by Valerie Mars
“I think you have good taste,” I say appreciatively. And that isn’t spy talk. The heavy linen dress she holds has me honestly excited. “I’ll throw it on in my room, be right back.”
“Holler if you need anything,” she says, settling onto a reading chair.
I scurry off to my sunlit room, the scent of her dress saturating the air with lilies. Ferra’s choice is clever, for the dress comes with a tie that will allow me to tailor it around my waist. While my breasts are larger, her booty is packed with muscle, so I was a bit worried of what I’d end up with upon accepting her offer, but the mustard shirt dress with buttoned wrists is a happy find. If Ferra doesn’t become a friend, she’s at least gained Faerie Godmother status.
I tuck my room key into one of my brown boots and do a twirl in her doorway. “It’s freaking perfect. I’ll find a way to pay you back.”
She shakes her head, locking the door. “Join me for breakfast, then.”
“Deal!” We take the nearest stairwell down to the second floor, the air in the shady spiral cool on my legs. I thank the heavens for my ginger genes, because it’s been a while since I last shaved. Ferra brushes close around a narrow turn and I get a whiff of what must be her toothpaste. The stuff in my room wasn’t that minty, but she probably purchases her own stuff by now.
She leads me back through the fancy housing until we come to a crossroads in the building. “We’ve arrived,” she says, flinging open one of several massive doors. The smell of bacon wafts out, which is a good sign. I was worried fae would be too in tune with nature to cure meat or something. A life without bacon just ain’t worth living.
I get the sense we’ve arrived on the later end of breakfast, as the spacious room with seating for at least 1000 sits abandoned with a sprinkling of fae here and there. The dining hall stretches before us, a series of doors and windowed counters lining the far wall. Tables lined against it bear the remainders of breakfast, somewhere upon them waiting the bacon I crave.
“Is this where we eat all our meals?”
“Unless it’s a special occasion, yes. I’ve heard the matching may bring us to the castle. I can’t wait to have an evening in one of their ballrooms,” she says, already daydreaming.
“They let seps attend special events?”
She stops in her tracks, grabbing me by the shoulders gently, but with conviction. “I never want to hear that word depart your lips again, Mallory Meadowbrook. We are survivors; not Separatists. And we certainly aren’t that disgusting slur.”
Her Neptunian eyes drill into me, dark forest brows solemn. “Other fae have used it so casually, I had no idea.” I nod. “Noted.”
She drops her hold. “Most of it isn’t insidious, but there are people here who will try to make you feel you deserve less. You don’t,” she says, continuing toward the buffet line. “And yes, anyone taking part in the matching—regardless of family origin—will be present at these events. They’re mandatory to the process.”
“At what point does one cease being a Separatist and become recognized as a regular citizen?” I ask while grabbing a tray.
“The next generation,” she replies, serving me a cloth napkin. “But even then there’s this sense of other.”
“Looks like I have a lot to look forward to.”
“Like I said, we’re a close-knit community.” She removes the lid from a serving vessel, revealing a pile of bacon plated by level of crispiness. This is what I came for. I grab three pieces—no, I want four. I grab four pieces and move onto what looks like a bran muffin and then sliced apples. My body is ready.
I’ve lost sight of Ferra in my hunt. I find her on the back wall, filling two glasses with water. Aww, what a sweetie. I still need coffee, though. I attributed my headaches and fatigue to our travels and the whole portaling into another realm thing, but a lot of that was probably withdrawal. If fae don’t have coffee, I’m defecting to the Techies.
I’m approaching the wall as Ferra turns with the waters. She holds one out to me, which I place on my crowded tray. I thank her and lean in, because the fate of my world rests on her answer. “Did I miss the coffee corner or something?” I wait on the edge of my toes, for a coffee-less Faerie may become a Mallory-less Faerie far sooner than the duration of my one week tenure if she answers wrong.
Thankfully, no such outcome awaits me. She points back to the buffet table, behind the tower of muffins. “Thank the stars,” I gush, trying to mimic her turn of phrase from earlier. “I was about to give it all up for coffee.”
Ferra’s eyes narrow. “You were quite secluded, weren’t you?”
I pour myself a big cup of heaven, biding my time by stirring in some cream before following her to a table. “It’s as if I’m an infant,” I say into the muffin.
“And this matching’s about to be a trial by fire, I’m afraid.”
The muffin grows dry in my mouth. I sputter and force it down with water. “Fire? No one said anything about fire to me.”
“No, I mean that it’s all going to come to you at once. There will be no gradual acclimation,” she says, unfolding a napkin over her lap. “But I suppose there’ll be fire if you aren’t used to seeing our gifts.”
“Fire’s one of the few I’ve had exposure to, thankfully.” Bash and his magic jazz hands of cozy warmth. “I hope my gift’s as convenient as that one,” I add for good measure.
“The convenience is limited only by one’s creativity, I’ve learned.”
I hum while taking my first sip of coffee. I want to ask about her magic, but I don’t want to commit a faux pas if it’s rude to inquire. She doesn’t offer that information, and we move onto discussing fashion as we eat. She tells me of her parents’ love for blue jeans and records while I attempt to keep details about myself left as vague yet believable as possible. By the end, I’m itching to meet with Ryland to fill my knowledge gaps. I doubt a fae without a Techie background would offer me the same social liberties Ferra likely has. Not that I’m meant to be hanging around regular fae, anyway. No wonder the council hopped on the opportunity to use me. No seasoned Separatist is going to trust a stuffy upper-crust fae.
I let her know I’ll return the dress tonight as we exit the dining hall.
“Where are you off to next?” she asks, concern marking her brow.
“Shopping, I hope!”
“I’ll be on the training grounds until nightfall if you need anything,” she says, taking off toward the East. I choose to turn back to where we came before breakfast. Upon doing so, I discover six and a half feet of fae blocking my view. With him comes the rain, and I know without looking that Ryland has found me as promised.
“You’ll find the shopping is already finished and waiting in your quarters,” his baritone voice confirms. I step back to create distance and take in his citadel wardrobe. If Clara’s obsession with cosplay taught me anything, it’s taught me what a doublet is. And this is definitely a structured doublet he has on over his dark, thigh-hugging pants. The doublet is also dark, but thin lavender piping and quilting in a thread of the same shade stand to remind the viewer of exactly who they’re looking at: an Everhart.
His hair is in a half-pony today, the length of it glossy and fresh from a wash. He looks made for this building. I tilt my head back to meet his smoky eyes. “Whose doing was that?”
“You’re looking at him,” he says.
Now, he didn’t do such a poor job with my riding outfit, but I’d have preferred some power in this decision. “What if they don’t fit or suit me?”
“Improbable. Twyla shopped with me,” he says with a frown.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but I’ve already filled my opening for Faerie Godmother.” I swish the skirt of my linen dress. His eyes appear to roam up my legs before flicking back to my own.
“That’s a relief, for she isn’t old enough to be your mother,” he says, continuing down a hall to the west.
I hustle to catch up, chasing him with a sing-song tone. “Could Twyla be your sis
terrrrr?”
“You would be lucky to find out,” he replies.
Aha! She is. “As long as it isn’t all varying shades of lavender with slits up to the vagoo, I’ll be alright.”
His upper lip curls at my modern appellation for female genitalia. “Not even a Techie would speak that way. Mind yourself.”
Crap on a cracker, he’s right. I’m already losing my spy persona thirty seconds into this encounter. Fae hearing is way too good for me to be losing my edge like this. “Thanks,” I say very begrudgingly. “Hard to believe, but that may be my first slip this morning.”
“We’ll hope it’s your last. Twyla’s taste is unparalleled, but taking her also meant I avoided shopping for such a large volume of ladies clothing alone.” He tosses me a glance over his shoulder, which is more to the side than it is over his shoulder, but I’m still struggling to keep up. “She’s of similar build.”
“I see. Well, please thank her for me. I’m sure there will be even more to thank her for once I see the clothes, myself.”
“She came for my sake, not yours.”
“How convenient for me,” I mutter while working to reign in my temper. A new Separatist wouldn’t be shouting down a fae of Ryland’s reputation in the middle of a citadel hallway. Unfortunately for me, my ticket home lies in playing along with his games. The sooner I realize this, the easier my job will become.
We say no more before reaching our destination down a secluded wing of the vast building. He pulls a key from his pocket, unlocking an ancient door at the end of the corridor. Beams of sunlight stray into the hall, causing me to sigh in relief. I worried we’d be in a windowless dungeon with nothing but candlelight. Ryland holds the door open, so I take his cue and enter first.
A table with two chairs sits in the middle of an airy room, the floor beneath it spiraled in rings that radiate outward from the center. I suspect it’s made from the cross section of an enormous tree, which fills me with awe and a slight sadness. Bookcases line the outer edges of the room, the flooring near them featuring intricate maple leaves cut from varying species of wood.
I turn back to Ryland. “Took me to the Autumn library, huh?”
He shakes his head. “This is my private study.”
Oh. “It’s beautiful.” I’m not sure what else to say. If I gush about it the way I’d like to, it probably won’t be well-received. And if it were, I’d only be inflating his pride. My compliment hangs in the air as I take in the bay windows, complete with a deep-set reading nook. I rest a knee on the cushioned cubby, stretching forward to see the view outside.
It’s surprising to find his window doesn’t overlook the Autumn side of the city, but Spring’s instead. “The gardens,” he says, although his explanation is unnecessary. Despite the heaps of fall leaves littering the grounds, the garden outside this window is alive with early Autumn blooms. They’re difficult to make out in the distance, but the brilliant reds of spider lilies gather in clusters while heavy magenta amaranth tendrils kiss the earth. Farther out stretches the Spring Quarter, where I’d expect to see young leaves and blossoms if I could see that far.
“I would have assumed you prefer an Autumn view.” Would I, though? He’s preferred Spring in other facets.
“It brings me balance,” he replies simply, sliding a chair out from the table.
The gliding of the chair across the floor sends my nerves into a death roll, my palms growing despicably moist. It may not be a dungeon, but this room’s about to become my own personal torture chamber. I tear myself away from the window to where our first session is about to begin. My inquisitor and his infuriatingly tight pants await.
17
Ryland
It’s been a long day already, and the mortal is only now eating breakfast. I stumbled on Varigarde in a Spring stairwell on my way to fetch her. “Gone to eat with the neighbor,” he said. I thought to intercept their path and send for food to the study, but that would have interfered with her reconnaissance. Whether she realizes it’s reconnaissance is another matter.
Twyla was a breath of fresh air, recharging my spirits. Amassing a wardrobe on brief notice was an impossible feat alone, and her company was as helpful as it was invigorating. I protested her participation in the matching while thumbing through racks of gowns, which she dismissed as I knew she would. It isn’t in her nature to exist as a spectator, waiting for the world to happen. Twyla Everhart happens to the world. Objections of the heart aside, I wouldn’t wish my sister any other way.
I gave her a kiss on the cheek, sending her off to the training grounds. I may also be there, were it not for my duties. Now I lean against a column outside the dining hall, looking like a lovesick boy as I fiddle with the mortal’s ring in my pocket. The thin band with pale pressed flowers is less extravagant a choice than I expected.
The soft tapping of her boots announces her exit from the dining hall. I retreat around the corner to avoid disrupting her conversation. When her green-haired friend makes for the East, I make for Brooks. She pivots around when I’m merely steps away, her movement sending a flurry of the damning scent Roslyn conjured. The color of the dress she’s wearing makes her freckles look bronze against her cheeks and draws the amber from her eyes. It’s a shame I didn’t include that shade in our shopping today, for it’d win her many cohorts.
I inform her of my morning endeavor, which she meets with resistance and doubt. She twirls her skirt in response to my reply, flashing skin without meaning to. My eyes follow of their own accord, and she likely picks up on it before I can get them under control. If she did, her disgust would still not rival my own. We hash it out and reach an understanding, continuing in silence until reaching the study.
I allow her to enter first, knowing it’ll be her last moments of freedom before we cram for tonight’s event. We have little time and all the world to learn. She presses a hand to her chest while taking in the rings of a felled tree I had delivered from Kilthorne. After looking around more, she tells me it’s beautiful. Damn right, it is. It’s a relief to hear humans her age still appreciate such things.
A stray piece of debris in the length of my hair catches my eye, likely from a shedding tree. When I look up from removing it, she’s bent over the window seat looking onto the garden. The hem of her skirt stretches high on the back of her legs, and the waist it narrows into may drive me mad if she doesn’t say something in the next instant which reminds me of her demerits. I curse my short doublet as my wool trousers grow taut in the one place I don’t need them to. “The gardens,” I inform her like a simpleton. Only the shadows of the desk can save me now.
I bungle through an incoherent reply and take a seat, feeling like a prisoner of war within my own sanctuary. She follows suit, swinging one leg over the other with her arms crossed. Her form screams combative, and if I don’t ease the tension, this debriefing will become verbal warfare. I clasp my hands together over the table, willing my jaw to release before remembering the ring in my possession.
I reach into my pocket. “First things first,” I say, setting the ring within her reach. “You must never remove this, understand?” She places it on the fourth finger of her left hand, the ring finger to humans if I’m not mistaken. “Are you aware that finger bears no weight in our culture?”
She glances up from the ring. “Skye informed me. It feels more natural to wear something of importance on that finger.”
“If that’s what keeps it on.”
“No worries, there.” Her lashes obscure her eyes as she peers to the side. “I haven’t given up on going home yet.”
“And to that effort, we have much to cover.” I clasp my hands together again, loathing to begin. “Are there any pressing questions before I condense all of our history into a neat dissertation?”
A hint of good humor lights her eyes. “Any question?”
If her previous questions are anything to judge by, I better strap in. “One.” I’ll allow it if it means the rest of the day goes smoothly, and to say I�
�m not curious would be to lie.
She rests an elbow on the desk, chin propped onto her fist as she considers her options with narrowed eyes. I know she’s reached a decision when she mimics my posture by folding her hands across the desk.
“What I wish to know from you, Ryland Everhart, is whether pumpkins in Faerie grow large enough to comfortably house a passenger.” At least she isn’t asking about my family life again, although I enjoyed watching her take to the canter. She’ll never grow if she’s left under the mollycoddling wings of Varigarde and Ankerstrand.
“Give a girl one ring and she thinks she’s Cinderella,” I tut with a half-smile to let her know I’m poking fun. But her furrowed brow doesn’t convey an understanding that I’m poking fun. I better wrap this up. “To answer your question, yes and no. None of our pumpkin varieties grow so large of their own volition, but fae with the green thumb gift have been known to encourage such things.” I stretch my neck toward the window. “I think you’ll find more answers in the gardens.”
Her pinched brows soften. Maybe we’ll be able to surprise everyone by working together long enough to have her prepared for the ceremony. “I’ll start with the War of the Ancients.” She straightens onto the edge of her seat, glamoured ears at attention. “You better settle in. There’s a lot to tell.”
“Well, in that case,” she says, rising and sashaying over to the window seat, “I’ll listen from over here.” Using the pillow Twyla embroidered as support, she rests her back against the window and extends her legs over the seat. It’s an insolent move, but one I appreciate when most of her scent migrates to that side of the room. I’ll never forgive Roslyn for ascribing her two of my favorites.
I angle my chair toward her. “Our current system is relatively new within fae history. Before the War of the Ancients, we had a monarchy that rotated between the seasonal courts. The ruling King and Queen were composed of intermarried couples between Summer and Winter, then Spring and Autumn. Once a couple had ruled fifty years, a fresh pair took their place. Today we maintain balance between the courts through the council of nine.” I pause to allow her a chance to question.
