by Molly Ringle
“Your scents inspire pleasure?” Sia Fia reached out to stroke the silver cap.
“Without any mood-altering magic. They’re beautiful all on their own, through the way we mix them.” Merrick, who might not have been accustomed to formal speeches but who did know how to sell perfume, cradled the box in one arm and touched the bottle as he spoke. “Silver and Lunacy takes its name from a love poem written by my father, Aneurin Highvalley. Cassidy and I crafted it to evoke the sensations of desire. We used notes associated with sensuality—island-harvested rose, ylang-ylang, sandalwood, patchouli, incense, and musk, and, the sexiest note in my opinion: honey. If you’ve ever smelled a warm honeycomb, you’ll know exactly what I mean.”
The excited whispering among the fae grew louder, and more of them reached out to touch the bottle.
Sia Fia descended further and gathered the box into her arms. “We are most intrigued, perfumer Highvalley. We will certainly sample your scent.”
“To help you enjoy it more,” Merrick said, drawing a cream-colored card from his pocket, “I’ve also brought this charm. It’s a chantagram, a bit of material magic that plays a message. Here’s my father performing his poem.”
He opened the card and stroked his finger across the red wax stripe within. An image sprang up into the air: a small moving picture of Nye Highvalley, a few years younger. Merrick had shown Larkin these cards last night, adding that he had “ripped” the poems from “online videos,” whatever that meant.
The fae hushed to listen. Nye spoke in the recording, his voice like a chant itself:
A flake of your silver toenail polish winked at me from my bedsheets today.
What is this magic?
That a scrap of dried paint can fill me with euphoria?
I got on hands and knees, breathed your smell from the mattress,
Salt and dirt and honey,
Sighed in ecstasy and fell on my back when I found one of your hairs on a pillow.
Dogs behave with more decorum. Surely it’s a spell.
They say there are haunts in the fae lands
Where it feels like this all the time.
I say we have brought such a place here,
A sphere of enchantment enclosing you, me, this bed.
You will return tonight and
Let us stay in that delirium as long as the spell and our bodies allow.
Press me down,
Whisper your cravings,
Let your urges push your hands out on long wanders across our territory.
This bed is our indomitable island.
Let us feast on it, sleep on it,
Ignore the calls of work and humdrum life.
Leave the running of the tedious world to others
Who do not feel this spell,
Who are immune to our strain of damp, heated, tender
Lunacy.
The fae emitted a collective moan of pleasure after it ended. Larkin, who had not heard the whole poem before, murmured to Merrick, “My word. After hearing that, I would have dropped into the man’s garden too.”
Merrick’s cheek dimpled as he smiled, his dark eyes flashing at Larkin. He handed Sia Fia the card.
She touched the stripe to make the poem repeat, while her fae whispered and quivered in bursts of light.
“I am most pleased,” she said after the recital, and closed the card and handed it, along with the perfume, to one of her attendants. “Tell me, this strengthening of our border: are we to do so entirely on our own? Ula Kana is a formidable enemy and could overpower us if she wished. She has already swayed and stolen five of my guard this day.”
“We’re most sorry for the loss of your guards,” Larkin said. “You would not be expected to hold the border through your strength alone. We bring this, enchanted by Rosamund long ago.” He unfolded the white cloth in which they had wrapped the obsidian blade, and gave the dagger to Sia Fia.
Larkin explained its intended use, the firework that would signal the moment at which to strike it into the ground, and the need to keep this plan secret from other fae so that Ula Kana would not hear of it.
Sia Fia turned the blade and laid her fingers and cheek upon it from different angles, sounding out its magic. At last she smiled. “Share with us this night your dances and other arts you possess, and we shall be happy to cooperate in your plan.”
Larkin felt a weight lift from him, despite the dread that the night’s revels might not be easy and that their “arts” might not satisfy. “We are sincerely grateful.”
“It’s very gracious of you,” Merrick added. “Thank you.”
“Then let us feast.” Sia Fia flicked her fingertips upward, causing a loud crack and a flash of white flame. Turquoise leaves and magenta petals wafted down. Where a second earlier there had been only rocks and earth, a low stone table stood, bearing gold platters heaped with fruits, steaming spiced meats, and squares of hot flatbread. It smelled irresistible. But resist they must.
Everyone clustered about and collected food with all the organization of a starving mob, though they did urge Larkin and Merrick to go first, thrusting plates into their hands. The two of them obediently gathered food—being so close to it made Larkin’s mouth water—but he and Merrick glanced at one another, and Merrick shook his head subtly. Once they had chosen a flower-strewn hollow between trees to sit in, Merrick excused himself to their cave and a moment later brought back a pair of freeze-dried meal packets.
“It’s one of our silly human rules,” he said in apology to the curious fae who had gathered around. “We have to eat these or we’ll lose our minds in here.”
They laughed, but many also uttered an “Oh” of disappointment.
“But it is such fun to lose one’s mind in here!” one said.
“The clearer our minds,” Merrick said, “the more dances and other arts we can think up for you.”
Sia Fia settled upon a branch in front of them, attendants flanking her and feeding her morsels from long golden forks. “Tell us how you came to be awakened, young prince,” she said.
Stories, after all, were one human art, and no one could have told this particular tale to them yet in any detail. It was new, and therefore they craved it. So as Merrick and Larkin took bites from their sad meal packets, neglecting the entrancing food on their plates, they told the story.
The troop was delighted and asked enough questions to spawn several more stories. They clustered around to listen, dangling from leaves, bobbing in the air, clinging to tree trunks. Larkin felt flattered. The palace had not made him feel half as celebrated. Merrick seemed to enjoy it too, sitting cross-legged, gesturing airily with his fingers, laughing. Fluffy magenta blossoms had landed in his curls, making him look both more fae and more beautiful.
Larkin sprayed the front of his shirt with lucidity again and made sure to breathe it deeply.
After the meal was cleared away, Sia Fia asked what dances Larkin and Merrick could show.
“I’m told Merrick knows a ‘chicken dance,’” Larkin said.
Merrick elbowed him. But the fae made loud complaints to veto the idea. They had seen this dance, evidently, and were bored of it.
“I hear Larkin knows contra dancing,” Merrick said. “From the 1700s. Dances they performed at the palace.”
“Oooh.” This they had not seen. Most were too young to remember Larkin’s era.
Larkin tried to explain. “I do know this dance, but it requires a line of several couples, a dozen at least. It would be difficult for me alone to show you.”
They importuned him to demonstrate anyway, so he organized the variously-sized volunteers into a line. Sia Fia transformed herself to Larkin’s height to stand as his partner—a disconcerting change, as she looked mighty enough to pound him into the ground. Merrick sat on a hammock nearby, smiling, wearing a crown of flowers some fada had set upon his head.
“Will this music do?” Sia Fia inquired.
Larkin listened to the looping melody echoing off the rock walls,
then nodded. “The tempo and time are suitable. We begin this way, you with a curtsy and I with a bow.” The bow he gave was not the ordinary social bow, but a dance style, one foot set before the other, knees bending outward, arm sweeping low.
Sia Fia, rather than curtsying, copied the bow exactly, as did every faery down the line, like a row of mirrors.
He opted not to correct the point, and showed them the first several steps, explaining as he went. “We step forward, circle round each other with hands raised to touch like so, three steps back again, and once again forward … ”
The fae mimicked him with eerie precision, but when he paused to describe the next steps, they all tumbled into undisciplined twirling as if they could not retain what he had just told them. Nonetheless, he kept instructing.
“The framework and these initial steps are similar to the contra dances of Britain and Northern Europe, but Eidolonians have added bits of the dances of other countries too; the places they came from. This next set of steps is inspired by Turkish halay.” He gave a few rhythmic stomps and another bow, which Sia Fia and the others copied. “Then the fandango of Spain and Portugal.” He demonstrated, swirling his hands upward and ending with four claps. When the fae clapped their hands, sparks and tiny fireworks shot up. “And then a set inspired by Chinese fan dance, for which we mimic holding a fan … ” Larkin executed a turn, then extended his arm to describe a wide arc. All the fae in the line swung their arms along with him. “We then repeat those four sets, over and over.”
Despite several rounds, however, the fae still could only do the steps if Larkin was doing them. They could not recall them for even a second if he stopped.
It made Merrick laugh, which pleased Larkin, as Merrick had looked so haunted since Sal’s reabsorption into the elements. Larkin stepped toward him, extending a hand. “Might I attempt a human partner?”
“Oh, no,” Merrick said.
But the fae were shouting, “Yes, he must dance!,” Sia Fia most emphatically of all, so Merrick had no choice but to take Larkin’s hand.
“I’m going to be terrible at this,” Merrick said as he tried the opening bow.
“Fear not. I’ve had my feet stepped upon by some of the most notable persons in the country.”
Merrick followed Larkin’s steps, and even if he was more awkward than the strangely-mirrored movements of the fae, Larkin greatly preferred him as a partner. Especially the moments in which they hooked an arm about the other’s waist and whirled, close enough to kiss.
“Does it take you back to the old days?” Merrick asked. “Balls at the palace?”
“Only somewhat. The music is different. And of course we’re dressed entirely wrong.”
Sia Fia, wheeling by with a new partner, stopped and turned. “Why, my good guests, you should have said. What must one wear? Do tell us.”
“For an occasion such as this, formal tatters—gown or suit; anyone could choose either. We tended to wear light gowns in hot weather, but otherwise I preferred suits, as I found dancing easier in them.”
“Made of silk from our island’s worms?” Sia Fia said.
“Aye, silk with linen beneath. We did not have as much cotton as you seem to nowadays.” He plucked at Merrick’s T-shirt.
“Describe the suit,” Sia Fia said.
“Tailcoat, waistcoat, and shirt; knee breeches, stockings, and dancing slippers.”
“Like so?” she said, and Larkin felt his clothing constrict about the waist and legs, and wrap down to cover his bare arms.
He looked at himself and laughed—he was indeed wearing formal tatters, or at least an approximation thereof. “Not badly done,” he said. “However, this is a greatcoat, not a tailcoat. It must cut away in front and not hinder the legs. In addition, I would never have worn this color to a ball.” For she had chosen black for the suit, with only the linen shirt white.
She urged him to correct all mistakes. As he spoke the suggestions, they became reality: lace frill sprouting on his linen shirt; the silk tailcoat, waistcoat, breeches, and slippers turning ivory-gold; embroidery of birds, flowers, and mountains curling across the coat in flame-red and sapphire; and rows of pearl buttons upon his sleeves and breeches.
Merrick watched in amusement. “How about a powdered wig with a ribbon?”
“Laird-a-lady, no. Wigs and powder went out in the eighties. But my hair should be curled and tied back—you are right about the ribbon. I would suggest blue to match this embroidery.”
His hair had already been confined in one of the springy bands he had been given by Elemi, so he did not feel an immediate change. However, when he pulled the queue over his shoulder, he found his locks neatly tamed into long curls, and a smart blue ribbon tying them off at the nape of his neck.
“Splendid.” He arched an eyebrow at Merrick. “Now Highvalley requires the same tailoring.”
“Yes!” cried the fae.
With a laugh, Merrick covered his face, but a few seconds later he parted his hands to look down at his clothing, for he had been magically wrapped in tatters exactly the same as Larkin’s.
“Ah, but that color does not suit him,” Larkin said.
Merrick turned his ivory sleeve to examine it. “I look best in midnight blue, if that’s allowed at balls.”
“As long as your shirt is white, and you liven up the color with embroidery. A pattern of green clovers and their white blossoms, perhaps?” The thought of Elemi’s hairdressing assistance had reminded Larkin of her clover pins.
As soon as he suggested it, it was done: Merrick’s silk suit became a rich dark blue with clover leaves and flowers stitched around its hems. His hair had been pulled back and secured with a dark blue ribbon—it was just long enough to manage that.
Satisfied, Larkin smiled. “There. Let the dance resume.”
The fae, who had clothed themselves in similar manner, began following Larkin’s steps again as he led Merrick into another set.
While their hosts chattered and sang, Larkin collected Merrick’s silk-clothed waist within his arm. “That’s a fine color upon you, Highvalley. You look most dashing.”
“Thank you. As do you.” They pivoted, switched arms, and spun the other direction. “I thought we weren’t supposed to flirt, though.” Merrick’s sparkling eyes teased him.
“I was merely putting you at ease, lest you felt ridiculous in such finery.”
“You think I never wear nice clothes? I’m insulted.”
“Well, you didn’t know how to dance, so when would you have worn them?”
“You haven’t seen my chicken-dance suit. It’s very handsome.”
They continued dancing and conversing. But Sia Fia did not allow the dancing to stop, not for hours upon hours. This was what Larkin had heard tales of when people spoke of the dreamlike fae realm, so he was not particularly surprised. He was, however, tired, as was Merrick. They’d had the longest and most wearying of days, and their feet had begun to ache. The fae allowed them to take respite to visit the water closet of sorts in their cave, but if either of them attempted to rest any longer than that, they were dragged back into the dancing with admonishments that stopping was not part of the agreement.
“If it puts an end to Ula Kana’s violence, then I suppose I can endure it,” Larkin murmured, his cheek upon Merrick’s shoulder.
“This is the strangest way to win a war ever,” Merrick said.
They had stayed together as partners, and moved slowly, arms around one another’s waists, heads upon shoulders. The scent of Merrick, lucidity herbs and silk and warm hair, put Larkin at ease, making him sleepy.
To keep themselves awake they spoke of any topic that came to mind.
“How old are you?” Merrick asked.
“Twenty-six. Well, I was when I was put into the sleep. Perhaps we must add two hundred and twenty years.”
“That would make you fairly ancient. But if we count you as twenty-six, then you’re three years younger than me. You seem older. The way you talk.”
“Also my completely immature personality.”
Some time later, Merrick asked, “Would you have married Boris?”
Larkin considered it. “I would have asked him. He would have said no.”
“Of course he wouldn’t. You’re a prince.”
“Quite. He always felt ill-matched with me, as a commoner. Though he was kind about it, it was clear he felt ours was not a love for our whole lives, merely a youthful diversion. Even if we would be lifelong friends.”
“But for you he was the love of your life.” Merrick sounded sad.
“I’m not certain of that. But I did love him, and he didn’t deserve to die as he did.”
“No. No one does.”
Some minutes after that, Merrick murmured, “But he read you poetry in bed?”
Larkin chuckled. “That wasn’t Boris. That was Rabbie, before him.”
“Rabbie?”
“Rab Tasi.”
“The composer?” Merrick brought his head up. “Eidolonia’s Mozart?”
“Is that what they’re calling him? How flattering.”
“You had sex with Tasi? Was he your age, or … ”
“Oh, no, he was some twenty-five years older than I.”
“Damn, son. Trapping the silver foxes.”
Larkin burst into laughter. “It was only once, if you must know.”
“Ah. Pretty bad?”
“We were better off as friends, to be sure.” Larkin glanced toward the sky. “Forgive me, Rabbie, you know it’s true.”
“What was bad? The sex or the poetry?”
Larkin sighed. “Both.”
They lapsed quiet again, dancing in weariness. Then Larkin said, “Feng, though? Truly?”
Merrick pressed his forehead to the side of Larkin’s neck. “That’s right, you met him. Would you believe he wasn’t always so conceited? Or maybe he was, and I just didn’t realize.”
