“Gustin used a Faerie love charm on a girl he fancied once,” I say absently. “She kissed him in front of the main square on Spring’s Eve. Once she found out what he’d done, she punched him right in the face. He had a black eye for almost two weeks.”
Brahm grins to himself, perhaps liking the idea of Gustin getting maimed. “Most of the charms the Fae sell don’t have lingering effects.”
“This one lasted all of two minutes,” I say with a laugh, wondering where Gustin is now. I’m not sure I should care, but I do a little. I can’t help it.
“What kind of charms did you make?” I ask Brahm, pushing thoughts of my brother aside.
“Mostly things to amuse Sabine and Eleanor. Little dancing dolls, flowers that never faded, candles that sparked and burned in different colors. Trivial things.” He hums with pleasure, making me think he’s found what he was looking for. “Sabine always liked it when I’d charm human trinkets—instruments, games, things of that sort. She wouldn’t admit it to a soul, but she’s desperately obsessed with your people.”
I browse the books, hoping to learn something about Brahm from the selection. But if I glean anything, it’s that his taste is eclectic. He has everything, from journals to epics, to stories of heroic adventure.
“Are these all human authors?” I ask, running my finger over the printing date on the front page of Birds of Prey: Falcons, Hawks, and Owls of Northern Illusa and the Arctic Hold.
“Most.” Brahm unwinds a spool of thin silver wire, snipping it into three equal pieces before he begins braiding it together. “The Fae of the high courts don’t often write books. Our history is passed through songs and poems, recited by bards and court jesters.”
“But you have your own language—I’ve seen it.”
“It’s archaic, rarely used anymore. Through time, we’ve adopted the human languages. Some Faeries still believe there’s power in written incantations, but that’s an outdated ideology.” He gives me a look. “Often, random words are etched onto things sold to the humans to make them seem more magical than they truly are.”
Laughing, I step up beside Brahm, watching as he creates two more braids from the whisper-thin silver. He then begins to twine them together, making an intricate twist.
“Silver doesn’t bother you?” I ask.
He shakes his head, working deftly. “All metals respond to magic. Silver is an amplifier, and gold is a vessel for storing a surplus gathered from nature. Tin holds memories, and copper reacts badly.”
“Badly?”
“It burns.”
“And iron?”
Brahm cringes. “Iron is uncomfortable. It’s hard to explain. It’s similar to the sensation you get when you hit your elbow on something hard, but it’s more intense and not as localized.”
“So copper is your true weakness?”
He glances over as if amused by the question. “Should I be worried?”
Laughing again, I shake my head.
“What are you doing?” I finally ask, realizing Brahm came here with a purpose, and it wasn’t just to give me a glimpse of his childhood.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls on a thick pair of leather gloves and rifles through the basket once more. He chooses another tool, this one a long metal mandrel with an iron handle.
Using it to coax the silver to bend, he creates a loop in the braid.
Intrigued, I pull out the short stool and sit, waiting for him to explain what he’s making and why he brought me here at this time of night to create it.
Next, he chooses a heavy pair of shears with a blunt tip. Eyeing the intricate braid with a solemn expression, he clips away the straight sections and tosses them aside.
He’s left with a ring, and my interest grows.
After coaxing the ends to meet, he chooses another tool—this one long and narrow, with a sharp point.
I lean a little closer, realizing he’s using magic now. Brahm barely touches the loose silver strands with the point of the tool, and they meld together as if soldered. When he’s finished, the braid flows in a continuous loop, impossible to tell where it once began and ended.
Satisfied with his work, Brahm slides the ring onto the mandrel once more, shaping it into a perfect circle.
He then runs his finger over and around it, polishing it, his magic shimmering slightly as he works. When he’s finished, the silver gleams in the dim light.