”
She shook off the guards and whirled around to face me. I heard an ominous sound of distant
thunder overhead as she extended her arm toward me again. Was it coincidence or did the creature
really have magic?
“Prince Glorfindel, because you’ve never loved, I curse you never to find love in this world! Not
ever! You will sabotage and destroy every serious relationship you enter here. Thus, you will live a
long, miserable life alone for all eternity! By moon and sun, my will be done!”
My father stirred in his seat, looking agitated. “See here, that seems a bit extreme. For all
eternity? Upon my oath, I demand that you alter this curse to something a bit more reasonable. You
haven’t even given him a loophole.” He turned to one of his courtiers, hovering close by. “There’s
always a loophole.”
“Oh, very well,” she said with a frown. “If you can find someone to fall in love with you, with no
help from your wealth or your status or your magic, and if you can make that unfortunate being fall in
true love with you despite your faults and betrayals, then the curse will be lifted. So mote it be!”
Drusilla cried dramatically. She snapped her fingers in my face and turned as if to leave.
“Oh Drusilla” I called out. “Just a moment, please.” When she turned, I held up my hand, facing
toward her and gave her a wicked smile. “Be careful who it is you curse, love. Make sure it’s not
someone who can curse you right back.”
“A gibbo retro habebis,” I said, and the distant thunder rumbled again.
She gasped, bending forward and crying out as a large, misshapen hump suddenly popped up on
her back. “You wicked, wicked creature!” she screamed and stumbled around, trying to come at me
again. The guards recaptured her and held her back—not that I wouldn’t have wiped the floor with
her, I’m sure, if she’d managed to reach me.
“You started it,” I told her with a shrug.
“Ohhh,” she moaned and whined. “You vile devil! You evil creature!”
“Glorfindel,” my father said in a hushed voice, gazing from her to me in shocked fascination.
I sighed. “Oh, very well. If she agrees to lift her curse, then I’ll lift mine. But she has to go first.”
“Never!” she cried, spitting and struggling in the guards’ arms.
“Suit yourself then, you intractable hussy,” I said and sat back down. “It’s no skin off my nose,
because I have no interest in love.” I snapped my fingers. “Pfft! What do I care for it? I don’t even
believe such a thing as true love even exists.”
Those words returned to haunt me as the next few years passed. Love, true or otherwise, just
never seemed to happen for me. Oh, men were attracted to me and found me beautiful…they said.
They were happy about my magic and my father’s fortune...they said.
But true love never seemed to be a part of the equation. Not the kind of love that lasted for a
lifetime and even beyond. The kind that broke your heart one minute and made it fly the next, and all
because of a sidelong glance or an accidental touch. The kind I had been cursed by the pixie to never
find.
Abruptly, because of the water turning cold and not at all because I couldn’t stand the look of pity
on Radiense’s face a moment longer, I stood up out of the bath and caught the towel my brother threw
me. In an odd mood and feeling all out of sorts for no particular reason, I walked over to the fire and
sat down in front of it to towel-dry my hair. Was it Drusilla’s curse that had cost me so much over the
last few years? It did seem particularly odd to me that King Tarrak had always been rather indifferent
to me, even though he told others he thought I was handsome and desirable above all men he’d ever
seen. Yet he’d chosen a peasant boy over me.
Admittedly, Sergey was attractive too, of course. It was said he had demon blood in him, which
would account for it. He could even do magic, like his brother, Pavel. Still, I was a fairy prince and
the son of a king, and I had powerful magic of my own. An added plus was that I came with a really
large dowry. That alone should have sealed the deal on my betrothal to Tarrak, as everyone knew how
much Elves loved gold. Yet he had turned me down flat, making sure I understood it was Sergey and
not me that he’d fallen in love with.
Had that all been a result of the stupid curse? I’d brought a lot of it on myself, and I knew that.
But was that because I was just a flawed person, or because I was doomed never to be lucky in love?
My thoughts were as scattered and broken as a bright jumble of broken jewelry, impossibly entangled
and entwined and thus utterly worthless to me.
“What should I do, Radiense?” I asked softly as I looked up at him, a little horrified to find tears
filling my eyes.
“Break the curse. Or find a way around it.”
“But how?”
He glanced down at me, looking horrified by my trembling mouth and the tears threatening to
slide down my cheeks.
“Certainly not by crying about it. Come with me. We’ll go see Father and tell him this situation is
intolerable and has gone on far too long. We’ll see if he has any ideas about what to do.
 Chapter Two

“Break the curse? You mean the one that pixie creature laid on you so many years ago?”
My father looked confused, but then he usually did at this time of day, when the sun was just
beginning to sink behind the mountains. I’d found him in his bedchamber, and this was his time to
relax, he said, though how that was any different from the rest of his day no one had yet been able to
work out. He was like a sleek, beautiful cat drowsing in the sun. He liked to sit by the windows in the
early evenings, too, with only his beloved hounds for company, staring out at the sunset. It was
certainly a beautiful scene, with the hills in the distance, gleaming russet in the dying sun like the pelt
of a wild fox.
It’s possible there might have been less intelligent canines in the world than the four dogs that
gathered each night on the floor by my father’s feet, but I’d have been hard pressed to name them. The
king had once described his dogs as “aristocrats—dignified and aloof—their eyes gazing into the
distance as if in memory of ages past.”
I was doubtful that these dogs had memories that stretched much before the sausages they’d had
for breakfast, but my father seemed to adore them. He currently had four of these creatures—all of
them Afghan hounds, and, I suspected, hopelessly inbred.
I thought personally that their eyes only appeared to gaze into the distance because their brains
were too small to contain an actual thought—or they might have been contemplating where their next
sausages might be coming from. They were glamorous, regal creatures to look at, though, with lovely,
long coats and absolutely enormous feet. Again, very much like my father. He turned toward me now,
pulling his long shoes with the toes upturned in the Elven style down from the ottoman where he’d
been propping them up to gaze at me with clear eyes, blissfully untroubled by any deep thoughts.
“You want me to find a witch to break your curse for you? But why are you bringing this up now,
Glori, after all this time?”
“Because I’m tired of always having to run back home after some love affair ends yet again in
disaster. And because I fear that what you said to me might be true —that the bloom really is off the
rose. I found this just now! On my head!”
I held out my hand with a plucked hair to show him, and he peered down at it. “That’s blond, son,
not gray, if that’s what you’re implying. And perhaps you’ve simply been unlucky in love so far. It
does seem to be a family trait.”
 My father had been married four times to four different women, with my Elven mother as his last
mistake. After her, he had vowed never to marry again, but to content himself with his dogs, whose
loyalty never came into question and who never cuckolded him or ran off with his gold.
“Lovers are a great deal of trouble, you know. Are you absolutely sure you want one? Esmerelda
is having pups soon,” he said, indicating the female hound stretched out on the floor in front of him.
“You can have the pick of her litter, if you like.”
“No thank you, Father. What I want is to find a handsome man who will love me and-and cherish
me for the rest of my life. Not for my money or for the way I look, but for who I am.” It was a sign of
my depression that I spoke to him like this, I suppose. Like my father, I wasn’t much known for
introspection or soul-searching. But the events of the last year with the Elven kings had been taxing. I
never wanted to feel like that again.
“Oh, very well,” My father said, sighing. “I think you’d enjoy one of Esmeralda’s puppies much
more, but I’ll see what I can do. I do know of a powerful witch among the Sidhe. She lives near
Avalon, I believe, and I’ve heard she’s very clever. I’ll send for her tomorrow. Perhaps she can find a
way around this curse of yours.”
The Sidhe were considered quite magical, but they didn’t consider themselves to be Fairies like
us. Not strictly speaking. The Sidhe were a spiritual and religious race; they believed in gods and
goddesses, and many of their members had powerful abilities. Once they had been mortal, but they
dabbled far too much in arcane magic and eventually became something supernatural. Most people
still thought of them as Fairies. Tribal in nature, they were said to live beneath the hills and often
identified as the remnants of the ancient Tuatha Dé Danann. They didn’t think much of the rest of us
Fairies, and the feeling was often mutual.
Still, I needed help, and I should have sought that help long ago. “Thank you, Father,” I said.
He waved his hand, already going back to staring out the window, so I leaned over to drop a kiss
on his forehead. “I’ll see you at supper later.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, distracted by whatever stray thought that might have wandered through as he
sat there by the window. Or maybe like the hounds, he was wondering what we’d be having that
evening for supper too.
He was as good as his word, though, and only a week later, he sent for me to come to his throne
room. The beautiful woman standing beside him was tall, wore a black robe and had an austere,
though striking look. She was a Sidhe Fairy, of course, and her face should have been too bold for
beauty, full as it was of all those angles and planes. It was not. It somehow suited her perfectly, and
her cheekbones were so high and sharp they could have cut glass. Her hair was unrelieved black, but
shiny and her eyes were as dark and deep as a stormy night.
 My father was smiling when I came in. “Ah, Glori, there you are. This is Lady Drogheda, and she
has come to look at you and see if she can help.” I recognized Drogheda as an old Irish name, which
denoted her heritage. My father turned to the woman with a little flourish of his hand. “My youngest
son, Prince Glorfindel.”
I bowed and she gave me a long, interested look, holding out her hand. I took it in mine to shake
it, but she pulled it gently away and shook her head. “I don’t want a greeting, Your Highness. I simply
want to hold your hand to get a feel for your energy.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, dubiously extending my hand again. The lady took it in her own cool one, and
I felt a slight tingle in my palm as soon as she touched me. She must have noticed too, because she
drew in a breath and searched my eyes for a moment.
“Mm. Not exactly a curse, but yes, I feel it. It’s old-fashioned, and as simple as the one who cast
it. Wicked, but effective and I’d wager it’s difficult to break whatever it is. This came from a pixie,
you say?”
I nodded. “She says she has some magic.”
“Hmm. I’m not so sure. Very passionate though. She’s dead now, you know.”
I gasped in disbelief. “No, I didn’t know. Does that mean her curse is gone too?”
“Oh no. Death only strengthened this, if anything. She died with the ill-wish on her lips.” She
concentrated again for a moment, still holding my hand. “She drowned herself in a lake, leaving a
note behind saying she did it because of unrequited love for her cruel and faithless lover.”
“Me?” I squeaked.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
My father interjected here, because I’d been stricken speechless.
“But what does this mean? Does it mean nothing can be done about it?”
Drogheda didn’t answer right away, which made my heart fly to my throat and threaten to
suffocate me. “It makes things more difficult,” she finally intoned, fixing that strange dark gaze on me.
“Tell me her exact words.”
“She said something like, ‘Because you’ve never loved, I curse you never to find love in this
world. Not ever,’ I recited miserably. ‘You will sabotage and destroy every serious relationship you
enter. Thus, you will live a long, miserable life alone for all eternity.’ Then something about ‘By
moon and sun,’ her will being done.”
“I see. Never to find love in this world...very well. Then you must leave this world.”
“I say, that seems a bit extreme,” my father said. “If Glori’s dead at the end of this, then it seems
rather to have defeated the purpose of having you intervene.”
“No, no,” Drogheda said, shaking her head. “I don’t mean he has to die. I mean that he has to
leave this world, the Fae world, for some other one.” She tilted her head to one side as she thought
about it. “Perhaps the mortal world. I could send him there so that he might find love. And when he
does, the curse will naturally break.” She continued to gaze at me, now looking me up and down.
“The difficulty lies in the fact that he’s a Fairy.”
“How so?” my father asked.
“Well, just look at him.” They both proceeded to do just that, while I frowned and squirmed
under their scrutiny. “That bone structure,” Drogheda said, gesturing at me. “Those oddly colored
amber-gold eyes, exotically tilted in his perfect little face. That long curly blond hair and those thick,
black eyelashes, the high cheek bones and the perfectly shaped lips. Then of course, there are his
ears…”
To be fair, I could see how my ears would be a problem. They were definitely pointed, like all
my tribe. Delicate points that I now self-consciously tried to hide underneath my long hair.
Drogheda shook her head. “This really won’t do. He’s so beautiful he practically glows. Not to
mention he has the body of a young Greek god,” she said, pursing her lips. “No, he’s far too
inhumanly beautiful for the mortal world. They would suspect him as a Fae creature right away, and
most would be too afraid of him to approach him. Fairies are known to use their beauty as both a lure
and a weapon.”
“So…not the mortal world?” my father asked.
“No, we can still send him there. Just not during this time. He has to go in the future.”
“What?” I asked in alarm. What was this Sidhe woman talking about? “The future? Why?”
She turned to look at me. “It has to be then. Those in the mortal world now would surely
recognize you as a Fairy otherwise.”
“But-but he’d still be as beautiful in the future world, wouldn’t he?” the king asked, looking
puzzled. “Won’t people in the future recognize him as a Fairy there too?”
She shook her head. “Oh no, I shouldn’t think so. People in the future don’t believe in Fairies, or
any of the Fae for that matter. Mortals develop an amazing capacity for not believing the evidence of
their own eyes in the future.” She came a bit closer to survey me critically. “We may have to dye his
hair, though.” She ran a finger down my cheek. “Or perhaps a scar?”
“No scar!” I said, horrified and clapping a hand over my porcelain cheek protectively. “Besides,
how do you know what mortals in the future are like?”
“Because I’ve been there,” she said with an enigmatic smile. “I’m a Timeroamer.”
I know I gasped then, because witches who were Timeroamers were so extremely rare in our
world, or any other, for that matter.
“You are?”
 “Oh yes. And the one I’m planning to send you to is my grandson...a couple of generations
removed, of course, and his blood is hopelessly mixed with mortals. Still, he’s a powerful witch and
a Timeroamer, too. If the mortal blood hadn’t diluted him, I sometimes wonder what he might have
been. At any rate, he’s the one who can help you adjust to the future and find a lover. He can help you
break this terrible curse or whatever it is.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of any of this. “But how far in the future do I have to go?” I asked,
in a hoarse voice I’d never heard come from my throat before.
“A hundred years should do it,” she replied.
My father nodded. “It’s always a hundred years in the old stories, Glori.”
Drogheda nodded at him and smiled like he was her favorite pupil. “Indeed, it is. I’ll go and talk
to my grandson—prepare him for your arrival. He’ll probably be difficult about it, but I’ll talk him
around. And then I’ll go along with you to ease your way.”
“But when would we go?”
“First I need to speak to Ethan. As soon as I gain his cooperation, I’ll come back for you.”
“Ethan? That’s your grandson?”
“Great-grandson, yes. Wait here for me.” I’m not sure where she thought I’d go, though I did
rather feel like running to hide under my bed. I was uneasy and uncertain about all of this, and I was
sure she could see that.
She held her hands in the air, which began to shimmer around her with colors of blue and gold
and silver. She was muttering some words I didn’t recognize under her breath and then with little
sound that made my ears ring, she simply disappeared right before our eyes.
My father and I, alone in the room now, stared at each other in consternation.
“She comes and goes rather quickly,” he said, by way of observation.
“Yes, she does.”
“Are you frightened by the idea of going with her, Glori? You can still change your mind.”
“No,” I lied. “I’m not frightened by the idea.” I firmed my resolve and reminded myself of the
long, long life that stretched ahead of me—as Drusilla warned, miserable and lonely for all eternity.
“I suppose I have to do this.”
Another ringing sound filled the air and suddenly Drogheda appeared again in front of us.
“All done,” she said.
“So fast!” my father exclaimed, his eyes wide.
“It seems so only to you. I’ve actually been trying to convince him to agree for a full day now.
I’m a Timeroamer, I might remind you.”
“Oh,” I said. “But you had to convince him?”
 She shrugged. “Yes, but he’s resigned to it now.”
“Resigned?” I frowned at her, and she lifted one shoulder.
“He can be difficult. As I mentioned, his father and grandfather were both mortal,” she said, as if
that explained it. “And his great-grandfather, my first consort, was a Woodland Fairy. Now. Are you
ready to leave?”
I took a step backward, butterflies going to war inside my stomach. “So soon?”
“There’s no time like the present, is there?”
My father looked a bit alarmed and stepped toward Drogheda to take her by the arm. “He will
return, won’t he?”
“Yes, once this thing is broken, he can return if he chooses. Glorfindel needs to stay until it’s
gone though. Of course, there’s always a chance he may choose to stay in the mortal world with his
new beloved once he finds him.”
My father cast me an alarmed look. I shook my head. “I wouldn’t. Not without speaking with you
first.”
He looked relieved, but still visibly worried. “B-but he could come for visits, surely?”
She looked a bit dubious. “Yes, perhaps. If he can find a Timeroamer to bring him. My grandson
might be persuaded.”
“Very well. Then you must go with Drogheda, and I mustn’t keep you here with my selfish
concerns. Be strong and find your true love.” He came to wrap his arms around me, and I was
surprisingly touched by the gesture, clinging to him perhaps a bit too long. My father had always
seemed to me to be distant and uninvolved with his children’s lives, but he had also been the one
constant in my life that I could always count on. I was suddenly loath to let him go.
He released me with a little pat on my back. “I’ll see you soon then. Go with Lady Drogheda
now and find your happiness, Glori.”
Before I could say another word Lady Drogheda took my hand in hers. The world shimmered like
pixie wings in the sun as soon as she touched me, and then it all fell suddenly away.
 Chapter Three

People speak of the past and the future, but all there ever is, really, is the here and now. The past
is only a memory and as for the future—well, who knows what it might bring? But the illusion of time
can appear to be very real, and it flows like a river all around us. Timeroamers have found a way to
navigate that river and travel along it wherever they choose.
Now I was traveling it too, and it was terrifying. The air inside the illusion was black and thick
with screaming. Hot wind beat at us, as dark, powerful currents swirled against my skin. I felt a hand
on me, so I reached out my own, but Drogheda pulled it sharply back and wrapped an arm around me
to hold my hands down by my sides. She was surprisingly strong. I thought once I felt teeth on the
back of my neck and cried out in pain and alarm, but it was fleeting and soon stopped. It felt as if we
were descending from a great height, though we stayed upright. We suddenly landed with a little
thump—and the sun came out.
My first impression of the future was that it was incredibly noisy. I put my hands over my ears as
I stood there swaying a bit on some rock-hard surface that was nevertheless smooth beneath my boots.
It was white and stretched out everywhere around me, covering the ground. I began to tremble, and
beside me, Lady Drogheda took pity on me and touched my shoulder.
“It’s just a bit of noise. Nothing to harm you.”
I realized then that I’d had both hands over my ears and quickly took them down, feeling
embarrassed.
I was standing in a wide street, but there were no carriages or horses. Just mortals everywhere,
coming at me in a stream and parting around us, as if we were boulders in the middle of a river. I’d
never seen so many mortals before. They were walking up and down, going into shops, usually in
groups of two or three or more. Some of the females wore short pants on their bodies—some of those
pants so short they were practically cut off at the crotch. I wondered if these mortals could somehow
be related to the pixies.
Their feet were almost bare too, or stuck into sandals, like the Greeks wore in the old stories.
And they were so many children—running around everywhere, or else crammed into small basket-
things, with wheels attached, so their mothers or fathers could push them in front of them to keep them
contained. Almost everyone carried flimsy looking bags out of the shops they exited, and a few wore
strange, pointed hats, like a witch might wear. The majority of the men wore close fitting caps in
various colors, and each cap had a rounded bill that shaded their faces.
“What is this odd place?” I asked the Lady, standing closer to her as two tow-headed children
raced past me, narrowly avoiding crashing into me, their harried mother chasing along behind and
yelling at them to stop.
“This is Salem, Massachusetts. It’s a town in America. I know you’ve heard of that country.”
“America. Yes, but I don’t know this Salem, Massa—whatever it was you said.”
“Salem is old and existed in your time too,” Drogheda said, standing close so she could murmur
quietly in my ear. “Now it’s mostly a place for tourists—people who are just visiting. Almost none of
these people you see actually live here year around.”
“But why do they come?”
“It’s a well-known city in America. Famous in its way for its witch trials in the 1600s.”
Witch trials were nasty business, and I’d heard of them, of course, in Germany and England and
other countries in Europe during the sixteenth century and beyond. Most of the people killed had been
harmless, and not witches at all. One of my tutors had told me that when the insanity had taken hold of
a town called Trier, located near the border between Germany and Luxembourg, the townspeople had
killed something like 200 blameless mortals a year for a time.
“The purges weren’t as bad in America as they were in Europe. In this town,” Drogheda told me,
“There were some thirty mortals found guilty during the trials, twenty of whom were executed, and
some who died in jail.”
“And mortals still want to visit this place?”
She shrugged. “No one really believes in witches anymore. Just like they no longer believe in
Fairies or Elves or other Fae creatures. They like to come here year-round, but especially at
Halloween—what you will know as Samhain—to pretend to be scared.”
“Yet they still come.”
“Yes,” she said. “Mortals can be very odd. None of these people will hurt you, though. Let’s go
find my grandson. He has a shop in this square.”
“What kind of shop?”
“A souvenir shop and bookstore with books on witchcraft for the tourists. He also stocks real
ingredients for spells and potions for the more serious of the mortal practitioners. Along with other
items the tourists like.”
“And these are the ‘tourists?’ These mortals I see all around?”
“Yes, but they aren’t important. What’s important is that I’ve talked my grandson into helping you
and letting you work here.”
“Work?”
 “Yes, Ethan was tiresome about it and insisted you earn your keep. But come with me and meet
him.” She pulled on my arm as I began to move forward, dragging my feet only a little. “I warn you.
He doesn’t like Fairies, though his grandmother was full Sidhe, as was her mother and so on all the
way back to me. He’s liable to be quite rude at first. Try not to pay too much attention. I think he’ll get
used to you eventually.”
“But will I get used to him?”
She didn’t answer my question, and feeling even more apprehensive, I allowed Lady Drogheda
to take me with her. We began walking down the street that she was calling a square, though it didn’t
have that shape as far as I could see. She explained that it wasn’t an actual street, because there were
no vehicles allowed inside it, unless for emergencies. She called these motor vehicles “cars.” I had
heard of them in the large mortal cities of the world in my own time, now a hundred years in the past.
I thought these might be similar, though vastly different in size and shape, not to mention speed. But
since my head was already reeling, I didn’t ask any more questions.
She took me to a shop with a sign above it that read, “Salem Magic Shoppe.”
We entered and a blast of frigid air hit me immediately. What strong magic was this, to make the
shop interior feel so cool when it had been hot enough outside that sweat was still running down the
sides of my face? My heavy woolen under clothes, so necessary in a drafty castle, were a hindrance
here. I began to understand why these mortals wore so little clothing.
“Is it always so hot here?” I asked, but Drogheda shook her head.
“No. The season now is summer. It gets quite cold in the winter.”
I nodded, still impressed by how cool it was inside the shop. Too cool for me, actually. I like the
temperature to be more moderate. Considering the heat outside, I thought the witch we were going to
see must be powerful indeed.
I looked around, noticing first all the books and book displays, but other odd things too. Some of
the hats that I’d seen everywhere so far, along with what looked like magic wands. Though these were
simply short sticks made out of some hard substance I was unfamiliar with. Drogheda said they were
made of “plastic” when I asked. They looked cheap and flimsy and had no magic in them at all that I
could sense. Little witch dolls with brooms between their legs were lined up along one counter, and
inside a case with glass on the front were some type of clothing with the name of the town
emblazoned on the front. It was all in shockingly poor taste, in my opinion.
“Welcome to the Magic Shoppe,” a deep voice called out as a bell rang over the door. From the
back of the store, a man began walking toward us, and my breath caught in my throat.
It wasn’t that he was particularly handsome. Well, he was handsome enough for a mostly-mortal,
but I came from a world where beauty was a relative thing. Compared to a Fairy, he was...all right,
damn it, he was alarmingly fuckable.
More importantly, I felt the power in him from across the room. The air around him was charged
with it. His features were more rugged than strictly beautiful, but still there was something about him
that was almost unbearably seductive and that had to be thanks to his Fairy blood. Maybe it was those
long, curling black eyelashes or his incredibly warm chocolate-colored eyes that were flashing at me
with a great deal of irritation in their depths. They sparkled with mischief and danger. His jet-black
hair was short, and he had a scruff of beard on his tanned cheeks that made him look a little like a
pirate. His full, passionate mouth was currently falling open a little in disbelief as he gazed at me.
“What the actual fuck?” he snarled to his grandmother as he got a good look at me. “You said you
wanted my help in breaking a wicked curse on someone from the past. You never said he was a
fucking Fairy!”
“I’m just a plain Fairy, not a fucking one,” I said archly. “Though I certainly have been known to
fu…”
“Drogheda!” he shouted, cutting me off, and both Drogheda and I gasped at the volume, but as
there was no one else in the shop at the moment, I suppose no great harm was done. A few ceiling
tiles rattled though, along with some dishes in a cupboard somewhere. I wondered again about how
powerful he had to be.
“What the hell were you thinking? This Fairy has magic too. I feel it buzzing inside him.”
“Only Woodland Fairy magic, dear,” Drogheda said, rather dismissively, I thought, seeing as how
she was from one of the Fairy tribes herself.
“Which I don’t approve of. It’s cruel and capricious just like they are.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said, with ice in my tone. I turned to Drogheda. “I believe both of you are
from one of the Fairy tribes too. Oh, gods, don’t tell me,” I said, lifting my eyes to the ceiling. “Is he
one of those white light, nature loving, mortal Wiccan witches? Or mostly mortal. How on earth is
this person going to help me?”
Lady Drogheda patted my arm. “Ethan is very powerful, Prince Glorfindel, as I’m sure you’ve
noticed already. He may only have a small amount of Sidhe blood, but if he had any more power, the
entirety of the Seelie and Unseelie courts would have tried their best to kill him by now. As it is, they
fear and avoid him and dread the day he might decide to come live in the Fae realm. The nearness and
influence of the Folk would make him even more dangerous.”
“Fat chance. And this isn’t about me anyway,” Ethan interrupted. “It’s about him! Just look at
him, Drogheda!”
He glared down at me, as if trying to intimidate me with both his volume and his size. The man
was loud and rather massive, I admit. I was tall for a Fairy, but he was a great deal taller and more
muscular. And very attractive, though his personality was rather making up for that in spades.
He shook his head in disgust and shifted his glare to Drogheda. “Do you actually think no one
will notice the way he looks?” he continued in his blunt and dogged way.
But Drogheda was made of sterner stuff. “Of course, they’ll notice, Ethan. The whole point of
this is to have someone notice him, in fact, and then fall madly in love with him to break his curse. Do
try to keep up, dear.”
He turned a bitter gaze on his grandmother, stepping closer. He lowered his volume a bit as he
hissed at her. “He doesn’t look even remotely mortal, Drogheda.” He reached out and flicked one of
my ears. “Pointed ears? Seriously?”
I grabbed the offending appendage and held my hand over it. “That hurt. You can’t just go around
flicking people’s ears,” I said hotly. “Not to mention talking about them like they’re not even there.
How dare you?” I growled at him, and he looked down at me almost in surprise, as if one of the dolls
lined up on his counter had suddenly started making remarks.
“It’s easily disguised, Ethan,” Drogheda said, turning toward me. “Troglear verisas sorithal,”
she said, making my ears tingle. I felt for them again and this time found the tips were gone, leaving
rounded rims, like all the mortals had. “Now,” Drogheda said. “I have a glamour on them that will
last until he returns to his own realm.”
“Now you do something about his clothes, Ethan dear,” Drogheda said. “I’m not really familiar
with the current fashion like you are.”
He waved a hand over me and muttered, “Nova vestimenta videntur.” But I noticed how he
slurred the words, corrupting the spell a bit so nothing too fancy would appear.
My rich, velvet clothing disappeared with a whisking sound and suddenly I was standing in front
of them wearing pants made of some soft, shapeless material. They were about three sizes too large
and had a matching shirt that came to my knees and covered my hands.
“I might have overshot that a little,” he said, “though I kind of like how covered up he is. It might
prevent trouble.”
Drogheda frowned. “Oh goodness, Ethan, that will never do. Oh, very well, I’ll give it a try
myself.”
She said the spell again, and this time I was left wearing a pair of blue pants of a canvas like
material that were so tight they were just short of obscene. My feet were ensconced in shoes made of
canvas and rubber, and I wore a soft blue shirt that came down only to my midriff and stopped,
exposing a wide and creamy expanse of my stomach. Drogheda ignored the incredulous look Ethan
gave her.
He got an angry look and called out, “Florilal!” and the shirt obediently got longer.
 “Let’s keep our eye on the prize, Ethan,” Drogheda said, frowning and shaking her head. “He
needs a love interest if he’s ever to go home and get out of your way.”
“He’d have done far better to stay with his own kind. This isn’t the place for him.”
“Nevertheless, he’s here now. Can you just show him his room, dear?” Drogheda said,
interrupting our hostile stare-down.
“I don’t have time at the moment,” he said, turning away from both of us. “I need to get back to
work. But his room is ready, if you want to take him upstairs.”
“Are you always so rude, or is this just my lucky day?” I said, before I could stop myself.
He whirled around and took a step closer to me. “Watch your mouth, Fairy boy.”
“Why? I’m not afraid of you,” I said, glaring back at him.
“Maybe you should be,” he snarled down at me, his eyes fiery. I held my ground, glaring up at
him and hating the extra inches he had on me in height. The air around us was shot full of sparks.
Drogheda shifted her feet nervously, afraid of what might happen, I suppose. I was a little
apprehensive myself, though I’d have died before I showed him.
Drogheda laid a hand on his arm. “Ethan, dear, why don’t I just show him to his room now?”
After a tense moment, he gave a quick jerk of his head. “Knock yourself out. It’s the second room
to the left at the top of the stairs. Get him settled in and come back so we can talk. Though personally,
I think this whole thing is a lost cause. He’s going to be nothing but trouble. I can feel it.”
I tried to stay quiet—I truly did, but the unfairness of it all made me mouthy instead. I challenged
him, by glaring up at him. “Why is it you feel you know so much about me when we’ve only just
met?”
“I know all I need to know.”
“Perhaps you don’t know nearly as much as you think you do.”
He took another threatening step and the air around us thickened and shimmered with menace.
Time seemed to stand still, and something hot and dark and almost palpable sprang up between us,
crowding out all the oxygen from the air. We might have continued glaring at each other for hours if
Drogheda hadn’t interrupted us. My legs went weak, and my breathing was fast and unsteady, and I
saw his chest rising and falling rapidly too.
“Oh, never mind all this. Just come with me, Glorfindel,” Drogheda interrupted, inserting herself
between us and tugging on my arm.
Ethan whipped his head around to look at her, breaking the spell. “Wait. What the fuck did you
just call him?”
“Glorfindel,” I said, drawing myself up to my full height. I swept into a graceful bow. “Prince
Glorfindel Alluro Splendiferous of the Woodland Fairies at your service, sir.”
 “You’re not a prince here and seriously...Glorfindel? Like the character in the books by
Tolkien?”
“What character? What books?”
“He’s talking about a series of mortal novels, dear,” Drogheda explained. “Very popular, and the
character in them named Glorfindel was an Elf. I’m sure it was a coincidence when your mother gave
you that name, since I doubt she ever read or even saw the books.”
“My mother was Elven, though. Perhaps it’s a common name among them?”
“Well, common or not,” Ethan said after a moment. “I can’t call you that, for God’s sake. Don’t
you have any other names?”
“Yes, I told you. Alluro and Splendiferous. Then there’s my true name, but I can’t tell you or
anyone else that name, lest you use it to gain power over me and thus control me.”
“Oh god, true name bullshit too? How cliché can you get?”
I flushed and continued. “My father calls me Glori, if you like that better.”
He made a gagging noise, and I could feel the heat rising up my neck. “But I see you don’t like
that either.”
“If anyone asks, just say your name is...Finn. But that’s only if someone gets curious. Don’t
improvise or volunteer information. With any luck, bringing you here will work soon, and I can send
you back home again.”
I nodded. “Anything you say.”
“Please don’t pretend to be all agreeable. I know what you really are.” I glared at him. “In the
meantime, you’re going to have to earn your keep. I’ll show you around the shop later, so you can help
customers find what they’re looking for if they ask. You can dust the stock and keep the floors clean
too. And don’t you dare try to use any of your magic. Not on me and not on anybody else. Is that
understood? I’ll be watching you, and I’ll know if you do.” He took a step closer to me. “And I’ll
make you sorry. Do you understand?”
I pursed my lips tightly together, lifting my nose even higher in the air. “No need for threats,” I
said, “and though I do have magic, I have no plans to use it. If I did, you might find I’m more than a
match for you.”
“Oh, is that right?” He snorted, and it angered me, so I took an aggressive step toward him, my
hand already pulled back to let my magic fly, just to put him in his place. Drogheda put a hand on my
arm to stop me.
“Glorfindel, no.” She gave both of us a fierce look. “And you too, Ethan. What’s wrong with the
two of you?”
“On second thought,” the insufferable man said, though I noticed his face was incredibly flushed.
Another random document with
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Pettit, John, 29n
Peters, Mrs., 186
Phillips, John, 7
Phillips Rents, 7
Pickering, Joseph, 84
Pierrepoint, Lady Anne, 91
Pierrepont, Lady Mary (afterwards Lady Mary Wortley Montagu), 89
Pillar at Seven Dials, 113–114
Pindar, Peter (Dr. Wolcot), 83
Piozzi, Mrs., 85
Plowden, —, 71
Plumer, John, 21n
Pole, —, 165
Pole, Peter, 180
Pollard, Eliz., 83
Polton, John de, 109
Pont, Mrs., 71
Pope, Thos., 83
Popham, Colonel Alexander, 73
Port of London, scheme for improving, 187
Porter, Endymion, 88
Porter, George, 88
Porter, Lady Diana (Ann), 88
Porter, T. C., 185
Portsmouth, Duchess of (formerly Mdlle. de Keroualle), 54
Portsmouth Street, No. 2, 46
Portuguese Embassy, 65–66, 96, 97
Pound, St. Giles’, 144
Povey, Justinian, 12
Povey, Thomas, 11, 12
Powell, Giles, 106n
Powell, Richard, 36n
Powlet, Lady Ann (afterwards Belasyse), 137
Powlett, Charles, Earl of Wiltshire (afterwards Duke of Bolton), 65
Praed, Wm. Mackworth, 11
Prescott, Jeoffery, 35n, 37n, 40n
Princes Street, 10
Pritchard, —, 56
Pritchard, William, 90
Purcell, Dr. John, 142
Purse Field, 4, 6, 10, 24, 34
Purse Rents, 5, 7
Pynchon, John, 11n
“Pyramide de la Tremblade”, 115

Queen Anne Street West, 58

Queen Anne’s Bath, Endell Street, 105
Queen Anne’s Bounty, 76
Queen Anne’s Wardrobe, 45n, 66
Queenhithe, 117
Queen’s Court, 60
Queen Street. (See Great Queen Street, Little Queen Street.)
Quire, Matthew, 107
Radcliffe, Dr., 56
Radclyff, Thomas, 124
Raftor, William, 71
Ragged Staff Court, 108
Ralph, James, 131
Rawlinson, Mary, 106n, 108n
Raye, Thomas, 60n
Raymond, Ch., 84
Raymond, John, 180
Raynbowe, Richard, 25
Raynseford, Thomas, 6, 7
Read, Jonathan, 3n
Reade, Richard, 14
Reading, Roger, 15n
Redditt, Nicholas, 38n
Reede, Margaret (late Margaret Pennell), 186
Reede, Richard, 186, 187
Reid, Andrew, 179
Reneger, Thomas, 80n
Reynolds, Joshua, 76–77
Rich, Sir Henry, 126
Rich, Henry, 1st Earl of Holland, Baron Kensington, 88
Rich, Robert, Baron Kensington, 5th Earl of Warwick, 88
Richard II., 23
Richard, Lewis, 10n
Richardes, Lewis, 40n
Richardson, C. J., 63
Richardson, Jas., 163
Richardson, Jonathan, 76
Richardson, W. Westbrook, 83
Richold, —, 83
Ride, Miss, 71
Ridge, Jeremiah, 106n
Risley, Thos., 126
Rivers, Arabella, Lady, 69
Rivers, Elizabeth Scroope (afterwards Countess), 68
Rivers, Elizabeth, Countess of (née Darcy), 59, 67–68, 73n, 90
Rivers, John Savage, 2nd Earl, 68
Rivers, Margaret, Lady (formerly Tryon), 69
Rivers, Mary, Countess Dowager, 68n
Rivers, Penelope, Lady, 69
Rivers, Richard, 4th Earl (“Tyburn Dick”), 69, 70
Rivers, Thomas Darcy, Baron Darcy of Chich (afterwards Earl), 67
Rivers, Thomas Savage, 3rd Earl, 68, 69
Rivers House, Great Queen Street, 59, 63, 67
Roberts, Thomas, 13, 14
Robins, Richard, 107
Robinson, Mr., 77–78
Robinson (née Darby), Mary (“Perdita”), 77–78
Rochford, Bessy, Countess of, 70
Rochford, Frederick Nassau de Zuylestein, 3rd Earl of, 70
Rochford, William Henry, Earl of, 70n
Roger, son of Alan, 107
Ronquillio, Don Pedro de, 97n
Rookery, St. Giles, 145–146
Roos (Rous), Lord, 80n, 91, 92
Rope, Master, 126n
Roper, Poyser, 39
Ros of Hamlake, Barony of, 91n
Ros of Roos, Barony of, 91n
Rose Inn, 27, 28, 123
Rose, tenement in Lewknor’s Lane, 28
Rose Field, 18, 20, 27–32, 34
Rosslyn, Alexander Wedderburn, Earl of, 155
Round Rents (Middle Row), Holborn, 125
Rous. (See Roos.)
Rowland, Percival, 122n
Rowlandson, William, 139
Rowley, —, 90
Royal, Mrs., 163
Rudd, Ric., 92
Rudd, Thos., 92
Russell, Francis, Earl of Bedford, 23n, 51n
Russell, Lady Rachel, 126
Russell, Thos., 115n
Russell, William, Lord, 75
Rutland, Duchess of, 70n
Rutland, Earls of, 91
Rutland, John Manners, 9th Earl of. (See Roos.)
Rymes, William, 3n
“Sacharissa” (Dorothy Spencer, Countess of Sunderland), 54
Sadler, Ric., 89
Sadler (alias Clarke), Thomas, 80
St. Albans, Earl of (Marquess of Clanricarde), 46, 47, 50, 59
St. Amond, Jas., 65n
St. Andrew Street, 113
St. Giles, Cripplegate, Charity Schools, 112
St. Giles-in-the-Fields Church, 127–140
St. Giles-in-the-Fields, Hospital of, 20, 23, 34, 107, 109, 111, 117–126,
186
St. Giles-in-the-Fields, Rectors of, 87, 139
St. Giles’s Lane, 23n, 35n
St. Giles’s Pound, 144
St. Giles, Vestry of, 26
St. Giles’ Wood, Edmonton, 125
St. Giles’ Workhouse, 109, 110
St. John, Lord, Earl of Wilts., and Marquess of Winchester, 95, 96,
137
St. John of Jerusalem, Priory of, 3, 7
St. John’s Court, 76
St. Lazarus of Jerusalem, Order of, 118
St. Mary Graces, Abbot of, 117–118
St. Thomas’s Street (now Shelton Street), 27, 31
Salisbury, Gilbert Burnet, Bishop of, 75
Salisbury, Robert Cecil, Earl of, 36
Salisbury, Thomas, 139
Salvadore, —, 66
Sandby, Thomas, 61, 62, 63
Sanders (Saunders), Mary, 96
Sandfeild, William, 38
Sandwich, Edward Montagu, 1st Earl of, 89
Sardinia Ambassador, 45n
Sardinia Place, 34
Sardinia Street, 93, 94, 100
Saunders, —, 89
Savage, —, 84
Savage, Miss Bessy (afterwards Countess of Rochford), 70
Savage, Elizabeth (afterwards Lady Thimbleby), 90
Savage, Elizabeth (née Darcy), Countess Rivers, 59, 67, 68, 73n, 90
Savage, J., 89
Savage, John, 2nd Earl Rivers, 68
Savage, Lady Mary, 68
Savage, Sir Thomas (afterwards Viscount Savage), 67, 90
Savage, Thomas, 3rd Earl Rivers, 68, 69
Savill, Miss, 71
Sayes Court, Addlestone, 114
Saywell (née Lloyd), Elizabeth, 119–120
Schmidt, Bernard (Father Smith), 132
Scott, —, 172
Scott, John, 1st Earl of Eldon, 155
Scott, Sir John, 186
Scott, John (Rector), 139
Scott, William, 150
Scott, William (afterwards Lord Stowell), 155
Scroope, Adrian, 102
Scroope, Elizabeth (afterwards Countess Rivers), 68
Scroope, Sir Gervase, 102
Seagood, Henry, 35, 37, 40, 41
Seal, Office of the Lord Keeper of, 79, 80, 81
Seales, Major, 91
Segar (Seager), Sir William and Lady, 6n
Seven Dials, 113–114
Seven Dials. (See also Marshland.)
Seven Dials Mission, 116
Seymour, Francis, 5th Baron Conway, 61n
Seymour (alias Conway), Popham, 78, 82
Shaftesbury Avenue, 112n, 113, 118
Sharp, John, 139
Shaw, Charles (afterwards Shaw-Lefevre), 160
Shaw-Lefevre, Charles (afterwards Viscount Eversley), 160
Shaw-Lefevre, Sir John George, 160
Sheffield, Edmund, 2nd Earl of Mulgrave, 73
Sheffield, John, Marquess of Normanby, 73–74
Sheffield Street, boundary stone in, 1
Sheldon, Lady Henrietta Maria, 90
Sheldon, John, 147, 149
Sheldon, Ralph, 90
Shelton Street, 27, 30–31
Shenton, Mrs., 17
Shenton’s Tenements, 16, 17
Sherbourne, Richd., 11
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 66–67
Sheridan, Thomas, 66
Shiffner, Henry, 84
Ship Tavern, Gate Street, 12
Short, Dudley, 109
Short, Gregory, 18n
Short, Thomas, 106, 108, 109
Short, William (the Elder), 28, 101, 106
Short, William (the Younger), 18, 19, 27n, 28, 29, 30, 31n, 101, 110,
112
Short’s Gardens, 101, 106–111
Sidney, Algernon, 81
Sidney, Henry, 54
Skinner, Sir John, 175
Slingsby, —, 79
Slingsby, Henry, 53n, 79
Smallbone, Sir John, 110n
Smart, John, 22
Smart, Lewis, 22
Smart, William, 22
Smart’s Buildings, 18–22
Smith, Edward, 80n
Smith (Smyth), Edward, 106, 110, 121
Smith, Father (Bernard Schmidt), 132
Smith, John, 125
Smith, John, of Tudworth, 76
Smith, Lilley, 89
Smith, Thomas, 67, 72n
Smith, Thomas, 11
Smithfield Gallows, 144
Smithson, George, 6n, 8n
Smyth, John, 139
Smyth, Katherine (alias Katherine Clerke), 24
Soane, Sir John, 63
Soho Square, 76
Somaster, Sir Samuel, 19n
Southampton, Henry, 3rd Earl of, 126
Southampton Buildings, 77
Southampton Square, 56
South Crescent, 186
Southgate, Rev. Richard, 136
Spanish Ambassador, 47, 59, 67, 96, 97
Sparkes, John, 41
Speaks, Hugh, 6n
Speckard, Abraham, 122
Speckard, Dorothy, 122
Spencer, Lady, 95
Spencer, Anne (née Digby), Countess of Sunderland, 54
Spencer, Lady Diana (afterwards Beauclerk), 149
Spencer, Dorothy (Countess of Sunderland) (“Sacharissa”), 54
Spencer, Henry, 1st Earl of Sunderland, 54
Spencer, Robert, 2nd Earl of Sunderland, 54
Spiller, Sir Henry, 29n
Spittle Houses, St. Giles’s Hospital, 118, 121–122, 125
Stafey, John, 119n, 121n
Stainsforth, George, 151
Stamford, Thomas Grey, 2nd Earl of, 65
Star, High Holborn, 3n
Statue of Queen Henrietta Maria, 44, 59, 60, 61, 71–77
Steers, Charles, 149
Stephenson, Jno., 165
Stephenson, Mrs., 165
Steward, P. G., 61
Steward, William, 139
Stewart, G., 92
Stidwell Street, 123, 141
Stoake, Thomas, 40n
Stockwood, Edward, 3
Stonor, Thos., 47, 48, 54n, 55
Stowell, William, Lord, 155
Stradling, Sir Edward, 42, 43, 93, 94, 100n
Stradling, Sir Edward (Junior), 94n
Stradling House, 95
Strange, Sir Robert, 44n
Stratton, Edward, 94n
Stratton, Elizabeth, 17n
Stratton, Henry, 110
Stratton, Robert, 35n
Strode, George, 42, 93
Stuart, Esmé, Seigneur D’Aubigny, Earl of March (afterwards Duke
of Lennox), 72, 101
Stuart, George Seigneur D’Aubigny, 60, 72
Stydolph, Sir Francis, 112, 113
Stydolph, Sir Richard, 113, 122, 123
Stydolph, Thomas, 112
Suffolk, Earl of, 72
Sun and Dolphin, High Holborn, 3n
Sunderland, Anne, Countess of, 54
Sunderland, Dorothy Spencer, Countess of (“Sacharissa”), 54
Sunderland, Henry Spencer, 1st Earl of, 54
Sunderland, Robert Spencer, 2nd Earl of, 54
Sussex, Duke of, 62
Sutton, George, 27–28
Swan, The, 107, 108
Swan on le Hop, 108
Symonds, R., 11

Tahairdin, Peter, 67n

Talbot, Hon. Catherine, 136
Talbot, Hon. John, 136
Tamworth, Viscount, 75n
Tatnell, Wm., 171
Tattershall, Widow, 96
Tavistock, Francis, Marquess of, 149
Tavistock, Lady, 149
Taylor, Ed., 56
Taylor, Dr. John, 89
Taylor, Richard, 28n
Taylor, W. A., 113–114
Taylor, William, 15n
Temple, Freemasons’ Tavern, 61, 62
Thanet, Thomas Tufton, 6th Earl of, 147, 148
Thanet House, 147–149
Theedham, Edward, 108
Thelwall, Daniel, 6, 8n
Theobalds, Hertfordshire, road to, 36, 42
Thimbleby, Elizabeth, Lady, 89–90
Thimbleby, John, 90
Thimbleby, Sir John, 11n, 90
Thomas, —, 92
Thomas, Mrs., 92
Thomson, Mrs. Anne, 11
Thomson, William, 11
Thornton, Beatrice, 9
Thornton, John, 9
Thornton’s Alley, 9
Thorold, Anthony W., 138
Three Anchors, Salisbury Court, 82n
Three Feathers Tavern, High Holborn, 8
Thriscrosse, Francis, 38
Tomkins, Packington, 73n
Tompson, Elizabeth (afterwards Hollinghurst), 8
Tooke, Edward, 27n, 28, 30n
Tottenham Court Road, 187, 188
Tower Street, 113n
Trinity College, 16
Troughton, —, 119
Trueman (alias Johnson), William, 80n
Tryon, Charles, 122
Tryon, Mrs. Margaret, 69
Tubb, Marchant, 163
Tubbs, Robt., 165
Tufton, Lady Margaret, 148
Tufton, Thomas, 6th Earl of Thanet, 147, 148
Turngatlane, 3
Turnpiklane, 3
Turpin, Jeremiah, 19
Twelves, John, 71
Twiney, J., 83
Twisden, Sir Thomas, 11
Twisden, Sir William, 11
Twyford Buildings, Gate Street, 12
“Tyburn Dick”, 69
Tyburn Gallows, 144
Tye, Dr., 162
Tyler, Rev. James Endell, 105
Tyler, William, 61, 62

Umfreville, Chas., 103n

Umfreville, Gilbert, 103n
Unicorn Inn, High Holborn, 8, 9
Unicorn Yard, High Holborn, 8
Vanblew, —, 76, 77n
Van Helmont, —, 78
Varney, Frances, 120
Vaughan, Elinor, 18
Vaughan, Thomas, 18
Vaughan, Thomas (“Dapper”), 71
Vaune, Mr., 90
Vavasour, Anne, 20
Vavasour, John, 20, 101, 107, 108, 110, 144
Vavasour, Nicholas, 144
Vere, Lady, 31
Vere, Sir Horace, 51
Verney, Edmund, 121
Verney, Sir R., 120n
Vernon, Mr., 77
Verrinder, Dr. G. C., 132
Vertue, —, 44
Vestry of St. Giles, 26
Villiers, George, 1st Duke of Buckingham, 91n
Villiers, George, 2nd Duke of Buckingham, 91n
Villiers House, 53n
Vine, The, High Holborn, 123, 124
Vine Street (now Grape Street), 124
Violetti, Eva Maria, 90n
Vuidele, Anthony, 119

Waldron, John, 6
Wales, George, Prince of (afterwards George IV.), 78
Walgrave, John, 28, 107
Walker, Dr. Jas., 11
Walker, John, 13, 14
Walker, Richard, 163
Walker, Thomas, 29n, 31n
Walpole, Horace, 44, 46, 56n, 71
Walter, Peter, 105
Walton, Brian, 139
Ward, James, 92
Wardrobe, Great Queen Street, 45n, 66
Warner, Henry, 34n
Warwick, Charles, Earl of, 88
Warwick, Robert, Earl of, 88
Watson, Mrs., 96
Watson, Henry, 149
Watson, Mary, 96
Watson, Rowland, 5, 6
Watson, William, 5
Watson, Sir William, 133
Wayte, Edward, 79
Webb, Barbara (afterwards Viscountess Montagu), 65
Webb, Lady Barbara, 65, 136
Webb, Sir John, 47n, 65n, 136
Webb, John, Architect, 44
Webb, Philip Carteret, 73n, 74
Webb, Rhoda (afterwards Beavor), 75
Webb, Richard, 38
Webb, Thos., 71
Wedderburn, Alexander, Lord Loughborough (afterwards Earl of
Rosslyn), 155
Weedon, Thomas, 96
Weld, Lady Frances, 94, 95n
Weld (Wild, Wield), Humfrey, 59, 60, 94, 95n, 96, 97n, 100
Weld House, 93–97, 99
Weld Street. (See Wild Street.)
Wesley, John, 115, 116
Wesleyan Chapel, Great Queen Street, 86–92
West London Mission, 88, 115
West Street, 112n, 115
West Street Chapel, Seven Dials, 87
Western, Thomas, 11
Weston (Whetstone), John, 5n
Westone, William, 109n
Wetherell, Philip, 21n
Wharton, Philip, 4th Lord, 79, 120
Whetstone, William, 6–7
Whetstone Park, 4, 8
White, James, 28, 112
White Hart, 14, 19, 20, 23, 24, 25, 28, 29n, 30n, 123
White Hart Feilde, 6
—(See also Pursefield.)
White Hart Yard, 26
White Horse in Drury Lane, 35
White House, St. Giles’s Precinct, 121
White Lion Street, 113n, 114
Whitesaunder, Thomas, 119
White Swan in Queen Street, 37n
Whitfield, Henry Fotherley, 31n
Whitfield, Thomas, 110n, 111n
Wigg, William, 110n, 111n
Wild. (See Weld.)
Wild Boare Alley, 18
Wild Court, Nos. 6 and 7, 98
Wild Street (Weld Street), 34, 93–97
—(See also Little Wild Street.)
Wilkes, John, 74–75
Wilkinson, William, 125
Wilkinson’s Close, 125n, 187
Williams, Jas., 165
Williams, John, 84
Williams, Paul, 40n
Williamson, Sir Joseph, 69
Williamsfeild (alias Church Close), 145
Willoughby, Philip, 60n
Willson, Thomas, 138
Wilson, Benjamin, 56, 57, 66, 67n
Wilson, Jas., 56
Wilson, Major, 57
Wilton House, Picture of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 46
Wiltshire, Charles Powlett, Earl of (afterwards Duke of Bolton), 65
Winchester, John, Marquiss of, 95, 96, 137
Windell, Richard, 109n
Windham, W., 67
Winstanley, J., 11
Wise (Wyse), Joan (afterwards Briscowe), 107, 119
Wise, John, 107n
Wise, Robert, 20
Wither, Thomas, 60n
Withers (Wither, Wyther), Anthony, 51, 60, 73n
Withers, William, 74
Wolcot, Dr. (Peter Pindar), 83
Wolstenholme, John, 96
Wood, Anthony, 80
Woodville, Thomas, 130
Woodward, William, 14
Worcester, Edward (1st Marquess of), 73
Worliche, Mary, 9n
Worlidge, Mrs., 77
Worlidge, Thomas 58, 67n, 76, 77
Worsley, John, 96
Wortley, Sir Francis, 89
Wray, Sir John, 95n
Wren, Sir Christopher, 123, 147
Wren, Stephen, 147
Wright, —, 96n
Wright, Martin, 89
Wriothesley, Lord, 124
Wylson, —, 119
Wynter, Master, 119
Wyse. (See Wise.)

Yarmouth, 1st Earl of, 52

York, Frederica, Duchess of, 114
York, Sir William Dawes, Archbishop of, 110n
Young, Thomas, 110

Zucchi, Antonio, 151, 153, 163, 176

Zuylestein, Frederick Nassau de, 3rd Earl of Rochford, 70