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Chapter Text

“Who are you?” Feyre asked hesitantly, pressed against the paneled wall of the dining hall.

She knew what he was, of course. A High Fae; faerie nobility. Though they resembled humans, such beings were blessed with unearthly beauty, powerful magic, and immortality. The man before her apparently had the gift to change his shape from a horned, wolf-like beast to a man with emerald eyes, long golden hair, and pointed ears—a faerie’s ears. As if the aura of magic around him was not proof enough.

The once-beastly High Fae did not answer her at first. Sitting at the head of the long table, he stared at her over the rim of his golden wine goblet. His lips were pressed in a thin line, apparently considering his answer carefully. It was nearly impossible to read his expression otherwise, what with the golden mask covering the top half of his face.

“You may call me… Tamlin,” he said at last, before breaking their gaze to swallow what remained of his wine. 

Her brows furrowed at his answer. If he expected some kind of recognition, he would be sorely disappointed. Gathering her courage, she took a hesitant step forward from the wall. She froze as his emerald gaze flicked to her, watching her every movement. Like a wolf. Like a beast.

She licked her dry lips and said, “Sir—” His otherworldly eyes narrowed at this. “—Tamlin. What exactly is it you plan on doing with me?”

“Feeding you,” he said curtly, then reached for the nearest crystal decanter to refill his goblet.

Her gaze roamed over the steaming dishes laid out on the long table. Everything looked safe, and familiar, too: platters of lamb and roast chicken, bowls filled with savory sauces, potatoes, peas, asparagus, loaves of hot bread, crystal bowls filled with fruit, and several decanters of wine from the deepest red to the palest white. It seemed too good to be true, which meant it was probably enchanted…

When she said nothing, he gestured with his goblet to the chair at the other end of the food-laden table. “Sit,” he said roughly. “Eat.”

Feyre clutched at the collar of her cloak and hesitated. The old rhymes she had learned as a child floated through her mind: If a faerie invites thee to dine; Taste not its food, drink not its wine…

Tamlin’s emerald green eyes flickered as he stared at her. “Unless you’d rather faint?”

Her mouth watered at the delicious smells, the sight of all that steaming food. She swallowed. “It—it’s not safe for humans,” she said stiffly. Such is not meant for mortal men; Lest ye be bound to Prythian. If you partook, you would be bound in mind, body, and soul; to be a slave, if you were lucky.

He let out a mirthless chuckle. “The food is safe for you to eat, human.” Then he lifted his chin and nodded at the doorway behind her. “If you do not trust me, you may leave, if you wish. I am not your jailer. The rules of the Treaty do not require that you live here, as long as you stay in Prythian,” he said dismissively, lifting the goblet for another swallow.

Though tempting, she would likely end up somewhere worse. Or dead. Or worse than dead. She hugged herself tighter and stayed where she was.

“As you wish.” He proceeded to ignore her and set down his goblet to serve himself.

She gazed longingly at the food, then nearly jumped out of her skin as someone swept through the doorway, headed for the High Fae seated at the table.

The stranger sketched a bow, then straightened up to rest his hand on the pommel of his jeweled sword. “Well?” he asked. Another High Fae; slender, with long red hair, and dressed in a tunic of muted silver.

“Well, what?” Tamlin said, not looking up as he piled food on his golden plate. 

“Is it true? Is Andras dead?”

Tamlin paused. “Yes,” came the quiet reply. “I’m sorry.”

The stranger stiffened, then swore viciously. “How?” he demanded, gripping the hilt of his weapon.

“An ash arrow,” Tamlin explained quietly, looking up at last. “The Treaty’s summons led me to the mortal… I gave her safe haven.”

The red-haired Fae snorted, then released his weapon to cross his arms. “A mortal girl actually killed Andras,” he said scornfully. He glanced at the end of the table, at the empty chair. “And you’re certain you found the right one?”

The golden-haired Fae gestured to her with his fork. “The summons led me right to her doorstep.”

The stranger whirled to face her, hiding by the doorway. His eyes widened; one an earthy, russet brown, the other—she gulped. A golden, metallic orb whirred as it fixated on her. The upper half of his face was covered in a bronze, fox-faced mask; it did little to conceal the wicked scar that had apparently taken his left eye. Perhaps from a sword fight, she thought, as evidenced by the long gash from his brow down to his jaw. That would explain why he wore a mask, but not why his friend did. She tried not to stare.

He scoffed, then turned to Tamlin. “You’re not serious. That scrawny thing brought down Andras with a single ash arrow?”

Feyre scowled. Bastard. She wished she still had the arrow so that she could prove herself… by shooting him instead.

“She did… She did not even try to deny it,” Tamlin said wearily, reaching for his goblet.

The fox-masked faerie sunk onto the edge of the table, glowering. “Well, that does it,” he muttered. “And you gave her safe haven.” He glared at her. “Did you enjoy killing my friend, human?”

Feyre tensed at the malice in his words and reached for the knife at her belt—the one she no longer carried. She had been disarmed before arriving here, so she would need to find something to defend herself, no matter what Tamlin had promised.

The stranger went on, “Did you even hesitate? Or were you too consumed with your own hate to consider sparing him?” He sneered at her. “It must have been so satisfying; a scrawny little thing like you—”

“Lucien,” Tamlin growled, traces of the beast in his tone. “Behave.”

The red-haired faerie stiffened, then hopped off the edge of the table and gave her a deep bow. “My apologies, lady,” he said in a low voice, before straightening up. “I am Lucien, courtier and emissary.”

Feyre’s eyes narrowed as she looked at him askance. Some emissary. But two-faced courtier sounded just about right.

When she did not reply, he gestured to her and said, “And you are…?” 

She crossed her arms and gritted her teeth. His name meant nothing to her, but her name, her family’s name—

“Feyre. The girl’s name is Feyre.”

She stared at Tamlin, startled. He stared back as he traced the rim of his goblet with a finger, tipped with a wicked claw… the beast’s claw. As the claw scraped the metal, the sound made her shiver. He must have heard her name back at the cottage… before her father bade her farewell for the final time.

“Lady Feyre,” Lucien said smoothly, drawing her attention. A coy smile traced his lips. “Your eyes are like stars, and your hair like burnished gold.”

She snorted at his feeble attempts at flattery as she glanced away. So what if faeries couldn’t lie… It didn’t make him less of a bastard.

When she looked back, their eyes were wide with surprise. “What?” she asked coolly. She knew it wasn’t wise to offend a faerie, but hunger was making her cross. The one who called himself Tamlin made her nervous, beast that he was, but this Lucien was just an ass. Not that she dared say so.

Lucien crossed his arms and snorted. “Charming.”

She frowned. Before she could retort, Tamlin addressed her.

“If you would prefer to clean up first, Alis will take you to your room,” he said evenly. Room, not cell. “You could use a bath and fresh clothes.”

Before Feyre could decide if that was an insult, a firm hand touched her elbow. She jumped as a short, masked woman appeared at her side. If it were not for that brass bird mask or her pointed ears, Feyre could have easily mistaken her for one of the farm wives from the village. The servant, this Alis, was pleasantly plump, with smooth brown hair in a bun, and dressed in a simple brown dress and a crisp white apron. Her brown eyes were bright and no-nonsense, making Feyre wonder why she would choose to wear such a mask. Perhaps the masks were for some kind of party later…

Alis gently, though firmly, pulled on her arm. It appeared she didn’t have much of a choice, so she let herself be pulled through the large double doors that led into the hall. She had scarcely stepped foot on the tiled floor when she heard Lucien complaining to his friend.

“This is the hand the Cauldron chose to deal us? She brought Andras down?” He huffed. “By the Mother… He never should have been out there. None of them should have been out there. It was a fool’s errand.”

“Andras knew the risks,” Tamlin said evenly.

“Let’s forget about this. Forget the girl,” Lucien said coldly; his next words made her shiver. “Dump her somewhere. Kill her off. I don’t care. It’s time we said enough to this foolishness. It’s time we took a stand—”

“No,” Tamlin said sharply. “Not until we know for certain that we have no other choice. As for the girl, she stays. Unharmed. End of discussion. Her life in that hovel was Hell enough.”

Feyre’s face flushed. Her cottage, a hovel. Compared to this place, she supposed it was.

Lucien barked a laugh. “Then you have your work cut out for you, old friend. I’m sure she’ll fit right in…” he simpered. “A fine replacement for Andras. Maybe she can even train with the others on the border—”

A beastly snarl was the only reply. If Lucien said anything else, she didn’t hear it as Alis led her away.

***

As the mortal’s footsteps faded away, the spell binding Lucien’s tongue eased, and he let out a quiet, mirthless chuckle. He rubbed his throat and glanced at Tamlin. “So that’s what Amarantha meant when she said our tongues would be bound to mortal silence. We can’t tell this girl anything about this curse, can we?”

A trace of a snarl lingered on Tamlin’s lips as he stared out the open dining room doors, staring after the human girl. “Not when she is in the room, at least,” he growled. “I was able to tell her my name, but not much else.”

Lucien followed his line of sight and remarked, “If you insist on keeping her here… If this is going to work, really work, we’ll have to get creative.” He circled the table to sit in his usual place at the High Lord’s right hand. “Good thinking, by the way, blaming the Treaty to get her to come in the first place.”

Tamlin said quietly, “This girl, this Fay-ruh…” He scoffed and shook his head. “When I told Amarantha I’d rather bed a human, it was to piss her off. I never imagined it would actually come to this. To that.” He pointed in the direction the girl had gone.

Lucien smirked as he poured a goblet of rich dark wine. “She is a rather sullen little creature, isn’t she? Nice mouth, though.”

He lifted the goblet to his lips and noticed Tamlin looking at him askance. If the mask weren’t concealing his features, the High Lord’s left eyebrow would be arched at him.

Lucien let out a nervous chuckle. “I mean, she’s not that bad-looking.” He took a brief sip, then shrugged nonchalantly and gestured with the goblet. “I mean, she has full lips, a pretty nose… Comb her hair, put her in a nice dress, it might not be as bad as you think.”

Tamlin grimaced. “Bedding her is one thing. But the rules of this ridiculously complicated spell say that she has to fall in love with me. And I have to—” He groaned and rubbed the space over his heart. “Damn it,” he muttered.

Lucien sat back and swirled his wine. “Amarantha must have thought there was a chance you’d win,” he said, “or she wouldn’t have turned your heart to stone, too. She always was a cheat.”

The High Lord brought his fingers to his forehead, to the gold mask magically fastened to his face. He curled his fingers against the immovable edge, then let out a resigned sigh. “Six more months. There’s a chance…” He dropped his hands to the table and looked at Lucien. “I have to believe there’s still a chance.”

The fox-masked faerie lifted his goblet in salute. “Here’s to chances, then. Here’s to one hateful human heart softening enough to break this damn curse,” he declared, then his wry smile faded. “And here’s to Andras,” he added quietly.

Tamlin sighed, then lifted his goblet and clinked it against Lucien’s. “To Andras.”

They each drained their goblets, then were silent for a long moment in memory of their fallen comrade.

Lucien broke the silence first as he reached for the decanter. “I’ll take over Andras’s shift. It’s the least I can do.”

Tamlin nodded thoughtfully. “I could use your help with the girl, too. I hardly know what to say to her.”

Lucien smirked as he refilled his goblet. “I do have a way with women.” He shrugged at Tamlin’s glare. “Relax. She’s not my type.”

Tamlin shook his head. “She’s not my type, either.”

Lucien rubbed his chin in thought. “There must be something the two of you have in common… If nothing else, I suppose you could talk about hunting…” He glanced in the direction the girl had gone. He hadn’t been lying when he said she had a nice mouth, soft and full, but her surliness and scrawniness made it difficult to imagine her on the handsome High Lord’s arm. He sighed. “The alternative is to get drunk.” He lifted his goblet and caught Tamlin’s eye. “Very, very drunk.”

Lucien was relieved to see his friend crack a smile. Six more months… A lot could happen in six months. But as the sun began to sink beyond the dining hall windows, the shadows grew longer. And time was growing shorter. What was six months compared to an eternity Under the Mountain?

Chapter Text

A scented, steaming bath waited for her. Hot water. In a large, porcelain clawfoot tub. Feyre hadn’t seen one since she was eleven. Come to think of it, that was the last time she had taken a hot bath. The cottage had no running water. The same wooden tub they used for laundry was the same one they bathed in. There was no time to enjoy a hot soak, however, for Alis, along with two other masked servants, rolled up their sleeves and set to work.

Armed with an arsenal of supplies— soaps and towels, brushes and combs—they bathed her, scrubbed years of grime from beneath her nails, cut her hair, and even groomed her brows. They clucked over her as though she were a child—which, she supposed, she was compared to faeries—and she endured it all, if only because it felt so wonderful to be clean again. The only thing she resisted was the velvet gown they laid out for her afterward. No matter how pretty the color, a soft jade green, she hadn’t worn dresses in years. It was impossible to climb trees, hunt for game, or even run comfortably in a dress. She was not convinced that that part of her life was over.

After a brief, careful disagreement with Alis, the servant returned with trousers and a midnight blue tunic. Feyre let out a relieved sigh as she slipped the tunic over her head. It didn’t matter that it was slightly too large, the white shirt and dark trousers fit well. Even the calfskin boots felt like they were made for her.

As she tied the laces to the collar of her tunic, she dared to ask Alis a question. “Do I have to wear a mask, too?”

Alis’s eyes widened, and she exchanged surprised glances with the other maids. “That won’t be necessary,” she said at last with a tight smile. “We chose to wear them.”

Feyre frowned at this, but before she could ask anything else, Alis clucked at her and said, “Come along, girl. We have to do something with that hair of yours before you go to dinner. You mustn’t keep the master waiting.”

That was some comfort; she might not have to see that fox-masked faerie again. She obediently sat in a cushioned, low-backed chair before a large, unlit fireplace. As Alis ran a comb through her long, wet hair, she stared at the gilt edges of the marble hearth. This fireplace was easily twice the size of the one at the cottage. A wave of homesickness washed over her. Strangers, especially immortal ones, were no replacement for her father and sisters. She would forgo hot baths forever if it meant she could watch her father carving by the fireplace and flicking the wood curls into the low flames, or if it meant she could listen to her sisters gossiping after dinner. Would they gossip about her? Would they tell the village what had happened? Would her legacy become nothing more than a rhyme to warn children about the Treaty? Or would her sisters refuse to speak of her, just as they refused to speak of their mother’s passing? …Would anyone miss her at all?

Alis tsked over her, bringing her back to the present. “You’re hardly skin and bones, girl.”

Feyre’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “Winter does that to poor mortals,” she said coolly.

Alis huffed a laugh and set the comb aside. “Does it sharpen your tongue, too?”

Feyre clenched her teeth, as if that would protect her tongue from being spelled for offending a faerie. Though Alis was only a servant, she didn’t know what magic such a faerie might possess.

Alis’s tone, however, was conversational as she continued, “It isn’t winter here. It never is. So if you’re wise, you’ll keep your mouth shut and your ears open.” The servant’s fingers were gentle as she began to plait Feyre’s long, golden-brown hair.

Though she was nervous about the faerie’s vague warning, Feyre dared to ask another question. “Why are you doing this?”

“To keep your hair out of your eyes,” Alis said simply.

Feyre stifled a groan. “I thought faeries were…” She trailed off as the servant’s fingers stilled, then she nervously cleared her throat. “Never mind.”

Alis resumed braiding and said gently, “Not all of us are like that. Some folk around here are bound to be upset about Andras, but he knew the risks—” Feyre recalled that Tamlin had said the same thing when he thought she wasn’t listening. “—and the rest understand the terms of the Treaty… even if they resent it. Just keep your head down, and none of them will bother you. Though Lucien…” Alis chuckled as she secured the end of the braid. “…there’s one who could use a sharp tongue-lashing now and then. If you have the courage for it.”

If their first meeting were any indication, Feyre thought that might happen whether it was wise or not. Before she could say more, Alis opened the door to the hall.

“The master awaits.”

Feyre ran her hands down the velvety soft tunic as she followed Alis back to the dining room. These clothes were not so different from what she had worn on the hunt the other day. With her freshly washed hair neatly combed and braided down her back, she told herself that she could run far, far away if she had to… Then her growling stomach reminded her that was not an option. Not yet.

As she stepped through the double doors, she bit back a groan. Lucien had joined Tamlin at the table. Their golden plates were gone, but golden goblets remained. Platters of food, still steaming, waited on the table, making her dizzy with hunger. It was too much to hope for that she could eat alone, but she drew some comfort from the fact that there were only two of them. There weren’t more High Fae around, waiting to question her… to stare at her.

Lucien, seated at Tamlin’s right hand, looked her over as she walked up. “Well, you don’t look half as bad now,” he remarked. “Though the tunic isn’t half as pretty as a dress.”

So much for the eyes like stars and hair like burnished gold comments. Uncertain if she should sit or stand, she paused in the center of the room and clenched her fists at her sides. As politely as she could, she replied, “I’d prefer not to wear a dress.”

Lucien shrugged. “Why not? We’re the ones who have to look at you.”

Prick, she thought, but it was Tamlin who spoke. “Because it’s easier to kill us in pants.”

Her cheeks flushed at the assertion, but it wasn’t far from the truth. She had killed their friend, this Andras, after all.

Lucien’s russet eye was bright as he smirked and looked her over. “I’m still not convinced it wasn’t a fluke. She looks as though she could barely stand, much less take down someone like Andras.”

She glowered, but before she could retort, her stomach growled. Loudly. Her entire face burned as the red-haired Fae let out a wry chuckle.

Ignoring Lucien’s amusement at her expense, Tamlin said, “You should eat something. And—” he held up his hand, cutting her off, “—before you ask again: the food is safe for you to eat.” He gestured to the empty chair at the other end of the table.

She swallowed. If a faerie invites thee to dine… “You swear it?”

He sighed in exasperation. “Just sit down.”

“We’re not going to bite,” Lucien crooned, though his wide, fox-like grin suggested otherwise. It made her wonder if he could shape-shift the way his friend could.

She seated herself, albeit reluctantly, but before she could reach for the nearest tray of hot rolls, Tamlin stood up… to fill her plate himself. When she dared suggest that she could serve herself, his reply was a stiff, “It is an honor to be served by… one of the High Fae.”

She wasn’t sure if she should be terrified or flattered, though nervousness edged out both. Pressing herself into the high-backed chair, she kept an eye on his hands, for any hint of claws, but his tanned skin remained smooth. He filled her plate with a little bit of everything: spiced potatoes, hot gravy, roast chicken, steaming vegetables… Her mouth watered. As he reached for a decanter of pale white wine, she blurted, “Why are you doing this? You should be feeding me stale bread and water in a dungeon or someth—”

“Is that what you want?” he asked softly. Dangerously. “Would you prefer stale bread to a feast?”

She swallowed, recoiling from his cool, emerald stare.

When she did not answer, his gaze shifted to her goblet as he poured. The color of the wine matched the natural highlights in his shoulder length hair, a pale summery gold. She wondered if this would be the last time she would see such a color in this strange land of eternal springtime. It would be if she ignored Alis’s advice to keep her mouth shut, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Isn’t that what you do to mortals?” she countered, heart pounding. “Imprison them, torture them, enslave them?”

Tamlin set down the decanter with a sharp thud. Claws poked out from his fingertips as he gripped the cut crystal. She gripped the carved arms of her chair, staring at those wicked claws.

“I do not keep—” After a deep, controlled breath, he finished slowly, “—slaves…” He flexed his fingers, and the claws disappeared as if they had never been.

She released the arms of her chair with a sudden release of breath. Her fingers ached.

At the other end of the table, Lucien remarked, “Your skills with females have gotten rusty in recent decades, old friend.”

She bristled. Females. Then her eyes widened as she realized what else Lucien had said. Decades. Her heart continued to pound… Just how old were they? They both seemed like they were in their late twenties, but with faeries, you could never tell…

Tamlin, still standing near her end of the table and much too close for her liking, glared at his friend. Then he cleared his throat as he turned to her and gestured to her with a broad hand. “You look… better than before,” he said slowly.

Her brows furrowed, and she glanced at Lucien at the other end of the table. The fox-masked faerie suddenly seemed very interested in his wine.

Tamlin continued, “And your hair is… clean.”

She swallowed down his piss-poor attempts at flattery with some difficulty. “Thank you…” she said quietly. “I think.”

Tamlin said nothing else, but clasped his hands behind his back and stiffly returned to his seat.

“You are High Fae, then? Faerie nobility?” she asked him as he sat back in his chair.

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her across the long table. “We are,” he said coolly.

“So if you don’t keep mortals as slaves or prisoners, why do all this?” she asked, gesturing to her plate, the dining hall.

“Are you questioning my generosity?” he asked coolly.

It isn’t winter here. It never is, Alis had said. Feyre lifted her chin. “It’s been at least three days since I left. The venison will be running low. My family will starve without me—”

“Your family,” he said in a louder tone, “believes you have been called away to visit a sick aunt. In your absence, they will be provided for.”

Her mouth fell open in surprise. “…What? I don’t have—Huh? How?”

“I have… ways. Did you really think I would take away their only source of food and income and not replace it?”

Her eyes widened, and her mind raced. “But—but you’re High Fae!” she stammered. “You kidnap and torture and… and…” She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say.

Lucien suggested, “Replace human babies with changelings?” He gestured widely with his goblet and continued, “Dance with the spirits under the light of a full moon?” He smirked, then winked at her with his good eye. “Clothing optional, hm?”

Feyre’s face burned, and she looked to Tamlin in shock. If faeries couldn’t lie, then…

Tamlin loudly cleared his throat. “I think you will find that the stories you hear about us are not completely true,” he said evenly, swirling his goblet as he gave Lucien a side-eyed glare. Then he looked at Feyre and tilted his head. “What sort of stories did your mother tell you about us?”

She stiffened. “She didn’t have time to tell me stories. The village—” Feyre stopped and bit the inside of her cheek, unwilling to reveal that part of her past just yet, if ever.

The faeries exchanged serious looks, then Tamlin asked her, “How did she die?” When she stared at him, he added gently, “I saw no signs of an older woman in your… house.”

Hovel, she thought, you meant ‘hovel’. But she replied, “Typhus. I was eight.” Though it had been eleven years, the memory of her promise to her dying mother was still fresh. My bright-eyed girl, look after them, Mother had begged. Stay together… and look after them. And Feyre had, as best she could, before she shot that faerie-wolf. Before Tamlin brought her back here. They will be provided for, he had said. And just like that, she was free of one promise, only to turn around and be bound by another. But her family was no longer together. Because she wasn’t there with them…

“I am sorry for your loss,” Tamlin said quietly. Even Lucien remained silent; no smirk traced his lips.

For a moment, Feyre wasn’t sure if Tamlin was referring to losing her family or her mother… Perhaps he meant both—she brushed away the thought of a faerie caring that much.

“It was a long time ago,” she muttered, then dropped her gaze at their pitying stares. Her face was still warm, so to distract herself, she reached for the silver fork. Fine silver, golden plates and goblets… Such wealth. Would her father and sisters really be all right without her? If they had even a fraction of this to sustain them… She speared a bit of steaming roast chicken, but could not bring herself to eat. Not quite yet.

She huffed a sigh. “What am I supposed to do here?” Besides visit ‘a sick aunt’, she thought bitterly.

“Eating would be a start,” Tamlin said drily, and reached again for his wine.

She stared at the meat at the end of her fork. “I don’t have a way to pay for it,” she said quietly. “Do you want me to earn my keep?”

“No. You would only be in the servants’ way,” Tamlin said tiredly, then lifted his goblet for a large swallow.

“Don’t you have any interests?” Lucien asked her, propping his head on one fist. His golden eye glinted as he stared at her.

She hesitated. There was a glimmer of hope, of swirls of color in her mind’s eye, but she quickly squelched it. “No,” she said flatly. They might make fun of a human wishing to paint…

Lucien scoffed and turned his head to Tamlin. “What luck. The Treaty brought us a human girl whose only gift is killing things.”

Feyre frowned. “I don’t like killing things. I only did it to help my family.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed at her. “Tell that to Andras.”

Her face burned again. “I can’t,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I’m sorry.”

Lucien leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Tam told me how you did it. An ash arrow. Last time I checked, humans don’t need ash arrows to go deer hunting.”

Feyre’s fingers tightened around her fork. “He was in the way,” she said stiffly. “The wolf. He was in the way.”

The faeries exchanged cool glances.

Lucien asked her, “Are you trying to say it was an accident?”

Feyre swallowed. “No,” she said stiffly, reliving the awful experience. “The wolf—this Andras—he took the deer. That deer was the only hope I had to keep my family from starving. He had it in its jaws and killed it right in front of me. Then he stared at me. Daring me. Daring me to do something about it. He didn’t need it.” Her voice grew louder and she dropped the fork to pound on the table with her fist. “You faeries don’t need anything. This huge brute of a faerie-wolf killed the deer because he knew I wanted it… I needed it.” Hot angry tears filled her eyes; it was difficult to speak now. Her voice cracked. “So I shot him. Through the heart. Then in the eye.”

An empty silence fell, then Lucien hissed. “And then you skinned him—”

“Enough, Lucien,” Tamlin snarled. He took a deep breath, though the tips of his claws remained visible. “I don’t want to hear details.”

She let out a quivering breath, trying to release that vicious anger roiling in her gut, and trying not to cry. She stared at her hands gripping the edge of the table, imagining the wolf’s blood on her fingers.

“A life for a life,” she muttered, repeating what Tamlin had said at her cottage. What the beast had said at the cottage. She looked Tamlin in the eye. “You should have just killed me on the spot.”

Tamlin sat back in his chair, cupping his wine as his claws slowly retracted. “I do not enjoy killing things any more than you do,” he said quietly. “Though I do what I must to protect this estate. So unless you plan on killing us—” Lucien snorted at this. “—I suggest you eat something. And Lucien will do his best to be polite.” Tamlin shot his emissary a glare, and Lucien spread his hands in mock surrender.

Feyre swallowed hard, and returned her attention to her plate. Strange to be starving and yet have no appetite… But she dutifully lifted that forkful of chicken to her mouth, and—her eyes widened. It was warm and savory and filled with flavor. Her family could scarcely afford the salt needed for preserving venison. Her eyes drifted closed as she savored that first bite…

She only had eyes for her plate after that as she devoured the feast before her. She could feel the High Fae watching her, but the food tasted too wonderful to give them much thought. She couldn’t remember a better meal, even before Mother died… Even before her merchant-father lost his fortune, taking his three young daughters to a tiny cottage in a no-name village near the borders of Prythian.

As she set down her fork to reach for a second helping of chocolate torte, a favorite from her childhood, the food vanished. Her plate, the platters… Even the crumbs. She blinked. Everything but her goblet and the candles and some decanters of wine. There was a whiff of smoke or something else… something metallic in the air. Magic. She swallowed hard and sat back in her chair, gripping the carved arms and trying not to quiver.

“One more bite and you’ll be sick all over the floor,” Tamlin remarked at the other end of the table. He rubbed the back of his neck with a tired wince. “There is no need to try to fatten up in one day. More food will be here tomorrow.”

She pressed herself into her seat. “Are you trying to fatten me up?”

He grimaced at her. “Before you ask, we don’t eat humans, either.”

Lucien snorted into his wine goblet.

“Oh,” Feyre muttered, at a loss for words. She swallowed again, trying to come up with something else to say. “I… um. Thank you… for the meal.” With her stomach full at last, it was difficult to think of much else.

Tamlin nodded once and waved dismissively. Dismissing her.

Feyre slowly pushed her chair from the table. The sky beyond the dining hall windows was turning indigo. Now that she was full, she allowed herself to wonder about other things, like if the stars looked the same on this side of the Wall…

“Won’t you stay for wine?” Lucien drawled, swirling his goblet.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “No. Thank you. I’d like to sleep now.”

Lucien straightened up just enough to rest his head on one fist. “It’s been a few decades since I last saw one of your kind,” he began in a conversational way, but Feyre could sense his disdain. “You humans never change, so perhaps you can tell me why you find our company to be so unpleasant?”

“You’re High Fae,” she said tightly. “And I’m human. Isn’t that answer enough?” Alis had suggested that Lucien could use a good tongue-lashing, but with Tamlin and his claws nearby… Feyre wasn’t sure she dared.

But Lucien only waved dismissively; perhaps it was because he was on his third glass of wine. “Indulge me. You’d rather eat hot coals than sit here and have a little visit with us. Ignoring this—” he waved at his metal eye and wicked scar with a flourish, “—Surely, we’re not so miserable to look at?”

She crossed her arms. “If you think yourselves so pretty, then why hide behind masks?” she scoffed. Her heart gave a nervous lurch; she was really pushing her luck.

It was Tamlin who answered. “Because we can’t take them off.”

She straightened up and stared.

The golden-haired High Fae slowly reached up and gripped the edges of his golden mask, then tugged. It didn’t budge.

Feyre’s mouth fell open, and she looked to Lucien. With a wry half-smile, he tapped at his own bronze mask and it pinged beneath his nail. It, too, did not budge.

Tamlin folded his hands on the table in a strangely calm way and said, “We have worn these for nearly forty-nine years.”

“Damn masquerade ball,” Lucien muttered, flicking at his golden goblet. It, too, pinged. Stuck in a mask… For forty-nine years…

She licked her lips; her mind raced. “How did—I mean—Is there—Can anything be done?” she stammered. She was surprised at herself. What did she care?

Tamlin and Lucien exchanged another look, one she could not read because of their masks.

“Nothing you can do tonight,” Tamlin said to her at last. A small, sad smile touched his lips. “Rest now. We shall speak again tomorrow. At dinner.”

“Good night, human Feyre,” Lucien crooned, propping his chin on his fist. His lazy, half-grin suggested playfulness, but she could sense weariness behind that smile. Forty-nine years…

“Well…” she said quietly, pushing away from the table at last. “Good night, then.”

***

Lucien watched Feyre sidle to the door, keeping them in view like the huntress she claimed to be. He would have laughed, but the euphoria from the wine was wearing off. He was just tired. So, so tired. He could usually ignore the mask, but it felt heavier than usual tonight. As the girl disappeared from view, he let out a weary sigh, his tongue free at last.

“I’d say that was a good start,” he remarked, forcing a smile as he looked at Tamlin.

Tamlin’s gaze was on the open doorway, mindlessly shifting his empty goblet from side to side. “It’s… promising,” he said quietly.

“Promising? She practically asked for a wedding date. What kind of human wants to help a faerie, much less one she doesn’t even know?”

Tamlin looked at him with a slight frown. “The curse doesn’t say I have to marry her.”

Lucien sat back, surprised. “Oh. I suppose it doesn’t,” he said thoughtfully, and tapped his chin. “Why wouldn’t you, though? If she says that she loves you and means it?”

“She isn’t exactly the kind of girl I pictured myself marrying.”

Lucien crossed his arms and shook his head. “It wouldn’t be forever, you know.”

Tamlin scoffed. “Yes. After all this time… I’ll be free from one fifty-year curse and then bound for another fifty years just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Lucien rubbed his chin and let out a mirthless chuckle. “When you put it that way…” He glanced in the direction the girl had gone. “Still… she cleaned up well. Who knows? She might even be capable of smiling one of these days.”

Tamlin huffed a laugh and replied, “She could freeze the lake with that glare.”

Lucien caught his eye and smirked. “I noticed. It reminds me of the frosty mornings in the Autumn Court,” he remarked, then placed a hand on his chest. “All she needs is a little Spring Court sunshine to thaw her cold human heart.”

Tamlin smiled, but it quickly faded as he sighed and looked to the doorway once more. “But will it thaw in time?” he asked quietly.

Lucien followed his line of sight, lost in thought. It was still winter in the mortal lands, but spring was on its way. Perhaps he had had too much wine, but he could almost imagine a sun-kissed wind blowing over the hills to touch his mask-less face at last.

Chapter Text

A songbird chirped somewhere nearby, shattering the unearthly silence of the estate. Feyre tore her gaze from the grand paintings lining the walls and followed the sound to a set of glass doors at the end of the hall. Dressed in a rich, plummy tunic and the same comfortable trousers and boots from the day before, she had intended to explore her new surroundings. Instead, she had been distracted by the rich oil paintings on the walls after she made her way downstairs. She had spent nearly all morning walking around from painting to painting, and had not paid attention to where she was going.

Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t noticed anyone else about, not even servants. For such a large manor filled with unthinkable wealth and luxuries, it was strangely empty. It made her miss the cramped, two-room cottage of home; for all that it lacked, at least there had been people there.

Late morning sunshine warmed her face as she reached the crystal-clear glass doors, and the curved handles easily gave way beneath her fingers. She stepped onto the terrace and blinked, both from the bright sunshine and in disbelief. The garden she had seen when she first arrived at the manor had been beautiful, but this one was breathtaking. Chirping birds swooped among the flowering trees scattered along the neat gravel paths. Flowers of every color and description filled the beds and bushes along the paths, and trimmed green hedges surrounded them all. As she stepped closer to the stairs leading to the gravel path below, a warm, perfume-scented breeze caressed her face. That same breeze, she noticed, caused a rainbow mist to form around the gurgling stone fountain at the center of the garden. At its top, a great carved heron looked ready to take off, with wings and beak outstretched; the water in the wide base rippled and reflected the jewel blue of the sky above.

Feyre sighed and shook her head in wonder. So this was to be her new home—she stopped and chided herself. Home was with Father and Nesta and Elain. This wasn’t her home, it was—she whirled around, suddenly feeling someone’s eyes on her—it was his home. Tamlin.

Her heart pounded at the sight of the High Fae standing in the doorway, watching her. Studying her. She was so sure she had been alone, and she’d let her guard down, in Prythian, no less. He looked as though he never let his guard down. Indeed, for the master of a manor, he dressed more like a warrior than anything else. Clad in a simple green tunic, a leather baldric stuffed with knives lay across his broad chest. His blond hair was tied back, revealing his pointed ears and highlighting his emerald-studded golden mask. The same mask he had had to wear for nearly half a century. She shivered. Her father was the same age as that mask on the faerie’s face…

“G-good morning,” she stammered, trying not to stare.

After a long silence, Tamlin lifted his chin. “Good morning… Feyre,” he said slowly, carefully. He had remembered her name at least, if not his manners. “You look… refreshed.”

Her eyes narrowed. More pathetic attempts at flattery. She wasn’t supposed to see him until dinner, and now here he was, sneaking up on her. What did he want?

When she said nothing, he asked, “Going somewhere?”

Feyre tried not to fidget, but her hands curled into nervous fists at her sides. “Alis suggested I could take a walk through the gardens.”

He tilted his head and looked her over. The motion was too animalistic for her liking; she could not help but think of the beast he truly was, and how easily he could finish her off with one swipe of his claws. “Would you like a tour?” he asked at last.

Her gaze dropped to the knives strapped to his chest. She swallowed. “I can’t exactly refuse, can I?” It was a wonder she hadn’t been struck down yet, for daring to speak to a faerie like that, much less a High Fae. When he said nothing, she dared a look at his face.

He frowned. “Do you wish to refuse?”

“I wish to go home.”

“I didn’t make the rules.”

“Then I guess I’ll take that tour.”

Tamlin drew in a sharp breath through his nose, looking very much like he wanted to retort. But he remained silent, and gestured to the steps leading down to the garden. After you, he seemed to say.

She didn’t relish the idea of turning her back on a faerie-beast, so she hurried down the steps.

“I’m not going to kill you, you know,” he called out. “I don’t break my promises.”

She nearly stumbled at the bottom of the steps as she glanced over her shoulder at him. He took the stairs slowly, deliberately, his hands clasped behind his back.

Breathing hard, she stepped away from the stairs. “You don’t have to kill me to harm me,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. 

“Have I given you any reason to think I want to harm you?” he asked, pausing on the last step.

She swallowed. “No,” she admitted, “but Lucien said—”

“Lucien,” Tamlin said carefully, “is under orders not to touch you. No one is allowed to touch you without my permission.”

It was not a comforting thought, however. “What about their magic?” she suggested. “They could curse me. Is that just another loophole?”

Tamlin breathed out an exasperated sigh through his nose, then stepped down from the steps to join her. She flinched at his nearness, but did not back away.

He nodded at her and said, “Even if they wished it, their magic is not strong enough to hurt you. Not anymore.”

She looked at him askance. “Why not?”

He pursed his lips, then gestured to the path, apparently unwilling to say more unless they were walking. Reluctantly, she obeyed.

The gravel crunched beneath their feet, the only noise for several moments as he walked beside her. She kept as far away from him as she dared, eyeing the glint of knives across his chest. What did he need weapons for if he could summon claws? It was not pleasant to imagine.

“There is… a sickness in these lands,” Tamlin said at last. “Across Prythian. There has been for almost fifty years now. It is why this house and these lands are so empty. Most have left. This sickness, this blight, spreads slowly, but it has made magic act… strangely. My own powers have diminished from its influence.”

Her eyes widened at the thought. He seemed plenty powerful to her… If what he had done as a beast was only a fraction of it… “What—what kind of sickness is it?”

“It’s not exactly a sickness, or a disease. It’s not a plague or an illness. It’s focused solely on magic, on those dwelling in Prythian. Andras crossed the Wall that day because I sent him to search for a cure.”

Feyre turned her head to Tamlin in horror. “You mean I killed the only one who could help you?”

He met her gaze with surprising calm. “I thought you hated faeries.”

Her cheeks flushed and she looked away. “I do,” she muttered. At least, she thought she did… She continued, “It’s just… if someone were looking for a cure for my mother, and someone else shot him…” She trailed off and crossed her arms, unwilling and unable to say more.

Tamlin said, more gently than she expected, “All of my men have taken turns looking for a cure. Andras just happened to be the one you met that day.”

“Oh.” Strangely, it did not help her feel less guilty. Still unable to meet his gaze, she asked, “Can it hurt humans? This—this blight? Will it spread over the Wall?”

Tamlin did not answer at first, so she looked around. This was supposed to be a tour, after all. She recalled the names of the flowers from Elain’s own garden, and her throat tightened at the memories that followed. Despite their impoverished circumstances, the Archeron family had somehow made the best of it. Elain’s flowers brightened up their worn kitchen table in the warm months, and sometimes Nesta could be persuaded to read to everyone by the firelight during the cold months. Occasionally Father told stories of his days as a merchant, when he wasn’t lost in a haze of his own pains and sorrows. Feyre did her part by hunting to keep food on the table. The extra coppers she got from selling hides meant Elain could buy more flower seeds, and Nesta could buy the occasional used book from the next town. One summer, three years before, there had even been enough money left over to buy paint…

Feyre hadn’t had formal lessons since she was a child, back when her father could afford such luxuries, but she often dreamed of the chance to paint again one day. With the three small tins of red, blue, and yellow paint, along with the small hog-hair brush she had miraculously been able to afford, she had painted tiny flowers all over the cottage. Yellow tulips for Elain, orange snapdragons for Nesta, and fiery red roses for Feyre… In a garden like this, the desire to paint gripped her harder than it ever had. The colors here were so rich, so pure… She would mix amethyst for the irises: a touch more blue than red, she decided… The buttercups needed pure yellow, with just a hint of green and amethyst for the shadows… And if she could get her hands on pure white paint, a real luxury, she could paint the snowdrops…

“Yes,” Tamlin said, disrupting her reverie. “There is a chance the blight could affect mortals, and your territory—” Feyre’s heart sunk to hear this. “—Beyond that, I do not know. It is slow-moving, so your kind is safe for now. We haven’t had any progress in decades. Our magic seems to have stabilized, even though it’s been weakened.”

“I guess that explains why you’re stuck wearing that mask, then.”

“…Yes. There was a… a surge of the blight at that masquerade ball nearly forty-nine years ago.”

She scratched her brow, a thoughtless gesture, and imagined how maddening it must be to not be able to touch half of your face… She looked at Tamlin then, who was watching her with a thoughtful expression.

She licked her lips and remarked, “You didn’t have a mask as a beas—I mean, before. Neither did he—Andras, I mean.”

Tamlin lifted one hand and flexed his fingers; his curved claws poked through. “The blight is cruel that way,” he said quietly.

She tried not to recoil as she eyed his claws. So, he could either live as a beast, or live with the mask. He seemed caught somewhere in between. “Can anything be done?” she asked carefully.

“Are you offering to help?” he asked lightly, then tilted his head with an amused smile. “A human wishes to help a faerie?”

She frowned and glanced away, hugging herself a little tighter. “I didn’t say that.”

Suddenly there was only one pair of boots crunching through the gravel: her own. She paused and turned to see Tamlin had stopped walking to stare at her.

She faltered beneath that cool emerald stare of his. He had been almost friendly a moment ago, but to sneer at her that way… Human. She bristled and lifted her chin. “What?” she asked coolly.

“Nothing,” he growled, curling his claws into his fist. “I’ll see you at dinner.” Then he turned and strode away, back to the manor.

She felt a twinge of guilt for brushing him off. It must not be easy to live in a mask, but he didn’t have to be such a… a beast. 

She turned with a huff and kept walking. The garden no longer felt restful; the warm spring air felt too hot, and the crunch of gravel was too loud. She marched toward the fountain and plopped herself down on its wide stone base. Once seated, the misty breeze ruffled the stray hairs around her cheeks, and it was easier to breathe again. She let out a deep sigh and slumped forward, resting her arms on her knees.

Her thoughts swirled. It had only been two days, and she had dared to imagine that this could be a home, somewhere she could paint. What nonsense. If her family was in danger from this blight, she couldn’t stay here, Treaty or no Treaty. Tamlin’s dwindling magic might not be enough to protect them. And she couldn’t live with herself if something happened to them. She just needed to find a way out of her lifetime sentence.

If she knew what questions to ask Tamlin, perhaps he’d let something slip. He seemed willing to talk. He had practically volunteered that information about the blight. It would have been easy to ignore her questions in the garden. He could have given her a grand tour of his estate, and she would have been none the wiser.

Her stomach growled; it was lunchtime. Maybe Alis could tell her something, before she had to face Tamlin and his emissary at dinner.

With any luck, Lucien wouldn’t be there. But with the luck she’d been having lately, he would be. The fox-masked High Fae clearly didn’t like her; he tolerated her at best. He’d even suggested killing her. If anyone would be glad to see her leave, it would be him.

She straightened up at the thought. What was it Alis had said? Though Lucien… there’s one who could use a sharp tongue-lashing now and then. If you have the courage for it.

Feyre wasn’t so sure she dared… He annoyed her certainly, but snapping at him was no way to win him to her cause. Perhaps she could play emissary, too. Her sisters had learned how to be coy and persuasive from their mother, but Feyre had never bothered. Yet she must have learned something from them, or she wouldn’t have done half so well selling hides at the village market. The trick was not to seem desperate. 

She was desperate, though. She was the only one in her family who knew how to use a weapon. Ever since those creditors had crippled her father, he hadn’t been the same man. Why else would he allow a fourteen-year-old girl to start hunting in the woods, just so their family wouldn’t starve? She had to make it back to them, somehow. The first thing to do would be to lay her hands on a weapon of some kind. The second was to negotiate the terms of her release. 

She may not have much sway with Tamlin, but surely another High Fae could convince him… She sighed. It was her only hope of leaving Prythian at this point, her only hope to see her family again. And it was the only way to keep the second half of her promise to her mother: Stay together.

***

The girl was strangely quiet at dinner, more than the sullen silence Lucien had come to expect from her. She was trying to be unnoticed, which only made him notice her more. Just because his golden eye didn’t work right all the time didn’t mean he was blind, after all. While he chatted with Tamlin, Lucien noticed a flash of silver out of the corner of his good eye. The girl had slid a dinner knife into her sleeve. Interesting.

If Tamlin noticed, though, he showed no sign. So Lucien didn’t mention it. He might have let it go, but he caught her eyeing his sword next. She may have thought killing Andras was easy, and was thinking of fighting her way out of here. Lucien didn’t want to hurt her, so it was best to say something before she got too many wild ideas.

“Well, Feyre,” he remarked; when she looked at him, he smirked at her. “Were you merely admiring my sword, or were you thinking of using it on me?”

Her blue-gray eyes widened, and her pale cheeks turned pink. “Of course not,” she said quickly. She glanced between the two of them, perhaps nervous that they had noticed that little butterknife up her sleeve.

Though the girl didn’t really strike him as a killer, Lucien decided to have a little fun with her anyway. “Then were you hoping for a lesson, or do you already know how to use a blade, oh mighty mortal huntress?”

She scowled. “I don’t know how to use a sword. I only know how to hunt.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

“For me it’s different,” she said quietly, then made a point of ignoring him by looking out the window. No snappy comeback? That was a disappointment. He’d have to try harder.

Lucien cleared his throat. “How old are you, anyway?”

Her eyes slid to him, and she stoically lifted her chin. “Nineteen.”

He tsked. “So young, and so grave. And a skilled killer already.”

She frowned again, but before she could retort, Tamlin spoke up.

“Nineteen, and unmarried?”

Lucien straightened up, curious about her answer. His fun could wait. He had nearly forgotten why she was here in the first place.

Feyre’s cheeks reddened. “We—we’re too poor.” Each syllable sounded forced, as if it pained her to admit it.

“What about a lover?” Tamlin asked, his tone casual. However, his intentions were anything but. Before the High Lord spent any more time on this human, they had to be sure it was worth it to try to break his curse. 

Her eyes widened at his question, then her face darkened. “That’s none of your concern,” she snapped.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. It was quite concerning, actually.  

Tamlin replied evenly, “We only ask because we are trying to learn more about you. After all, you are going to be here for a good while.”

Lucien remarked, “She probably doesn’t want to tell us because there is a line of suitors out the door of that hovel.” He caught Feyre’s eye and added, “Each one more handsome than the last.”

The girl took the bait. She squared her shoulders and said coolly, “I was close to a man back in my village.”

Lucien and Tamlin exchanged concerned glances. So much for their plan.

Undeterred, Tamlin asked her, “Are you… in love with this man?”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

Lucien caught Tamlin’s eye again. If she was lying…

Tamlin tried again. “And do you… love anyone else?” he asked carefully.

Feyre scoffed. “No!” She glanced between them. “There’s no one. Do you really have nothing better to do than gossip about the love lives of mortals? Honestly, you’re worse than my sisters. Are your immortal lives so dull that you need me to entertain you?”

Lucien smirked at her, inwardly relieved. “Call it curiosity,” he said lightly. “What do humans find attractive these days?”

Feyre snorted in disgust.

Tamlin interjected, “Lucien’s pride tends to get in the way of his manners.” He nodded at her and said, “If I need to, I will send recompense to your lover for his loss.”

Lucien’s brows rose in amazement beneath his mask. Smooth lie, High Lord…

The girl shifted uncomfortably and looked away. “No… He’s nobody. I have nobody.”

Her dejected expression convinced Lucien that she wasn’t lying about this. She may have been unhappy about it, but it meant there was still hope for Prythian. She just didn’t know it yet.

“Can I go now?” she muttered, still looking away. “Or are you going to ask about my favorite position next?”

Hmm. Lucien opened his mouth, but Tamlin cut him off.

“You may go,” the High Lord said, giving Lucien a warning glare. “If you need anything, ask Alis, or any of the staff. They’ll help you.”

Feyre braced her hands on the table as she stood without looking at them, and muttered, “Thank you for the meal.” To her credit, she didn’t sidle away this time, but turned her back on them as she left the dining room. Progress.

When the girl had gone, Tamlin remarked, “I’m beginning to wonder if this was a mistake.”

Lucien whipped his head toward the High Lord in shock. “It’s only been two days. Give her a chance to settle in, at least.”

Tamlin slowly shook his head. “I thought I was making some progress with her in the garden this morning… But I was fooling myself. She’s only concerned about her mortal kin. She hates our kind.”

“Isn’t that the point? The curse can’t be broken otherwise.”

Tamlin scowled at him. “What do you suggest? Continue fattening her up with food and flattery?”

“Food, yes,” Lucien said with a definite nod, then he smirked. “Your flattery, however, leaves something to be desired...”

Tamlin let out a beastly growl and turned away. “I won’t be like Amarantha. I won’t manipulate someone into my bed.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of the nose of his mask, then let out a weary sigh.

Lucien waved dismissively. “Forget the flattery. Just be yourself.”

The High Lord chuckled mirthlessly and held out his hands. Long, curved claws curled from his fingertips. “Just what every woman wants. A half-wild beast with a heart of stone.”

“The heart of stone is Amarantha’s doing, and you know it,” Lucien retorted, then he sat back in his seat and shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re giving up so quickly.”

Tamlin drew in a slow, deep breath, and the claws retracted. “I didn’t say that,” he said quietly, then chuckled and closed his eyes as he slowly shook his head.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “What’s so funny?”

Tamlin ran a hand over his hair. “Oh… Something the human said to me in the garden… It’s nothing.”

Glancing between him and the doorway, Lucien asked, “Does this mean you’re going to let her stay?”

Tamlin sighed. “For now. It has only been a couple days…”

Lucien sighed as well. “I don’t envy you,” he began, and the High Lord scoffed. He shrugged and continued, “Who knows? In a couple months, you may welcome her company…”

Tamlin looked at him askance. “I find that difficult to imagine. The girl won’t even wear a dress,” he complained, gesturing in her general direction. “You know, when Amarantha decided to curse me, I don’t think she considered that perhaps I don’t want a killer sharing my bed, faerie or human.” He glanced out the dining hall windows and rubbed the space over his stone heart. “Is it too much to ask for someone gentle?”

Lucien had no doubt the High Lord was thinking of someone like his mother, someone who had loved flowers and gardens despite the man she married being a hardened warrior. It was no wonder Tamlin hoped for the same after how much blood had been spilled over the centuries. The emissary sat back and rubbed his chin.

“I’ll feel out the girl tomorrow. See what she likes.”

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed.

Lucien spread his hands and said, “Hey, I said feel out, not feel up.” That got a wry chuckle from the High Lord, so he reached for his wine and continued, “After I get back from border patrol, I’ll ask her about hunting or something. She’ll talk. It’s just a matter of finding the right questions to ask.”

Tamlin nodded slowly. “I hope you’re right. I don’t think I can take six months of her giving me wary looks over her shoulder or setting up traps in her room.”

Lucien nearly choked on his wine. “Setting what now?”

A smile tugged at Tamlin’s lips. “Alis told me she ruined the curtains in her room by setting up a snare. And she stole a dinner knife earlier.”

Lucien chuckled and rested his head on his fist. “Cauldron boil me. I wondered if you’d noticed.”

He was pleased to see Tamlin’s mood lighten as the High Lord recounted his conversation with Alis about their new guest.

It was too bad the girl was a Fae-killer. She had a lot of spunk. She would need it, for even if she broke Tamlin’s curse, there was no way Amarantha was going to give up her mate without a fight.

Chapter Text

The rising sun had just crested the treetops when Feyre reached the bottom of the garden steps. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she rushed toward the buildings that lay beyond the garden. She didn’t know why faeries needed stables, or horses, but she was not about to ask. She had only dared ask Alis one question that morning: where Lucien might be so she could, you know, avoid running into him. Alis had merely chuckled and remarked that Lucien should be on border patrol for the next few days, but if she felt like going for a ride, she could wait until midmorning to make sure that he was gone.

The stables, then. She did not stop to savor breakfast, no matter how delicious the bacon, eggs, or porridge were, and though she saved the tea for last, it still nearly scalded her tongue in her hurry. She had to make it to the stables before Lucien left. She didn’t know when she’d get another chance to speak to him alone.

When she reached the hedges, she paused to take a deep breath and straighten out her tunic, an emerald green one this time. She didn’t want to look eager when she strolled into the stable yard. She didn’t need to give Lucien another reason to mock her.

“No trip wires today?”

Feyre squeaked in fright and clapped a hand to her mouth as she whirled around. Tamlin stood behind her at the edge of the garden. How had he managed to sneak up on her on gravel? And how did he know she had cut up the curtains yesterday? Unless…

She lowered her hand from her mouth and swallowed hard. “Alis told you about that?”

A slight smile touched his lips. “Was that trap set for me, by chance?”

She squared her shoulders and said coolly, “It was a warning bell to give me time to run. Not a trap.”

Tamlin’s slight smile turned to a frown. “Are you planning on running?”

She crossed her arms. “No.”

It was not a lie, exactly; she was planning on leaving and never coming back. Now that she had a weapon, even if it was a puny piece of cutlery she’d stashed in her room, she needed an ally to plead her case to Tamlin. Lucien was her best option, not that she had many. That is, if he hadn’t left already…

The High Fae took a deep breath, then nodded at the stables in the distance. “Are you going riding, then?”

Her eyes narrowed. Had Alis told him about that, too, or…?

He continued, “My usual morning duties have been postponed, so if you wish to see your new… residence, I can take you.”

She eyed him warily. The baldric and those wicked knives were gone; he was even dressed in a casual linen shirt instead of a tunic. Was he trying to be… friendly? She couldn’t figure him out. She was his prisoner, yet he didn’t treat her like one. He sought her out and tried to flatter her, but it was clearly an effort for him. Your hair is… clean. At least Lucien made no effort to hide his disdain toward her. A human from a hovel.

“No, thank you,” she said at last. She needed to catch Lucien alone, to feel him out, if she ever hoped to return home. “You’ve been… generous enough.”

He drew a breath and stepped forward, and she took an equal step back. He stared at her, then let out a mirthless chuckle. Looking her over with a not-so-pleasant half-smile, he asked, “Is there a problem?”

“No,” she said. Yes, she thought. It wasn’t his fault he had to uphold the Treaty, but she had to find a way out of it. “I would just… prefer to be alone today. That’s all.” It was not exactly a lie, but she was human, so she could lie if she wanted to.

He cocked his head. “What about—”

“No. Thank you,” she said stiffly. “You’ve done enough.”

Tamlin took a deep breath; his fingers flexed at his sides, as if he were willing his claws to stay put. She’d irritated him again. Human. On another day, she might have taken him up on his offer, if only to look for an armory for a weapon of some kind. He had to keep his knives somewhere, after all. But she needed to speak to Lucien alone, before Tamlin caught on and forbade his emissary and the other servants from speaking to her about the Treaty.

Tamlin breathed out slowly. “Fine. Just—just stay on the grounds,” he said in a low voice, with a trace of a growl.

She looked at him askance and said, “I thought you said I didn’t have to stay here.”

His eyes narrowed. “After everything I told you about the blight, you still wish to leave?”

She gritted her teeth to avoid telling him that that was exactly why she wanted to leave.

When she remained silent, Tamlin rolled his shoulders and said, “You are safe here, but if you choose to leave, I will not stop you… so long as you remain in Prythian. If you cross the Wall, then you will have broken the Treaty, and your family will no longer be provided for.”

His words were like ice in her veins, and she gasped. “What? But… but I—”

“Is that not a fair bargain?” he growled. “You killed one of my men in cold blood, and I have shown mercy by not only sparing your life, but giving you and your family every comfort. If you want to take your chances with another faerie, be my guest. Or don’t be my guest, if you’re going to be that difficult,” he added with a snarl.

She stared at him, numb with shock. Her life was one thing, but to threaten her family’s well-being if she stepped out of line… It seemed completely unfair, but he had been more than generous, and she knew it. “I didn’t ask for any of this,” she whispered.

He stared back, breathing hard. “Neither did I,” he said quietly.

They stared at each other for an uncomfortably long moment, then he let out a low growl and said, “Enjoy your day alone,” before turning and stalking back to the manor.

As she watched him go, she hugged herself tighter. Some strange faerie moral code—more than the Treaty itself—obligated him to take care of her and her family. And if she tried to leave, they might end up worse off than before. Then they might hate her for coming back at all… Even if her intentions were good, even if she was trying to protect them from the blight, they might not ever forgive her for taking away their new security after eight years of poverty.

It was more important than ever now to speak with Lucien, to find some other way to atone for her mistake. She didn’t have time to waste pondering on this further, so she shook her head and hurried toward the stables.

When she arrived, stableboys passed by her, wearing horse masks—how did servants get invited to a masquerade anyway?—and they ignored her. Whether that was because of Tamlin’s instructions or her reputation as a faerie-killing human, she wasn’t certain. She would have to ask for help; there were multiple buildings, and she saw no sign of the red-haired High Fae. Perhaps he had already gone…

“Well, well. Morning, Feyre,” a familiar voice crooned.

She tried not to stiffen at Lucien’s greeting, though she could only manage a tight-lipped smile as she turned around.

Lucien, dressed in a tunic as red as his hair, sat atop a fine black gelding. He smirked at her and remarked, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence this fine day?”

Her mind went blank. “I was…” She glanced around, trying to search for the words, the reasons she had come. Then she remembered Tamlin’s offer. “…I was thinking of going for a ride. To, you know, explore.”

Lucien smirked at her. “Explore? Or escape?”

She frowned at him. “I agreed to come here because of the Treaty. I don’t break my promises,” she said evenly.

He chuckled. “How honorable.”

Before she could retort, he instructed a nearby stableboy to prepare a horse ‘for the lady’. As the stableboy hurried away, she began to wonder if sarcasm was a faerie’s way of lying…

Lucien turned back to her and urged his horse closer as he asked, “You do know how to ride, don’t you?”

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Of course I do.” She had had lessons as a child, even though that was years ago—Oh. Feyre drew in a sharp breath as the black horse lowered its head and snuffled at her tunic.

“What’s the matter?” Lucien teased. “You’re not afraid of a faerie-turned-wolf, but a horse gives you the shivers?”

Feyre flinched as the horse snorted at her. “It’s just—Is it a real horse, or—”

Lucien chuckled. “Shadow is just a horse, unfortunately,” he remarked, patting the gelding’s neck. “Humans got one thing right: Horses are rather reliable.”

Feyre bit back a sharp retort as she gingerly patted Shadow’s nose. Trying to sound polite, she remarked, “I suppose you need horses to help you because of the blight.”

“The blight?”

She glanced up to see Lucien frowning thoughtfully.

“You’ve been talking to Tam, I see.”

She nodded and stepped away from the curious gelding. “I was wondering—”

“Sure. You can come along.”

She faltered, and stared at him with her brows furrowed. “What?”

“You can come along,” he said again, nodding at her. “I have patrol duties in the southern woods today, but I am curious about your… abilities.”

“My abilities?” she asked warily.

He bent in the saddle and smirked at her. “I told you it had been some time since I met one of your kind, let alone a Fae-killer,” he said, then straightened up. “Indulge me in a hunt.”

Her mouth fell open in surprise, but no words came out.

A stableboy approached Lucien with a loaded quiver. He accepted it with a nod of thanks, then held it up to her and said, “You can even have your own bow… No ash arrows, though.” His smirk didn’t reach his eyes this time; no doubt he still hated her for killing his friend. Odd that he would invite her along, though…

But since this was her best chance to get him alone, she wasn’t going to waste it. Even though she had never hunted on horseback, she decided not to mention it, so as nonchalantly as she could, she shrugged and crossed her arms. “I guess I am already dressed for it…”

He grinned his fox-like grin. “Perfect.” He looked past her and nodded as he said, “You can ride Moonlight.”

***

The southern woods were peaceful. Birds chirped, squirrels chattered, and a breeze rustled the leaves overhead. But Lucien heard nothing else, especially nothing unusual. In fact, if he hadn’t known the white mare behind him carried a rider, he wouldn’t have given Feyre a second thought. He pulled back on Shadow’s reins to let the girl catch up to him, then caught her eye and remarked, “Well, you certainly have the quiet part of hunting down.”

As if to prove him right, Feyre only blinked at him, then glanced away to consider the tall elms and oaks around them. A full quiver rested on her shoulder, and the hand that wasn’t holding the reins rested on the bow in her lap. As if she had no interest in using it.

“Well?” he pressed her. “No game good enough for you to slaughter?”

Sunlight dappled her hair and cheeks as she turned to him. “Do High Fae even eat squirrel meat?” she asked coolly.

He smirked. So she was paying attention to her surroundings after all. “If you actually shot something, I would eat it,” he offered. And he meant it… As long as it wasn’t quail.

She lifted her chin, but made no effort to draw her bow. “You seem to have plenty of food for your table without me adding to it.”

He stared at her, then snorted. “Is that contempt I hear in your voice?”

She frowned at him. “Do you even know what it’s like to go hungry? Have you ever wondered when your next meal is going to be?”

“Only when I’m on patrol,” he quipped. She groaned and rolled her eyes before looking away.

His smirk faded as he eyed her thoughtfully. The shadows were deeper than they should have been around her eyes, her cheeks, her collarbone. Even her tunic was too loose; it had been belted and cinched to give her some shape. Another month of good food, and perhaps she wouldn’t be so, well, sharp.

She did have a point, though. Though he was the seventh son of the High Lord of Autumn, he had never had to wonder where his next meal was coming from. He had only needed to worry if one of his brothers had tried poisoning his dinner. To this day, he couldn’t even look at roast quail without getting nauseous…

Without looking Lucien’s way, Feyre asked, “Do emissaries usually patrol the grounds?”

Hmm. She was paying attention. He brushed aside some low-hanging lilacs and replied, “I’m Tamlin’s emissary for formal uses, but this was Andras’s shift. Someone needed to fill in, so I volunteered.”

“Oh.”

When he looked at her again, her downcast expression seemed almost… guilty. Interesting.

As she looked at her hands, she said quietly, “I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I didn’t know how important he was.”

You still don’t, he thought. “How could you have known?” he replied, more coolly than he intended. “You’re just a human.”

Her head whipped toward him and she scowled. “If I had known you would use this ride as an excuse to belittle me, I wouldn’t have come.”

He couldn’t help but smirk at her faerie-like snarl. “Apologies, Feyre.”

Her snarl vanished as quickly as it came. She stared at him, as though surprised by his apology. What surprised him was how soft she looked in that moment, almost… pretty. After a moment of silence, she nodded once, then said quietly, “I wish I could take it back.” She glanced away and added, “You know… The moment when I loosed the arrow.”

He had no doubt she did, but then she never would have come to Prythian. And he needed her—no, Tamlin needed her—to break this curse. Right.

Lucien cleared his throat and remarked, “So, when are you going to start trying to persuade me to talk to Tam for you?”

Feyre straightened up and stared at him. “What?”

He smirked. “That’s why you showed up at the stables, isn’t it? Just as I was leaving? To beseech Tamlin to find a way to free you from the Treaty’s terms?”

Her mouth fell open.

His smirk turned to a grin. “Honestly, I’m impressed, and flattered, that you think I have that kind of sway with him.”

She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Save your breath.” He cocked his head at her grimace. “First of all, if I knew a way to free you from this damn Treaty, I would have done it by now.” Feyre’s shoulders slumped as he continued, “Secondly, there is no other way to… satisfy the demands of the Treaty. There is no alternative. No loophole. Nothing.” Treaty. Curse. Same difference, really…

Feyre shook her head in disbelief. “There has to be some other way—”

He chuckled. “The sooner you accept it, the better. You’re stuck here with us,” he said with a cheeky grin. Then he gestured at her and said, “Unless you want to rough it on your own in the wilds of Prythian…” He looked over her skinny frame, then shook his head. “…Which I wouldn’t recommend.”

She looked away in a huff.

He grinned to himself. “It was a valiant effort, just the same,” he remarked.

She only snorted in reply, and he chuckled again.

They rode on in silence for some time, and Lucien scanned the woods for anything unusual. If he saw nothing by noon, they could turn around for a late lunch. Then he could fill Tamlin in about the girl’s half-assed plans to escape. The High Lord might be encouraged to hear that she was feeling true remorse about Andras. That was a very good sign.

The girl cleared her throat. Ah, more questions: Probably about Tamlin or Prythian. He turned to her expectantly.

“How old are you, anyway?”

His eyebrows furrowed behind his mask. That was a question he hadn’t expected. “Older than you,” he replied simply.

She quirked her full mouth to one side. “Did you fight in the War?”

He grimaced and swiped away a low-hanging branch. “Shit. I’m not that old.” The War was three hundred years ago, and he was half that, not that it mattered…

“Are you a warrior, though?”

He looked at her askance. “I know how to use this sword, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said, gesturing to the weapon at his side.

“Can you change shape, like Tamlin? Or do you have another kind of power?”

He narrowed his eyes further. Why was she so curious about him all of a sudden? “No,” he said slowly. “I can’t shape-shift. Only Tam can.”

“But your friend was a wolf. So how did—”

Lucien waved his hand, grateful to change the subject. “Tam did that. He can shift any of us into another shape, but he saves it for his sentries. When Andras went across the Wall, Tam changed him into a wolf so he wouldn’t be spotted as a faerie. But you, clever huntress, spotted him right away.”

Feyre shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “Wolves hunt in packs,” she said softly. “And he—he was huge.”

Lucien remarked, “You should have seen him as a High Fae.”

Feyre’s eyes widened.

He gave her a knowing nod. “You wouldn’t have been so quick to shoot him if you had known what he truly was.”

Her mouth fell open in shock. “I… I thought he was just a faerie.”

He grimaced and replied, “A faerie wouldn’t have bothered with the deer. It would have gone straight for you instead.” She looked truly horrified now, as she should be. He went on, “Faeries are the ones who have specific powers. They’re the ones who creep through the Wall and lure you humans to your deaths. The High Fae are more civilized. We don’t clean everything in sight or cobble shoes or answer questions when trapped. We just… exist. To rule.”

She stared at him, awestruck. “So… there are faeries who will answer any question when you trap them?”

He pursed his lips. That wasn’t the response he was hoping for. “Yes,” he said stiffly. “The Suriel. But they’re old and wicked, and not worth the risk of looking for them.” When she opened her mouth to speak, he pointed at her and warned, “And if you’re foolish enough to keep looking so intrigued, I’m going to get suspicious and tell Tam to put you under house arrest.”

She closed her mouth, though that curious gleam in her eye didn’t disappear.

He rolled his shoulders and shook his head as he returned his attention to the trees. He was supposed to be on patrol, after all. They rode on in silence, and she didn’t try to ask him more questions about the Suriel, which he was grateful for. He didn’t need—wait. Why was it so quiet? Even the birds were still.

He pulled on Shadow’s reins and slowed the gelding so he could listen to the woods. Feyre and the mare paused beside him. Something rustled in the distant undergrowth, and he whipped his head to the right. His golden eye honed in on something flickering in the distant sunlight, then he drew in a sharp breath. SHIT.

He looked at Feyre beside him, who had drawn an arrow from her quiver. “Put that away,” he hissed.

She frowned at him, but, thank the Mother, she obeyed.

Sweat trickled down his neck, and he slowly gestured to the path before them. As he urged Shadow into a walk, Moonlight fell in alongside him; the horses’ ears twitched, sensing what he had glimpsed. He hoped they wouldn’t bolt.

As calmly as he could, he told Feyre, “Stay next to me, and focus on that large oak tree up ahead, the one with the knot in its center.”

“What’s—”

“Don’t speak. Don’t react,” he whispered roughly. “No matter what you hear… Don’t. Look.”

And then he heard it in the back of his mind, like a half-forgotten nightmare.

I see yooooou…

Out of the corner of his eye, Feyre stiffened. He could only pray to the Mother and Her Cauldron that the girl would listen to him and not the Bogge. The sweat froze on the back of Lucien's neck as the faceless creature chilled the air around them. Clouds hid the sun, plunging the southern woods into shadow. As long as Lucien and Feyre were calm, the horses wouldn’t panic. The Bogge couldn’t appear to animals… as far as he knew, anyway.

The undergrowth rustled and stirred at his right, and Lucien stared hard at that oak tree in the distance, at the large knot in the center of its trunk…

I see yooooou… Can you see me, toooooo? Look at meeeee…

The Bogge began to circle the mounted riders like a water-wraith circled its prey. Lucien’s golden eye could just make out a vague, swirling shimmer as it passed, and it took everything in him not to look at it with his good eye.

You cannot ignooore meeeee… You cannot escaaape meeeee…

What he wouldn’t give to be able to winnow again. Damn Amarantha to Hell and back. She’d probably rustled up this Bogge from the mountains separating the Autumn and Winter Courts, if not from Under the Mountain itself. The thought made him feel colder still, so he tried to think of something else, anything else.

Look at meeeee… What are you afraaaaaid of...? I can show yooooou…

He definitely wasn’t afraid of roasted chestnuts, or afternoon picnics in the hills with a bottle of white wine, or iridescent faerie wings that shimmered in the sun…

I shall feeeeeast on your flesh… I shall driiiiink your marrow… And gnaaaaaw on your bones…

Frosty mornings. Golden leaves. Mother’s smile. Tamlin’s laugh.

Look at meeeee, the voice whined. It circled again. LOOK at meeeee, the Bogge growled.

It was growing tired. Good. He imagined his fox mask in his hands. Throwing it into some bottomless well. Giving his nose a good scratch…

Look at me, the Bogge whimpered. By the Cauldron, it sounded so pitiful, he almost looked.

Lucien imagined Tamlin without his mask. The Spring Court, free at last. And Feyre… smiling.

The Bogge growled, then disappeared into the undergrowth to hunt for some other unwitting victim. It was not until the horses shook their heads and jingled the reins that he realized the sun was shining again. He sighed and slumped in the saddle. Thank the Mother…

Feyre’s voice trembled. “What was that thing?”

He shook his head and rubbed the back of his stiff neck. “You don’t want to know.”

“Please,” she said. “Was it—was it that Suriel you mentioned?”

He lowered his hand and looked her over. Feyre’s blue-gray eyes were wide in her pale face, and tears streaked her cheeks. He managed a half-smile for her sake. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a Suriel. A creature like that shouldn’t be in these lands.”

She pursed her lips and stared at him, silently begging for a better answer.

He sighed. “We call it the Bogge. You can’t hunt it. You can’t kill it. Not even with ash arrows.”

She sagged in the saddle. “I heard it whispering in my head. It told me to look.”

“Well, thank the Mother and Her Cauldron that you didn’t,” he said with a wan smile, then joked, “Cleaning up that mess would have ruined the rest of my day.”

When she stared at him and didn’t even crack a smile, he realized she didn’t understand. Not really. There was a real risk that if he told her, she would bolt for the Wall, Treaty or no. Even though he didn’t want to explain, she deserved to know the dangers that waited for her if she left.

“If you look at it,” he explained, “you are acknowledging that it exists, and then it exists. It becomes real. They say it takes the form of the thing you most fear, and it feasts on your fear as it kills you. And it will kill you.”

Her eyes widened and she shuddered, then she glanced at the undergrowth where the Bogge had disappeared. By the Cauldron… The idiot was lucky the Bogge wasn’t still hiding there.

“Hey,” he said, trying to distract her. “Are you hungry?”

Her head swiveled toward him, her brows drawn in disbelief. “Am I what? How can you even think about food at a time like this?”

He shrugged and managed a smirk. “Border patrol. It’s lunchtime.”

She snorted in disgust and looked away.

“Is that a no?”

Her lips pinched as she glared at him.

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Do you ever stop being so serious and dull?”

She scowled now. “Do you ever stop being such a prick?” she snapped.

He grinned. “Much better.”

Her head jerked back in surprise, but before she could realize that she had temporarily forgotten her fear about the Bogge, he nodded at the path.

“There’s a stream nearby,” he said, “and the horses need a break. Come on. And keep up,” then urged Shadow into a trot.

***

Concentrating on riding helped, and Feyre felt the tension slide from her shoulders as she followed Lucien through the trees. Whatever dark magic that had hidden the sun faded away when the Bogge left. The sun shone brightly overhead and dappled the path, glinting occasionally on the High Fae’s long red hair.

It was strange. He could have satisfied the demands of the Treaty by letting the Bogge have her. A life for a life. Then again, perhaps only Tamlin could decide that, since he was the one who had claimed her… Still, Lucien had suggested she be dumped somewhere, even killed off… Yet he had saved her. Why?

Perhaps that was something she could ask the Suriel, since she didn’t think Lucien would give her a straight answer. A Suriel… Surely it couldn’t be worse than the Bogge. Nothing could be worse than that faceless creature, she decided. Besides, this Suriel might know how to free her from the terms of the Treaty, and it could tell her where she could take her family. Somewhere far, far away from Prythian and the Bogge… Now that was a pleasant thought.

After another hour spent patrolling the woods, Lucien slowed his horse long enough for her to catch up.

“Are you ready to turn back?” he asked.

She glanced back the way they’d come. “Is it safe?”

He smiled, but it didn’t touch his mismatched gold and russet eyes. “It’s Prythian.” When she grimaced, he shrugged nonchalantly and added, “Look. If the Bogge comes back, you know what to do. Or not do, anyway. All right?”

Her shoulders slumped in defeat, but she nodded. After a few minutes of riding side by side in silence, she drummed up the courage to ask, “Is the Bogge part of this blight?”

Lucien grimaced, but didn’t look at her. “You could say that.”

She quirked her mouth to one side. He was being vague again. “Tamlin told me there was a… a surge about forty-nine years ago. What happened? How did it start?”

Lucien barked a laugh. “Once upon a time, something crawled out of the shit-holes of Hell,” he said, then he flinched and glanced around in a panic. “Cauldron boil me. I shouldn’t have said that. If word got back to her—”

“Her? Who?”

His jaw clenched as he looked at her. He looked more pale than after their encounter with the Bogge. He let out a slow breath, then said, “It’s nothing. Never mind. The Bogge is enough for you to worry about for one day.” He tried to smile, but it wasn’t convincing.

Her brows furrowed at his elusive answer. There was a blight, a Bogge, and a her who scared Lucien enough to make him worry someone might be listening, even in a place as remote as the depths of the southern woods of Tamlin’s estate… Was anywhere safe?

She took a deep breath and asked tentatively, “How did you get your scar, anyway?”

Lucien’s golden eye glinted in the dappled sunlight as he looked at her. “I didn’t keep my mouth shut when I should have,” he said evenly.

Was that a warning, or a threat? She swallowed hard. “Did Tamlin do that to you?”

Lucien grimaced and rolled his shoulders. “By the Cauldron, no. He wasn’t there. But he got me the replacement afterward.”

“Oh.” That was some comfort at least… She shrugged and asked, “What can you see with it, anyway?”

A slight smile touched his lips as he looked her over. “I can’t see through your clothing, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She hugged herself instinctively as her eyes widened, then her face began to burn. “You really are a prick, aren’t you,” she snapped.

He chuckled and glanced away. “Hey, I said I couldn’t see through it.”

She pursed her lips and slowly relaxed her arms. When he offered nothing further, she decided to ask about something that still bothered her.

“Can the Bogge follow us back to the manor?”

Lucien shook his head. “I don’t think it would dare cross Tamlin.”

She tilted her head in confusion. “But you said it couldn’t be hunted, couldn’t be killed…”

“We can't,” Lucien said solemnly. “But Tam can.”

Her mouth fell open in shock. The same stiff High Fae who had served her dinner that first night was also capable of killing a terrifying monster like the Bogge… She had known he could summon claws at will, that he was a warrior of some kind, but this…

“Who is he?” she murmured.

Lucien looked thoughtful, then he smiled. “He’s my friend.”

***

Tamlin wasn’t in his study when Lucien returned from patrol that afternoon, so he resolved to take the High Lord aside after dinner to catch him up.

As dinnertime arrived, he was surprised to see Feyre waiting for him by the stairs. “Good to see the Bogge didn’t ruin your appetite,” he remarked.

“I didn’t have lunch,” she admitted, as she fell in step beside him.

“We can’t have that,” he teased. “There is plenty of food, remember?”

She pursed her lips, but did not scowl as he expected. “Is it always just the two of you at dinner?”

He shrugged. “You make three, but yes.”

As they took the stairs, she asked, “What about the rest of Tamlin’s court?”

He jerked and stared at her. “How do you know about the Court?”

She nodded innocently at him. “You said you were a courtier.”

Amarantha’s spell forbade him from specifically mentioning the Spring Court, and Tamlin’s glamour hid anyone Feyre didn’t need to see. Lucien gritted his teeth, considering what he could possibly say…

Feyre continued, “Tamlin told me they left because of the blight.”

That wasn’t a complete lie, so he shrugged and said, “Most of them did.”

“Were they at that party? Are they stuck wearing those masks, too?”

He grimaced at the memory. “Yes.”

“How do servants get invited to a party like that, anyway? Even the stableboys have masks.”

Amarantha’s spell binding his tongue began to tighten, so Lucien had to choose his words carefully. “We were all invited… to honor Tamlin’s shape-shifting gifts. We chose what masks to wear, but if we had known what was going to happen…” He shook his head. “The first month was the worst, but after that, I stopped imagining how to peel off my skin if it meant getting the mask off, too.”

Feyre winced, but she didn’t really understand what it was like. Even now his fingers curled into his palms to avoid plucking at the edges of his mask.

Feyre cleared her throat. “What about your High Lord? Was he there? Can he help you?”

Lucien’s brows rose behind his mask. She was a lot smarter than he initially thought… Still, he couldn’t help but smirk as they approached the open doors of the dining hall, where the very High Lord of Spring himself waited. Amarantha’s spell still bound Lucien’s tongue, so as carefully as he could, he replied, “I hope one day he can.”

Feyre nodded thoughtfully, and he followed her into the dining hall, where Tamlin sat with a goblet of wine, tracing its rim with a long claw.

Lucien’s amused smile faded as Tamlin looked up and frowned. He gave his friend a confused shrug.

As Feyre took her seat at the table, Tamlin remarked, “I thought you wanted to be alone today.”

Lucien paused by his seat, and his eyes widened. That’s why Tam was acting so pissy: The High Lord had tried to be friendly with Feyre and she’d brushed him off to seek out his emissary. Oh, shit.

Feyre replied coolly, “I was going for a ride anyway. Lucien invited me to go on patrol.”

Lucien hurriedly cleared his throat. “Just for a little hunt, that’s all,” he said as he sat down.

Tamlin’s claw paused on the goblet rim. “I heard,” he said stiffly, giving Lucien a side-eyed glare. Then he looked to Feyre and asked, “And did you have fun?”

She shifted uncomfortably and shrugged. “I suppose.” The girl who said she only killed out of necessity, going on a hunt for fun with another Fae…

Cauldron take me now and boil me alive, Lucien thought, reaching for the nearest decanter of wine. It would be less painful than whatever Tam would do to him if he messed things up now when they were so close… He glanced at Feyre at the other end of the table as he poured, wondering how quickly he could get drunk.

“Did you catch anything?” Tamlin asked lightly, releasing his goblet to pick up his fork.

“No, not exactly,” she said, glancing at Lucien. He ignored her, as he was busy draining his goblet.

Tamlin looked to Lucien as well. “Not exactly?” he asked coolly.

Lucien set down the goblet with a thud and cleared his throat, trying to choose his words carefully. As if he wasn’t in enough trouble for apparently flirting with the wrong girl. “Tam…”

Tamlin gave him an icy stare, but said nothing.

Lucien swallowed nervously. “There’s a Bogge in the forest.”

Tamlin’s fork bent like a green twig. “You ran into it?” he asked in a low voice.

Lucien nodded. “We crossed paths on patrol today, but it moved on. It must have snuck through the border.”

“She was with you when it happened?” Tamlin asked through gritted teeth.

Lucien nodded, feeling queasy. “She didn’t look, though. I told her not to look. She was safe.”

The fork snapped in two, and Lucien flinched. Tamlin dropped the ruined utensil onto his half-eaten plate and rose to his feet. As he braced his clawed hands on the table, he growled, “Where?”

“The southern woods. Near the stream.”

The High Lord glanced at the mortal girl sitting wide-eyed at the other end of the table. Then he looked at Lucien and said quietly, carefully, “Thank you. For keeping her safe.”

Tamlin straightened up without waiting for a reply and stalked out of the room without another word. Lucien heard the front doors open a moment later, then felt the pulse of magic as Tamlin changed form. The High Lord was going hunting.

Lucien let out a heavy sigh as he slumped in his seat and slowly rubbed his temples. He hoped that after Tam found the Bogge, he would have a chance to explain what had happened with the girl. Damn Amarantha for getting him into this mess…

“Where is he going?” Feyre asked timidly.

“To hunt the Bogge,” Lucien said flatly, without looking up.

“Can he really kill it?”

“He’s going to try.”

“…Alone?”

Lucien looked up then, to see Feyre’s eyes wide with concern. True concern. He managed a wan smile and replied, “He prefers it that way. He doesn’t like killing things, but he especially doesn’t want anyone getting in the way when he’s… changed.”

Feyre glanced at the doors where Tamlin had gone. “Can’t anyone help him?”

You can, Lucien wanted to say, but Amarantha’s spell silenced him. He gritted his teeth, then managed to say, “He doesn’t need my help. He doesn’t want my help. Believe me.”

Feyre looked at him, then faced her plate with a thoughtful sigh.

Lucien would have loved to reassure her, but even he wasn’t certain what was going to happen. Amarantha hadn’t sent anything like this in decades. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she had sent a Bogge of all things just days after Feyre arrived. He hated to think that there were spies in the Spring Court, but one couldn’t be too careful. And speaking of careful…

He cleared his throat, catching Feyre’s eye as she looked up from scooping a generous serving of spiced potatoes on her plate.

He nodded at her and remarked, “You never did show me your abilities. Since Tam’s going to be busy for a while, why not join me on patrol again tomorrow?” He smirked. “Unless you have something better to do…”

She frowned at him, then shrugged and glanced away. “I guess I don’t,” she muttered.

He let out a quiet, relieved sigh. Perfect. With Tam gone, he needed to keep Feyre within reach, but at arm’s length. He couldn’t get too friendly with her, not when they were closer than ever to breaking Tamlin’s curse.

Chapter Text

Fine. If Lucien wanted to see her shoot, she would shoot. Feyre squared her shoulders and adjusted her stance, then pulled back the bowstring. Her fingers rested at the corner of her mouth as she aimed at the deer in the clearing. Something cold brushed her cheek, and she nearly released the arrow in her surprise. It was… snowing… in the Spring Court?

Her arm began to tremble from the strain. The doe’s large ears swiveled, and it turned toward her, suddenly surrounded by snow. Her heart gave a nervous thump. This was familiar… This was—

A huge black wolf sprang from the shadows beyond the clearing and took down the doe. Blood fell on the snow like rubies on silver. And the wolf’s eyes… so golden and bright as it lifted its head to stare at her, daring her…

No. She knew how this story ended. No-no-no-no—Her fingers released the arrow of their own accord. It was not a wolf that collapsed in the snow, but a man. Tall and muscular, with short black hair and pointed ears. A faerie… No. A High Fae. Andras.

She wanted to cry out, to scream, but her body was not her own as she crunched through the deep snow to approach the dead deer and the dying Fae. She drew the ash arrow from her quiver and nocked it as she stood over him.

His one good eye, so like Lucien’s, met hers. Feyre felt sick. He trembled as he lay there on his side, as his blood poured from the wound and into the snow. “Do it,” he choked out.

No. I can’t. I won’t, she wanted to scream. She drew back the arrow and shot him through the heart.

***

The marble floor beneath him was cold and unyielding, and as red as fresh blood.

“It’s a shame you don’t have blue eyes, Lucien,” Amarantha crooned, holding up her bloody, ringed hand. “But I already have one brown eye for my collection…”

Jurian’s eye stared at him, the pupil wide in its glass prison.

Hot blood slid down Lucien’s face, between his fingers. The rest of him was cold. So, so cold…

“Tell Tamlin I said hello,” she crooned, then snapped her fingers—

Lucien shot up in bed, drenched in a cold sweat. It was too dark. He was blind. Amarantha had taken his other eye. He was Under the Mountain again. He—He took a deep breath. No. Not blind. His golden eye whirred, and both eyes began to adjust to the darkness of the moonlit room. There. He could see his weapons laid out and waiting on the table. His rapid heartbeat began to slow, and he took another deep breath before slumping over his bent knees. He was in his autumn-hued room in the Spring Court. He was safe.

 He pressed the heels of his hands against the eyeholes of his mask, and his fingers curled around its smooth edges. Another nightmare, but it was just a nightmare, no doubt brought on by the presence of the Bogge. This was the third one in as many nights. He would be next to useless on patrol if he couldn’t fall back asleep, but at the moment he was not interested in re-living the rest of the night Amarantha had carved out his eye. Carved it out with the beast’s claw that grew from her fingernail, with the shapeshifting magic she had stolen from Tamlin.

Tell Tamlin I said hello.

Lucien whipped off the sheets and slipped out of bed to slip on a pair of trousers. No matter how long he’d lived in the Spring Court, the nights were always too warm. That was one thing, and there weren’t many, that he missed about the Autumn Court: the chill. The frosty windowpanes and the low embers, cuddled under a fur throw next to someone soft. That was home. He hadn’t felt at home in ages.

He sat down at his worktable and snapped his fingers over the nearest candle. A spark lit the wick, and he sat back with a tired, though satisfied smile. At least he had some magic left, after all. Enough to heal minor injuries, but not enough to winnow.

Needing something to do, to keep busy, he reached for a knife and his whetstone, but a pulse of magic from somewhere beneath him made him pause. Tamlin must be back. The clock revealed that it was well past midnight. Lucien hoped this meant that the High Lord had ended the Bogge once and for all. And with it, he hoped, the nightmares.

He grabbed a linen shirt and slipped it on as he slipped into the dark, carpeted hall. He could report to Tamlin about his patrol, and perhaps finally explain why Feyre had sought him out in the first place. As he reached the marble staircase, the metallic tang of blood filled his nose. Biting back a curse, he made it halfway down the stairs before he realized he heard voices. He paused and gripped the railing as he leaned over and listened.

“Where can we clean up your hand?” Feyre asked.

“…There’s a small infirmary,” Tamlin said, sounding weary.

Lucien straightened up, his thoughts in a whirl. The Bogge must have taken a bite out of the High Lord’s hand, but the Mother saw fit to intervene and wake Feyre so that she could tend to his wounds. Though it wasn’t the most romantic setting, perhaps this would mark the turning point in Feyre’s and Tamlin’s relationship.

It was an odd feeling, though, to stand back and do nothing. As Tamlin’s friend, courtier, and emissary, he was used to being involved in some way. However, the Eddies of the Cauldron had brought the girl to the court, and he would be damned if he got in the way after all this time. Lucien listened until their steps faded away, then quietly returned to his room. He would speak to Tamlin about the Bogge at breakfast, then explain why Feyre had sought him out in the first place.

Though he had to admit that he would miss her company on patrol, it was better to end things here. The curse was on Tamlin, not him, after all. Besides, Feyre hadn’t been particularly chatty the last three days, not since encountering the Bogge.

With the candle snuffed, he slipped under the sheets and prayed that he wouldn’t see Amarantha’s face again. The Mother must have been listening, because he did not dream again.

He even woke up feeling cheerful, and he whistled a bit when he entered the dining room the next morning.

“Morning, Tam,” he chirped, reaching for an apple.

“Morning,” Tamlin said gruffly.

Lucien was halfway through breakfast when he realized the High Lord hadn’t touched his plate. Instead Tamlin sat back in his chair as he stared out the window. A clean white bandage was wound around his right hand and laced between his fingers.

Lucien looked the High Lord over, then nodded at him. “What happened?” He knew, of course, but he didn’t want Tamlin to think he’d been eavesdropping.

Tamlin’s gaze dropped to his bandaged hand, then he slowly, thoughtfully flexed his fingers. “Bogge bite. Feyre had to wrap it for me.”

“You were lucky she was there—Wait.” Lucien set down his fork at a sudden thought. “You mean it didn’t start to heal immediately?”

Tamlin shook his head. “Amarantha must have enchanted this particular Bogge… She wanted me to suffer before I took it down.”

“Is it dead, then?”

Tamlin nodded wearily and sighed. “Finally.”

Lucien gestured to the High Lord and asked, “So why do you look as though you’re going hunting again?”

Tamlin’s knives in the leather baldric glinted as the High Lord straightened up, frowning. “Because there’s a puca nearby. I have to—”

“What about Feyre?”

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed. “What about her?”

Lucien frowned. “I’ve taken her on patrol the last three days. It’s time you started taking an interest in her. Take her on a ride or something.”

Tamlin pushed himself away from the table and straightened up. “She’s not interested in me, so I’m doing my part by keeping her safe. Isn’t that enough?”

Lucien rose to his feet and opened his mouth to retort, then he paused. His ears pricked up; Feyre was nearby. In a louder voice than usual, he said, “I just want to know what you think you’re doing.”

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?” he growled.

Lucien’s eyes widened meaningfully as he nodded at the dining room door. “Me?” he said innocently, putting a hand on his chest. “I’m going on patrol, and you want to start living out there like some wild beast, slaughtering every bit of vermin that slinks in.”

Tamlin’s fangs grew as he snarled, “Watch your mouth.”

Lucien squared his shoulders as he stepped closer. “I stayed with you out of hope, not to watch you sit around and sulk. You’re not even trying to fake it anymore. Time is running out, and the barriers between courts grow weaker every day—”

“Don’t lecture me, Lucien,” Tamlin warned. “You think I don’t know what’s happening on my own lands? What I’ve got to lose? What’s lost already?”

Lucien scoffed. “Look at that. For someone with a heart of stone, yours is certainly soft these days.”

The dining hall door creaked, and Lucien whirled around to see Feyre stumble into the room. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks red with embarrassment. With any luck, she’d heard something useful. He couldn’t say anything more, though, not with her in the room. He could already feel Amarantha’s spell binding his tongue.

Feyre tugged on her tunic and cleared her throat. “I, uh, good morning. Are you going on patrol again? I… I thought I might join you for a ride.”

Lucien’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Tamlin’s glare. He had been in such a good mood, he had forgotten to explain why Feyre had joined him on patrol in the first place. Too late now. “As it happens, I have other plans today,” he said lightly, then nodded at Tamlin. “But he’ll go with you.”

Tamlin’s fangs retracted. “Fine,” he said in a low growl, then rolled his shoulders. He managed to sound more polite as he said to Feyre, “Whenever you want to go, just say the word.”

Feyre shot Lucien a panicked look, and he couldn’t help but smirk as he passed her in the doorway. He gave her shoulder a reassuring pat and said, “He won’t bite.”

As he headed for the front door, he heard Feyre say, “All right… Anything but hunting. I hate hunting.”

Lucien paused and listened. That would explain why she hadn’t bothered to shoot anything on patrol. And the fact that she had admitted as much meant she was opening up to Tamlin. That was a very good sign.

“That explains why you two never catch anything,” Tamlin replied drily. “So what do you want to do?”

Lucien didn’t wait to hear Feyre’s reply. He had more important things to do now, and playing matchmaker to the High Lord was not one of them.

***

Feyre crossed her arms as Tamlin led her down the hallway toward his study. After waking from that awful nightmare about shooting the wolf, shooting Andras, she had gotten out of bed. To distract herself, she decided to explore her surroundings and make a map while she was at it. With a scrap of paper and ink and quill, she marked the doors and windows in her wing of the manor. But before she had finished exploring downstairs, she’d stumbled across Tamlin bleeding from a Bogge bite.

“How’s your hand?” she asked carefully.

He lifted his hand and flexed his fingers. “It’s healing. The Bogge’s bite was enchanted to slow the healing of any Fae it came across. If left too long, it might have killed me. You have my gratitude.”

She shrugged in embarrassment and glanced away. “It was nothing.”

He remarked, “How did you learn to bind wounds like this? I can still use the hand, even with the wrappings.”

She shrugged again. “Trial and error. I had to be able to pull a bowstring the next day.”

“Did you learn to hunt in a similar manner? Through trial and error?”

She met his curious gaze and admitted, “I spied on hunters from the village, then I practiced until I hit something. When I missed, we didn’t eat.”

He tilted his head and looked thoughtful. “That is a heavy burden to bear… Has anyone ever taken care of you?”

She blushed and looked away again. “No. My mother made me promise—” She stopped herself, unwilling to say more.

Tamlin was quiet for a moment, then he asked, “Does that promise have anything to do with why you stole a dinner knife the other night?”

Her blush deepened, and she turned to Tamlin in shock. “How did you know?”

He smirked, but not unkindly. “I was trained to notice such things.”

She hugged herself tighter and said, “It was just for protection,” she muttered.

Tamlin chuckled and shook his head. “You’re going to have to get more creative than that. With your affinity for eavesdropping, perhaps you’ll learn something valuable.”

She stammered, “I didn’t mean to—I mean…” She could swear his eyebrows were raised at her, even behind his mask. There was no denying it; she had eavesdropped. “Fine,” she admitted. “Then maybe you can tell me what Lucien meant. He said you don’t have much time. Time for what?”

Tamlin was silent for a long moment. “I’m immortal,” he said at last. “I have nothing but time, Feyre.”

She bit back a groan. Faeries may not be able to lie, but they were very good at withholding information. “What about the barriers between courts?” she asked. “Are more creatures like the Bogge going to come here because of the blight?”

He did not look at her as he replied, “I’d say it’s fair to assume others might follow it.” He strode ahead of her before she could ask another question, then pushed against a set of heavy double doors. “As requested, the study.”

She paused on the threshold, staring on in wonder as Tamlin waved his hand. A hundred candles sprang to life, illuminating walls filled with leatherbound books. Low velvet couches, a couple mahogany writing desks, and opulent rugs filled the rest of the space.

Nesta would love it… Feyre hated it.

As the youngest, Feyre’s education had been sorely neglected. She had enjoyed her painting lessons, but complained of a headache every time she was forced to learn her letters. She knew enough to write her name so that she could sign her paintings, but she had no interest in reading the way Nesta did. The outdoors was much more interesting. Then Mother suddenly became sick, and healers became more important than tutors. After Mother died, the tutors didn’t come back. No one, not even Nesta, pushed her to learn after that, and the village didn’t emphasize learning letters. It was a village for farming; the nearest town was too far to travel to regularly for lessons. And after Father’s fortune was truly gone, Feyre focused on hunting.

If she hadn’t been so desperate to send a letter to her family, she wouldn’t have asked to come here. It was bad enough that Tamlin had figured out she didn’t know how to write. He’d said as much in the hall last night after glancing at her hand-drawn map.

You can’t write, can you. It had not been a question.

Tamlin disturbed her musings then by saying, “There are quills and parchment in that desk there—” He gestured to the smaller writing desk in the corner, “—And there are plenty of books to choose from.”

Feyre swallowed hard. “Thank you,” she whispered, and strode to the indicated corner before she lost her nerve.

“I could help you write to them, if you wish,” Tamlin said.

Her cheeks heated as she turned to look at the High Fae still standing in the doorway.

He nodded at her. “You cannot write, yet you asked to see the study. That is why you wanted to come here, isn’t it?”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “I just… want them to know I’m all right.”

He stepped closer, and she stiffened. He must have noticed this, for he paused and said, “Let me help you, then. I owe you for the hand.”

“Help?” she asked coolly. “You mean a faerie is passing up the opportunity to mock an ignorant human?”

His jaw tightened. “Why should I mock you for a shortcoming that isn’t your fault?”

She bristled at that: Shortcoming. She shook her head and said, “I’m sure you have more important things to do. I don’t need your help.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “What exactly did your mother make you promise, Feyre?”

She bit the inside of her cheek, considering. If she told him, maybe he would let her go, or at the very least, leave her alone for once. Feyre swallowed hard, then said, “She was dying. She made me promise that I would look after my family. That I’d take care of them. That’s why I started hunting. I kept them alive. And now because of this stupid Treaty, I’m forced to break my promise.”

“You are not breaking your promise, Feyre,” he said, in a gentler voice than she expected. “You are fulfilling it, and then some, by staying here. Your family is better cared for now than they were when you were there.”

She bit the inside of her cheek again, if only to keep back surprised tears. “Why should I believe you?” she whispered. She knew faeries couldn’t lie, but it seemed too good to be true…

He frowned. “You still don’t trust me?”

“Why should I? You’re all masters of spinning the truth to your own advantage,” she said tightly.

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed. “Some would say it’s unwise to insult a Fae in his own home,” he growled. “Some would say that you should be grateful I spared your life, and gave you and your family the chance to live in comfort.”

Comfort? Feyre rubbed at her chest. That was more than she had ever been able to do. She had kept them fed, but comfort was a luxury they had not known for eight years… “I want to see them,” she said at last.

Tamlin looked at her askance. “Didn’t I warn you about crossing the Wall?”

She licked her lips, then said, “I just want to see them with my own eyes. I want one day with them, then I’ll come back and be a good little prisoner.”

He stared at her a long moment. Her heart quivered as she watched him. It was such a little thing, surely he would agree—

“No.”

Her heart sunk, and her shoulders slumped. “Why not?”

“I cannot trust that you will return.”

She frowned. “So I’m supposed to trust you, but you don’t trust me?”

“I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”

“Then I guess that’s one thing we can agree on,” she said coolly.

He stared at her, then said, “I will write to them for you, but that is all I can do.”

She crossed her arms and looked away. “I don’t want your help,” she muttered.

Tamlin let out an exasperated sigh. “So you’ll let Lucien take you on hunts, but you won’t let me do any—”

“Lucien,” she said evenly, facing Tamlin with a frown, “doesn’t pretend to be anything but what he is.”

He glared at her. “What is that supposed to mean?” he growled, clenching his fists at his sides.

She took a slow, careful breath. “It means, that at least he mocks me to my face. You think that I can’t hear you when I’m out of the room?”

Tamlin straightened up and stared at her, strangely silent.

She shook her head and said, “Maybe I lived in a hovel, and maybe I can’t read or write, but I’m not stupid.”

Tamlin snarled, “You aren’t what I had in mind for a human. Believe me.”

She bit the inside of her cheek and hugged herself tighter.

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Feyre, I didn’t mean—”

She shook her head and stalked past him. He lifted a hand as if to reach for her, but he didn’t touch her as she swept out of the room.

***

Lucien gripped the hilt of his sword as he approached Tamlin’s study to report on the latest sightings at the border. But he froze when he heard Feyre’s voice coming through the crack in the study door.

“So I’m supposed to trust you, but you don’t trust me?”

Tamlin replied, “I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”

“Then I guess that’s one thing we can agree on,” she said coolly.

Lucien grimaced. So much for hoping that they were beginning to get along.

Tamlin was quiet for a long moment before he replied, “I will write to them for you, but that is all I can do.”

Lucien barely heard Feyre mutter, “I don’t want your help.”

Tamlin let out an exasperated sigh. “So you’ll let Lucien take you on hunts, but you won’t let me do any—”

“Lucien,” she said coolly, “doesn’t pretend to be anything but what he is.”

Lucien winced. Don’t bring me into this. Don’t bring me into this. Don’t—

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tamlin asked with a dangerous growl.

“It means,” she said louder, “that at least he mocks me to my face. You think that I can’t hear you when I’m out of the room?”

Lucien knew he shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but it was good to know that she was eavesdropping, too.

“Maybe I lived in a hovel,” she continued, “and maybe I can’t read or write, but I’m not stupid.”

Lucien’s eyes widened. This was new…

Tamlin snarled, “You aren’t what I had in mind for a human. Believe me.”

Lucien closed his eyes and shook his head. Tamlin, Tamlin, Tamlin…

The High Lord at least sounded contrite as he said, “Feyre, I didn’t mean—”

Lucien pressed himself against the wall as Feyre swept through the study door, but she appeared not to see him as she stormed off in the opposite direction.

Tamlin appeared in the doorway to watch her disappear down the hall; once she was out of sight, he let out a heavy sigh.

Lucien hesitated by the wall, but he might as well get it over with. “Bad time?” he asked lightly.

Tamlin faced him with a frown. “Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol?” he growled, before stalking to his desk.

Lucien followed him into the study and shut the door behind him. “That’s why I’m here. But I happened to overhear your little spat with the girl.”

Tamlin gripped the arms of his chair and shook his head. “She still wants to go home. After all that I’ve done for her.”

Lucien sighed. “She’s homesick, Tam. Can you blame—”

Tamlin scoffed. “Homesick for what? That hovel?”

Lucien pursed his lips, resisting the urge to tell him off. As patiently as he could, he said, “You grew up here. This is your home—”

“My father sent me to live with his war-bands on the border,” Tamlin countered.

“But you knew you could always come home. Feyre can’t go home. I can’t go home. Not anymore.”

Tamlin gave him an incredulous stare. “You still miss it, after what they did to you? To her?”

Lucien sighed at the painful memory and ran a hand over his hair. “You’ve been good to me, Tam,” he said quietly. “But yes. Sometimes I miss it.”

Tamlin looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. After a long moment, he said quietly, “I’ll try to make it up to her. Somehow.”

Lucien nodded, grateful that he’d gotten through in some small way. “Now for the bad news,” he said lightly.

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed.

In a more serious tone, Lucien said, “I received word at the stables that a pack of naga made it through the border. They were last seen in the western woods.”

Tamlin leapt to his feet, claws out. “You waited until now to tell me?” he growled, tearing the wrapped bandage off his hand.

Lucien squared his shoulders and said, “There’s always going to be another Bogge, or a puca, or naga that creeps through the border. Before you know it, the first full moon after the solstice will be here, and time will be up. You have to get to know her—”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Tamlin growled, then swept past him. He yanked open the study door, then paused. Over his shoulder, the High Lord said in a strangely calm voice, “Track down that puca for me, if you can. I’ll speak with Feyre after I finish with the naga.”

Lucien nodded. “All right, Tam. Give ‘em Hell.”

Tamlin let out a mirthless chuckle, then was gone.

Chapter Text

That afternoon, Feyre was unable to find Lucien in any of his usual places, so she stood before the large mahogany door of his bedroom. If she weren’t so desperate, she wouldn’t have come in the first place. But since no one else was in sight to notice, she swallowed her nervousness and lifted her hand to knock.

“You can come in, Feyre,” Lucien called out.

She started in surprise, wondering if that metal eye of his could see through doors. Easing open the door, she looked around. His room resembled hers in size and shape, but instead of summery pastel softness, it was bedecked in autumnal ruggedness in warm shades of red, gold, brown, and green. Instead of a breakfast table, a large, worn worktable rested under the window, covered in various weapons.

Lucien glanced up from his seat at the table, sharpening a long, wicked hunting knife. He looked more casual than she had ever seen him, wearing a simple white shirt and trousers. His unbound shoulder-length hair, usually auburn, gleamed red-gold in the early afternoon sunlight. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to paint such a color, then she shook off the thought. It was not the time to think of painting.

She slipped inside and shut the door. “How did you know it was me?”

“You were standing out there for almost a full minute. Everyone else announces their presence,” he remarked, turning the blade in the light.

“Could you see me?” she asked, gesturing to her face. “You know, with—with your eye?”

He smirked at her. “I happen to have fantastic hearing. Why? Were you hoping to get the drop on me?”

She pursed her lips and leaned against the door. “I just… missed our ride.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and returned his attention to sharpening his knife. “It’s nice to know your cold human heart has warmed up to me at last.”

She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He chortled. “Charming as ever, I see.” Setting aside the whetstone, he remarked, “I had to go on patrol again.” He picked up a polishing cloth. “But before I left, I overheard your little spat with Tam. You really got under his fur.”

Feyre’s cheeks flushed. “What exactly did you hear?”

“Enough to know that he’s irritated you don’t appreciate his hospitality,” Lucien said with a shrug.

She pursed her lips. It was possible that he hadn’t overheard that she couldn’t read or write, but she wasn’t about to bring it up. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, but—”

Lucien shook his head. “Tell him yourself. I’m Tamlin’s emissary, not yours.”

She bit the inside of her now sore cheek and winced. That was the last thing she wanted to do.

“As it is,” he continued, resuming his task, “there was a disturbance out in the western woods, so Tam left to go chew on someone else. I’m surprised you didn’t run into him. He’s been gone a while.”

Grateful she hadn’t, she let out a small sigh of relief. “What sort of disturbance?”

Lucien gave her a stiff shrug this time. “The usual sort: unwelcome, nasty creatures raising Hell,” he said dismissively.

She quirked her mouth to one side in thought. With Tamlin away, it was now or never. “Like the Suriel?” she asked nonchalantly.

“No. They’re dangerous, but they keep to themselves,” he said, distractedly turning the polished blade over. The long blade gleamed wickedly in the sunlight.

She clasped her hands behind her back and sidled closer. “How dangerous?”

He grew still, then slowly lowered the knife to the table. “What do you want, Feyre?”

She paused next to the corner of the table and shrugged. “I’m just curious. If I’m going to stay here the rest of my life, I might as well learn more about Prythian.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then his eyes narrowed as he looked at her askance. His metal eye whirred, as if trying to read her true intent. She kept her face neutral, innocent. He said slowly, “I suppose you won’t tell me what it is you really want to know.”

“There’s only so much you can tell me,” she said pointedly. “I’m sure you would tell me everything I wanted to know… if you were a Suriel…”

He twirled the knife in his fingertips, his mouth pressed in a thin line. After a long moment, he said slowly, “I might… if I were caught in a snare.”

She tried not to sound too eager. “What sort of snare?”

Lucien grimaced as he turned his attention to his worktable. Her shoulders slumped, and she worried that she had been too obvious, that he wouldn’t speak to her any more, or worse, that he would go straight to Tamlin.

“If I were a Suriel,” he said quietly, reaching for the knife’s sheath, “I might be fond of freshly slaughtered chickens in a birch grove… The kind of groves you find in the western woods, for example. I might even be greedy enough that I wouldn’t notice the double-loop snare rigged around the grove to keep me pinned in place.” He sheathed the knife with a sharp snick.

Her eyebrows rose, surprised he was playing along. “Hmm,” was her thoughtful reply, then she remarked, “I guess it’s a good thing you’re not a Suriel, then.”

He rested the sheathed weapon on the table and remarked, “Even so, a Suriel wouldn’t tell you that once you free it, you should run like hell. It also wouldn’t tell you that it hates to cross running water. Nor would it tell you to take a bow and quiver along, just in case… Or a knife—” He slid it to the edge of the table. “—just like this one.”

In her mind, she recited: chickens, birch grove, double-loop snare, running water. In a casual way, she reached for the offered blade and remarked, “It is a fine knife. The sort a hunter would carry…” She turned it over in her hands and hefted it, then caught his eye and said simply, “…if he were to go into the western woods.”

He smirked. “A hunter wouldn’t be mad enough to go after a Suriel. But he might be hunting on the grounds this afternoon. He might even be listening if someone happened to scream for help nearby… Not that she would need it, of course.”

“Of course,” she said with a quick nod, and tucked the knife in her belt. As she turned to retrieve her bow from her room, he said something else that made her pause.

“It’s a good thing I have fantastic hearing. It’s also a good thing I misplaced that particular knife. And it’s a very good thing that I had no idea you figured out how to trap a Suriel, since Tam would gut the one who told you.” He gave her a grim smile; his meaning was clear.

She swallowed hard, then replied, “While it is a good thing that you have fantastic hearing, I am fantastic at keeping my mouth shut.”

He snorted, then sat back and laced his fingers behind his head. “You know, you’re not so bad… for a Fae-killer.”

***

Tamlin still hadn’t returned by the time Lucien made it downstairs. Perhaps it was just as well, what with Feyre being gone. It had been nearly a half hour since he’d sent her on her way, and there was no telling if or when a Suriel might show up. Armed with his jeweled sword and jeweled dagger, two weapons he had kept with him since leaving the Autumn Court, he headed for the stables. He hadn’t found the puca on patrol, so he hoped to find it somewhere on the grounds.

He tied his hair back as he walked, lost in thought. It had been a risk, admittedly, telling the girl so much about the Suriel. If they weren’t so desperate, he wouldn’t have said anything, especially with the risk of Tam finding out. She’d had a point, though: There was only so much that he could tell her, that any of them could tell her, thanks to Amarantha.

After he had mounted Shadow, a stableboy handed him his quiver and bow. Just what he would need for hunting a puca. His golden eye would be able to see through its glamour, so with any luck, he could track it down and weaken it for the High Lord to finish off later. Then he should have time to spare to check on Feyre. Not that she needed his help, but if on the off chance she actually caught a Suriel… He did not want to have to explain to Tamlin that he had sent the only girl who could break Amarantha’s curse into the western woods to trap a spider in its own web.

***

It was well over an hour of waiting up a nearby oak tree before Feyre’s snare caught something. An unearthly scream echoed through the glen near her hiding spot, sending shivers up her spine. She could only hope it was a Suriel, and not something more dangerous… Like another Bogge.

Feyre nocked an arrow as she carefully approached the hunched faerie in the birch glen. Since it was visible facing the other direction, it couldn't be a Bogge, but that didn't make it less dangerous. Its bony shoulders and knobby spine were visible through its dark, tattered robes. It did not look at her as she approached, but instead growled as it clawed at the snare around its ankle.

A twig snapped beneath her boot, and she and the faerie froze at the same time.

The faerie sniffed once, twice, then lifted its hooded head. “Mortal,” it said in an ancient, echoing voice.

Gathering her courage, Feyre licked her lips then asked, “Are you one of the Suriel?”

It slowly turned toward her. Feyre swallowed hard, and fought the urge to back away, to turn and run and never look back. Its thin hood fluttered from some phantom breeze, revealing a bald head that could have been a skull. If it had skin, it was leathery and gray; it had no lips, revealing too-long teeth that appeared to grin at her, as well as a slitted nose, and, worst of all, a deathlike-stare with its pure-white, milky eyes.

It released the snare and sat back on its haunches. What skin wasn’t covered by its tattered robes was as gray as its face, lined with veins and ligaments. Its long, bony fingers twitched and clicked, each finger tipped with long, black fingernails as the creature studied her.

“Mortal,” the faerie said again, in an ancient, echoing voice. “Did you set this clever, wicked trap for us?”

Feyre glanced around, but saw no one else. Gathering her courage, she faced the faerie before her and said, “I set the trap for a clever, wicked faerie known as the Suriel. So if you are the Suriel, the trap was meant for you.”

The creature let out a hoarse laugh. “Wicked? Who told you we were wicked?”

She shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “I’ve heard stories.”

It cocked its head and grinned wider, which didn’t seem possible, but it grinned just the same. “Such stories should tell of our ugliness, not our wickedness.”

“You’re not…” Feyre tried to lie, but her voice faltered.

The Suriel chuckled. “Truth is ugly, mortal.” Its bony fingers beckoned. “We have not seen a human woman for an age… Come closer, so that we might look upon our captor.”

Feyre hesitated, then returned the arrow to her quiver as she sidled around the faerie. Keeping her eyes on the snared Suriel, she picked up the chicken she had used as bait and held it out. “I have some questions for you.”

The Suriel’s milky eyes fell upon the chicken in her hand, and the clicking of its fingers quickened as it reached out. “Give us the chicken—”

Feyre pulled the chicken back and shook her head. “Answers first.”

It hissed through its overly-long gray teeth, then sat back on its haunches. “Ask us your questions, mortal, then release us.”

She drew a deep breath, then asked, “I am bound to Prythian by the terms of the Treaty. Is there any way I can return to my family in the mortal lands?”

“Not unless you seek your death, and your family’s, as well.”

Feyre sighed in defeat, then lowered the chicken to her side.

The Suriel beckoned with a bony finger. “If that is all—”

She shook her head. “What do you know about Tamlin?”

It rested its hand on its knee, and tilted its head. “More specific, mortal. Be more specific. For we know many things about the High Lord of the Spring Court.”

Feyre’s eyes widened. Her voice sounded far away as she said, “Tamlin is—Tamlin is a High Lord?” One of the seven High Lords in all of Prythian… It was a wonder she wasn’t dead for essentially telling him to piss off.

Click, click, click. “You did not know. Interesting…”

Feyre licked her lips. “What about Lucien?”

“Be more specific—”

“Is he a High Lord, too?”

The Suriel grinned. “There are only seven High Lords in all of Prythian, mortal. They do not share courts.”

Feyre gritted her teeth, irritated that she’d wasted a question. “I knew that.”

“Did you also know that this is the Spring Court?”

“I figured as much.”

The Suriel closed its eyes. “Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, Dawn, Day, and Night,” it whispered. “The seven courts of Prythian, each ruled by a High Lord, all of them deadly in their own way. They are not merely powerful… They are Power.”

Feyre’s mind reeled. That would explain how Tamlin had faced the Bogge and lived. She licked her dry lips, then said, “Tamlin told me about a blight spreading across Prythian. If the High Lords are so powerful, why can’t they beat it? And where did it come from?”

Click, click, click. “One question at a time, mortal.”

Feyre took a deep breath. “Why haven’t the High Lords beaten the blight?”

“Even High Lords have weaknesses. Your High Lord is stronger than most.”

Her High Lord? That was a bit presumptuous. “Where did the blight come from?”

“Across the western sea,” the Suriel said simply. It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was an answer.

“How can it be defeated?”

The Suriel seemed thoughtful as its milky eyes looked her over. “Stay with the High Lord, mortal,” it replied at last. “That is all you can do. He will protect you from the blight sweeping over Prythian. Stay with him, and all will be righted.”

Feyre quirked her mouth to one side. The Suriel’s answer was maddeningly simple, and not the least bit satisfying. Before she could ask another question, the Suriel asked one of its own.

“The High Lord does not know that you came here today, does he? He does not know that his human woman came to trap the Suriel, because he cannot give her the answers she seeks.”

Feyre clenched her teeth at that: his human woman. For a High Lord, he wasn’t very good at making his feelings known, if he had any. She asked, “Why can’t he give me the answers I seek?”

“The blight binds the tongues of the Spring Court, mortal.”

“But not you, it seems,” she remarked. “Are you not a member of the court?”

“We are bound to no court. We are older than the High Lords, older than Prythian, older than the bones of this world.”

Feyre’s heart trembled. Such an old creature would not have let itself be captured so easily, unless it wanted to be… The question then was: Why? She did not know and could not guess. Wicked or not, it was best not to upset such a being. She took a deep breath, then tossed the chicken at the Suriel.

Its bony hand shot out, and it caught the dead bird one-handed. It grinned. “We thank you, mortal… Now, release us.”

“I have more questions.”

Its eyes narrowed. “We do not speak with our mouth full.”

A nervous laugh threatened to bubble out, but Feyre squelched it in time. “It won’t take long,” she said evenly.

The Suriel glowered, then bent its head and began plucking the dead chicken. Mottled brown feathers fluttered to the ground.

Feyre took that as an invitation to keep talking. “Why did you say I was Tamlin’s human woman?”

Pluck, pluck, pluck. “He brought you here, did he not?”

“As part of the Treaty, yes, but he doesn’t like me. Neither does Lucien.”

The Suriel paused and looked up. “The High Lord needs you, and his emissary cares for you in a way that you do not comprehend.”

Feyre blushed at that. If she didn’t know faeries couldn’t lie, she would accuse the Suriel of just that. It would explain why Lucien had warned her about the Bogge, though… “What can Lucien see with his golden eye, anyway?” she asked.

“Many things, mortal, but—” The Suriel clutched the half-plucked chicken to its chest and straightened up. “We are not alone,” it whispered.

Feyre’s eyes widened, for she realized the Suriel meant more than itself.

The Suriel met her gaze and held it. “Mortal. You must release us and run. Run for the High Lord’s manor. Do not forget what we said: Stay with the High Lord. Stay with him, and live to see everything righted.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked nervously, looping the bow over her shoulder.

“The naga approach.”

Feyre stiffened; a cold shiver ran down her spine. “The what?”

“Naga. Faeries made of shadow and hate and rot. They heard us, but they smelled you. Release us, mortal. They will cage us if they catch us here; cage us for the truths we tell.”

Feyre’s brows furrowed, but there was no time to ask more questions. She reached for the knife at her belt and took a step forward, then she froze. Four creatures as dark as shade had slithered into the birch grove.

If the cloaked Suriel was a nightmare, the four naga were straight from the pits of Hell. Vaguely humanoid from the waist up and serpents from the waist down, wicked talons tipped their three fingers. Their large, yellow, almond-shaped eyes took in the sight of the snared Suriel and the human standing in the grove. They grinned, revealing long fangs and silvery forked tongues.

“Sssuriel,” one hissed.

“And a sssnack,” said another.

Feyre gritted her teeth as she whipped out her bow and drew an arrow from her quiver. If Lucien truly ‘cared’ for her by sending her out here alone, he had a funny way of showing it.

Feyre licked her too-dry lips as she nocked an arrow. She took one step back, then another. One scream would call Lucien, if he were true to his word, if she could just muster the breath…

“Release us,” the Suriel pleaded, clutching the chicken tighter. At least Lucien had not been wrong about its greed.

What else had he mentioned? …Running water. She had to trust that it would protect her from the Suriel, but she didn’t know enough about naga to guess. She took another step back, and the four naga slithered closer, their forked tongues darting out, as if imagining how she would taste. When one naga broke away to slither closer to the Suriel, Feyre drew the arrow back. Then she screamed. The high, sharp sound echoed through the grove. She hoped someone was listening.

The four naga fixed their yellow eyes on her. With their attention diverted from the Suriel, Feyre released the arrow, and it shattered the snare. The Suriel fled, narrowly avoiding the first naga as it lunged.

Feyre grabbed another arrow and nocked it just as that naga crashed, empty-handed, into the earth. With an angry hiss, it turned on her. Without hesitating, she drew the arrow back and fired. Its head whipped back as its black blood sprayed the air.

She did not wait to see it fall. Her legs were already carrying her toward the stream. She had plotted a careful path before setting her trap for the Suriel, and she followed it now. She had no other hopes of outrunning the naga otherwise. Her feet tore through the grassy undergrowth. Where was Lucien?

***

Lucien’s ears pricked up at the sound of a distant scream. Feyre. It was horrible timing, since he had finally picked up on the puca’s trail. Still, he had promised. With a reluctant groan, he spurred Shadow into a gallop and headed for the birch groves. It didn’t take long, and he fully expected to find the girl halfway up a tree, after snaring a wild animal or some—His blood ran cold at what he found instead.

Scattered brown chicken feathers. A shattered snare with a broken arrow. Broken branches and torn-up undergrowth. A dead naga with an arrow through its eye… Naga always hunted in packs. These were probably the same naga he had told Tamlin about. Shit.

Shadow nickered nervously at the smell of the naga’s foul blood, but Lucien managed to spur his horse onward, following the trail of broken branches. Cauldron boil him, if he got Feyre killed, he would never forgive himself. It wasn’t because of Tamlin or Amarantha’s curse. It wasn’t even because of Andras’s sacrifice. Lucien had promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn’t grow attached to anyone anymore. Not after what happened to Jesminda. And he’d broken that promise. For a human, of all things. A scrawny, sullen, stubborn human girl. Damn it all, he’d grown kind of fond of her.

Shadow leapt over the nearby stream, and Lucien gripped the reins as he scanned the trees and undergrowth. The Suriel may have hated crossing running water, but the naga sought out streams and rivers to catch their prey. His mind raced. He’d only told Feyre about the Bogge and the Suriel. Was there anything else he had warned her about that might help her? He couldn’t remember. It was up to him, then. He could only pray to the Mother that he found Feyre in time.

Chapter Text

Running water had no effect on naga, it seemed, but perhaps a thicket would. Feyre’s burning legs nearly collapsed beneath her as she ducked under the thorny, low-hanging branches. The sharp brambles tore at her braided hair and exposed skin as she pushed them away. Her hands and cheeks stung as they began to bleed, but she couldn’t stop to wipe away the blood, or the sweat in her eyes. She stumbled, but caught herself as she straightened up to run for the glimmer of sunlight visible through the trees. Panting, she prayed to whatever forgotten gods that might be listening that someone had heard her scream. She didn’t have the breath to call for help again.

Serpentine shadows appeared at the edges of her vision, flanking her, hoping to cut her off before she reached the edge. Perhaps the gods were forgotten for a reason, she thought bitterly. The shadow on her right lunged, and she flinched back just in time to avoid its outstretched talons. The naga crashed to the ground at her feet, and she whirled in time to see another naga on her left dart for her. She swung her bow upwards with a wild cry, and the wood connected with the creature’s face with a bone-crunching crack. It screeched as it collapsed to the earth, and, arms shaking, Feyre turned for the edge of the thicket.

Something caught her cloak from behind and yanked her to the ground. She let out a strangled cry as her feet flew out from beneath her and she fell, hard. Her quiver full of arrows crunched beneath her, and the bow flew from her hand, out of reach. Stunned from the impact, she gasped for air, air to scream, but one of the naga gripped her throat with its strong fingers, silencing her.

She clawed at its thick wrist, its iron grip, her eyes wide with terror as the naga leaned over her, its fangs bared.

“You cossst usss, human,” it hissed, its hot, foul breath washing over her.

She grunted, unable to reply. Two naga appeared at the edges of her vision, hissing angrily. Her mind raced; where was the fourth? Had she killed it?

“Make her sssuffer,” one of the naga snarled. Black blood sprayed from its broken mouth, and Feyre flinched as the foul droplets landed on her face.

“Ssskin her alive,” the other said with a wicked grin, lifting its thick, taloned fingers in anticipation.

“Ssslowly,” the naga holding her down agreed, raising one claw to strike.

Some wild instinct shot through her, and Feyre grabbed Lucien’s knife from her belt to plunge it into the naga’s scaled arm holding her down. It released her with a pained, angry screech. Welcome air filled her lungs, then she rolled onto her shoulder and coughed. Her throat was on fire. She gripped the bloodied knife and managed to push herself onto her hands and knees. At least she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

A shriek startled her, and she looked over her shoulder to see an arrow buried in the first naga’s eye. Black blood poured from the wound as the creature convulsed, screeching horribly as it clawed at the arrow. Her brows furrowed in confusion, then her eyes widened as another arrow suddenly sprouted from its throat. It let out a strangled cry as it collapsed behind her with a sickening thud, its serpentine tail undulating as it bled out onto the earth.

The other two naga stared at their fallen comrade, then let out furious hisses. “Vanssserra,” one snarled at someone in the distance.

Feyre looked up to see who it meant; she stared in shock to see Lucien standing at the edge of the thicket. She almost didn’t recognize the red-haired High Fae. Gone was the smirking emissary, and in his place was a proud hunter-warrior. His long hair had been tied back, his shoulders were squared, his jaw set, and his expression focused as he lined up another shot.

“Let her go,” Lucien called out, keeping his arrow drawn. His gold eye gleamed as a sudden flame appeared at the end of the arrow. Feyre’s eyes widened. She’d never seen Lucien perform magic before.

Both naga snarled at him, at the flame, but they did not back away.

“Last chance,” Lucien warned, holding the flaming arrow steady. “Unless you want to bring down the High Lord’s wrath, as well.”

One of the naga hissed, then darted into the trees. High Lord, Feyre thought, beginning to tremble for more than one reason. Tamlin. Tamlin was the High Lord of the Spring Court, but Lucien didn’t know she knew. And now that she knew, she didn’t know what to do about it.

“Well, naga?” Lucien called out, addressing the remaining creature, the one with the broken jaw.

It growled, then grabbed Feyre’s leg before she could react. She yelped and clawed at the ground as it began to drag her backwards.

Lucien swore, then made to release the arrow. But his head whipped to one side as the other naga appeared and tackled him from behind. The arrow struck a tree nearby, and its flame harmlessly guttered out. Feyre could only watch, helpless, as that naga pinned Lucien to the ground as he scrabbled for the dagger at his belt.

Then she was flipped onto her back and her wrists pinned to the ground as the naga snarled into her face. The knife Lucien had given her still rested in her hand, covered in drying naga blood. Not that it would do her any good now. “Now you die,” the creature growled, then opened its fanged mouth wide, aiming for her throat.

She shut her eyes, praying for a quick death, even if no one was listening.

A furious roar sounded through the woods. And it wasn’t the naga.

Her eyes flew open as a huge, horned, wolf-like beast with golden fur ripped the naga off of her. Tamlin. Feyre scrambled into a sitting position and pushed herself back against a nearby tree as the beastly High Lord pinned the naga to the earth.

The serpentine creature snarled and lashed out with its wicked talons, but Tamlin already had his jaws around the naga’s neck. There was an awful sound of tearing flesh and a pitiful screech as the High Lord ripped the creature’s throat out. Its tail thrashed once more, but the creature’s arms fell to the earth, lifeless. Black blood streamed down the beast’s golden fur and dripped from his jaws as he lifted his head and looked around, growling.

Feyre stared, frozen in place, unable to look away from the awful display of carnage.

A frightened shriek sounded nearby; the other naga darted for the darkness and protection of the deep woods. There was no sign of Lucien, but Tamlin sprang after the remaining creature and pinned it to the ground. The undergrowth hid where he struck, once, twice, three times, but it did nothing to muffle the awful sounds of shrieking, ripping flesh, or the wet splatters of blood.

Something grabbed Feyre’s shoulder and she yelped as she jerked away. She scrabbled for something, anything, to defend herself with, then remembered the knife in her hand and whipped it out.

“Easy!” someone cried. A masked man dressed in forest green knelt before her, splaying his hands, his eyes wide. “Easy there. It’s me. You’re safe.”

It took her a long moment to recognize him. “Lucien?” she rasped; her voice sounded far away.

The red-haired High Fae slowly lowered his hands and gave her a half-smile. “Are you alright?”

She drew a shuddering breath, then dropped the knife. Her hand shook, then she realized she was trembling all over. She pressed her hands to her face, sticky with blood, and choked back a sob.

“Easy there,” he said softly, and grasped her arms. “Are you hurt?”

She somehow managed to shake her head.

“Let me see,” Lucien said, and gently pulled on her wrists. His hands were very warm as he cupped her neck to look her over. She swallowed with some difficulty; she hadn’t realized how cold she’d become. As his mismatched eyes swept over her, she suddenly realized she was not the only one covered in blood.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered.

He met her gaze with some surprise, then glanced at his left shoulder. His green tunic, spattered with black naga blood, had a dark red stain there from the neck downward.

“It’s already stopped,” he said dismissively, then returned his attention to her.

“…How?”

His thumbs brushed her cheeks as he said, “The High Fae have the ability to heal themselves, and others, too.”

She stared at him in disbelief, then the metallic tang of magic touched her nose and her face tingled. The scratches on her face from the thorns began to close, to heal.

“Is she hurt?” someone asked above them.

She numbly lifted her gaze to see Tamlin standing there. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, wiping off the black blood that spattered his masked face, torn green tunic, and still-clawed fingers. The High Lord of Spring. High Lord… How could she not have seen it before?

“Just some scratches and a few bruises. But I think she’s mostly stunned,” Lucien said, releasing her neck to sit back on his heels.

Feyre tried not to flinch as Tamlin knelt beside them. The beast’s roars still echoed in her ears, swirling with the words of the Suriel. High Lord. One of the most powerful beings in Prythian was within arm’s reach, reaching for her with naga blood on his fingers.

She couldn’t help it; she jerked her face away and let out a nervous whimper as she shifted closer to Lucien.

“Easy,” Lucien said again, gripping her shoulders. “He can heal you faster than I can. Stay still.”

She obeyed, but closed her eyes as Tamlin reached for her again. No beastly claws scraped her cheeks as he cupped her face. His touch was impossibly gentle, though she could feel the powerful strength within his fingers. A tingle spread through her, and the metallic scent of magic washed over her like a warm breeze. The rest of the stinging cuts from the thorns closed up, and the aches and bruises from the naga faded away as though they had never been.

As he released her, she let out a sudden breath, and her shoulders slumped in relief.

From beside her, Lucien squeezed her shoulders and said, “That wasn’t so bad, huh?”

She managed to nod, then looked up into Tamlin’s eyes. There was still a trace of that beastly rage in them still, but mostly his gaze was filled with concern.

“Do I want to know what you were doing all the way out here?” he asked gruffly.

She swallowed, avoiding looking at Lucien as she replied, “I… I was taking a walk to clear my head… I didn’t realize I’d wandered out so far.”

Tamlin let out a slow, resigned breath through his nose. “On the days that I’m called away to deal with… trouble… stay close to the manor.”

She nodded again. “I-I will,” she whispered, then swallowed. “Thank you… for taking care of me.” She realized it was hardly adequate, for saving her life and treating her better than she deserved under the terms of the Treaty. But it was all she could think to say.

“I do what I can,” he said gruffly. “But these things shouldn’t have made it so far onto my lands. I am sorry you were put at risk.”

Lucien interjected, “Were there more?”

Tamlin nodded. “I counted a dozen in the pack. I took care of most of them, but four of them slipped away while my back was turned. I managed to track them, then found one of them dead with an arrow in its eye. I followed the trail left by the other three, and it led me here.”

So he didn’t know she had come looking for the Suriel. Feyre let out a quiet, grateful sigh, and her shoulders slumped as weariness washed over her. Then she stiffened at Tamlin’s next question.

“And you, Lucien? What were you doing out here?”

“Hunting,” Lucien replied simply. “I was tracking the puca on the grounds when I heard someone scream. I thought I would investigate, maybe help out.”

“Did you find the puca?”

“I picked up its trail near the meadow, but—”

Tamlin pushed himself to his feet. “Take Feyre home. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Tam—”

“It won’t take long,” Tamlin said gruffly. “It’s almost sunset. Get going.” The High Lord did not wait for a reply, but turned for the trees and was quickly gone.

Lucien let out a weary, resigned sigh, then said to her, “Come on, then.”

He offered his hand to help her stand, then easily pulled her to her feet. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she stumbled. Lucien quickly slipped his other hand around her waist to steady her. Though she knew he was only trying to help, the gesture was too close, too sudden, too intimate.

Her cheeks heated as she protested, “You don’t have to—I’m fine—”

He didn’t release her, but instead grasped her hand and pulled it over his shoulder. Keeping his other hand at her waist, he said, “High Fae may have all the time in the world, but humans don’t.”

As they began to walk in step, she pursed her lips and looked away. The bodies of the dead naga littered the ground around them, and her stomach lurched at the sight. It was more than the carnage, though. She’d nearly died. Swallowing hard, she turned her gaze to her feet.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For keeping your promise.”

“What kind of Fae would I be if I didn’t?” he replied.

She didn’t have an answer.

***

Lucien could just make out the rooftop of the manor in the distance as they crested the last hill. Feyre remained strangely silent, sitting in front of him in the saddle. She’d loudly balked at the idea of both of them riding back on Shadow, but once he pointed out how late it was getting and how far they had to travel, she quickly shut up. When he mounted and settled into the saddle behind her, she’d hunched her shoulders and leaned away from him. And after everything he’d done… He shook his head and blamed her mortal upbringing for not wanting to even touch a faerie. He supposed he couldn’t blame her.

Humans had been slaves to the Fae for generations, up until the War. He hadn’t even been born then, but he’d heard stories. He’d never even seen a human before her, and at first glance, he had not been impressed. But as the days passed with Feyre around, he began to appreciate her mortal struggles, her protective nature, and her strong will. If other humans were anything like her, he could understand why so many of his kind had fought for their freedom.

He glanced down at the human girl before him, at the way the late afternoon sun touched her braided hair. It really did resemble burnished gold. If he could just get Tamlin to slow down and recognize that was only one of the qualities that made her special… Then again, if there was going to be any chance of breaking this damn curse, that meant getting her to open up, too.

In a congenial tone, he remarked, “We’re nearly there. Hope you’re hungry.”

Feyre stiffened, then muttered, “Stop.”

His slight smile faded. “You’ve had a Hell-sent afternoon,” he said. “You need to eat something—”

She abruptly turned sideways in the saddle, startling him. “No, just stop,” she said through gritted teeth. Her pale face looked green.

He pulled on the reins in alarm, and his horse nickered as they came to an abrupt halt.

Feyre slid down without another word and staggered toward the nearest bush. Lucien’s eyes widened as she fell to her knees and began to vomit. He winced in sympathy, then dismounted.

She half-turned at the sound of the reins jingling, then groaned and waved him back. “You don’t have to say it,” she muttered, then retched again. After a few hacking coughs, she straightened up to wipe her mouth on her sleeve. “I know I’m just a weak, pathetic human.”

He frowned, then dug in his saddlebag for a canteen of water. As he stepped closer, he said, “I wasn’t going to say that.”

She rested her fists on her knees and rasped, “But you were thinking it.”

He stood beside her and held out the canteen. “No. I wasn’t.”

She glanced at the proffered canteen, then sighed and begrudgingly accepted it. As she uncorked it, she said quietly, “A faerie is turning down the chance to mock a human?”

“There’s nothing to mock,” he said simply.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide in astonishment.

He spread his hands and explained, “You faced four naga on your own. You killed one singlehandedly and you might have even taken down a second one if I hadn’t come along. That’s nothing to sneer at.”

She gaped at him. “But… you and Tamlin had to rescue me—”

“And you think that makes you weak?” Lucien asked. When she did not reply, he continued, “I’m High Fae, and even I couldn’t beat a pack of naga on my own. We’re not invincible, Feyre. Even though we pretend we are.”

She continued to stare at him. Feeling a twinge of embarrassment for having admitted such a thing, he stepped back. “Come on,” he said in a low voice. “Alis will want to fuss over you when we get back, and we shouldn’t keep Tam waiting.”

***

Lucien was right; Alis did want to fuss over her. After nearly an hour of soaking in a hot bath, which magically did not cool down the entire time, Alis wrapped Feyre in a plush robe and pressed a large mug of molten chocolate in her hands. Feyre grimaced at it. She didn’t even want dinner, and now this? She had no appetite after throwing up that afternoon. It was bad enough that it had happened in front of Lucien. She didn’t think she could face him again, or Tamlin. The very High Lord of Spring himself. Part of her wondered if Lucien had told him about her humiliating experience, and if they had laughed about it… but she knew deep down he hadn’t. And that he wouldn’t. There’s nothing to mock, Lucien had said. And faeries couldn’t lie.

Alis cleared her throat, bringing Feyre back to the present. “I had the kitchen make that especially for you,” the faerie said pointedly. “So you are going to sit in front of the fire and drink it while I do something with your hair.”

Feyre obediently plopped into the chair before the crackling fireplace with a heavy sigh. For a moment, she was six years old again, pouting that she had to go to bed early while Elain and Nesta got to stay up and attend another one of Mother’s grand parties. She didn’t want to, but she obeyed just the same. As Alis stood behind her with the comb, she begrudgingly lifted the mug to her lips. After a single taste, she nearly drained half of it in one go. It tasted like liquid chocolate torte. Elain and Nesta always managed to sneak a piece of it up to her room during the party so that she wouldn’t feel left out… Feyre licked her lips and smiled at the memory.

As she lowered the mug to her lap with a contented sigh, Alis’s nimble fingers stroked her scalp and began to comb through her wet strands.

“Now then,” Alis said with a sniff. “The next time that fool Lucien gives you any advice, you come straight to me.”

Feyre guiltily hunched her shoulders as she gripped the warm mug. “I didn’t want Tamlin to find out,” she muttered. “You told him what I did to the curtains, after all.”

Alis paused, then said more gently, “I owe the master a great debt. It would be a betrayal of trust if I kept secrets from him.”

Feyre pursed her lips, wanting to protest that they shouldn’t be keeping secrets from her, either, but she didn’t dare. She was just a human, after all, and Tamlin was one of the seven High Lords over Prythian. Even if Alis or Lucien wanted to tell her, perhaps the blight bound their tongues like the Suriel said. The blight was still a very real threat. Stay with the High Lord, mortal, the Suriel had warned. That is all you can do. Feyre let out a disgruntled sigh, then lifted the mug for another sip.

Alis added, “Besides, did you really think the kitchen staff wouldn’t tell me that you asked for a fresh, unplucked chicken? I knew you went looking for the Suriel the moment I heard.”

Feyre slowly licked the chocolate from her lips, reluctant to answer. “Did you tell Tamlin?” she asked nervously.

“No,” Alis said stiffly, combing out the rest of her hair with more vigor than usual. “Not yet, anyway. You’ve been punished enough for one day. You’re lucky you made it back here in one piece, in any case. Thank the blessed Mother for that.”

Feyre swirled the last of the chocolate in her mug. “Lucien saved my life,” she said quietly. “Tamlin finished off the naga, but he wouldn’t have made it there in time otherwise.”

Alis set aside the comb and muttered, “It was the least that fool could do, after sending you into danger. Dead chickens, my ass.” She began to braid Feyre’s hair and continued, “All you really needed was to lay out a new robe, and the Suriel would have groveled at your feet.”

Feyre turned to the older woman in surprise. “How do you know so much about the Suriel?”

Alis’s lips were pressed in a thin line. “I’m one of the Urisk, foolish girl,” she said, putting a hand on her hip. “We’re the faeries of the birch wood. We know the Suriel quite well in the Summer Court.”

Feyre’s eyes widened at this news. “You… you’re from the Summer Court?” was all she could think to say.

Alis nodded, then placed a firm hand on Feyre’s shoulder to turn her back around. “I came here with my nephews nearly fifty years ago.”

Feyre bit her lip in thought. “Before the blight?” she guessed.

Alis’s fingers slowed. “After it began,” she said quietly.

Feyre’s brows furrowed. “I thought most of the faeries fled the Spring Court because of the blight.”

“They did, but… we had nowhere else to go,” Alis explained softly. “Not after—” She pursed her lips, unwilling, or unable, to say more.

Feyre swallowed hard. “You said you owed Tamlin a great debt… What was it for?”

The maid did not answer her at first. Her fingers were gentle as she secured the end of Feyre’s braid, and her voice was unusually soft when she replied, “My sister and her mate were killed, leaving behind their two young boys…” Feyre’s throat tightened as Alis went on, “I brought them across the Summer Court’s border, seeking refuge from… from the blight. I offered my services to Lord Tamlin in exchange for their safety.”

Feyre straightened up to turn and stare at the older woman. Alis’s mouth was pressed in a thin line, and she glanced away, silent. Feyre thought she saw a crystal tear slip down the brass bird mask.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Feyre said softly.

Alis nodded slowly, then gently patted Feyre’s shoulder. “My nephews are safe and happy, and the master has treated me well,” she said lightly. “I cannot complain.”

Feyre managed a smile. “I’d like to meet your nephews one day.”

Alis took the mug from Feyre’s hands and replied, “One day, perhaps. When it’s safe.”

Feyre watched her bustle over to the breakfast table to rest the mug on the tray. “Because of the blight?” she asked.

Alis turned and nodded. “I see the boys as often as I can, but they don’t live here. Lord Tamlin keeps them hidden and protected.”

Feyre tilted her head in surprise. “But it’s been nearly fifty years… Why do they still need protecting?”

Alis's eyes widened, then she nodded in understanding. “I nearly forgot. Humans don’t live as long as faeries.” She walked to the wardrobe and pulled out a fresh tunic and trousers as she continued, “The Urisk age much slower than humans, and even other faeries, especially the High Fae. We don’t reach maturity until around seventy-five years of age.”

“How old are you?” Feyre asked, then blushed with embarrassment as Alis gave her an incredulous look.

“I’m older than you think, girl,” she replied in a low voice. Feyre met Alis’s sharp, brown-eyed gaze and wondered how many lifetimes the faerie woman had seen… but she didn’t wonder aloud.

After an awkward silence, Alis returned her attention to laying out the clothes on the bed.

Feyre rose to her feet, ready to change the subject. She walked closer and wrapped her hands around one of the carved columns of her four poster bed. “You must love them very much,” she said quietly, “to sacrifice so much for them.”

Alis paused, then straightened up and folded her hands. “More than you know,” she said solemnly. “Faerie younglings are more rare and precious than gold or gems in our world… I would do anything to protect them. Even if it means telling Lord Tamlin what goes on in this house. You would be wise to keep that in mind the next time you feel like sneaking off.”

Feyre swallowed hard and nodded. “I did it to protect my family,” she tried to explain, but the maid held up her hands.

“Your reasons are your own,” Alis said evenly. She stepped away to clean up the damp towels in the bathroom; her voice echoed in the tiled room as she added, “Though I do wish you wouldn’t resort to such dangerous methods. I suggest talking to the master about it. I’m sure there’s something he can do.”

Feyre nodded, though she wasn’t convinced by Alis’s words. She turned to the clothes lying on the bed. Asking a High Lord for help didn’t seem any less dangerous than seeking out the Suriel. Then again, Tamlin had provided for her family when he didn’t have to… As she slipped on the soft linen undershirt, she wondered if perhaps she ought to give him another chance after all.

***

As Lucien stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for Feyre to emerge from her room for dinner, he rolled his sore shoulder with a wince. Healing himself used to be so easy. Yet ever since Amarantha robbed the Courts of all but the basest of their magic, even the smallest wound took great concentration to heal. He had learned not to rely on his magic over the last forty-eight years, but sometimes it was nice to know he could still summon fire or heal himself if he had to. Luckily for him, he’d been able to do both that day, though the effort had nearly drained him.

It would take a couple days to completely heal his shoulder. If it hadn’t been for his keen hearing, that naga would have completely sliced him open. And if it hadn’t been for the dagger he wore, it would have finished the job. He pulled the jeweled weapon from his belt and turned it over. The tiny rubies in the gold hilt winked in the lamplight. After seeing Feyre safely delivered to her room—and getting an earful from Alis besides—he’d spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the blade and its intricate hilt.

A door closed down the hall, and he glanced up to see Alis carrying a tray from Feyre’s room, with Feyre following close behind. He hid the dagger behind his back and waited for them to approach.

Alis shot him another withering look as she passed, but this time she said nothing and descended the stairs with the tray. If she wanted to scold him some more, he would have let her, but he was also grateful that she didn’t.

Feyre, however, gave him a polite nod as she passed, looking much better now than when he’d left her. Dressed in a ruby red tunic, her hair was freshly washed and braided, and there were no traces of scratches or bruises on her lightly freckled cheeks. The shadows weren’t even as deep beneath her eyes. The fresh air, the sunshine, and the plentiful meals of the Spring Court had been good for her, and he’d nearly gotten her killed.

As she reached for the carved stair railing, Lucien took a deep breath. It was now or never. “Feyre?”

She paused with her foot on the top step, and turned to face him with an expectant look.

He pressed his lips together and gave her a wan smile. “Feeling better?”

She quirked her mouth to one side. “I’m fine,” she said, turning back to the stairs.

“Wait,” he tried again. When she looked at him again, he took another deep breath. “About what happened today—”

She held up her hand and shook her head. “You found me in time. Really, I’m fine.”

He let out a long, slow breath, then brought his hands out from behind his back. He held out the dagger.

She took her foot off the top stair and stepped closer, staring at the intricate, jeweled sheath. “What’s this?”

“For protection,” he said stiffly, then admitted, “And for not ratting me out to Tam earlier.”

She lifted her gaze, her eyes narrowed. “So this is a bribe?”

He unsheathed it partway and said, “A silver blade will do you a lot of good in a bad situation. With the dangers from the blight, you should have something of your own to defend yourself at close range.” He re-sheathed the blade and held it out, hilt first.

She stared at it, hesitating.

“It’s better than that little dinner knife you hid up your sleeve the other night.”

Her face flushed and she looked up at him in alarm. “How did you know?”

He smirked. “I’m not blind, Feyre.”

She dropped her gaze to the dagger, and after a long moment, took the proffered blade and turned it over in her hands. As she hefted it, she asked quietly, “You’re really just giving this to me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I hesitated. When I heard you scream. Not long, but that mess with the naga could have been prevented if I’d acted sooner.”

She was quiet for a long moment, then she nodded. “I understand. I’m a human who killed your friend, who now lives in your house, and you have to put up with me… I understand.”

He felt a twinge of guilt, remembering the first night she’d arrived. Dump her somewhere. Kill her off. I don’t care, he’d said, but it had been out of anger at Andras’s death. He hadn’t really meant it.

Then Feyre shocked him by stepping forward and playfully slugging his shoulder. “I ought to wallop you for not giving me fair warning about the Suriel.”

Ow. He touched his throbbing shoulder, his eyes wide with surprise. “I did. I told you it was dangerous, but you didn’t lis—”

“Alis told me all I needed was to offer it a new robe. And you had me setting a trap with only a quiver and a knife to defend myself—”

“A robe?” Lucien blinked. “That’s not how we did it in the Autumn Court.”

Her head jerked back in surprise. “You’re from the Autumn Court?”

“You didn’t know?”

She shook her head.

He twisted his mouth to one side. “It was a long time ago,” he said quietly.

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully as she turned the knife over in her fingertips. “So you weren’t trying to get rid of me?”

He gave her a wry half-smile. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re still a Fae-killer,” he teased, “but I thought if you were lucky enough to even see a Suriel, you’d scream at the sight of it and bolt. I didn’t count on the naga.”

She huffed a laugh. “Well, if you still want me dead, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.” And she smiled.

He smiled back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chapter Text

As Feyre tucked the ruby-studded dagger into her belt, she noticed that it matched the jeweled sword at Lucien’s side. She paused. “This is part of a set, isn’t it?”

Lucien looked down at his sword in a disinterested way. “Hmm. I suppose it is.”

She pursed her lips and cocked her head. “Won’t you miss it?”

He shrugged as he turned for the stairs. “I have plenty of weapons to choose from.”

She followed him down the steps and remarked, “Yet you always wear that sword… Why?”

He glanced over his shoulder and said, “Because I learned a long time ago that you should never let your guard down.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised at his answer. In typical faerie fashion, he had sidestepped her question to avoid telling her what she really wanted to know. She decided not to press him… this time. “You arm yourself even with Tamlin around?”

Lucien turned away. “Tam can’t be everywhere at once.”

That much was true. Lucien had been the one to come after her, after all. She watched the easy way he carried himself down the stairs, with his hand resting on the ruby-studded pommel of his sword. As she followed him, she wondered what had happened to make him carry around that kind of weapon all the time. A dagger was one thing, but a sword? It sounded exhausting… Much like her day. She let out a tired sigh, already looking forward to the end of the evening when she could just go to bed and forget about the blight, the naga, and other faerie beasts. At least for a little while.

As Feyre and Lucien walked into the dining room, she noticed Tamlin was not waiting for them at the head of the table. She frowned and glanced around. “Where’s Ta—oh.”

Tamlin glanced up, standing next to her usual seat. He set down the decanter of white wine and her now-full goblet. He had already filled her plate.

“Good evening, Feyre,” he said with a slight bow. “Are you feeling better?”

She managed to nod. “I’m fine,” she said, then added with a shrug, “If I never encounter another naga, I’ll consider myself fortunate.”

Tamlin gave her an understanding smile, then pulled out her chair for her. She tried not to stare. It was like the first night she’d arrived all over again. But this time she knew the food was safe. Her host, on the other hand… He wore a fresh, emerald green tunic edged in gold thread, matching his jeweled mask. His usual leather baldric and deadly knives were nowhere in sight. He no longer resembled the beastly warrior who had slaughtered the naga just that afternoon. He seemed more noble now, though she knew it didn’t make him any less dangerous.

After a moment’s hesitation, she smiled politely as she stepped forward and took her seat, uncertain how she should address him. High Lord Tamlin? Or just High Lord? Should she even admit that she knew what he was? Alis called him the master or Lord Tamlin, but Lucien just called him Tam.

“Thank you… Tamlin,” she said quietly. After all, he had given her permission to call him that when she’d arrived… She blushed as he gently pushed in her chair. A High Lord was serving her, not just a High Fae. And she’d once tried to call him Sir…

“Thank you, Tam,” Lucien said in an awed voice, standing next to his own chair. His plate had been filled, as well.

Tamlin said nothing, but merely nodded before returning to his empty plate at the head of the table. He had served them both before himself, on top of saving them from the naga. He wasn’t anything like the stories of the wicked High Fae she’d heard from her childhood…

Tamlin caught her staring at him as he sat down. “I thought we could start over,” he said, then broke their shared gaze to reach for a crystal decanter filled with a dark red wine.

You mean pretend that I don’t know what you’re capable of, Feyre thought, then chided herself. Maybe he was a beast some of the time, but he had shown great kindness to Alis and her nephews, not to mention her father and sisters.

“What changed?” Lucien asked Tamlin quietly, leaning forward in his chair.

Feyre reached for her fork and tried not to look too curious at the High Lord’s answer.

As Tamlin poured the wine, he replied, “I found the puca. It tried to show me what I most wanted in the world…”

Feyre paused with the fork halfway to her mouth and asked, “What’s a puca?”

Lucien answered as Tamlin took a sip of wine. “A shapeshifter. It belongs to the wind and the weather and everything that changes.”

“Like the Bogge?” she asked.

Tamlin cupped his goblet with a thoughtful frown. “Yes and no. A Bogge shows you what you most fear, and that fear becomes reality… Just before it kills you. A puca lures you in by showing you your hidden desires. But those desires never become real. And by the time you realize it, it has already begun feeding on you.”

She shivered, and lowered her fork to her plate without taking a bite. She wondered what the puca might have shown her if she had been so unlucky to encounter it. Her father, perhaps, as he used to be before he’d lost his fortune. Or Nesta and Elain, welcoming her home. Or Isaac, the one man in the village she had once been close to… before he proposed to someone else.

“What did the puca show you?” she asked Tamlin, wondering what a High Lord could possibly want that he did not already have. His lips tightened, and she wondered whether she had crossed another line or if his answer had something to do with the blight, binding his tongue like the Suriel said.

“…My mate,” he said at last, then drank deeply from his goblet.

Her brows furrowed in confusion, and she turned to Lucien for a clearer answer. But he wasn’t looking at her; he stared at Tamlin, and his face had gone pale.

As Tamlin lowered his goblet, Lucien said, “You-you’re not actually considering—”

Tamlin’s eyes darkened. “Never,” he growled. “Not in a thousand years.”

Feyre glanced between the two of them, more confused than before. “So… were you married once?” she asked Tamlin.

“No,” he said roughly, and picked up the decanter for more wine.

Feyre gave him a hesitant shrug. “A lover, then?”

The crystal decanter shattered. Feyre jumped, and Lucien swore.

Red wine and red blood dripped from Tamlin’s outstretched, clawed hand. His lips were curled back, revealing the beast’s fangs. “Damn it,” he muttered, and flicked his hand in a pained way.

Quite without thinking, Feyre grabbed the linen napkin by her plate. As she walked toward Tamlin at the other end of the table, she thought, He can heal himself; what the hell am I doing? But she kept walking.

When she reached the head of the table, Lucien hissed her name, but she ignored him. There was still a trace of the beast in Tamlin’s eyes as he looked up at her, but she ignored that, too. Instead, she reached for his bleeding fist and used the napkin to dab at the blood.

“I just finished bandaging this hand and here you go hurting yourself again,” she scolded. She expected him to snatch his hand away, to snarl at her, but she had to do something to help. He had healed her, after all; it was only fair. To her surprise, he did nothing but uncurl his fist, revealing a smooth palm. She jerked the napkin away and stepped back.

“Oh… I-I guess you didn’t need me after all…”

Tamlin flexed his fingers, and the claws retracted. “Not for this,” he said quietly, massaging that hand. “This was no Bogge bite.” When he met her gaze again, his expression was calm. “But thank you… just the same.” And he gave her a slight smile.

“It was nothing,” she murmured, embarrassed at how true that was. She snuck a glance at Lucien; he stared at her, probably in awe of her stupidity.

The High Lord needs you, the Suriel had said, and his emissary cares for you in a way that you do not comprehend.

Feyre’s cheeks warmed, and she tossed the bloodied napkin onto the table before returning to her seat. “I’m… I’m sorry I was nosy,” she said as she sat down. It was all she could think to say.

“It’s not your fault,” Tamlin said gruffly, then waved his hand over his plate. The spilled wine, the broken crystal, and the stained tablecloth disappeared only to reappear as if they had never been ruined. Feyre’s napkin even reappeared by her plate, clean and freshly folded. She swallowed hard at the sight, and as the whiff of magic touched her nose, she wondered if she would ever get used to it.

As the High Lord poured himself another goblet of wine, he said, “I don’t suppose humans nowadays tell stories about faerie mating bonds…”

Feyre slowly shook her head. “I-I don’t think so… Is that different from a wedding?”

Tamlin looked thoughtful as he cupped his goblet and sat back in his chair. “You should eat something,” he told her. “I will explain the mating bond as best I can, but I do not understand it well myself.”

Feyre glanced at Lucien, who had finally begun to relax. She turned back to Tamlin and nodded. In truth, she was more hungry for his explanation than food, but she dutifully picked up her fork.

“High Fae and faeries alike mostly marry, or else take lovers,” Tamlin began, and she was surprised to see a slight flush touch his cheeks. “But if they’re Cauldron-blessed, they’ll find their mate. Their equal, their match in every way… We can wed without the mating bond, but if you find your mate, the bond is so deep that marriage is… insignificant in comparison.”

“That doesn’t sound so terrible,” Feyre said with a shrug, then shrunk back as Tamlin’s eyes darkened.

“A mating bond does not guarantee a happy union,” the High Lord said in a low voice. “My parents were proof of that.”

“Your parents were mates, then?” she asked.

He nodded slowly. “And married.”

Feyre considered this as she took a sip of wine. “If they weren’t happy together, then why not marry someone else in the first place?”

Tamlin and Lucien exchanged surprised looks. “The mating bond is an instinct,” Lucien explained. “A very powerful one that is… difficult to ignore. We think it exists to ensure the legacy of the Fae, to create strong offspring.”

So Tamlin was not only a High Lord; his parents had been mates. Your High Lord is stronger than most, the Suriel had said.

“A mating bond can be rejected,” Tamlin added, “but it takes both Fae to say No for the bond to be dissolved.”

“What happens if one of them doesn’t want to reject the bond?” she asked.

Tamlin’s mouth became pinched as he stared into his goblet, silent. Feyre turned to Lucien for an explanation. The red-haired Fae shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“It’s… unusual,” he said, not meeting Feyre’s gaze. “There aren’t many Fae that want to reject the bond. Most of them are thrilled to find their mate…”

Feyre glanced at Tamlin; she could see the shadow of his claws as he gripped his goblet. Never, he’d said. Not in a thousand years.

Lucien went on, “Let’s just say that the longer one denies the bond, the more it drives the other… mad.”

Tamlin muttered, “As if she needed an excuse.”

Feyre bit her lip in thought. “Who is she?”

Tamlin remained silent; Lucien took a long drink from his wine goblet. Anything to avoid telling her the truth, it seemed.

Feyre nearly apologized again for asking too many questions, but she was tired of secrets. Surely this couldn’t be related to the blight… So she waited for one of them to say something, anything.

After a long silence, Lucien muttered, “She’s nobody.” Tamlin said nothing, but glared at his friend, who crossed his arms and glared in return.

Feyre’s eyes narrowed. A nobody, mated to a High Lord? This wasn’t Lucien being vague or coy… “I thought faeries couldn’t lie.”

Both High Lord and his emissary straightened up to stare at her.

“Says who?” Lucien asked.

She shrugged. “Says everyone,” she said, then recited, “Make thee no deals with faerie kind; They cannot lie, but their words bind…” She faltered as Lucien covered his mouth with his hand, but not quickly enough to hide his amused smirk. She swallowed. “That’s not true, is it…”

Lucien lowered his hand to cup his chin, though his lips still twitched. “No. But your little rhyme is… charming.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she turned to Tamlin in shock. “I-is that true?” Because if Lucien was lying… Her head began to spin.

The High Lord glowered at his emissary. “Yes,” he growled, then let out a resigned sigh as he faced her. “But we never willingly lied to you.”

“Besides,” Lucien added, rather flippantly, “humans can lie. Why can’t we?”

“Because…” Her mind raced. “Because of magic?”

Lucien snorted, and Feyre’s cheeks grew hotter.

Tamlin leaned forward in his seat. “While Lucien seems to have forgotten his manners—” This last word was thrown in his friend’s direction with a growl. “—You are not wrong that there is truth in magic. Spells and curses are very specific in how they are made and how they can be broken. It seems that over the centuries, humans thought that if we could do magic, that meant we couldn’t lie. But that’s not true. As are many of your stories: They’re just stories.”

The rhymes she had learned as a child began to swirl through her head. If thou must approach the Wall; Iron keeps thee from their thrall. “What about iron?”

“…What about it?”

“Does it have any effect on you? I mean, can it hurt you?”

Lucien answered this time. “Not at all,” he said, far too flippantly for her liking. “Only ash, as you well know.”

Feyre slumped back in her chair, stunned. Her gaze dropped to her plate. If a faerie invites thee to dine; Taste not its food, drink not its wine… “What about the food?”

Tamlin let out an impatient sigh. “It’s safe, Feyre. It always has been.”

She placed her elbows on the table to drop her aching head into her hands. “How do I know that’s true?”

“You don’t,” he said coolly.

She looked up in shock.

Tamlin took a deep breath. “You are just going to have to trust me.”

Trust a High Lord? Or had the Suriel lied about his title? She looked to Lucien; he gave her a bemused shrug. Was anything that he told her actually true?

“Can all faeries lie?” she asked Tamlin.

He sighed. “Yes.”

She shot Lucien a glare. She’d nearly gotten killed seeking out the Suriel, and for what?

Lucien did not meet her eye but coughed into his fist. “There is one who can’t,” he muttered.

Tamlin turned to him with a frown. “If you think I’m going to allow her to seek out the—” He froze, then slowly turned his head to stare at her. She gulped. “Why did you go to the western woods today, Feyre?” he asked in a low voice.

Lie, or tell the truth… She nervously clasped her hands in her lap, then her arm brushed against the dagger Lucien had given her. Even if he had lied about everything else, he had kept his word. “I… I heard a story once,” she said quietly, “about a creature that will answer any question you ask if you can trap it.”

Tamlin continued to stare. “You went looking for the Suriel…”

“I caught the Suriel,” she said pointedly.

He sat back in his chair, stunned. “Cauldron boil me,” he murmured.

It was such a Lucien thing for Tamlin say, she couldn’t stop a smile from tugging at her lips. “You seem surprised.”

He shook his head and let out a quiet laugh. “You actually caught the Suriel… A human girl…”

This time being called a human didn’t feel like an insult. She began to feel a bit proud of herself. “Is it supposed to be hard?”

“The easy part is trapping it,” Tamlin said in a more serious tone. “The hard part is getting away unscathed afterwards. If it had gotten its hands on you…” He shook his head again. “Did it tell you what you wanted to know?”

She avoided looking at the two Fae as she reached for her wine. “I was interrupted by the naga before it could tell me anything worthwhile,” she said, then took a sip. Tamlin didn’t need to know that she knew he was a High Lord… yet. And Lucien certainly didn’t need his ego stroked to learn that she’d asked the Suriel about him in the first place.

“What is it you wanted to know so badly that you would seek out something so dangerous?” Tamlin asked.

Her good mood faded, and she dropped her gaze to her half-eaten plate, at the gold and silver and rich food spread before her. “I… I wanted to know how to go home,” she said quietly.

“…And what did it tell you?”

Her jaw clenched at the memory. Stay with the High Lord, mortal, the Suriel said. That is all you can do.

“That I should get used to Prythian,” she said, trying, and failing, to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She pushed herself away from the table. “Thank you for dinner.”

As she turned for the door, Tamlin said, “You love them very much… don’t you.” It did not sound like a question, but she paused just the same.

She half-turned to see him rise from the table and walk toward her. She stiffened and turned away.

“I wonder if your family realizes it,” he continued. “That everything you’ve done wasn’t about that promise to your mother, or for your sake, but for theirs.”

A sudden tear fell on her cheek, and she hastily brushed it away with a sniff. “Are they really safe, or was that a lie?” she asked tightly.

Tamlin paused a respectful distance away, but it was still too close for her liking. “If you don’t trust me, perhaps you should write to them and find out for yourself,” he said coolly.

Her face burned in shame, and she bit her lip to prevent more tears from falling.

Tamlin’s voice softened. “I know… I know that when I said it earlier, it didn’t come out well, but I could help you write to them—”

“I don’t want your help,” she muttered.

“I’m not trying to insult you—”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Leave me alone.”

Tamlin breathed out slowly through his nose, then stepped closer. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly. “Your family knows you’re safe. They know you’re alive, and fed, and cared for… Just as they are cared for.” He paused beside her, but she did not look up as he continued, “They have no memory of a beast bursting into their cottage. They believe your mother’s wealthy, long-lost sister called you away to aid her on her deathbed. And they believe if anything should happen before your safe return, they should flee to the safety of the continent.”

What safe return? She was never going to see them again. She sniffed back more tears and closed her eyes.

“Does nothing please you?” he asked quietly.

“Good night,” she muttered, then swept through the open doorway. He did not try to stop her.

***

Lucien stared into his wine as Tamlin returned to his seat.

The High Lord sighed as he sat down. “You don’t have to say it.”

Lucien shook his head and turned to his friend. “Say what?”

“That this isn’t working.”

Lucien stifled a groan. “I wasn’t going to say that.” He glanced in the direction Feyre had gone. “All things considered, I think she’s starting to warm up to you.”

Tamlin scoffed. “I thought so, too, until I reminded her that she’s stuck here against her will.”

“So don’t remind her,” Lucien quipped.

Tamlin sat back and steepled his fingers, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps I should distract her with expensive gifts…”

Lucien’s brows furrowed, and he shrugged. “I suppose—”

“Like a centuries-old ceremonial dagger from the Autumn Court.”

Lucien froze, then let out a weak chuckle at Tamlin’s wry smile. “Oh. That.” He took a sip of wine to give himself an extra moment to think. “I just thought that she should have something of her own to defend herself —”

“You have half an armory’s worth of weapons in your room alone. Yet you gave her a dagger that is worth more than all of them combined. How generous.”

Lucien shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “Maybe I wanted Beron to know such a precious family heirloom is in the hands of a mortal girl. Did you know that when he gets angry, his face turns redder than my mother’s hair? It’s quite extraordinary—”

“Lucien.”

He spread his hands. “It’s an old keepsake,” he insisted. “If Feyre’s going to defend herself, she might as well look good doing it, right?”

Tamlin ran a hand over his hair and let out a weary sigh. “Very well. Do as you like.” He reached for the nearest dish and began serving himself. “When you feel like telling me the real reason, I’ll be here.”

Lucien let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “One day, perhaps. When all of this is behind us.”

Tamlin smiled, but said nothing.

Then Lucien leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. “Speaking of, did the puca really show you Amarantha?”

Tamlin paused. “Yes,” he said quietly.

Lucien shook his head in disbelief. “I hate to imagine what the Bogge showed you, then.”

“The Bogge showed me the same thing.”

Lucien straightened up in shock. “What?”

A trace of the beast gleamed in Tamlin’s emerald eyes. “It seems that either I’m afraid of getting what I want, or I want her so badly it terrifies me.”

Lucien stared at his friend. “Then… how did you defeat both the puca and the Bogge?” he asked in awe.

Tamlin closed his eyes and sighed wearily. “Because I realized… what I really want more than anything… is a choice. Even if it means choosing a human over my mate. The will of the Cauldron be damned.”

Lucien swallowed hard. Once upon a time, he had wanted nothing more than his own mating bond to snap into place, to prove his father wrong. But now… “So what are you going to do?” he murmured.

Tamlin looked in the direction Feyre had gone. “I’m going to try again.”

Lucien followed his line of sight. He couldn’t imagine being in Tamlin’s position, being forced to choose a mortal over his own mate. Of course, if it was someone like Feyre, it didn’t seem so bad… But he didn’t have a mate, and Tamlin didn’t know Feyre well enough to be happy about that decision. Not yet, anyway.

“Why not take her on a ride tomorrow?” Lucien suggested. “It seems to be the one thing she enjoys doing.”

“I’d rather keep her closer to the manor, out of harm’s way,” Tamlin said quietly. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “It’s just a matter of convincing her to stay put… without lying to her.”

Lucien rubbed his chin, lost in thought. The Treaty was the only thing Feyre hadn’t questioned, and it was the one lie preventing her from returning to the mortal lands. As long as she didn’t find out, they were safe.

Unfortunately, Lucien had no more suggestions to offer his friend to win Feyre over. The High Lord would have to find another way to earn the girl’s trust, and then her love. But spring would soon come to the mortal lands, then summer, and with it, the solstice. Time was running out.

Chapter Text

Feyre was still asleep when Alis came in to open the curtains the next morning. Mulling over everything that had happened that day had kept her awake long into the night. From her conversations and arguments with Tamlin, to the Suriel’s cryptic words, to the naga attacking her, to Lucien rescuing her to giving her the dagger… And, worst of all, trying to figure out whether anything she had been told was a lie. It was closer to dawn than midnight when she finally fell asleep.

It was the clank of the breakfast tray that woke her. She blearily opened one eye against the golden sunrise, then moaned and pulled the covers over her head.

“None of that, now,” Alis remarked, pouring the tea. “The master wants to see you in his study as soon as you’re ready.”

“What for?” she groaned beneath the blanket.

Alis sounded far too chipper for her liking. “It’s none of my concern what the master wants you for. But it is my concern not to keep him waiting.”

Feyre let out a loud, resigned sigh, then threw off the covers. She knew she shouldn’t complain. From the delicious food, to the beautiful clothes, to the spacious private bedroom, she now lived a life more luxurious than her father had ever been able to afford… But she didn’t have her family there to enjoy it with her.

She halfheartedly picked at breakfast. She would have preferred to skip it altogether just to get Tamlin’s meeting over with, but Alis wouldn’t budge until she had at least nibbled on some toast and drunk her tea. Even the rich teal hue of that day’s tunic couldn’t lift her spirits. As she pulled her freshly braided hair free from the collar, she debated over whether to take Lucien’s dagger along. There was no reason to venture beyond the gardens now. The Suriel had said as much, and she knew it couldn’t lie. In the end, she decided to tuck the dagger into her belt. She had to admit that one thing Lucien said was true: Tamlin couldn’t be everywhere at once.

As she turned the corner toward Tamlin’s study, she hesitated at the sight of a familiar figure walking toward her. She considered stepping back behind the corner until he passed, but it was too late. Lucien had already caught sight of her.

“Morning, Feyre,” he chirped as he drew near.

She sighed, then forced a polite smile. Were faeries always so damn cheerful, or only when she was sleep-deprived? “Morning,” she murmured.

He paused before her. “Sleep well?”

She let out a mirthless chuckle and tiredly rubbed her forehead. “Do you want the truth or a lie?”

He snorted. “Whichever will make you feel better.”

She smiled in spite of herself, then sighed and crossed her arms. “So. Border patrol?”

Lucien’s hand rested in its usual place on the hilt of his sword. “Among other things. Sadly, you may not see me for the rest of the day,” he said with a smirk.

She smirked back. “However will I manage?”

He chuckled, then patted her shoulder as he walked by.

Suddenly reminded of why she had come, she turned and asked him, “Do you know why Tamlin wants to see me?”

Lucien paused, and his gaze swept from her to the study, then back again. Her heart gave a nervous thump as he leaned in; he looked strangely serious. He whispered, “Perhaps you should ask him yourself.” Then he winked.

She pursed her lips as he stepped away, laughing to himself. “Prick.”

“You know you love me,” he called back over his shoulder.

A smile tugged at her lips as she shook her head and watched him go. But the wisps of her good mood faded as she turned back toward the study. She had not left dinner under pleasant circumstances. She wasn’t sure what Tamlin was going to say to her. Or do.

She hesitated before the heavy study door, then took a deep breath before lightly knocking. Perhaps if Tamlin didn’t hear her, she could pretend that she didn’t realize he was in and make her escape to the gardens or something—

“Come in, Feyre,” he called out.

Her shoulders slumped. Fae hearing was impeccable. She eased the door open and glanced around. The study was just as elegant and overbearing as it had been the day before. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had asked to see it.

Tamlin stood before a tall bookshelf situated by a south-facing window. His finger traced the leatherbound spines as he distractedly remarked, “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.”

She took one step inside the doorway and crossed her arms. “Alis said I shouldn’t keep you waiting.”

He chuckled as he pulled a book from the shelf and glanced through it. “I don’t mind waiting.”

She stared at him. He seemed almost… friendly. As if she hadn’t snapped at him the night before. The soft morning light silhouetted his long blond hair and simple blue tunic. There was no sign of the baldric or his weapons today. But Feyre couldn’t forget that he was a High Lord, and a very powerful one at that. She rubbed her arms and waited for him to say what he needed to say so she could make her excuses and leave.

“Have a seat,” he said, without looking up.

She stifled a groan as she reluctantly turned to the large desk, where a stuffed chair was angled toward her in a rather inviting way. Another chair rested on the other side of the desk. It was clearly his chair. She could see faint scratch marks on the padded arms; it was probably a nervous habit of his. She shook her head as she sat down on the edge of the seat. A High Lord, nervous. Ridiculous.

She stiffened as he stepped closer and tossed the book on top of a small pile on the desk. But he did not linger; he walked to the smaller desk in the corner and gathered up a sheaf of parchment.

With Tamlin momentarily distracted, Feyre leaned forward for a closer look at his desk. Like much of the furniture in the manor, it was built out of rich mahogany. She lightly traced the darker grains in the polished wood, remembering the desk her father used to have in his study, back when he was a wealthy merchant. She was never allowed in his study when he was there, but when he was away on business, she would sneak in just to breathe in the scent of exotic spices, to look at all the lovely things he kept on the walls and on his desk, all brought back from the continent.

Feyre absentmindedly lifted the plain, worn cover of the first book on the pile, remembering her father’s complicated ledger. She grimaced. A children’s book. She dropped the cover and sat back to cross her arms, feeling queasy. She had momentarily forgotten where she was, that she didn’t know how to read. Unfortunately, she had admitted that to Tamlin the day before.

What was a children’s book doing in a High Lord’s library, anyway? As Tamlin took his seat across from her, she nodded at the book and tried to sound casual. “Are these books for Alis’s nephews?”

Tamlin tapped the sheaf of parchment on the desk with a thoughtful look. “She told you about them, then?”

Feyre nodded.

He set the stack of parchment down to pick up the first book then flipped through it. “To answer your question… No. These books were mine. I learned to read by them… A long time ago.”

Whatever answer she had expected, it wasn’t that. “How old are you, anyway?”

He ignored her as he turned another page, and she let out a resigned sigh. Faeries were worse than the high society women Mother used to invite to tea… Why was asking someone’s age such an inappropriate question? She had turned nineteen just a couple months ago; she made no secret of that…

“Three hundred and twelve.”

She straightened up in the chair. “What?”

Tamlin glanced up from the book. “My age. I’m three hundred and twelve.”

Her mouth fell open. She wasn’t sure which surprised her more: That he had been alive for over three centuries, or that he had actually answered her question.

He turned another page and continued, “It took me a moment to remember. It has been a long time since anyone asked my age… Once we reach maturity, one’s age is insignificant.”

“When do you reach maturity?”

“Hmm… Age twenty, I believe.”

“That’s not so different from humans,” she remarked, awestruck.

A slight smile touched his lips as he turned the book around and handed it to her. “No… It isn’t.”

His lingering look made her blush, and she turned her attention to the book in her hands. Delicately painted grasshoppers dancing among the flowers decorated the pages’ borders. “What is this?”

“One of my favorite poems from my childhood.”

She swallowed hard as she stared at the black ink letters covering both pages. Poetry. Rhymes. Like the ones she was taught as a child. But this one was much longer than the simple ones she could memorize by ear. “Very nice,” she said blandly, then held it out, hoping he would take it from her.

Instead, he sat back in his stuffed chair and steepled his fingers. “Read it.”

Her face grew hotter. “You know I can’t.”

He lightly shook his head and said, “I have a difficult time believing that someone with your kind of diction doesn’t at least know her letters.”

She swallowed. “I did have some lessons,” she admitted quietly.

He nodded at the book. “I want to see how much you know.”

Stifling a groan, she lowered the book to her lap. Sweat formed at her hairline as her gaze dropped to the large, printed words before her. She mumbled the words, trying to sound them out quietly to avoid embarrassing herself. “Th-three… g-grass… grass-hope… hoppers… grasshoppers… w-were… boo… bow… boon… king… sing… bouncing…”

Her stomach knotted as she stared at what was left of the poem. She’d only read one line out of at least twenty. She dared a glance at Tamlin’s face; he gave her a subtle nod, encouraging her to keep going. She shook her head and shoved the book onto the desk. “…I can’t do this.”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

She crossed her arms with a huff. “I told you before. I don’t know how to read or write.”

His mask hid most of his expression, but his lips pursed slightly in a thoughtful way. It was maddening how he looked so calm. “You were reading, Feyre. You know your letters,” he said.

“Just enough to write my name,” she said coolly.

“So if I wrote a letter for you, you could sign it?” he asked.

She frowned. “Is that what this is about?” she snapped. “Writing to my family? I told you: I don’t want your help.” She was suddenly on her feet, trembling with anger.

He remained perfectly still, watching her… Watching her the way a beast watches its prey. She tried to control her breathing. “I wanted to know if what you said was true. There were books by the fireplace in your house, after all.”

Her anger evaporated. “You noticed?” He had been a beast at the time, bursting into the cottage after sunset and roaring at them.

Tamlin nodded. “And there were dried flowers hanging on the walls.”

Her chest tightened at the memory. “The books were Nesta’s, and the flowers were Elain’s,” she rasped, then she sunk into the chair and fell silent. She didn’t trust herself to say more.

“Your sisters?”

She could only nod.

“Don’t you want to send them a letter?” he asked gently.

She sniffed against the tears that threatened to fall. “They wouldn’t… they wouldn’t believe anything I wrote anyway. They know I can’t write anything but my name.” She wiped away a stray tear and looked away.

Tamlin was silent for so long, Feyre was tempted to get up and leave. Then he surprised her by asking, “When did your father lose his fortune?”

She turned to him with wide eyes. “How did you know…?”

He gave her a slight smile. “By paying attention. You had a bow and arrows in your house. When I saw your father’s hands, I knew he wasn’t the one using them.”

She swallowed. He had been paying attention. “Eight years ago,” she said quietly. “But the money didn’t really run out until I turned fourteen.”

“That’s when you started hunting?” Tamlin asked.

She nodded.

“While your father did nothing?”

She bit her lip at the terrible memory. “He was never the same after my mother died. But it was the creditors who came to the cottage… They broke what was left of him. And his leg.”

“I am sorry,” Tamlin said quietly. Somehow she knew he meant it, even if faeries could lie. He continued, “If there is anything you need from me—”

She closed her eyes and shook her head as she pushed herself to her feet. “I don’t want your pity.”

“What about a friend?”

She lifted her head to see him standing beside his desk. “Can a High L—High Fae actually be friends with a human?” she asked coolly. She wasn’t ready to tell him that she knew what he really was.

“Three hundred years ago, enough of us were friends with the humans to go to war on their behalf.”

“What?” She’d never heard that from the stories she’d been told. Only that the Fae were dangerous, and the Treaty was the only thing protecting humans from being enslaved again.

Tamlin stepped closer. “Ash weapons alone could not have won the War,” he explained. “There were Fae who fought and died at the sides of their human friends, fighting for their freedom, and who mourned when the only solution was to separate our peoples.”

She stared at him. He had told her he was over three hundred years old; he had been alive during the War… “Were you there?”

He paused by the corner of his desk, not three steps away from her, and clasped his hands behind his back. She did not back away. “I was a child at the time, too young to understand what was happening,” he said. He glanced around his study. “I had my books and lessons to distract me… But if I had been old enough, I would have fought at their side. I would gladly go to my death, no matter whose freedom I was defending.”

Feyre swallowed hard. She wasn’t certain she would do the same; her only concern for the last five years had been keeping her family fed and safe. And now that they were…

In a soft voice, she said, “My family…” Her cheeks heated and she nervously clasped her hands. “Would you… would you write to them for me?”

Tamlin’s emerald gaze searched hers, then he smiled kindly and nodded. “Gladly.”

It wasn’t a long letter. There wasn’t much to say, since her family already knew to run for the continent at the first sign of trouble. She wondered how they knew, and if Tamlin had warned them somehow. She studied him as he bent his head over the page, occasionally dipping the sharp feather quill as he wrote what she asked him to say. His hair was not just blond; there were strands of gold and brown and wheat, colors she rarely let herself notice anymore, let alone dream of painting.

Tamlin slid the parchment across the desk, then offered her the quill. “I added a note about your aunt, if you’d like to read it first.”

“My aunt,” she repeated slowly, taking the quill. She bit her lip in thought as she glanced at the letter before her. “Oh… the one on her deathbed,” she muttered, twirling the feather between her fingers. She shrugged at Tamlin. “Why do they think my mother has a long-lost sister? She was an only child.”

Tamlin dropped his gaze to pick at his nails. He looked almost… guilty. “I glamoured their memories,” he said quietly.

Her eyes widened. “You altered their memories?”

“Glamoured,” he insisted, squaring his shoulders. “Think of it as… as a veil. Instead of remembering the night a beast took you away, they believe a coach came to fetch you to aid your dying aunt, who is much older and was estranged from your mother when she was young… I didn’t want to risk your family’s safety if they were to cross the Wall to come after you and further violate the Treaty.”

She stared at Tamlin in disbelief, then slowly shook her head. “They wouldn’t have done that,” she said softly.

He looked at her for a long moment. “Yes. They would have.”

She swallowed hard. She’d like to believe that they would, but he didn’t know them the way she did. “What about the blight?” she asked, changing the subject. “Is that part of the glamour, too?”

Tamlin was quiet a moment before responding. “They know that they should run at the first sign of trouble surrounding the Wall, if that’s what you mean.”

Her shoulders relaxed, and she nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly. She dropped her gaze at last to the letter before her, filled with a surprisingly elegant script. She bit her lip; she could only pick out the smaller words like ‘the’ or ‘and’.

“Would you like me to read it to you? My handwriting—”

She shook her head, then gave him a soft smile. “No. I trust you.”

She ducked her head at his surprised expression, then quickly scrawled her name at the bottom of the letter. It looked like chicken scratch compared to Tamlin’s fine penmanship, but it would have to do. And her family would recognize it, which was the most important thing.

As Tamlin folded and sealed the letter, she slowly rubbed her arms. She felt strangely satisfied, yet somehow empty. “What do I do now?” she asked quietly.

He set the letter aside then rested his hands on the desk. “Whatever you like.”

Her shoulders slumped with a soft sigh. She wanted to crawl into bed and forget the world, but she couldn’t do that for the rest of her life.

Tamlin sounded thoughtful as he went on, “There are the stables, of course… the gardens, the gallery—”

Feyre perked up. “There’s a gallery in this house?”

His surprise was so evident, she could swear she saw his eyebrows raise behind his mask. “You like art?”

She perched on the edge of the chair, squeezing her hands in her lap. “I had lessons… before my mother died. I-I’m not very good, but I—yes. Yes, I do.”

He smiled then, and it was not a mocking smile as she expected. He looked pleased. “It might take a few days to track them down, but I can get you paint, brushes, paper, canvas… Whatever you want.”

She sucked in a hopeful breath. “Really? I-I can help out in the kitchens, the gardens, to help pay for it—”

He held up hands. “No, I insist. It would be my pleasure.”

Her hands flew to her mouth, then she let out a surprised chuckle. “Thank you… I mean it, truly. Thank you.” Her mind raced, and she rose to her feet, becoming more excited by the moment. “I-I’ll paint outside, so I won’t make a mess—”

He rose to his feet as well. “Outside, inside, on the roof… You can paint wherever you like.” He glanced around. “This house is too clean anyway.” And then he met her gaze and smiled.

She shook her head in wonder. “After everything I’ve said… what I’ve done…” She shrugged. “Why be so kind?” 

His smile faded. “It’s selfish,” he said quietly. “Suffice it to say that I need you to… to remind me that there is more to life than suffering and bloodshed. And if… if I can make you happy, perhaps a little bit will rub off on me.”

At that moment, she wanted to apologize for every horrible thing she had ever said to him. She wanted to apologize for spurning his attempts to be friendly. And she especially wanted to apologize for shooting Andras, for being so hateful. But just as she worked up the courage, Tamlin softly cleared his throat into his fist.

 “The gallery should be cleaned before you see it,” he said, with a slight flush in his cheeks. “I had it closed off when I inherited this place, since there wasn’t anyone left who… who appreciated that sort of thing.”

Feyre nodded, uncertain of what to say now.

“Tomorrow, though… Let me show you the gallery tomorrow.”

She smiled softly, sincerely. “I’d like that. Very much.”

***

Lucien sighed as he massaged the back of his neck. He had been riding through the western woods all morning, to ensure that no more naga reared their ugly heads. So far, there had been no sign of any of the creatures Amarantha had set loose in the Spring lands. With any luck, they would have some reprieve before she struck again. His shoulder, though healing, was still sore.

But that wasn’t what bothered him now. He had finally managed to explain to Tamlin that the only reason Feyre had spent so much time with him was because she was trying to get out of the Treaty. He had not mentioned the Suriel, or the dagger, but Tamlin accepted his explanation nonetheless. Then, not two minutes after leaving the study, he had run into her in the hallway. You know you love me. What the hell was he thinking, saying something like that to Feyre of all people? What if she had agreed with him? Amarantha’s curse specified that a human girl had to tell Tamlin that she loved him with her whole heart. Though Lucien had only been teasing, would the curse break if she didn’t fall in love with Tamlin completely? He didn’t like to imagine what would happen if it didn’t.

It was just friendly banter, he told himself, then was nearly unseated from his horse by a low-hanging branch. He swore under his breath as he ducked away, then shook his head and tried to focus. Border patrol gave him too much time to think. At least he didn’t have to face Feyre for a while. Not that she would be thinking about him, or his comment. The fact that she was wearing his dagger meant nothing. She had probably taken his advice to heart, that was all. Prythian was a dangerous place if you didn’t keep your wits about you—

“Little fox,” a deep voice sneered.

Lucien’s hand flew to his hilt as Shadow nickered and shifted nervously beneath him. He steadied his horse, then slowly turned his head, but saw nothing. At first. His golden eye came into focus, then his lip curled at what lurked in the shadows beyond the path. “You are lucky Amarantha glamoured you,” he said in a low voice, “or you would be dead the moment your shadow touched our lands.”

The one hiding under the glamour let out a cruel chuckle. “But they are not your lands, are they, Exile?”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Lucien snapped. “I don’t have to explain myself to Amarantha’s pet.”

“I would mind my tongue if I were you. She can still take your other eye… Though she might prefer the golden one her mate gave you, instead.”

Lucien bristled. “I’m the High Lord’s emissary. Don’t threaten me.”

“Then go fetch him. Emissary,” the voice mocked. “Her Majesty has a message for him.”

Lucien’s hand tightened on his weapon. “I have a better idea.”

Chapter Text

After lunch, Feyre decided to stretch her legs in the gardens. She passed through the hall with the rich paintings she had examined days earlier, and began to quiver with excitement. If these were exquisite, the ones chosen for the gallery must be extraordinary… Her thoughts were in a whirl as she pushed open the glass doors and breathed in the perfume-scented air. At long last, she was going to have paint. She let out a contented sigh as she looked around; where should she start?

As she considered the large stone fountain with its reflecting pool, someone quietly coughed behind her. She turned, and Tamlin stood in the doorway.

“May I… join you?” he asked, nodding at the garden below.

Once again, he had managed to sneak up on her. She took a deep breath. “How can I refuse?” she said, then dared a slight smile.

He let out a soft chuckle, then gestured to the steps. After you.

As they walked along the gravel paths, she wondered what she could say. She didn’t want to ask whether he had sent the letter or found paint yet, lest she seem overeager, but she didn’t know what else to talk about. Their tentative friendship was still very new. “I was trying to decide what I should paint,” she began hesitantly.

He looked thoughtful a moment. “Do you like roses?” he asked.

She nearly told him about the red roses she had painted in the cottage, but she merely nodded. He smiled and motioned to the southern part of the garden.

The wild roses that Elain had nurtured in their garden back home paled in comparison to the roses that graced Tamlin’s garden. Dozens of bushes filled the space around them, covered in hues from the darkest crimson to the most delicate white, with lavender and pink and peach and yellow and every shade in between. The air was filled with their heavenly scent.

Feyre stepped forward in wonder and fingered a ruby red, velvety bloom. It was nearly as large as her hand.

“My father had this garden planted for my mother,” Tamlin said from behind her. “It was a mating gift.”

She shyly withdrew her hand and touched her throat. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

“You can come out here whenever you like,” he continued.

“Thank you,” she breathed, then turned to face him and asked, “You don’t think your mother would mind?” Her cheeks warmed in embarrassment at the pain that flashed in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Tamlin smiled politely and shook his head. “No. I don’t think she would mind,” he said quietly.

Feyre folded her arms and shrugged. “What happened to your mother? And your father?”

He drew in a deep breath, then went rigid. His head whipped to the side as he sniffed once. Twice. A low growl rumbled in his throat. “Come with me.”

Somehow she knew it had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with someone, or something, else. Her blood ran cold at the thought, but she obediently fell in step behind him. She wanted to ask what was going on, but the tensity of his shoulders had her holding her tongue. When they neared the hedges near the stables, he paused. She took a step back and hugged herself as he half-turned; his teeth were bared.

“Stay hidden,” he growled, “and no matter what you overhear, don’t come out.” Then he was gone, leaving a breath of magic in his wake.

She swallowed hard and glanced around. Had the gardens been so silent a moment ago? It reminded her of the Bogge in the woods. The memory was enough to make her dart for the tall hedges and flatten herself against the greenery. Her arm brushed the jeweled dagger she had tucked into her belt, and her fingers gratefully tightened around it.

She heard voices approaching, and she covered her mouth with her free hand to muffle her ragged breaths. Then she heard Lucien speaking on the other side of the hedge, and her hand dropped to her collar in surprise.

“I didn’t spare your miserable hide so you could give a pretty speech. Get on with it.”

Her brows furrowed, and she turned her head, trying to peer through the leaves, but the hedges were too thick. It couldn’t be a Bogge if Lucien was acknowledging it, and Tamlin said that naga hunted in packs, so what else could it be? She was tempted to part the greenery for a glimpse, then she froze at the voice that replied.

“The full moon is tonight,” a deep, rumbling voice crooned. “Do you know what that means?”

“I know what it means,” Tamlin growled. “If that’s all you came to say, you’ve wasted my time.”

“Only five more moons until the solstice,” the voice continued, ignoring him. “She wonders why you haven’t given in yet.”

Lucien snapped, “Tam’s not like the others. If she expected bowed heads, then she’s more of a fool than I thought.”

The voice hissed, and Feyre shivered at the sound; it reminded her of the naga. “Speak you so ill of the one who holds your fate in her hands? With one snap of her fingers, she could reduce this pathetic estate to ash.”

Lucien growled, but Tamlin replied calmly, “We have an agreement. Unless she wants to release me from it, you will remind her not to set foot on my lands.”

“For now,” the voice sneered. “She has waited this long… She is patient.”

Lucien snorted, and the voice rumbled its displeasure. Before either could speak, Tamlin said firmly, “Go back and tell her I don’t appreciate trash being dumped on my borders.”

The voice chuckled. “Oh, did the naga displease you? She was disappointed to hear that they wound up dead yesterday… Don’t you like her little gifts?”

Feyre’s blood ran cold at the memory, at the implication that someone could release such hellish creatures on a whim.

“I prefer gifts that don’t try to kill me or my men,” Tamlin said coldly.

“I will be sure to pass on your request,” the voice sneered again.

“Get out,” Lucien snarled. “We have enough of your ilk swarming our borders.”

“You are not welcome here,” Tamlin growled in agreement. “I won’t hesitate to rip you apart if I catch you here again.”

A guttural, vicious laugh sounded. “There are others willing to do her bidding. Will you rip them apart, too? Are you so thirsty for blood?”

“Burn in Hell,” Lucien snapped. Tamlin did not reply.

The voice laughed again. “Though you have a heart of stone, Tamlin, you certainly keep a host of fear inside it.”

A loud flap of leathery wings sent a foul wind shaking the hedges around her. She winced, expecting some awful creature to rise above the hedges, but the world fell silent.

She closed her eyes and released a shaky breath.

“Feyre—”

She yelped and stumbled away. The dagger was in her hand before she realized it was Tamlin standing there.

His fists were clenched so hard at his sides the knuckles were white, but his voice was eerily calm. “It’s gone.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief, and she re-sheathed the dagger. Before she could say anything, Lucien appeared around the corner. His sword was drawn, but the blade was clean. He had drawn himself up to his full height, looking more like the warrior she had seen in the woods with the naga.

“Did it see her?” he asked Tamlin. Feyre blanched at the thought.

“No,” Tamlin said quietly. “It didn’t.”

Lucien glanced at Feyre, then said, “Are you certain—”

“It didn’t. I threw a temporary glamour over her. It couldn’t see, hear, or smell her.”

She recalled the faint scent of magic before Tamlin left her in the garden. Before she could dwell on it, Lucien turned on her.

“What did you hear?” he demanded.

“Nothing, I—” she stammered, then looked to Tamlin. Barely concealed anger, anger at that thing, pinched his features, so she looked at Lucien again. “Well, nothing I understood. Just something about gifts and naga and-and…” Feyre crossed her arms, trying to keep her hands from shaking. “Who was that? What was that?”

Tamlin began pacing, flexing his fingers as though willing his claws to stay hidden. “A malicious, cowardly creature who delights in torturing its victims,” he muttered, but would not say more.

Lucien drew a deep breath and re-sheathed his weapon. “We call it the Attor,” he said patiently. “A particularly nasty faerie that probably inspired the legends that you humans are so afraid of.”

Feyre could almost hear the tortured cries of young maidens who had been thrown onto sacrificial altars. Were those stories just stories, like Tamlin said? Or were they true? Her mouth went dry, and she tried to swallow. “What can it do?” she whispered.

“The better question is: What won’t it do?” Lucien countered. “The answer is: Nothing.”

Tamlin turned on his heel with a growl. “Take Feyre inside.”

Lucien and Feyre exchanged surprised looks as Tamlin stalked toward the garden archway.

“Where are you going?” Lucien asked him.

Tamlin paused, then growled over his shoulder, “To the cave. She’s going to try something. I can feel it.”

Feyre hugged herself tighter, not daring to ask who this mysterious She was. Whether it was Tamlin’s mate, or the one Lucien feared after their run-in with the Bogge… If She could destroy the manor, release naga as gifts, and command the Attor as her messenger, well, Feyre was better off not knowing.

Lucien made to follow after Tamlin. “What are you going to do?”

Tamlin held up a clawed hand, warning him back. “I’m going to make sure nothing comes out of that Mother-forsaken tunnel.”

“Tam—”

“We’ll discuss this later.” He looked at Feyre for a moment, with a trace of regret in his eyes, then he was gone.

***

Lucien sighed, then closed his eyes to rub his temples. “Not again,” he murmured. Tamlin couldn’t keep leaving Feyre alone with him; it was supposed to be the other way around. If Amarantha hadn’t taken so much of their magic, the sentries could protect the borders and let the High Lord focus on more important matters… like wooing Feyre. Perhaps the pull of the mating bond affected Tamlin more than he was willing to admit. In any case, it left Lucien in the rather awkward position of picking up where Tamlin left off…

“What’s wrong?” Feyre asked with a nervous tremor in her voice.

Lucien sighed again. “It’s nothing. Just another one of Tam’s moods,” he muttered, then met her eyes with a tired smile. “So. You hungry?”

She rolled her eyes and groaned. “You never cease to amaze me,” she muttered.

He chuckled. “I have that effect on people.” He jerked his thumb at the manor. “Tam said to take you inside. And since I like my guts where they are…”

She sighed and fell into step beside him.

He continued, “Besides. I just got back from border patrol and I haven’t eaten yet. What about you?”

She touched her stomach, looking slightly queasy. “I’ve eaten, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, though he was secretly relieved. He could hand Feyre over to Alis and not have to worry about her for the rest of the day. Then he could talk to Tamlin once the High Lord returned from his latest ‘hunt’. But first, there was a bottle of red wine calling his name…

“…Lucien?”

He looked at Feyre, surprised at her nervous tone.

Her pace slowed; her eyebrows were drawn, and her blue eyes wide and fearful. “Is anywhere safe?” she asked, crossing her arms with a shrug. “With the Attor coming so close to the manor, I mean…”

He stopped to turn and face her, wincing at the twinge of guilt in his gut. It had been his idea to allow the Attor onto the grounds, in hopes that Feyre would be nearby. Amarantha’s spell made the Spring Court damn near powerless, so any chance he and Tamlin had to talk about the curse without Feyre present, they did, hoping she would overhear. Though it had been risky, Lucien’s gamble had paid off. Tamlin and Feyre had been in the gardens together when he arrived at the manor with the Attor on his heels, but he hadn’t realized how close she was to being seen until afterwards. Tamlin’s glamour had protected her, but had it been worth the risk? He didn’t even know if she had heard anything useful; she looked more terrified than curious when he had asked her about it. It was unfair to put so much weight on her shoulders, but there were only five full moons left.

To reassure her, he said, “You’re safe as long as you stay close to Tamlin.”

She pursed her lips and looked away as she muttered, “That’s what the Suriel said.”

His eyebrows rose behind his mask. “What?”

She met his gaze with a worried frown. “You told me that Tamlin can’t be everywhere at once.” She shrugged. “He’s not here now. What if he’s gone while I’m painting in the garden and that-that thing comes back. What then?”

Before Lucien could respond, or dwell on what she’d just said—the Suriel? Painting??—she threw up her hands and went on.

“And what if you’re away on border patrol? What can I do except run and hide? Where can I go?”

He spread his hands and said, “I came for you after the naga, didn’t I?”

She nodded, but she didn’t seem satisfied at his answer.

He managed a wry smile and pointed at the dagger in her belt. “If I can’t be there, at least you’re not defenseless, right?”

Her shoulders slumped, and she rubbed her arms as she glanced away, silent.

Lucien released a slow, deep breath, then stepped forward and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Hey,” he said gently, though she didn’t look at him. “If nothing else, you can hole yourself up in your room with a nice bottle of wine. There’s nothing like a good hangover to make you forget about things that haven’t happened yet.”

A slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and he knew he’d hit his mark.

When she looked him in the eye, he withdrew his hands and added, “You can start now if you like. There’s plenty of wine to choose from in the dining room.” He gave her a playful wink.

She cocked her head and remarked, “It’s a bit early in the day for wine, don’t you think?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he quipped.

She snorted softly, then rubbed one shoulder as she considered this. “One glass,” she said at last, then turned for the stairs.

“Ah, Feyre?” When she turned back, he said, “One more thing.” Then he twirled his finger.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Are you suggesting that I twirl for you? I'm not getting that drunk.”

He smirked. “You have leaves in your hair.” About a dozen small green leaves clung to her braid.

Her cheeks turned pink as she ran a hand down the back of her hair. “Oh.” She said nothing else, but obediently turned around.

As he began picking the leaves from her braid, he teased, “Not that I wouldn’t mind seeing you in a dress for once, but I don’t want Alis to think I pushed you into the hedges or something.”

“Oh, I see,” she scoffed, turning her head. His fingers paused as she continued, “You don’t want Alis to yell at you again. You’re just saving your own skin.”

He gave her braid a light, playful tug. “It’s what I’m good at. And contrary to what you might think,” he said, leaning in, “I don’t enjoy getting in trouble. Unfortunately, I’m good at that, too.” He paused; her hair smelled like lilac… He quickly removed his hands and stepped back. “That should do it,” he said stiffly, crossing his arms.

Without turning around, Feyre swept her braid over her shoulder and smoothed the end of it. “I… Thank you.”

He cleared his throat. When she turned and caught his eye, he nodded at the stairs. “After you.”

***

Feyre could still feel the outline of Lucien’s hands on her shoulders as they walked into the dining room. It was strange, but… she hadn’t wanted him to let go. It wasn’t that he was warm and she was cold, it was… a desire—no, a need—to be touched. Alis fussed over her, certainly, but there was no lingering gentleness in the servant’s hands. Ever since moving to the cottage, Feyre had shared a bed with her sisters, but they only huddled together for warmth, not closeness. Even the stolen hours with Isaac in an old barn had only filled her needs for so long. And that had ended when he announced his engagement to someone else, though he had suggested it didn’t have to end between them. She avoided him after that, but she hadn’t realized how lonely she had become in the weeks since. Until now.

Even so, part of her wished she hadn’t agreed to the wine, alone as they were. Well, alone together. She wasn’t actually alone, just alone with him. She shook her head. He had just touched her shoulders… and her hair… and his breath had been warm against her ear… She bit the inside of her cheek; she was being ridiculous. Besides, she had been alone with Lucien before, in his room, no less. Her cheeks flushed at the thought: A High Fae and a human, together? The idea was foolish, dangerous, even. How could she even entertain the idea…?

“What are you thirsty for?”

Her whole face reddened as she snapped to attention. Lucien stood beside the table and held up an elegant crystal decanter of red wine, not too unlike his hair color.

“Red wine or white?”

She drew a deep breath, then blew out her cheeks. “Red.”

***

The wine was, admittedly, a terrible idea. Still, Lucien couldn’t help but smile as Feyre slowly turned over the empty wine bottle in her hands. Her cheeks were slightly flushed.

“If a faerie invites thee to wine,” she murmured, then straightened up in her chair. “What’s so special about faerie wine, anyway? It tastes just like wine.”

Lucien chuckled as he pushed himself away from his empty plate. It was a shame Tamlin couldn’t have witnessed this. Who knew an extra glass of wine—or two—would make Feyre so chatty? As he walked over to her chair, he said, “That’s just wine.” He plucked the empty bottle from her hands, and she frowned at him. “You haven’t tasted true faerie wine yet. We save it for big celebrations.”

“What celebrations?” she asked, looking skeptical.

“Calanmai?” he suggested.

She shrugged and shook her head.

“You’ve never heard of Fire Night?”

She waved dismissively. “We don’t celebrate faerie holidays…”

Lucien chuckled to himself and set the bottle aside. “That’s probably a good thing.”

She went on as if she hadn’t heard. “…or any holidays, really. Just birthdays. And sometimes not even then…”

He pulled out her chair with her in it as she continued, oblivious.

“Did you know that Tamlin is over three hundred and twelve?”

Lucien chuckled as he took her arm and helped her stand. “Yes. I knew that.”

She blinked as she looked at him, and he patiently waited for her next incoherent thought. “What can you see, anyway?”

He smirked. “I can see that you’re drunk.”

She snorted and crossed her arms. “I am not drunk.” Then she frowned to herself. “Am I…?”

He smiled patiently and grasped her elbow. It was probably a good thing Tam wasn’t here, after all. The High Lord might not think it was as funny as he did. “Sleep it off. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she repeated softly as they walked to the stairs. “Tomorrow… Tamlin is showing me… the gallery…” Then she tittered as she reached for the stair rail. “That rhymes…”

He smiled at her ramblings, but didn’t let go of her arm as they slowly took the stairs. He would be in enough trouble with Alis for letting her drink so much, but it would be worse for both of them if she fell. Guilt over the Attor had silenced him when Feyre poured herself another glass. He certainly couldn’t blame her for wanting to forget about that hellish creature for a while, and she didn’t even know what it looked like.

He sighed as they reached the top of the stairs. There had to be a better way to get her to relax without getting her drunk. Even if she was easier to talk to. “So… the gallery, eh?” he asked her.

She gave a firm nod. “I’m going to paint,” she declared.

That’s right. She had mentioned that in the garden. Good on Tamlin for finding something she liked besides not-hunting. “And what are you going to paint?”

She sighed dreamily. “Everything.”

He chuckled. He kind of liked drunk Feyre; she wasn’t so defensive. As they left the stairs behind, she stunned him by stepping closer and leaning her head against his shoulder.

“I’m tired,” she murmured.

He swallowed hard at the scent of lilacs and raspberry wine. “I know,” he said softly.

“What did you do this time?” Alis demanded from behind them.

Lucien flinched. “Nothing,” he said guiltily, releasing his hold on Feyre’s arm. He turned just as Alis grabbed Feyre’s other arm and looked her over.

Feyre straightened up and shook her head. “Nothing,” she repeated, swaying slightly.

Alis’s sharp brown eyes narrowed at him as she gripped Feyre’s elbow to steady her. “Nothing smells like a whole bottle of raspberry wine.”

He shrugged guiltily and admitted, “The Attor paid us a little visit. Feyre needed something to calm down.”

The maid stiffened. “Did it see her?”

“No. Tam made sure of it.”

“Where is the master now?”

“Gone.” He swallowed. “To the cave.”

Alis drew in a sharp breath, and he winced in anticipation of the lecture to come. Instead, the maid breathed out slowly and pursed her lips. “It’s a wonder you two didn’t raid the cellars after running into a beast like that,” was all she said.

Lucien managed a wry smile. “It was tempting.”

Alis nodded once, then patted Feyre’s arm and said, “Come along. Let’s get you into bed.” As she led Feyre away, she said loudly, “And Lucien is going to be grateful I don’t say anything to Lord Tamlin about this. The master has enough to worry about.”

Lucien let out a slow sigh of relief. He could well imagine what Alis might have thought, seeing Feyre leaning against him like that. It was easily explained, but what if Tamlin had seen them? Would he have been as understanding? Unfortunately, Lucien understood too well what was going on. He rubbed his shoulder where Feyre’s head had rested, and in that moment, he wished he had a heart of stone.

Chapter Text

The sky beyond the trees was turning a brilliant red-gold as the sun dipped below the horizon. Feyre drew a deep breath to clear her head, breathing in the rich smell of earth and green things growing. A walk was just the thing, she had decided; it was peaceful within the woods, and private. Lucien said nothing as he walked beside her, but they were so close that their hands brushed.

Her cheeks warmed, and she swallowed nervously. “Before we go back to the manor, I want to ask you something,” she said softly.

He paused, and as she turned to face him, the late afternoon light glinted off his fiery red hair, his bronze mask, his golden eye. The sight was captivating, and she wished she had the paint to capture it. When she continued to stare, he gave her a teasing, half-smile. “I think I know what you’re going to say.”

Her heart thumped. “You do?”

He nodded. “But you know I can’t give you an answer. You’ll have to ask the Suriel.”

Her brows furrowed. “The Suriel?”

Click, click, click.

Feyre whirled around, searching for the source of that familiar, horrible, echoing noise. Had they walked so far that they had come to the western woods? She should have brought her bow. She should have—

Click, click, click. It was closer now. Her heart leapt to her throat, and she turned in a panic.

The Suriel grinned at her from the shadows between the trees, its dark robes swirling around its skeletal frame. “You did not stay with the High Lord, mortal.”

She reached for Lucien’s arm, but he was gone, and with him, the last light of sunset. He had once told her that if she screamed, he would come for her. But as she opened her mouth, only a whimper came out.

The Suriel’s milky-white eyes appeared to glow in the deepening twilight as it floated closer to where she stood. “Are you prepared to share Prythian’s fate?”

Feyre shook her head and stumbled back in a panic. “No, please. No!” Something grabbed her ankle, and she fell to the ground with a terrified yelp. A snare held her fast. She scrabbled for Lucien’s knife at her belt, but it wasn’t there. Her blood ran cold, and she looked up to see the Suriel had disappeared. In its place, a skeletal, bat-like creature advanced on her. Its huge, membranous wings blocked out the sky as it towered over her.

In a deep, guttural voice, it said, “It’s over, human.”

She tugged at the snare and choked back a sob. “Please,” she begged.

“It’s too late for that,” a woman crooned.

Feyre turned her head to see a pale woman kneeling beside her, dressed in the Suriel’s dark robes. The hood could not hide the smooth skin where the woman’s eyes should be. Full, ruby red lips curved upward as the woman reached out with a long, curved nail and slowly drew it down Feyre’s temple.

“What pretty blue eyes you have,” the woman murmured. “I believe I’ll take one.”

She screamed as the woman’s nail pierced her right eye.

Feyre shot upright in bed with a gasp, then winced at the pounding headache behind her right eye. Breathing hard, she pressed the heel of her hand against her sore eye, then groggily glanced around the room. Her room. The light filtering through the sheer curtains was gray and dim: Twilight. She must have slept all afternoon. So the Suriel had been a dream. There was no faceless woman, no bat-like creature… She slumped over her bent knees and let out a sigh of relief. She was safe. Well, as safe as she could be in a High Lord’s house in Prythian.

She moaned softly and rubbed her aching temples. What was she doing in bed, anyway? Was anybody going to wake her for dinner? When she hugged her knees and rubbed her chilled arms, she realized they were bare. Looking down at herself, she realized she was in her nightgown. Dinner was a No, then. Alis must have put her to bed after the—

Wine. Feyre stiffened as the memories of that afternoon came flooding back. Walking through the gardens with Tamlin. Hiding behind the hedges from the Attor. Drinking wine with Lucien. Lucien.

Her face flushed as she tried to recall their conversation, but her headache made it difficult to think. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands to her hot face. She had been polite enough over the first glass, but everything beyond that was a drunken blur.

Her thoughts swirled. What if she had admitted how lonely she was? What if she had told him how easy he was to talk to? And what if she had asked him if he had ever been with someone beneath him in status? She groaned loudly. She never should have agreed to the wine. How could she ever face him again—

A low cry sounded through the cracks in the door. She straightened up and stared at the trace of lamplight visible beneath the door, listening. As the sound grew louder, she realized it wasn’t a cry. It was a tortured scream.

***

Lucien rushed into the foyer just as Tamlin burst through the front door. Blood covered the High Lord’s linen shirt, but it was the blue-skinned faerie slung over his shoulder that howled in agony.

“The table! Clear it off!” Tamlin shouted.

Lucien obeyed, shoving a fat vase of flowers off the long table in the center of the foyer. The ceramic shattered, scattering the elaborate bouquet over the marble floor. There was no time to waste on being careful. He turned and reached for the wounded faerie’s arms, helping his friend lift him face-first onto the table. The High Lord’s missing tunic was tied around the male faerie’s bare torso; the fabric’s original color was now unrecognizable for the dark red blood soaking through it.

The faerie gripped the edges of the table with his long, spindly fingers, shaking as he tried to choke back his pained cries. “Sh-she—She… She…”

“Save your strength,” Tamlin said quietly, gripping the faerie’s shoulder, who only whimpered in reply. He turned to Lucien then and said, “Amarantha sent me a gift.” He shoved a large, black, lidded box onto the table that had been tucked under his other arm. “She made him carry it out of the cave. He would have bled out if I hadn’t been there.”

“By the Cauldron,” Lucien muttered. He stared at the long wooden box and wondered what Amarantha had given Tamlin this time. Swords, perhaps. She was more bloodthirsty than the entire Autumn Court, so it stood to reason that she wanted her mate to be the same.

With a flick of his hand, Tamlin summoned a bowl of steaming water and rolls of bandages onto the table. “Lucien, I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

He looked up in surprise, and confusion, to see the High Lord grimacing at him.

“I need you to hold him down.”

Lucien quickly nodded, then stood at the end of the table and grasped the faerie’s upper arms.

The faerie’s dark eyes widened, and he twisted his shoulders away as Tamlin summoned a knife and made to cut through the blood-soaked tunic. Lucien shoved his arms back down as the faerie wailed, “No-no. Please. Please,” then shrieked as the makeshift bandage was pulled away.

Lucien’s blood turned to ice.

Dark blood seeped from the black, ragged stumps on the faerie’s back. “My wings,” he sobbed. “She took my wings.”

Lucien’s hands trembled as he released the faerie’s arms, then he fell back a step. Then another.

“Lucien,” Tamlin said firmly, but his voice sounded far away.

He swallowed hard against the rising bile, then slowly shook his head. His eyes fell on the box on the table.

“Lucien. Don’t,” Tamlin warned.

But his hands were already lifting the lid, and he heard nothing further as his gaze fell on what lay within. Wings. Iridescent wings that shimmered in the light. Clots of blood clung to the torn edges, and darker pools of red stained the crimson satin beneath them.

“Not my wings—please,” she begged. “Not my—” The rest of her words were lost to her screams.

Lucien turned to the potted plant behind him and retched.

***

Despite her headache, Feyre had enough presence of mind to put on a pair of silk slippers and a robe before leaving her room. Though anyone else might have locked the door and barricaded it, she chose to investigate. She had heard such screams before in the forest, when she didn’t make a clean kill, and the animals she shot suffered. Whoever had caused this creature’s suffering might come after her next, and she had to know what it was.

Lucien’s dagger rested in her hand as she hugged the wall, following the screams down the hall and to the top of the stairs. Peering into the foyer below, she saw Tamlin and Lucien grappling with a wounded, blue-skinned faerie lying face-down on the long table. There was no sign of anyone or anything that might have attacked him.

“My wings,” the wounded faerie cried. “She took my wings.”

Feyre’s heart froze. If this was the same She who had sent the Attor that day, it seemed there was nothing she wouldn’t do to torment Tamlin and his court. Feyre’s hands trembled as she tucked the dagger in her sash and reached for the railing. She had to do something to help. Even if she was only human.

She made it to the bottom of the stairs in time to see Lucien vomiting into a nearby potted plant. As he staggered to his feet, she could see his mismatched eyes were out of focus. She’d never seen him so pale, even after the Bogge.

“Lucien,” she began, reaching for his arm, but he appeared not to see her as he brushed past her to race to the open front door and into the deepening dusk.

Behind her, the wounded faerie cried out again. She whirled around to see Tamlin struggling to hold him down on the table. Though there was blood and broken glass all over the floor, she rushed to his side.

“Let me help,” she said firmly, sounding braver than she felt.

Tamlin must have been desperate, for he didn’t hesitate. “Hold his arms,” he said, reaching for a clean bandage and dunking it in the steaming water.

She grasped the faerie’s lithe upper arms, as smooth as velvet and slick with sweat, and pinned him down. He cried out and gripped the edge of the table. His features were long and sharp, creased with pain and unhidden by any mask. Whoever he was, he did not belong to the Spring Court. Yet the High Lord of Spring was helping him anyway.

“She took my wings,” the faerie man sobbed. “She took them.”

Feyre’s chest tightened at the sight of the jagged wounds on his back. “I know,” she said, beginning to tremble. “Please hold still.”

Tamlin touched the wrung-out cloth to one of the bleeding stumps, and the faerie shrieked. She lost her grip on his arms and he tried to push off the table as if to stand. But his arms buckled beneath him, and he collapsed face-first onto the polished surface, shaking and moaning. Fresh blood poured from his wounds, down his back and onto the floor.

“Damn it,” Tamlin muttered, grabbing another bandage. “It’s not stopping.”

The faerie slumped against the table, and his breathing began to slow. “She… she took my wings,” he whispered.

Feyre smoothed the faerie’s long black hair away from his sweat-dampened face and asked Tamlin, “Can’t you heal him with your magic?”

Tamlin returned the bloodied cloths to the water. “I tried, but the damage is too great. That’s why I brought him here.”

Feyre’s throat tightened, and she blinked back sudden tears. She gently stroked the faerie’s silky black hair behind his pointed ear and tried to soothe him. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

His dark eyes glazed over. “My wings…” he murmured. His grip on the table loosened, and his arm dropped over the side.

Despite the blood pooling on the floor, she dropped to her knees and grasped his long-fingered hand. As she squeezed it, she looked into the faerie’s eyes. “You’ll get them back,” she said tightly.

The faerie blinked slowly, as though trying to stay awake. “You… you swear?” he breathed. His fingers weakly curled around her own.

Suddenly she was eight years old again, at her mother’s bedside. “My bright-eyed girl,” Mother had whispered, gently squeezing her hand. “Swear to me… swear you’ll look after them.” Then, as now, Feyre knew that death was near, and there was nothing she could do. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she bit her lip to keep it from quivering, but she managed to nod.

“I swear.” Her voice cracked, but the faerie smiled softly and closed his eyes.

Beside her, Tamlin murmured, “Cauldron save you…”

She lifted her head to see the High Lord take the faerie’s other hand in his.

He closed his eyes and continued, “Mother hold you. Pass through the gates… and smell that immortal land of milk and honey. Fear no evil. Feel no pain.” He paused, and Feyre saw his throat bob before he finished his ancient prayer. “Go… and enter eternity.”

The faerie heaved a deep sigh, then his hand went limp.

Feyre choked back a sob as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. She drew in a quivering breath as she brought the faerie’s hand to her lips. Her eyes closed as she gently kissed it. “I’m sorry,” she breathed against his cool, velvety skin. “I’m so sorry.”

She did not know how long she knelt there, quietly crying and squeezing the faerie’s hand as if that would somehow bring him back, but it was long enough that the blood beneath her knees grew cold. Then a warm hand touched her shoulder, and she turned to see Tamlin kneeling beside her. His expression was calm, though his eyes were pained. How much suffering and bloodshed had he seen in three centuries?

“He’s gone, Feyre,” the High Lord said gently. “Let him go.”

She looked at the faerie’s face, so sharp, yet softened by death. Wherever he had gone, she hoped he had gotten his wings back after all. She took a deep, cleansing breath, then released the faerie’s hand.

Tamlin cupped her elbow as he pulled her to her feet. When he released her, she hugged her arms as he stood beside her. If he had left his hand on her arm or her shoulder to comfort her, she wouldn’t have objected… but he didn’t, and she didn’t ask.

“Where… where are his wings?” she asked softly, staring at the black, velvety stumps on the faerie’s back. His blood clung to her knees, her robe, and her nightgown.

“There,” Tamlin said quietly. “On the table.”

Her gaze fell on a large, polished ebony box resting on the edge of the table, beyond the faerie’s prone form. She made to step forward, but Tamlin stopped her.

“No. It’s better if you don’t look.”

She swallowed hard, fighting the lump in her throat, staring at that wicked, lidded black box. “Couldn’t you have reattached them or something? With-with your magic?”

“Once,” he said quietly. “But no longer. Not since…”

Since the blight, she thought as he fell silent. He didn’t have to say it. “Who did this to him?”

Tamlin drew in a slow, deep breath as he led her away. “Someone I hope you never have to meet.”

They made it to the stairs when she turned back to the faerie lying alone on the table. “We can’t just leave him there.”

Tamlin caught her arm and said softly, “I know. I was going to walk you upstairs first.”

Before he buried him. She put her hand over his on her arm and said, “I want to go with you.”

“No,” he said firmly, dropping his hand. “It’s too dangerous at night for you to—”

“I promised he would get his wings back,” she insisted. “I just want to see him get them back.”

“You didn’t have to promise him anything,” Tamlin said. “Not like you promised your mother. He’s a faerie, and you’re—”

Human, she thought bitterly. “I can hold my own,” she said, touching the dagger tucked in her sash.

Tamlin straightened; his eyes flashed with a trace of that awful, familiar beastly rage, and she flinched. Then the rage passed, and his shoulders slumped, and his eyes darkened. “No,” he said quietly. “There’s been too much bloodshed tonight. Please, just—just stay here… For me.”

Feyre bit her lip. A High Lord… saying please. She crossed her arms again and nodded. If she were in his position, she wouldn’t want a human tagging along either.

As she stepped onto the stairs, Tamlin said behind her, “Feyre.”

She turned around on the second stair, surprised at his fervent tone.

“You held his hand, and comforted him,” the High Lord continued quietly, stepping close enough that she could look directly into his eyes. “And you wept for him after he passed… Why?” He shook his head in disbelief. “After what happened to Andras…”

You mean after I shot Andras, she thought bitterly, then nearly choked on the surge of guilt that followed. She dropped her gaze to her slippered feet on the stairs. Without meaning to, she had left a trail of bloody footprints over the clean checkered marble. She swallowed hard at the sight. “It’s just that… I wouldn’t want to die alone,” she whispered, then lifted her head and shrugged. “I don’t know if I believe in the Mother or the Cauldron, but that-that prayer…” She rubbed her arms and added, “That’s something everyone deserves, human or faerie.”

Tamlin stared at her, then slowly nodded. “Thank you, Feyre. But this…” He sighed and spread his hands. “This is not your burden to bear.”

Her heart ached, but she managed to nod. “He just… suffered so much. I could only hold his hand and I…” She let out a quivering breath as she glanced at the wingless faerie. “I don’t even know his name.”

Tamlin followed her line of sight and sighed. “I don’t know it, either. He is from the Summer Court, though, if it helps.”

Her shoulders slumped, and she hugged herself tighter. “Would Alis know?”

Tamlin shook his head. “Even if she did, I will not ask that of her. She has already lost too much. But I promise you that although we do not know his name, he will not be forgotten.”

There was a flash of anger in the High Lord’s green eyes when he said this, and his fists curled at his sides, then his head bowed with another weary sigh. Feyre stared at him in awe, his arms and his shirt covered in another faerie’s blood. I would gladly go to my death, no matter whose freedom I was defending, he had said. A true warrior, defending his lands and his people. But what good were his claws and fangs when there was no enemy to fight now, only the dead to bury?

She bit her lip as she looked again at the stumps of the faerie’s missing wings, at the box containing them. And she remembered skinning the wolf, taking his pelt. Selling it. Leaving the body behind for Tamlin to find. She rubbed her arms again and swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry about Andras,” she whispered. “I’m sorry there was such hate in my heart. I wish I could undo it, and… and I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

Tamlin’s eyes were shadowed as he lifted his head. He looked at her for a long moment, but said nothing. He merely nodded, then turned from her to walk to the broken body lying on the table. He gently turned the dead faerie onto his back, then scooped him into his arms.

The High Lord of Spring carried the nameless faerie from the Summer Court through the open front doors and into the night. Her heart ached as she watched him go. He never once looked back.

She stared at the open front door, hesitating there on the stairs. She knew he would soon come back for the wings, but she wanted to know—no, she had to know what they looked like before they were taken away. She had to imagine what the faerie looked like with his wings; she did not want to remember him without them. So she returned to the foyer filled with blood and broken glass, and stood alone before the table.

The ebony box gleamed under the lamplight. Despite the dried blood surrounding it, it was an elegant box, with smooth, rounded edges and a gold clasp. It looked like something that her father might have brought back from his travels. But instead of holding fine clothing or other treasures, it contained something worse. Though she knew she shouldn’t look, she reached for the lid just the same.

As she lifted it, her chest tightened so much it hurt to breathe. The blue faerie’s wings were beautiful, like a dragonfly’s on a summer morning that sparkled with dew. Resting on a bed of crimson satin, they shimmered in the lamplight, shifting from black to blue and green and veined with gold. She would never be able to capture their beauty with paint alone, even if she could afford gold paint. Her eyes fell on the torn edges, and she closed her eyes against the cruelty that had torn them from the faerie’s shoulders.

She drew a deep breath. “Fear no evil,” she whispered, repeating the end of Tamlin’s prayer. “Feel no pain.” Then she opened her eyes and sighed. He would be coming back soon. As she gently closed the box, a slip of parchment fluttered loose from the lid. It must have been tucked inside, and no one had noticed it.

There were only three lines written in a curly, elegant script. She squinted at the strange words, and slowly, softly, read them aloud.

“Air… Are—aren’t… the-these… so be… bow… boat… boat-if… beautiful…”

Feyre’s stomach knotted, but she kept reading.

“For you… my be-love—beloved… Tam-Tamlin…”

As she read the next line, her eyes widened, and she dropped the parchment onto the table as though she’d been burned.

Aren’t these so beautiful?

For you, my beloved Tamlin.

For your collection.

Chapter Text

Lucien didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to get away. That one thought led him to the stables, where he found the doors chained; no matter how he cursed and tugged at the lock, the servants had already retired for the night. But as he sunk against the stable doors, panting for breath, he realized that not even Shadow could outrun his memories.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the vision of the blue-skinned faerie’s wings lying in that blood-stained box. How they resembled another faerie’s wings, shimmering in the autumn sunlight. He began to tremble against the memories he had long since buried, and buried his fingers in his hair, as if he could pull out the memories by their roots and throw them away.

“Please, no,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “No-no-no—”

“Yes!” Jesminda squealed. Before he could slip the ruby ring on her finger, she dived into his arms and they collapsed together into the shady grass. It was difficult to kiss her back, he was smiling so hard, but he managed. It was a long while before the ring made it onto her finger.

From beneath the golden oak tree on top of their grassy picnic spot, Lucien could just make out the apple orchards near her village. The scattered remains of their picnic lay strewn about them: an empty wine bottle, rinds of cheese, apple cores, and roasted chestnut shells. Jesminda let out a satisfied sigh and nestled against him; his arm curled around her bare shoulders.

“Mmm… I suppose I should be getting back,” she murmured, though she made no effort to get up. Neither did he.

He turned his head and breathed in her apple blossom scent. “I’m in no hurry,” he whispered against her nut-brown curls, then pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She chuckled, tracing the edges of his open collar. “Any faerie would find it difficult to leave if they had this weighing them down,” she said, then turned her hand so the ruby ring sparkled in the light.

He caught her hand and played with her long, slender fingers. “If I had known that’s what it took to keep you from flying away from me every day, I would have proposed much sooner.”

She squeezed his fingers and turned her face toward his with a grin. Her hazel eyes sparkled, echoing the golds and browns and greens in her wings. “So what took you so long to make up your mind?”

“Oh, I had my mind made up about you a long time ago,” he teased, and she smirked. Then he added, “I was waiting for the mating bond to snap into place, but…”

Her smirk faded. “…But what?”

“I decided I didn’t want to wait anymore. And besides…” He shifted onto his side to face her and rested his head on his hand. “A mating bond wouldn’t change how I felt about you.”

Her freckled cheeks turned pink, and she dropped her gaze to stroke the grass between them, but her pleased smile was evident. “Are you sure you belong to the Autumn Court?” she asked, then looked up and affectionately tweaked his chin. “You are far too charming.”

“I’m afraid so,” he said with a wry smile, then slipped his other hand around her waist and added, “but if I wasn’t, I never would have met you.”

She smiled. “I thank the Mother for that every day,” she said softly, then leaned in and kissed him slowly, tenderly. His hand slid around her back, pulling her closer, then his fingers brushed the place where her wing met her shoulder. She twitched against him and broke away with a giggle.

“You know that tickles,” she said, her eyes twinkling even as she tried to frown.

His eyebrows rose. “Is that so ? I seem to remember a different reaction last night...” he said, his fingers edging closer to her wings.

She let out a shriek of laughter and jerked away. As she knelt over him, her golden wings spread wide and glistened in the dappled sunshine, echoing the golden strands in her wild, nut-brown curls.

He let out a sigh of wonder and sunk into the grass. “I could look at you all day.”

Her grin softened. “Likewise.” Then she sighed as her wings folded behind her and she reached for her knapsack. “I wish I could stay,” she said, standing up to lift the strap over her head, “but my sisters’ wings aren’t strong enough to hover yet, so they’re still leaving the highest apples for me to harvest.”

“Speaking of the harvest,” Lucien said, getting up with a reluctant groan. He brushed the grass from his pants and asked casually, “How would you like to go to the Equinox Ball with me?”

When he straightened up, Jesminda’s hazel eyes were wide. “Equinox… With you?”

He spread his hands with a playful smirk. “Would you rather go with someone else?”

She pursed her lips and looked at him askance. “Of course not.”

“Good. Then we can show off that pretty little ring on your finger.”

She dropped her gaze and fidgeted with her knapsack, staring at the elegant ruby ring on her hand, a bright contrast to her harvesting clothes.

His smirk faded, and with it, his good mood. “Don’t you want to?”

She gave him a half-hearted smile. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

“Have to what?”

She shrugged one shoulder and grimaced. “Meet them.”

His family. His chest caved in a little at that realization. “Oh. Them.”

She stepped closer, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I always forget that you’re a High Lord’s son—”

Lucien scoffed and ran a hand over his hair. “So does Father.”

Jesminda smiled kindly and picked a stray piece of grass from his hair. “Weddings in the village are so small and intimate…” Her fingers lingered at his cheek. “I had hoped the same for us. But if I want to marry you, then I just have to get used to the idea of a big wedding… and the Court. High Lord and Lady and all.”

Lucien smiled and gathered her hands in his. “Not necessarily.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“Father won’t care about my wedding since I’m the youngest, so it can be as small and intimate as we like. Mother might weep a little, but she’ll have six other weddings to plan eventually. That’s why I want you to come on Equinox. You can meet her, I’ll announce our engagement, and then I’ll tell Father that I want to take over as Lord of the Fields.”

Jesminda stared at him in wonder, then repeated softly, “The Fields?” Then her eyes widened, and she gasped. “Our fields?”

Lucien smiled. “Rafe thinks Father was punishing him when he was assigned this territory. So he would be more than happy to trade with me, considering that he always complains about how boring it is out here… But I love it.” He lifted Jesminda’s slender hands to his mouth and let his kiss linger. “You and I can oversee the villages and the orchards and the fields and the land-workers… And you can be near your family, too. I’ll still have to appear in Court once in a while, but—”

Her lips were suddenly against his, and he forgot what he was going to say. Then she kissed him again, and he forgot everything else. Her hazel eyes were shining when she pulled away. “You would do that for me?”

“Mmm… Do what?”

She smirked and squeezed his hands. “Give up life as a courtier.”

“Gladly,” he said, smirking back. “But…”

“But…?”

“There is still the teeny-tiny matter of the Equinox Ball…”

Jesminda quirked her mouth to one side, hesitating.

“Please?” Lucien squeezed her fingers and stepped closer. “Pretty please?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she lifted her pointed chin to look into his eyes. “A High Lord’s son, begging?”

“No, never,” he insisted, lips twitching. He lifted her wrist to his mouth and kissed his way down her freckled arm. Between kisses, he said, “We may wheedle… and coax… and cajole… but we never… ever… beg.” He kissed her neck next, and her head fell back with a delighted laugh.

He pulled back and grinned. “Besides. Even Eris is bringing someone. I can’t be the only brother there without a partner.”

Her freckled cheeks were flushed as she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and smirked at him. “You make it sound so romantic.”

He slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her so close that their noses touched. “Please?” he whispered against her mouth. “I can’t imagine spending Equinox with anyone but you… Say you’ll come.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and sighed. “Not that I wouldn’t love to,” she said reluctantly, “but don’t you have to be terribly important to be allowed to attend?”

“No. Just terrible. I’m making an exception for you.”

She chuckled, then sighed again. Her breath was warm against his mouth. “You’re making it very difficult to say No…”

“So don’t say No,” he said gently. “Besides,” he continued, pressing his forehead to hers, “you’re important to me, and that’s all that matters.”

She rubbed her nose against his, her lips teasingly close. “Spending Equinox in the arms of a handsome Fae… How can I refuse?” she murmured.

“Very carefully,” he replied. “Or I will die of heartbreak.”

She smiled and slid her fingers through his unbound hair, sending a pleasant tingle down his neck. “We can’t have that, can we?”

“So is that a yes?”

Her smile became a grin, then she answered him by bringing her mouth to his. Her wings thrummed, lifting her off her toes. He couldn’t help but smile against her mouth as his arms tightened around her.

By the time he set her down, her face was as rosy as his felt. Even her golden wings had a rosy tinge as they fluttered in the dappled noonday sun.

Her hands lingered at his collar, and she gave him a sad smile. “You make it so difficult to leave.”

“So don’t leave,” he said softly. His hands lingered at her waist.

She leaned in and kissed him again, but it was brief. “I would love to stay, but if I’m going to finish harvesting the treetops by Equinox, I’d better get going.”

He sighed, though he smiled. As he lifted her hands to his mouth for one last kiss, he said, “When we’re married, you’ll never have to fly away from me again.”

“But I love flying,” she teased.

“Yes, but you won’t have to. You can fly for pleasure, as long as you fly back to me.” His lips lingered on the back of her hand.

She smiled softly. “I’ll always fly back to you.” She stepped back toward the sunlight, keeping her fingertips in his until they were each at arm’s length. “Fare thee well, my lord.”

He grinned at her familiar farewell and squeezed her fingertips. “See you later, Jes.”

She grinned back and dropped his hand to secure her knapsack as her wings spread out. They became a golden blur as she leapt into the air and flew off. He never got tired of watching her fly, though he hated that it was always upon parting. He waited until she was out of sight before he bent down for the empty wine bottle. As he straightened, he snapped his fingers and the apple cores, the chestnut shells, and the cheese rinds turned to ash and smoke that would blow away in time for their next picnic.

Though she had just gone, he could hardly wait to see her again. Perhaps he’d steal her away for a couple hours that night. He always made sure she was back in her own bed before sunrise. His bed felt too large and lonely beneath the furs without her. But it wouldn’t be for much longer. Mother would adore planning a Solstice wedding.

Lucien was still smiling at the thought when he winnowed back to his room in the Forest House. Everything was just as he had left it: books from his studies on the desk beneath the window, the carved four-poster bed covered in heavy furs, logs in the hearth waiting to be lit, and his collection of weapons displayed on the wall. He left the empty wine bottle on a small table for the servants to dispose of later, then walked toward his bed and began unbuttoning his tunic.

He froze as a strong hand clamped onto his shoulder and a cold blade touched his neck.

“See what happens when you let your guard down?” a voice whispered.

Lucien breathed out slowly, carefully. “I thought we agreed our rooms were off-limits.”

“An assassin wouldn’t show you that kind of mercy.” The blade was pressed harder against his throat as the voice came closer. “So, are you going to be a good little prisoner?”

Lucien took a deep breath. “No.”

He grabbed his attacker’s knife hand and doubled over, bringing it down to his chest. Before the other could recover, he ducked underneath his attacker’s arm and twisted it to the side before wrenching the knife free. Breathing hard, he shook the hair from his eyes and pointed the blade at his would-be kidnapper.

“Eris.”

His oldest brother smirked up at him. “Not bad. Are you going to finish me off?”

Lucien released his arm and stepped back. “No. I happen to like this rug.”

Eris straightened up and rolled his shoulder, still smirking, then tugged at his cobalt jacket. “That kind of sentimentality could get you killed, you know.”

“I know,” Lucien said, offering the small blade hilt first. “You need to sharpen this. It didn’t even break the skin.”

Eris snorted softly. “Keep it. I swiped it from your bedside table, anyway.”

Lucien grimaced as he turned the blade over, annoyed that he hadn’t noticed. “What was that little exercise for?” he asked as his brother brushed past him. “You haven’t tested me in months.”

Eris clasped his hands behind his back and sauntered over to the table with the wine bottle. “Before I tell you, why don’t you tell me where you’ve been all morning?”

“Out,” Lucien said simply, returning the blade to the bedside table.

“Out of the House, or out of the Court?”

“I was out in the Fields, not that it’s any of your business,” he said, shrugging off his tunic to shake it clean. Bits of grass fluttered to the floor.

“Visiting Rafe?”

Lucien paused, his eyes narrowed. “What do you care?”

Eris did not immediately reply, but picked up the wine bottle to examine the label. Then he caught Lucien’s eye and grimaced. “You’re too young to be day-drinking,” he said, then uncorked the bottle and tilted it to his mouth, trying to coax out the last few drops. “Damn,” he muttered when nothing came out.

Lucien snorted and shrugged his arms into the sleeves. “Thirty-five isn’t young.”

His brother recorked the bottle and cocked his head. “Yes, it is.”

Eris was more than a century older than him, and always the cool and collected one of the seven red-headed brothers. As the eldest, he had had time to earn his place in the Forest House, and at Father’s side. Every other brother governed some part of the Autumn territory under the High Lord’s watchful eye. Lucien, as the youngest, had been overlooked and was therefore permitted to stay, but it was only a matter of time until Beron thought up some terrible use for him.

“I’m sure you didn’t come here to criticize my drinking habits, so why are you here?” Lucien asked, fastening his brass buttons.

“Father sent for you,” Eris said, brandishing a letter with the High Lord’s seal.

The wine in Lucien’s stomach turned sour. He worked hard to stay out of Father’s way; the only thing that he had done ‘wrong’ lately was visit a lesser faerie, but no one had ever cared before.

Eris looked at him askance when he didn’t reply. “You look worried.”

Lucien shrugged, trying to seem indifferent. “Should I be?”

Eris handed him the letter, and as he opened it, his brother said, “The only thing you really need to worry about is the Night Court. You’re going to be Father’s new emissary.”

Lucien’ s head shot up. “Me? Why me?”

“Unlike the rest of us, you have friends in every Court. Father decided that was actually useful after what happened last night.”

Lucien stared hard at the summons, unable to read a single word as he remembered the hours spent in Jesminda’s arms. There was no way Father could have found out, unless… “What about last night?” he asked, trying to sound curious, not guilty.

“Rafe didn’t tell you?”

“It didn’t come up.”

Eris’s amber eyes narrowed. “Were you really out in the Fields? I only ask because Father will. Make sure you have your story straight before you speak with him.”

“I was there,” Lucien insisted truthfully. “Why?”

“Father wants you as his emissary, but only if your loyalties lie with Autumn.”

“Of course they do,” Lucien said more sharply than he intended, then squared his shoulders when Eris frowned at him. “Why would Father doubt that?”

“You’re friends with Tamlin, aren’t you?”

Lucien looked at his brother askance . “Yes… what does that have to do with anything?”

Eris’s jaw clenched. “The Night Court attacked Spring last night. Nobody saw them coming. So if you know something—”

“What?” Lucien’s mind reeled. He didn’t know Rhysand very well, but he knew that Tamlin did; they were good friends. It had to be a mistake. “Are you sure it was the Night Court?”

“Positive. I was with Father when he received word. Tamlin saw them with his own eyes.”

Lucien’ s blood ran cold. “Is he alright?”

“Considering that he’s the new High Lord of Spring, I should think so.”

Lucien gaped. “New…? What happened to Lord Magnus?”

Eris’s eyes darkened. “He and Lady Rosalin were found slaughtered in their bed. Mother is in mourning, and Father is securing the borders. That’s where you come in. You’re going to be Court-hopping for a while, making sure your friends are still friendly.”

His mind raced. “But-but they’ll be coming to the Equinox Ball. Surely—”

Eris shook his head. “I doubt that’s going to happen this year.”

Lucien slumped at this news. All of his careful plans… Jesminda. His gaze fell to the letter in his hand. He read and reread the brief message, trying to make sense of it. “What exactly does Father expect me to do?”

Eris did not answer at first, but walked over to Lucien’s wall of weaponry. After a moment of consideration, he selected a ruby-studded sword and matching dagger, a ceremonial set reserved for courtly functions. “Father expects you to kiss his feet and thank him for this position, instead of being dragged down to the dungeon to be interrogated for where you’ve been, who you’ve been with, and what you know.”

Lucien swallowed hard. He had no doubt their father would dearly love to do just that.

Eris stepped closer and continued, “I, however, expect you not to get yourself killed.” He held out the sword and dagger.

Lucien hesitated, glancing between the weapons and his brother’s face, but Eris’s expression was unreadable. He took a deep breath and took the sword and dagger.

As he buckled them around his waist, Eris reached out and straightened Lucien’s collar, surprising him. “I also expect you to look the part,” he said coolly. “No future emissary of mine is going to look as though he’s been rolling around in the hay with some lesser faerie.”

Lucien’s head shot up and he stared at his oldest, most cunning brother.

Eris’s amber eyes were cold and hard as he held up a stray blade of grass. “I like you, Lucien,” he said quietly. “I always have. Don’t be an idiot.”

Lucien tried to control his pounding heart, but it was difficult to breathe. “I love her,” he whispered.

Something flickered in Eris’s amber eyes. “Then let her go,” he murmured, “before it’s too late.” His gaze flicked to the grass in his fingers, and it disintegrated into ash.

Chapter Text

Chin up. Back straight. Shoulders squared. Lucien watched Eris out of the corner of his eye and tried to emulate him as they walked side by side down the corridor. His brother’s expression was as cool as the cobalt blue jacket he wore. It was a striking contrast to the usual reds, golds, browns, and greens the Autumn Court chose. Lucien knew this was by design, for Eris knew how to navigate the Court better than anyone, and how to stand out without making himself a target.

It was not a lesson Lucien had mastered. He knew he was an easy target, especially to his other brothers, though he couldn’t explain why. It didn’t help matters that their mother seemed to favor him; perhaps it was because he was the youngest, or perhaps it was because his father didn’t seem to care. In any case, he stayed away from the Court as much as possible. But now, his one chance at leaving it behind was being torn from his grasp.

Lucien sighed, then asked quietly, “Is there any chance that Father would change his mind about making me his emissary?” He glanced up to see Eris arch an eyebrow at him.

“I thought you’d be pleased, considering how much time you spend traveling between courts anyway.”

Lucien glanced away. “I was thinking of settling down.”

“Nothing settles except dust in this Court, and, even then, only if Father allows it,” Eris said wryly. “He will arrange a marriage for you when he sees fit, just like the rest of us.”

“Because that worked out so well the first time,” Lucien muttered.

Eris drew in a sharp breath. “Lady Morrigan made a choice,” he said coolly. “Albeit a stupid one. Then again, strategy has never been the Night Court’s strong suit—”

“Yet you were the one who broke it off,” Lucien countered. “You made a choice, too.”

Eris threw out his arm and stopped him. His amber eyes flashed as he stared Lucien down. “Look. She’s the one who decided to fuck a lesser Fae rather than accept my hand. So if you decide that who you fuck is more important than accepting my help, then fuck off.”

Lucien scowled. As much as it pained him to admit it, he would not have survived this long without Eris’s help. He crossed his arms and stared at the floor. “I’ll break it off after Father’s meeting,” he said quietly.

Eris sighed and rested his hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “He won’t be High Lord forever, you know,” he said quietly. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Lucien lifted his head. “I’m not holding my breath.”

Eris smirked and squeezed his shoulder. “Good. I’d hate for you to miss my coronation.” He nodded at the corridor. “We shouldn’t keep Father waiting. It would be a shame if he died of impatience.”

The High Lord’s war room was deep underground in the complex of the Forest House, and guarded by sentries besides. Even if warriors from the other courts somehow made it into the House without being spotted, it was unlikely that they would find the strongholds below the surface… or make it out alive. Beron Vanserra, the High Lord of Autumn, had not lived for centuries only to be taken by surprise.

The guards already had their weapons drawn when Lucien and Eris approached. It was only when his brother waved them aside that they lowered their swords. Any other brother would have needed to wait for Father’s approval before being granted permission to enter. No one else commanded the same respect—or fear—that Eris did, aside from the High Lord himself.

Even Marius, the second born and a hulking brute, straightened up when Eris walked in. Perhaps that was because he knew that brute strength alone wouldn’t grant him the title of High Lord once Beron passed. The same unpredictable magic that determined one’s mate also chose a new High Lord, though the Autumn title seemed to favor the most cunning heir.

Father’s dark brown eyes followed Lucien as he sat in the only empty chair at the opposite end of the table. Eris took his place at the High Lord’s right hand; Marius sat on the left. Rafe, Sorin, and the twins, Perci and Destri, filled up the rest of the seats. Mother was never allowed in the war room, and even if she was, there was no seat for her. The table was reserved for either the High Lord and his generals, or, occasionally, for his sons. This was one of those rare occasions.

“So, Lucien. You decided to grace us with your presence at last,” Father said coolly.

Lucien took a deep breath, considering his answer carefully. “Forgive my tardiness,” he said humbly. “I was visiting the Fields. Getting some fresh air after my studies.”

Rafe leaned forward with a scowl. “Spying on me, were you?”

Before Lucien could answer, Eris said smoothly, “Why should he, unless you’re hiding something?”

Rafe’s thin lips tightened as he sat back. “Of course not,” he said stiffly. Of course he was. They all were. Secrets were more valuable than gold in the Autumn Court, and the Court hoarded them like dragons.

Marius scoffed. “What’s to hide out there except acorns?” He had been chosen as Lord of the Militia, which annoyed Rafe, a gifted swordsman, to no end.

“You’re one to talk,” Rafe muttered. “You couldn’t find an acorn if a squirrel dropped it on your head.”

Before Marius could think up a decent retort, Lucien remarked, “I happen to like the Fields, so if you ever feel like trading positions…”

Rafe pursed his lips, apparently considering the offer, but it was Father who replied. “That is not up to him to decide. He is Lord of the Fields unless I say otherwise, and you have no title unless I give it to you. Understood?”

Lucien swallowed. “Yes, Father.”

The High Lord squared his broad shoulders and rested his folded hands on the table. “You don’t have a title right now, do you?”

“No, Father.” The High Lord would not be pleased to know that Eris had already told him about becoming an emissary.

“Do you want a title?”

Lucien blinked. He didn’t, actually, but to say so would be akin to spitting in the High Lord’s face. “Only if you deem me worthy of one, High Lord.”

A pleased smirk touched the corners of Father’s thin lips. “Well spoken, boy. I believe I know just what to do with you.” He rose to his feet and began slowly circling the table. “That silver tongue of yours is wasted when your nose is buried in books.”

Lucien’s heart sunk. It was one thing to lose Jesminda, but to have his studies taken away as well was almost unbearable.

“So I have decided that you are going to be…” The High Lord paused beside Lucien’s chair and rested a firm, heavy hand on his shoulder. “…my Lord of Foxes.”

Lucien looked up at his father in confusion. “Foxes?” he repeated.

“My spies,” the High Lord said with a sly smile, then explained, “As my public emissary, you will personally deliver my messages to the High Lords of Prythian. However, I will expect more than a mere reply upon your return.” He squeezed Lucien’s shoulder in a meaningful way. It should have been reassuring and affectionate, but it was instead powerful and painful.

Lucien winced, but remained silent. The time to turn down his father had passed.

As he released his youngest son’s shoulder, the High Lord resumed circling the table and said, “As for the rest of you, Lucien will be keeping an eye on this Court as well. If anything happens to him, I will know it was one of you, and your punishment will be commensurate.”

Lucien tried not to shrink in his chair as every brother but Eris glowered at him. Mother’s favoritism was one thing, but now he was a threat to whatever plans they had to become High Lord themselves one day.

As their father stood at the head of the table, he said, “Your first task, my little Lord of Foxes, will be in the Spring Court. You will be delivering my condolences to Tamlin, the new High Lord of Spring.”

Lucien glanced around; none of his brothers seemed surprised by this news. Eris arched an eyebrow at him, reminding him to answer. Lucien sighed, then nodded at his father and said, “It will be done as you command.”

Father smiled. “Very good.” He clasped his hands behind his back and began circling the table once more. “Now, I suppose you are wondering why I’ve summoned you all here.”

Lucien’s mind raced. There was another reason? His brothers looked just as confused as he was, but no one spoke. Eris met Lucien’s gaze and subtly shook his head, a warning to stay silent.

Their father continued without waiting for an answer. “It would seem that there are two new High Lords in Prythian.”

Lucien looked at Eris in shock, who once again shook his head.

“The Spring Court was viciously attacked last night by the Night Court. Magnus’s youngest son, Tamlin, was the only one of his family to survive, and the only witness. He said his old friend, Rhysand—” Beron paused by Lucien’s chair for a moment, “—was one of the attackers, but who is now the High Lord of Night. That seems rather convenient, don’t you think?”

Lucien’s brows furrowed. Was his father actually suggesting it was a coordinated effort? The Seasonal Courts had not allied with the Solar Courts since the War.

The High Lord continued, “Fortunately, the Forest House is fortified against winged attacks. So, if any of you had hoped to become the new High Lord of Autumn in a similar fashion, I suggest you put such thoughts out of your head immediately.” He paused behind Eris and Rafe. “Or I will find a daemati to do it for you.”

Lucien’s blood ran cold. The daemati, a rare class of High Fae, could infiltrate minds at will. It was rumored that some were powerful enough to shatter a mind without killing the unfortunate faerie, though death would be a kinder fate. Eris did not meet Lucien’s worried gaze, but stared straight ahead.

“Now, then,” the High Lord said, returning to his seat. “In light of these circumstances, I have decided not to cancel the Equinox Ball.” Lucien’s ears pricked up. “After all, what better way to unify the seven courts of Prythian than through a marriage to my seven sons?”

“Including Autumn?” Marius asked.

Rafe rolled his eyes and groaned. “By the Cauldron. Of course, Autumn, or did that squirrel use your head for acorn storage?”

Marius sneered. “Only because it ran out of room from stuffing acorns up your ass.”

Rafe leapt to his feet, his sword half drawn before the High Lord pounded a flaming fist onto the table. Everyone froze as the wood crackled beneath his hand.

“Sit. Down,” their father growled.

Rafe obeyed, and his sword returned to its sheath. He meekly bowed his head when Father glared at him.

Beron drew a slow, deep breath, and the flames vanished as he withdrew his hand, leaving blackened wood behind. “Marius is right. One of you will marry someone from the Autumn Court.” Lucien’s spirits lifted at once. “The rest of you will find someone from another court to partner with.”

Sorin, who had been silent until now, said, “But I’ve already invited someone to Equinox.”

The High Lord frowned at him.

Sorin dropped his gaze to the table. “Yes, Father.”

Perci leaned over to Destri and whispered, “Are we drawing lots on which court we get, then?”

Destri whispered back, “As long as I don’t draw Night.”

Perci snorted. “Coward. I wouldn’t mind taking one of their Illyrian women to bed. I’ve always wanted to try wingplay.”

“What was that?” Father asked coldly.

The twins straightened up. “Nothing, Father,” they said in unison.

The High Lord continued to frown. “Illyrian lovers may be common in the Night Court—” Eris pursed his lips and glanced away; his former betrothed had taken an Illyrian to bed, after all. “—but under no circumstances are you to pair off with a lesser Fae.”

“Why not?” Lucien asked.

His father and brothers turned and stared at him. Eris shook his head again in warning.

Lucien squared his shoulders and ignored him. “Wouldn’t it make the Autumn Court stronger, uniting a High Fae with a lesser one?”

The High Lord’s eyes narrowed. “Do you hear yourself, boy?” he said in a quiet, dangerous tone. “How could you even think of weakening our bloodline with lesser blood?”

Lucien swallowed hard. “Isn’t High Lord Rhysand’s mother an Illyrian? And mated to his father, besides?”

The High Lord frowned. “A mating bond is Cauldron-blessed. Only a fool would choose to ignore it,” he said coolly. “Since that is not the case here—”

“What if it was?” Lucien pushed.

Father leaned forward and rested his laced fingers on the table. “Are you mated to someone?” he asked softly.

Lucien glanced at Eris, who shook his head again. “Not yet,” he admitted.

“Perhaps I ought to reconsider giving you a position,” the High Lord said, still frowning. “At least until you learn to mind your tongue.”

Lucien clenched his jaw; though he was tempted to agree, he had not completely forgotten Eris’s words.

When he did not speak, Father straightened up and said, “You are dismissed. All of you.”

Lucien knew the meeting wasn’t really over, but he wasn’t about to argue.

As the brothers pushed their chairs away from the table, the High Lord said firmly, “Rafe. A word.”

The twins practically sprinted for the door, with Sorin at least trying to look dignified as he followed close behind. Marius, however, seemed to be in no hurry as he sat back in his chair, smirking. Lucien knew better than to linger, but he could not help but glance over his shoulder at his third brother. Rafe remained seated, shoulders slumped and head bowed, looking very much like he would rather be anywhere else, even the Fields.

Eris stood behind Father’s chair with his arms crossed, and as he caught Lucien’s eye, he jerked his head at the door.

Lucien understood. This was his one chance to see Jesminda again. He didn’t know when, or if, he’d get another.

He avoided winnowing to their picnic spot. Even the thought was too painful. He could have winnowed to the orchard itself, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that, either. Instead, he winnowed to the shadows of the elm trees at the bottom of the hill, watching the harvesters at work.

The young and the old worked on the ground, picking and pruning, while the strongest among them flew around the treetops, gathering apples into their knapsacks. When the knapsacks were filled, the rosy-red, sun-ripened apples were poured into woven baskets, ready to be taken to the High Lord’s court. Wings of gold and brown and green glistened in the afternoon sunshine, but none more brightly than Jesminda’s. The sight should have lifted his spirits, but it only broke his heart.

As he watched her, he realized that there was too much to be said, and not enough time to say it. He wasn’t even sure what to say, for how could he tell the love of his life that his plans—their plans—had crumbled into ash? He wished now that he hadn’t come, and most of all, that he hadn’t accepted his role as emissary. Even if he hadn’t, though, he would be forced to spend Equinox with someone else.

He sighed, and would have winnowed away, but one of the harvesters caught sight of him and waved. He reluctantly waved back. He considered many of them to be his friends; it had taken a long time to earn their trust. Rafe was not a kind lord.

One of the women called out, “Hey, Jes! Lover-boy’s here!”

Lucien’s face flushed as more of the villagers turned and looked at him. He could hear their quiet laughter from where he stood. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have minded, but he didn’t want word to reach Rafe, or more importantly, his father. For now, he could only smile and wave politely, hoping this would be over quickly.

It was not long before Jesminda flew over to him, grinning from ear to ear.

“Back so soon?” she asked as she landed in front of him, but before he could answer, she slipped her hands around his neck and kissed him. He closed his eyes and breathed her in: apple blossom and sun-warmed grass. He could taste the salty-sweet sweat on her skin. Before he could wrap his arms around her and never let her go, she pulled away, still smiling.

He huffed a laugh and brushed a soft curl from her cheek. “You know I can’t stay away,” he said with a sad smile.

Her grin faded. “What’s wrong?”

Before he could answer, two small sets of wings thrummed closer, and Jesminda’s two young sisters landed behind her, clamoring for his attention.

“Lucien! Lucien! Are you really gonna marry Jessy?” the younger one asked, tugging on his tunic.

“Of course he is!” the other said with a sniff, then tugged on his sleeve and said, “Lucien, can you teach me to winnow?”

“Ooh-ooh! Me next! Me next!”

Jesminda’s freckled cheeks turned pink as she gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

He smiled back, then bent down to glance between the girls’ freckled faces. They looked so much like Jesminda, like the children he had hoped to one day have with her. His heart cracked further, but he managed to keep smiling for them. “Hey, maybe another time, huh?” he said kindly.

“Awww,” they complained.

Jesminda chuckled, then pinched their wings and pulled them back. “You heard him, now shoo,” she said.

“How come you get to stay?” the younger one grumbled.

“Yeah, all you do is kiss.”

“Yeah! Papa says only married faeries kiss.”

Lucien straightened up and coughed into his fist.

Jesminda’s face turned red as she turned and dragged her sisters further away. “Papa doesn’t know everything,” she said coolly. “Especially not about those strange eggs you’ve been trying to hatch in the barn.”

Her sisters gasped and exchanged shocked looks. “Bye Lucien!” they yelped, then flew off.

Lucien chuckled, then nervously ran a hand over his hair as Jesminda turned toward him with a playful smirk.

“Now, where were we?”

His throat tightened, and he found himself unable to speak.

She stepped closer as she looked him over. “You look so fancy since I last saw you,” she remarked, slipping her fingers into his belt. “Are you going somewhere special?” She tilted her head with a seductive smile.

“I wish I wasn’t,” he said softly, pulling her hands away and holding them tightly.

Her smile faded and she straightened up. “Somewhere far away?”

He nodded.

She bit her lip and looked down at their clasped hands. Her ruby ring glinted. “Will you be back by Equinox?” she murmured.

“I… I don’t know,” he said sadly. “I wish I could tell you, but… something’s happened, and Father has elected me as his emissary.”

Jesminda met his gaze. “Can I come with you?” she asked, shrugging a shoulder.

“Yes, Lucien, can she come with you?” a familiar voice simpered.

Lucien’s blood ran cold as his head whipped toward one of his brothers leaning against the elm tree behind them. Rafe. “What are you doing here?”

Rafe pushed away from the tree, smirking. “I should ask you the same thing. You’re in my territory, after all.” His dark brown eyes, like their father’s eyes, flitted to Jesminda. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, offering her his hand.

Lucien pulled her behind him and stepped between them. “She was just leaving.”

Rafe tsked. “Come now, don’t be rude,” he simpered, laying his hand on Lucien’s arm. “I’m certain Father will want to meet her.”

Before he could retort, the world around them turned dark, and his heart plunged to his stomach. Rafe was winnowing him—no, them. The three of them. He could still feel Jesminda’s hand in his. When the world brightened again, his worst fears were realized. They were standing in the corridor outside the High Lord’s war room.

Rafe gripped his arm and hissed, “Don’t even think about winnowing out of here.” In a louder voice, he said, “The High Lord has a message for you. Emissary.”

Chapter Text

Lucien’s mind raced. There was no winnowing out of the High Lord’s war room once they were inside. If he winnowed away now, Rafe would be brought along, and it would be an exhausting battle between them, winnowing away and back again. Before he could think of an alternative, Rafe addressed the guards.

“Let us pass. The High Lord is expecting me.”

“What are you doing?” Lucien hissed as Rafe strong-armed him past the guards.

“Earning Father’s forgiveness,” Rafe said. “After he told me to keep an eye on you, I thought you might be out getting some ‘fresh air’… And I was right.”

Jesminda clung to Lucien’s other arm, mute with fear.

Lucien muttered, “Let her go. She has nothing to do with this.”

“She has everything to do with this,” Rafe countered. “Did you think you were being subtle, asking about mating with a lesser Fae?”

“I was just—”

“Enough.” Father’s tone was quiet and firm.

The three of them paused in the middle of the room. The High Lord stood before the mural of Prythian on the far wall, beneath the crest of the Autumn Court: a horned, two-tailed fox, wreathed in golden leaves. Marius and Eris stood on either side of him, arms crossed and silent.

“Rafe,” Father said as the guards closed the doors behind them. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

Lucien spoke up before Rafe could. “He said you have a message for me.”

Father’s dark brown eyes narrowed. “Indeed.” His gaze flicked to Jesminda. “And who is this?”

Jesminda released Lucien’s arm at once and dropped to all fours, bowing so low her forehead touched the floor. “I am but a humble harvester in your grand, golden fields, High One.”

Lucien’s stomach twisted at the sight. He wanted to kneel beside her and lift her to her feet, so that she could stand beside him as his equal… But Rafe held him fast.

Father sneered. “So I see.” He clasped his hands behind his back and commanded, “Come closer, harvester.”

She began to quiver, but she rose to her feet and obeyed. Rafe kept a firm grip on Lucien’s arm as they followed her. As she stood before the High Lord of the entire Autumn Court, she folded her hands and dropped her gaze to the floor.

He looked her over, then placed a finger under her chin and lifted her gaze. “Your name?”

“Jes-Jesminda, m-my lord,” she managed.

“Jesminda,” he repeated slowly. “And what, exactly, is a humble harvester doing with Autumn Court treasure on her finger?”

Lucien stepped forward. “I—” His explanation turned into a pained grunt as Rafe twisted his arm behind him.

When Jesminda turned her head to look at him, the High Lord gripped her chin and forced it back. “Well?”

“I-It was a gift,” she said meekly, then hurriedly added, “my lord,” when he frowned at her.

“A gift?” he asked coolly. “Or a bribe?”

“I… I don’t understa—” She cried out when he squeezed her jaw.

Lucien winced and tried to jerk free, but Rafe held him fast. “Don’t hurt her. I gave her that ring.”

“Obviously,” the High Lord said, staring at Jesminda as he kept his grip on her jaw. “Now, the question is why.”

Lucien hesitated and glanced at Eris. His oldest brother, however, remained silent and expressionless.

The High Lord continued, “Is she one of your spies? An assassin in disguise, perhaps? After all, her kind was quite useful in the War…” His gaze flicked to Lucien. “Did she seduce you?”

Lucien’s face flushed. “That’s none of your business,” he snapped.

“I take that as a yes, then.” The High Lord returned his attention to Jesminda. “So, what are you?”

Lucien answered for her. “My betrothed.”

The heat in the room vanished. In the resulting silence, Eris’s muttered ‘Shit’ might as well have been a shout. Rafe quickly released Lucien’s arm and stepped out of their father’s path.

The High Lord’s face was flushed red as he stared Lucien down. “Your what?” he growled.

Lucien squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “My betrothed. I don’t care that she’s not High Fae. I don’t care if that makes me lesser. You can give my title to someone else. I don’t want it.”

“You will take what I give you, and be grateful,” Father snarled.

“Grateful for what?” Lucien snapped. “A lifetime of looking over my shoulder? Hoping for a nod of approval but instead I have to fear a knife in my back?”

Keeping his iron grip on Jesminda’s jaw, the High Lord dragged her closer. “I suppose you think I would approve of this?”

Jesminda’s eyes were pained and fearful as she stood there, quivering. Lucien swallowed hard. “I don’t need your approval anymore,” he declared. “Jesminda loves me for who I am, and I love her. I’m going to marry her, and when the mating bond snaps into place, you’ll have to admit that the Cauldron was right, and you were wrong.”

The High Lord’s eyes narrowed. “I see…” The room grew warm again, and the High Lord released his hold on Jesminda.

“Lucien,” she choked out, then darted into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder as she began to cry.

“Hey, it’s all right, Jes. I’m here,” he soothed, stroking her hair.

She still trembled. “Take me home, please,” she begged.

“No one is going anywhere,” the High Lord growled.

Lucien hugged Jesminda tighter and frowned at his father. “Punish me if you like, but let her go.”

The High Lord lifted his chin. “Very well.” He turned his head. “Eris. Hold him down.”

“No.”

Lucien stared at Eris in disbelief. No matter what plans his eldest brother secretly held to depose the High Lord, Eris had never disobeyed a single order from their father.

The High Lord turned and growled. “What did you just say?”

Eris looked at Lucien, and something akin to fear flickered in his eyes. “I said: ‘No.’ I won’t be part of this.”

The High Lord snarled and pointed to the door. “Get out of my sight. I’ll deal with you later.”

Eris’s jaw tightened, and he bowed his head. “As you command.” As he walked past, he muttered, “I’m sorry, Lucien.”

Lucien swallowed hard, dreading the punishment to come, but grateful his brother had stood up to their father at last. Eris would make a decent High Lord one day. Lucien gave Jesminda a reassuring squeeze, then whispered, “Go with him. I’ll come for you later.”

She glanced at Eris, waiting for the guards to open the door, then nodded. She stepped away to join him, but the High Lord caught her arm and held her fast.

Lucien snapped, “You said you’d let her go.”

The High Lord replied coolly, “I said nothing of the kind. She is going to take part in your punishment, so that you are never tempted to do this again.”

Jesminda gasped. “My lord, please don’t make me hurt him,” she begged, trying to break free from his iron grip. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

The High Lord said coldly, “The Autumn Court cannot thrive unless there is order, and there cannot be order without consequences. Each of my sons knows this lesson well.”

Eris’s hands curled into fists at his sides, but then the doors opened, and he walked through without looking back.

“Guards,” the High Lord commanded, “we are not to be disturbed under any circumstances.” The guards murmured their assent; when the doors were closed once more, the High Lord said, “Marius, hold him down.”

As Marius took his place behind Lucien, he muttered, “Nice and easy, now. Don’t make me hurt you, or I will hurt you.”

Lucien tried to control his breathing, resisting the urge to yank free as Marius gripped his arms. The sooner this was over with, the better.

Rafe leaned in and whispered, “All of this could have been avoided if you had just kept it in your pants… Next time you want to visit your little whore, don’t do it on my turf.”

Lucien snarled and lunged at him, but Marius held him back.

“That is enough, Lucien,” the High Lord said sharply.

Rafe sneered and crossed his arms as he straightened up, looking thoroughly smug. Lucien loathed him completely.

“Lucien,” the High Lord said. “Do you know why I am punishing you?”

Lucien’s shoulders slumped. “Because I spoke out of turn. I disrespected your authority,” he said flatly.

Father turned to Marius next. “Why do you think I am punishing him?”

Lucien could feel Marius shrug behind him. “It was his idea. He practically asked you to.”

Father pursed his lips, then glanced at Rafe. “And you?”

Rafe replied, “Because you made it perfectly clear that we are not to mate with lesser Fae under any circumstances.”

The High Lord inclined his head. “So I did.”

Lucien scowled at Rafe, who smirked in return.

“Jesminda, do you know why I have this rule?” the High Lord asked.

“No, my lord,” she whispered, shrinking away.

“Because there is a hierarchy in Prythian that must be respected if order is to continue. The High Fae rule, the servants serve, and the harvesters… harvest. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” she murmured, bowing her head.

“Very good,” he said coolly, then released her arm and held out his hand. “Now return the ring my son gave you, and I shall be lenient.”

She gasped and took a step back as she clutched her ringed hand to her heart. Tears shone in her eyes as she looked to Lucien, looking torn.

Lucien’s heart ached for her, but he tried to smile. “It’s just a ring, Jes.”

She bit her lip, then nodded. Sniffing back tears, her hands trembled as she pulled the ruby ring from her slender finger. She hesitated, holding it out, then let out a resigned sigh as she placed it in the High Lord’s waiting palm.

His fingers curled around it, then his hand glowed red. When he opened his hand a moment later, the ring was nothing more than a lump of gold and cracked gemstones. His face was empty of all expression as he turned his hand over and let the lump fall to the floor.

Jesminda cried out then pressed her hands to her mouth, staring at her ruined ring.

Lucien bit back a curse at his father’s callousness. The treasury was filled with gold and precious gems… what was one small ring worth in comparison? But it wasn’t really about the ring, he realized. It was about what it represented. Yet nothing his father did could make him love her any less. He resolved to make it up to her later, somehow.

The High Lord walked around her, then rested his hands on her shoulders. “Jesminda,” he said quietly. “If you agree to decline my son’s hand in marriage, I will not punish him.”

She lowered her hands and stared at the High Lord over her shoulder. “But I love him,” she said softly.

“If you really loved him, you would not be so selfish as to make me punish him.”

She appeared to struggle for words as her mouth fell open, but nothing came out. She looked to Lucien as tears spilled down her cheeks. Bruises from the High Lord’s grip on her jaw were beginning to form.

The sight made Lucien jerk against his brother’s grasp, but Marius’s hold only tightened. Lucien wanted to comfort her against his father’s cruelty, but he didn’t know how without making the situation worse.

“This is your last chance,” the High Lord said to her; a growl traced his words. “Tell me that you do not love him, and you shall go free.”

She slowly shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. She looked to Lucien helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

Lucien opened his mouth to say that she had nothing to be sorry for, but the High Lord spoke before he could.

“So am I,” he said coolly. He looked at Lucien and asked, “Do you still choose punishment over her freedom?”

Lucien lifted his chin; though Marius still held his arms, he stood as tall as he could and said, “I do.”

“So be it.” Claws grew from the High Lord’s fingers. Black, beastly claws.

Lucien shook his head as dread seized his heart. “No! Father, wait—”

The High Lord ignored him. “This is your punishment.” He seized Jesminda’s wings in his clawed hands.

She gasped and turned her head in a panic. “No! Not my wings—please,” she begged.

Lucien’s blood froze. “Father, don’t!”

The High Lord continued coldly, “The Cauldron’s will is not stronger than mine.”

He ripped the wings from Jesminda’s shoulders in one swift motion as she cried, “Not my—”

Then she began to scream. And kept screaming.

There was nothing Lucien could do. No matter how he writhed and swore and fought, Marius held him back. No matter how hard he begged his father to stop, to heal her, to show mercy, his pleas were ignored. When she stopped screaming, he looked away, but Rafe grabbed his hair and turned his head back. His brothers made him watch as their father tore out the heart of the only female he had ever loved.

Silence fell, and the High Lord straightened up, blood dripping from his hands.

Lucien stared at the wingless faerie lying on the floor. It didn’t move. It looked like Jesminda, but it couldn’t be—it wasn’t—please, no—not her… Lucien’s legs buckled as his world crumbled beneath his feet. His brothers released him at last as he sunk to his knees. His hands fell to his sides, useless. As useless as the gilded weapons still buckled at his waist. Why hadn’t he drawn them? Why hadn’t he fought his way out of there? Why…?

Jesminda’s hazel eyes stared through him, as if asking him the same questions. Not even an hour before, they had lain in the grass, dreaming of their lives together… Now she lay on the floor, lifeless. There would be no more sunshine in her hair, no more picnics in the hills—

“Guards,” the High Lord called out. “Get someone to clean up this mess.”

White hot fury surged through him. Lucien’s lip curled, and he glared up at his father. “Damn you,” he hissed.

The High Lord paused wiping his bloodied hands to look at him with a frown.

“May the Mother condemn you.” Somehow, he made it to his feet. “May the Cauldron scald the flesh from your bones. May the gates be locked against you for eternity. And may you suffer in the coldest, darkest pit of Hell, without a spit of magic to light the rest of your miserable existence.”

 The High Lord’s eyes narrowed. “Are you finished?”

Lucien breathed hard. “I am. I’m finished with you. I’m finished with this whole damn Court. I renounce my title. The others can fight over your crown. I don’t want it.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, nor a dismissal. He turned on his heel and stormed out, pushing past the guards who had just opened the doors. Nobody tried to stop him.

When he winnowed to his room, he realized he was shaking. He buried his fingers in his hair, as if to pull out the images of Jesminda’s torn wings on the floor, and the blood… So much blood… He squeezed his eyes shut and choked back a sob. “No…” he whispered. “No-no-no—”

A firm hand grasped his shoulder. “Lucien—”

He whirled around, swinging his arm at his attacker’s head; his fist connected with their jaw. A familiar figure staggered to the side, holding his mouth and swearing through his fingers.

Lucien breathed hard, his fists trembling at his sides as he stared down at Eris.

Eris winced as he touched the corner of his bleeding mouth. “Damn it, Lucien,” he muttered, glancing at the blood on his fingers. “What in the depths of the Cauldron—” He froze as Lucien drew his dagger and pointed it at him.

“Did you know?” Lucien hissed.

Eris stared at the silver blade, then slowly spread his hands as he met Lucien’s hardened gaze. “Are you going to finish me off, Lu?” he asked, using his childhood nickname, as though they were brothers, not enemies. Not like Marius, not like Rafe…

Lucien’s lip curled. “Answer me,” he snarled, bringing the blade close enough that it touched Eris’s neck. “Did. You. Know?”

Eris drew in a sharp breath as his gaze flitted from the blade to Lucien’s face. “Know what?” he asked stiffly.

“That Father was going to kill her?”

Eris’s eyes widened. “He what?”

A tear slipped from Lucien’s eye, then another, and he dropped the dagger as he broke down, sobbing.

Eris gripped his shoulders. “Lucien. Lucien! Tell me what happened,” he said, and sat him down on the bed.

Somehow, he managed to recount the awful minutes after Eris left the war room. It felt like recounting a nightmare. No, it was a nightmare, though the bed beneath him felt real. Yes, that was real… and any minute now he would wake up, stirring beneath the furs. Then Jesminda would turn over in his arms with a sleepy smile, asking for five more minutes before he had to take her home—only to be replaced with the image of her lifeless expression as she laid there on the floor. The thought nearly choked him.

His hands shook as he pressed them to his face. “Jes…” His voice cracked, then he straightened up with a sudden breath. “I… I left her there. I have to go to her. I have to—” 

Eris pushed him back down. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“But her family, the village—” His fingers curled into his hair as he choked back another sob. “Oh, Cauldron, what have I done?”

“It’s not your fault, Lucien,” Eris said firmly. “I’ll make sure she gets home.”

Lucien’s throat tightened, but he managed to nod.

Eris gave his shoulders a firm squeeze, then released him and stepped away. He bent and picked up the fallen dagger, then stared at it for a long moment. “You have to leave,” Eris declared.

Lucien slumped, suddenly exhausted. “Stay. Go. Who cares anymore?” he muttered.

“Snap out of it, Lucien.” Eris held out the dagger hilt first. “You’re not the only one who lost someone.”

“…What?” Lucien’s gaze flicked from Eris’s face to the knife in his hand.

“Tamlin,” Eris explained. “He lost his parents and both of his brothers in one night. I’m sure he could use a friend right now… And I need to know that Spring will be my ally when the time comes.”

Lucien sighed, then reluctantly accepted the proffered dagger.

“You’re going to the Spring Court,” Eris said firmly, then walked over to the wardrobe. After a moment’s deliberation, he pulled out a cloak and a knapsack. “When you reach the border, tell the guards that you are there to give Tamlin a message from Father. That was your first task, remember?”

Lucien slowly shook his head. “But I don’t have a message. Besides, I’m not the Lord of Foxes anymore.”

Eris did not reply. He picked up the summons next to the empty wine bottle, then turned the letter over. “This will have to do,” he muttered. With a bit of fire magic, he softened the underside of the wax seal and pressed it closed. As he slipped it into the knapsack, he said, “If the border guards question you, show them the seal. You should be able to make it past them before—” He pursed his lips and stared at his brother.

Lucien looked at him askance. “Before what?”

Eris let out a long breath through his nose. “Before anyone comes after you.” He shook his head. “I can’t… I can’t protect you anymore, Lucien.”

“Protect me? Protect me?” Lucien snapped, then rose to his feet. “You left me back there, to face Father alone. And he… He—”

“I didn’t know he’d go that far,” Eris snarled. He strode closer. “I didn’t know Rafe was going to catch you with that female. I didn’t know you’d already proposed. And I didn’t know that Father was going to use her to punish you. I. Didn’t. Know.” He shook his head and sighed. “All I knew is that he wanted you to suffer for your disobedience. And I wasn’t going to be part of that.”

Lucien’s throat tightened, and he clenched his jaw, trying to keep more tears from forming. “He took her wings, Eris…” he whispered, trying not to tremble. “He took her wings.”

“I know,” Eris said quietly, placing his hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “And he’ll pay for that. I’ll make sure of it.”

Lucien nodded, then swallowed hard. “I want to be there when you do.”

“No.” Eris thrust the knapsack into Lucien’s arms. “You can’t stay here.”

Lucien frowned as he fumbled with the knife and knapsack. “Why not?”

Eris shook out the cloak and draped it over Lucien’s shoulders as he explained, “Because you renounced your title. It’s not safe here for you anymore.”

“But that’s just it: I renounced my title,” Lucien insisted as Eris fastened the leaf-shaped cloak pin. “I don’t want to be High Lord. I never did.”

Eris stepped back and crossed his arms. “Do you really think that’s going to stop Marius? Or Rafe? Even Sorin wouldn’t hesitate to gut you if it meant getting a permanent place in the Court.”

Lucien snorted and sheathed his dagger. “They can boil in the Cauldron for all I care. So long as Beron dies, I don’t care who becomes High Lord in his stead.”

Eris stared at him. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.”

Eris’s jaw tightened. “Nothing will get better around here if Rafe becomes High Lord. Marius is an idiot, and Sorin has no ambition, so at least things wouldn’t get worse…” He pointed at himself. “I want the Autumn Court to be how it was under Grandfather.”

Lucien shifted uncomfortably under Eris’s hard stare.

When he didn’t reply, Eris continued, “Mother used to tell me stories… What the Autumn Court was like. How Grandfather cared equally for his sons and his subjects… How he fought alongside his generals during the War.” Eris shook his head. “Nobody talks about it now—they don’t dare—but Father wanted to be High Lord more than he wanted to win the War. Mother was convinced that he killed his father and brothers and blamed it on the armies of Hybern.”

Lucien’s shoulders slumped and he dropped his gaze to the floor. “She never told me about that,” he mumbled.

“She wanted to protect you, I guess. The less you knew about Father’s cruelty…” Eris sighed, then said quietly, “Look. I’m sorry… about your betrothed.”

More tears formed and threatened to fall; Lucien squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep them at bay. “I don’t care how you do it,” he said thickly. “But before you kill him, make him suffer.”

“I intend to,” Eris said coolly.

A firm knock sounded on the door. Eris and Lucien exchanged guarded glances.

“What is it?” Lucien called out.

The door opened, and Rafe stood there with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, smiling. “Well, well. Going somewhere, Lucien?”

“What do you care?” Lucien snapped, as Eris asked in a louder tone, “What do you want, Rafe?”

Rafe’s smile turned into a smirk. “Eris. Marius has been looking for you.”

 “What for?” Eris asked coolly, lifting his chin and frowning.

Rafe sauntered through the doorway. “Father wants to discuss your punishment. Unfortunately for you, he’s not in a very forgiving mood right now. He’s pissed off that someone—” Rafe threw a look at Lucien. “—placed a curse on his head. He sent me to find the culprit in order to undo it.”

“Like Hell I will,” Lucien snarled. “And you can join him there for all I care.”

Rafe chuckled. “I don’t think you understand. Father sent me to find you so that I could undo it.”

Lucien’s brow furrowed, then he took a startled step back as Rafe drew his sword.

Rafe’s blade sliced the air, then he raised his sword and pointed it in Lucien’s direction. “The quickest way to break a curse is to break the faerie who did the cursing.”

Lucien took another step back. “Hey… It wasn’t that kind of curse.”

Rafe scoffed. “As if that matters to Father. He wants to live forever.”

Eris countered, “As if that matters to you. You want to be High Lord as much as I do.”

Rafe glanced at him. “You say that, but I’ve never seen you do anything about it. If you really wanted it, you would have taken out your competition, one at a time—” He turned back to Lucien. “—starting with the youngest.”

Eris said coolly, “If you think you can take out Father by yourself, you’re madder than I thought.”

Rafe snorted. “Seven brothers can’t share a crown,” he said, turning his sword on Eris, who froze next to the table. “I used to idolize you… I would have gladly followed you into battle,” he said quietly. “Then when you let Father send me to those damned Fields, I realized why he appointed you to the Court… You are just like him.”

Eris’s lip curled, but he remained silent.

Rafe continued, “But not me. I’m going to be stronger than he ever was.” He sneered, turning his sword once more on Lucien. “I’m going to be stronger than all of you.”

Beneath his cloak, Lucien’s fingers edged toward his sword. Rafe was a gifted swordsman, but with Eris here, he might stand a chance—

Eris grabbed the empty wine bottle from the table behind him and flung it at Rafe.

Before he could lift his sword to deflect it, the bottle struck Rafe on the side of his head. He staggered back and swore viciously.

Eris whipped his head toward Lucien and snarled, “Go! Now!”

Lucien’s eyes widened and his mind went blank. Go where? But he gulped a deep breath and winnowed away.

When he arrived, he wished he had let Rafe gut him. He hadn’t intended to come back here, at the bottom of the hill. The harvesters were just finishing their work for the day. Several of them were stretching their arms above their heads as they stood upon the ground, their wings spread wide and glowing in the late afternoon light. They were so whole and beautiful… His stomach churned at the memory of what his father had done to the one he loved most.

Then he caught sight of Jesminda’s little sisters, lugging a basket full of apples between them. Gold gleamed in their nut-brown curls and on their folded wings. Tears filled his eyes then streamed down his cheeks, and he gripped at the space above his heart, at the ache there. He couldn’t let them see him. He couldn’t tell them that their sister was never coming home… and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

Then one of the older harvesters caught sight of him and waved. No, not again. He stumbled back and shook his head.

“Lucien?” she called out, lowering her hand in confusion.

He shut his eyes and winnowed away, too cowardly to stay and tell them the truth. He appeared somewhere near the edge of a forest. He didn’t know which one, and he didn’t care, for he was immediately sick. He dropped the knapsack and staggered forward. He had just enough time to brace a hand against a nearby tree trunk before he retched. And retched again.

Tears stung his eyes, and bile stung his throat when he finished. Panting for breath, he glanced around for a stream to rinse out his mouth. And he realized he was in the forest near the caves separating the Autumn and Spring Courts. He hoped the sentries hadn’t overheard him, but at least he knew where to find running water.

He retrieved the fallen knapsack, then spent some time at the nearest stream cleaning up. The cold water cleared his head and helped him focus. Eris was right that the Forest House wasn’t safe anymore, but neither was the entirety of the Autumn Court. If the High Lord closed the borders, it would only be a matter of time before someone caught up to him and dragged him back to face his father’s wrath.

And his father had promised to be ‘lenient’… It would be laughable if it didn’t hurt so much. Lucien closed his eyes against the memory of what his father had done, but he could still see it. He took a deep breath to try to clear his head once more, then used the inside edge of his cloak to wipe at his stinging eyes. It wasn’t safe to break down yet, no matter how tempting it was. As he stood, he slipped the strap of the knapsack over his shoulder and straightened his cloak. He still had to make it over the border. He had to look like the seventh son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court, not like the exile he truly was.

Gripping the sealed summons in his hand, he approached the sentries guarding the cave. Before they could speak, he brandished the seal and declared, “I have just been elected as my father’s emissary. He has instructed me to give this message to Tamlin, the new High Lord of Spring. Let me pass.” He was glad to hear that his voice didn’t tremble.

The guards exchanged thoughtful frowns, but they said nothing as they uncrossed their spears to let him through. As he walked into the shadows of the cave, he shrugged the cloak from his arms and tucked the letter back into his knapsack. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother and Her Cauldron, grateful for his brother’s foresight, and grateful that the guards didn’t try to question him.

The Spring Court sentries were not as trusting. They had their swords drawn before he’d placed both feet on Spring soil.

“I seek asylum from your High Lord,” Lucien said coolly, gripping the hilt of his sword.

The two dark-haired sentries exchanged guarded glances. The one with blue eyes said, “Not with those weapons, you don’t.”

The one with golden brown eyes countered, “We’ll let the High Lord sort this out.” He turned to Lucien and continued, “You’ve been here before.”

Lucien nodded once. “My name is Lucien Van…” He hesitated. He was not so sure he wanted to be known by his family name anymore. He squared his shoulders. “Tam knows who I am. He’s an old friend of mine.”

The blue-eyed sentry’s jaw tightened. “I’ll ask the High Lord about it. Keep an eye on him, Andras,” he said, then winnowed out of sight.

The sentry called Andras turned to Lucien with an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry about this. Ever since the Night Court killed the old High Lord and his wife, we have to be cautious.”

Lucien took a deep breath. “I want to pay my respects, but that’s not why I’ve come.”

Andras looked him over. “Asylum, you said?”

Lucien nodded again. “It’s a long story.” His throat tightened at the memories that threatened to drown him, and he tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

Andras nodded thoughtfully, then reached for something at his belt and produced a hip flask. He uncapped it, then held it out. “Here. It looks like you could use a little something.”

Lucien eyed the flask warily. “What is it?”

“The best swill money can buy,” the sentry said, smiling wryly.

Lucien let out a surprised chuckle. It hurt, but it helped ease the tightness in his chest. He released the hilt of his sword and accepted the flask with a nod. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Andras snorted. “Don’t thank me ‘til you’ve tried it.”

Lucien chuckled again, then tilted it back and took a swig. It wasn’t swill. It was absolutely vile. He sputtered and managed to choke it down, then coughed and wheezed as it burned its way through him. Andras chortled and stepped forward to thump his back. “Cauldron boil me,” Lucien rasped, pounding his chest before he coughed again.

Andras took the flask back and said, “It’s cheap, but it gets the job done.”

“Poisoning your enemies?” Lucien wheezed, then wiped at his streaming eyes and cheeks.

Andras grinned. “Taking your mind off your troubles… at least for a little while.”

Lucien cleared his throat, then took a deep breath. It still burned, but he felt looser, calmer. “I guess it did,” he admitted, then he managed a slight smile. “Thanks.”

Andras returned the flask to his belt. “Any time.”

Lucien let out a weary sigh, then gestured to the lush landscape before them. “Do you mind if I look around?”

Andras glanced toward the green, wooded hills beyond the mossy rocks where they stood, then stepped back and rested the tip of his sword on the grass. “Go ahead,” he said with a kind nod.

Lucien nodded his thanks, then stepped out from the shadows of the cave mouth. A warm breeze ruffled his hair, and he breathed in the smell of fresh earth. The woods did not have the fiery beauty of the forests in the Autumn Court, but it had a certain peacefulness to it… And most importantly, it did not remind him of what he’d left behind. The Spring Court could be a new start for him, if Tamlin agreed to take him in.

He turned back to Andras to ask about the new High Lord, then he froze.

Andras was squaring off against someone standing at the entrance of the cave: Marius. The dark-haired sentry was taller, but the red-haired lord was broader.

“Is this how Spring welcomes the second son of the High Lord of Autumn?” Marius sneered, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Andras didn’t lower his weapon. “Do you seek asylum as well?” he asked cautiously, his glance darting between the two brothers.

“Asylum,” Marius scoffed, then cocked his head in Lucien’s direction. “He’s just in trouble and ran away from home.”

Lucien swallowed hard. “It’s more complicated than that,” he told Andras, then asked his brother, “How did you find me?”

Marius smirked at him. “Eris told me.”

Lucien’s blood ran cold. “He wouldn’t.”

Marius nodded. “Father made him. And now you—” He drew his sword. “—are coming home with me.”

Lucien shook his head and took a step back. “I renounced my title. Autumn isn’t my home anymore.”

Marius made to step forward, but Andras blocked him off. He chuckled under his breath, then shook his head at the sentry. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

Andras held his ground. “I have sworn an oath to serve Lord Tamlin and his subjects. This Fae—” He nodded at Lucien. “—has sought asylum, and is therefore subject to the protection of Spring unless the High Lord determines otherwise.”

Marius sneered. “That’s a lot of fancy talk for someone guarding a rock.”

Andras lifted his blade. “All right… then I’ll put it in words you can understand: Fuck off.”

Marius’s sneer turned to a snarl as he stepped forward and swung his sword at the sentry. Andras expertly blocked it, but what Marius lacked in finesse, he made up in strength. Marius’s next blow had Andras stumbling back, and their fight continued on Spring soil.

Lucien hurriedly unpinned his cloak and dropped his knapsack onto the piled cloth. He couldn’t let Andras fight his battles for him, even if it meant losing. But just as he drew his sword, someone else appeared in the entrance of the cave.

Lucien straightened up. “Sorin?”

The fourth-born Vanserra glanced between him and their older brother fighting the Spring sentry in the distance. “Come on, Lucien,” he coaxed, gesturing to the tunnel behind him. “Let’s get out of here before Marius sees us.”

Lucien shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sorin straightened and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “You don’t belong here, Lucien.”

“I don’t belong in Autumn, either,” Lucien said. “Go home, Sorin. I’m staying here.”

Sorin drew his sword. “I don’t want to do it this way, Lucien,” he said coolly. “Just come quietly, and I won’t hurt you.” 

“I have a hard time believing that,” Lucien said, his gaze darting between his brother’s face and his sword.

Sorin slowly stepped toward him, glancing at Marius still fighting in the distance. “If it weren’t for that guard over there, you’d be dead by now. Marius came here to kill you.”

“And I suppose you’re here for a friendly chat?” Lucien countered, risking a glance at Marius as well. He and Andras were still locked in battle, swords clashing, neither willing to call a truce. Father would be furious if he found out Marius had put an alliance with Spring at risk. Lucien suspected Marius planned to kill the sentry and hide the evidence rather than risk their father’s wrath. He couldn’t let that happen.

Sorin spread his arms wide, but did not sheath his weapon. “Just tell Father you’re sorry, take back your curse, and all will be forgiven.”

“Sorry?” Lucien repeated, incredulous. “I’m not sorry at all. If I didn’t think he’d enjoy it, I’d tell him to burn in Hell.” Lucien pointed his sword at the cave. “And you can tell him I said so.”

Sorin paused, and his jaw tightened. “And what about Mother? What do I tell her?”

Lucien’s gut twisted, and he grimaced. Everything had happened so fast, he hadn’t had the chance to tell her goodbye. He didn’t know when he would ever see her again… He swallowed hard and shook his head. He couldn’t dwell on that now. “You can tell her I’m sorry… It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.”

 “I’m sorry, too,” Sorin said quietly, then stepped closer. “Come back with me, Lucien. Help me become High Lord, and you can marry anyone you want.”

Lucien’s chest tightened, but before he could answer, someone else did.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not stupid enough to turn down absolute power, no matter how good a female is in bed.”

Lucien and Sorin whipped their heads toward the cave to see Rafe striding toward them. “Then again, I’ve never tried wingplay,” Rafe said, pausing a safe distance away. Then he smirked. “So how was she, Lucien, on average?”

Lucien’s lip curled. “Fuck off. What are you doing here?”

Rafe smiled. “The same thing that these two idiots are doing.” Metal hissed as he drew his sword. “Taking out the competition.”

Sorin and Lucien exchanged wary glances.

“I’m just here to take Lucien home,” Sorin said.

Rafe’s smile turned into a sneer. “Of course you are,” he said, glancing at Lucien. “You want that new title Father promised once his curse was lifted. And you’ll do anything to get it.”

Lucien’s grip tightened on his weapons. He didn’t know the Spring Court well enough to winnow away… And he couldn’t abandon Andras, who had managed to break free from Marius’s onslaught to catch his breath. 

Andras caught sight of him, then gestured to the others. “How many brothers do you have?!”

“Six!” he called back.

Even from this distance, Lucien could hear him muttering something about being glad to be an only child, before raising his sword against another one of Marius’s attacks. If Marius noticed Sorin or Rafe, he didn’t bother to acknowledge them.

Lucien tried not to worry, but the other sentry should have been back by now… To keep Rafe distracted, he remarked, “Are Perci and Destri coming, too?”

“No,” Rafe said coolly. “But I’ll deal with them soon enough.”

 “You’re mad if you think you can take them on at the same time,” Lucien said, shaking his head. “You can’t even take Sorin and me on at the same time.”

“But we can help you,” Sorin interjected. “We could take Marius out right now if we work together—”

Rafe turned his sword on him. “You would just skulk in the background while I do all the work. As usual.” He struck Sorin’s sword from his hand. “If a Fae can’t hold his own, he doesn’t deserve to be High Lord.”

Sorin splayed his hands and stepped back, then shot Lucien a pleading glance.

Lucien swallowed hard. He didn’t know Sorin well enough to hate him. “Leave him alone, Rafe,” he said tightly, then drew his dagger and adjusted his stance.

Rafe turned, then had the audacity to laugh at him. “Come on, Lucien,” he said, gesturing at the gilded weapons. “You don’t really think you can beat me with those old relics, do you?”

The rubies set in the golden handles glittered in the dying light. “I’ve never wanted to be High Lord,” Lucien said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Even if I did, I would never kill my own brothers to do it.”

Rafe drew his dagger as well, then crouched and mirrored Lucien’s stance. “I’ll take that as a ‘No’, then.” Then he darted forward and struck.

Lucien lifted his sword just in time to parry. His lessons with Eris flashed through his mind as he blocked one ringing blow after another. His cheek burned as Rafe’s dagger nicked his skin, and his heart sunk as he realized that Rafe was faster than Eris. He didn’t give Lucien the chance to fight back.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucien saw Sorin retrieve his sword and step away. The chances of getting his help were next to nothing. Sorin had always preferred reading books to swinging swords. As Lucien narrowly blocked a dangerous thrust, he wondered if Sorin would have actually tried to kill him if Rafe hadn’t shown up. Then Rafe pinned him against a nearby tree, and Lucien’s only thought became one of survival.

 He groaned as he pressed his blades against Rafe’s, which were dangerously close to his neck. The metal sparked. “Rafe… Don’t do this… Please,” he grunted.

“Begging, Lucien?” Rafe sneered, breathing hard. “It didn’t save your little whore.”

Fire raged in Lucien’s core. “Her name was Jesminda,” he snarled.

Rafe’s sneer vanished as he was pushed back, then he was the one defending himself against Lucien’s attacks. Metal rang and sparks flew as Lucien slashed and thrust with his so-called ‘relics’. Rafe scowled and continued to parry, unable to regain the upper hand.

“You made me watch her die!” Lucien raged.

“How else were you going to learn?” Rafe spat. “The High Lord’s word is law!” He snarled and stumbled back when Lucien nicked his ear with the tip of his sword.

 “She didn’t have to die!” Lucien swiped with his dagger, catching Rafe on the arm. Blood sprayed the air. “You could have left her there in the village where she belonged!”

“If you hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have bothered,” Rafe panted, glancing at his wounded arm. He caught Lucien’s eye and shrugged with his weapons. “They all look alike to me. And I’m the damn Lord of the Fields!”

Lucien’s lip curled. “You don’t know anything!” Lucien slashed at him and missed. “She was the one I wanted. She was the one that mattered! Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?!”

Rafe blocked a thrust, then plunged his dagger into Lucien’s gut. Fiery pain shot through him as he stared in shock into his brother’s cold eyes. “Because you were in my way,” Rafe muttered, then twisted the blade.

Lucien cried out, curling over his brother’s grip on that wicked knife. Hot blood blossomed on his tunic as Rafe stepped away, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe… He dropped his sword and pressed his hand to his stomach, and he began to tremble at the wet blood leeching through his fingers. Cold sweat and tears mingled on his face as he lifted his head, as Rafe lifted his sword.

“The will of the Cauldron is not stronger than mine,” Rafe said, aiming for his heart, then swung his arm.

A clash of metal startled him, and he dazedly turned his head to see Sorin strike Rafe’s blade aside.

Sorin pointed his sword at Rafe’s chest, though his hand shook. “Leave him alone,” he said tightly, then caught Lucien’s eye and nodded. Lucien could only stare, scarcely breathing and numb with pain.

“Traitor,” Rafe hissed, his face reddening like their father’s did when he was truly angry.

Sorin’s eyes widened as Rafe swiped the blade aside and raised his own weapon to slash at him. Lucien acted purely on instinct, gripping his ruby-studded dagger and tackling Rafe from behind. Sorin darted out of the way as they tumbled to the ground.

Rafe groaned beneath him, then shuddered and was still. Lucien panted for breath as he painfully rolled off his brother’s back. Lying there, he stared at Rafe, and Rafe stared back… But Rafe didn’t move. With growing dread, Lucien realized the dagger he had plunged into Rafe’s shoulder had missed its mark… Sorin confirmed it when he rolled Rafe onto his back. The ruby-studded dagger was buried up to its hilt in Rafe’s chest, buried in his heart.

Sorin and Lucien locked eyes, their shocked faces a reflection of each other’s. “He’s dead,” Sorin whispered.

A pained cry drew their attention to the trees, where Marius and Andras had been fighting. But it looked like the fight was over… Andras stumbled back, pulling himself free from Marius’s bloody blade. He dropped his own weapon before falling to the ground, clutching his middle.

A furious roar shook the trees, startling all of them. A pulse of powerful magic and blinding light swept through the dusky clearing. Lucien opened his aching eyes in time to see a great golden blur spring for Marius. A huge, wolf-like creature with horns tackled the Autumn lord and pinned him to the ground.

Marius’s sword fell uselessly to the side as the beast tore into him. Lucien looked on in horror as the beast bent its head, abruptly ending Marius’s scream as it ripped out his throat. As suddenly as it had begun, the fight was finished. The Lord of the Militia was no more.

This is a dream, Lucien thought. Or I’m dying. Or both… He sunk against the earth and rolled onto his back. It was difficult to discern if the world was going dark, or it was his vision, but in any case, stars began to appear. As if it were any other evening… As if he hadn’t seen three people die that day. Tears formed, then spilled from the corners of his eyes as he stared at those tiny, innocent stars twinkling overhead.

“Are you up there, Jes?” he whispered, then swallowed with difficulty. He tasted blood. His hand, sticky with drying blood, came to rest on his middle as his eyes drifted closed.

“Lucien… Lucien!” Sorin’s voice sounded far away.

“Go home, Sorin…” he murmured. “Go home…”

“Lucien,” a deep voice growled above him. “Lucien.”

A strong hand gripped his arm. He startled and sucked in a sharp breath, and his eyes flew open as he lay there on the ground. Light from the rising full moon glinted off someone’s golden mask and hair. That someone knelt over him. Tamlin.

Lucien swallowed hard. “Hey.” His voice sounded hoarse.

Tamlin breathed out slowly, and rested his hands on his knees as he sat back on his heels. “Welcome back.”

Lucien cracked a smile. “Did I go somewhere?”

“You tell me.”

Lucien lifted his head and slowly blinked as he glanced around. The cave was gone, and the trees. They were surrounded by wide, wooden buildings. The earth felt cool beneath him, and the air smelled like horse. The stable yard. “Hmm. Midnight ride, I guess. I didn’t get very far, did I?”

“You seemed rather far away to me.”

Lucien groaned as he sat up, then stiffly ran a hand over his face, over the bronze fox mask, and he sighed. “I was… somewhere else.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

He closed his eyes and scratched his head, trying to think. “Sorin… and Andras. Marius and Rafe… We were at the cave…” He straightened up and gripped Tamlin’s arm. “Did you heal Andras? He’s hurt—”

“I took care of him,” Tamlin said in a soothing tone. “That was a very long time ago.” He gently removed Lucien’s hand on his arm and asked, “Do you remember the Attor coming to the manor today?”

Lucien drew a deep breath, trying to clear his head as the memories began to sort themselves out. “Yes… I, uh, took Jesminda inside like you asked. I gave her some wine to calm down.”

“Feyre, you mean.”

Lucien stiffened, and his face flushed. “Isn’t that what I said?”

Tamlin shook his head. “No. You said: Jesminda.” Then he sighed and shifted so that he faced Lucien as they knelt there. “I was afraid this would happen,” he murmured, then rested a hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “Listen. It’s not your fault, but… you should know. The Summer faerie… he didn’t make it.”

The blood drained from Lucien’s face as he remembered what had brought him to the stables in the first place. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t, so he pressed his fist to his mouth and glanced away. Tamlin squeezed his shoulder, and he closed his eyes. His left eye ached as tears burned behind his eyelids. “I should have stayed,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” Tamlin said. “Amarantha is to blame, not you.”

Lucien released a shaky breath. “Even so, I… I ran away. And Jesminda… I just—” He swallowed hard. “I couldn’t even go to her funeral.”

Tamlin released his shoulder and sat back. “I know it’s not the same, but… I said the Mother’s Prayer for the Summer faerie before he passed. Would you like to say anything over him before he’s buried?”

Lucien shook his head and tried to sniff away his tears. “No. But, please, don’t bury him. Ask anyone with wings, and they’ll tell you the last thing they want is to be bound forever to the soil.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the soil,” Tamlin said, sounding somewhat defensive. “It is the nature of Spring itself: feed the soil, and nurture new life.”

Lucien’s shoulders slumped. “I know that. It’s just… his wings were taken from him.” Just like Jesminda, he thought sadly. “I would prefer to see his ashes scattered so that he can fly on the wind one last time.”

Tamlin considered this for a long moment, then he nodded. “Will you help me?”

Lucien grimaced. “My magic is hardly strong enough to light a candle, much less a funeral pyre.”

“Let me worry about that,” Tamlin said gently. “So. Will you?”

Lucien sighed, then nodded. “All right.”

The High Lord led his emissary to the hills. Together they gathered wood and kindling from the nearby trees, then Tamlin retrieved the body of the blue-skinned faerie and laid him upon the pile. Lucien looked away when Tamlin opened the ebony box to bring out the severed wings, and only opened his eyes again when Tamlin stood once more beside him. The faerie’s wings rested upon his chest, and his hands rested upon them, as if clasping them to his heart.

Lucien’s chest tightened at the sight, and he had to blink back more tears.

Tamlin touched his shoulder, then held out a large branch to act as a torch. “Would you like to say something first?”

Lucien took a deep breath, then wrapped his hand around the branch. “May this light guide your way,” he said softly. He felt a warmth spread through his shoulder where Tamlin touched him, and it flowed down his arm and into his fingers. The end of the branch burst into flame, and he let out a sudden breath at the familiarity of that power that he had missed for so long. Firelight glinted on Tamlin’s gold mask, and he caught his friend’s eye and smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Tamlin smiled back and nodded, then withdrew his hand to let Lucien continue.

Lucien turned back to the pyre before him and took a deep breath. “May you be whole once again in the Mother’s sight,” he said, before his throat tightened. He stepped forward and laid the torch among the dried wood. His voice cracked, but he managed to say, “May you fly forever with the stars.”

The kindling caught on fire, and with a nudge of magic, the pyre was soon ablaze.

Lucien stood back with Tamlin, and together they watched the golden flames rise to the heavens. Sparks floated on the breeze, their light mingling with the stars. Tears spilled from his eyes at the sight, and he brushed them from his masked cheeks.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tamlin began quietly.

Lucien sniffed and glanced at him, but his friend didn’t meet his eye as he looked up at the night sky.

Tamlin continued, “We could use a break from killing naga and hunting puca and worrying about Amarantha…” He looked at Lucien and said, “I’d like to take Feyre to Starlight Pond tomorrow. And I want you to come along.”

Lucien’s eyes widened. Starlight Pond was one of Tamlin’s treasured havens, dating back to his childhood. It had been years before he had trusted Lucien enough to show it to him. And to show it to a human girl… “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

Tamlin nodded. “I trust her. After you left—” Ran away, Lucien thought. “—she stayed with me, comforting the Summer faerie until he passed.”

Lucien stared at his friend in wonder. “She did?”

Tamlin nodded again. “Her cold human heart is beginning to thaw, and I’m starting to believe that she can break through my heart of stone.”

Lucien’s shoulders slumped as he let out a relieved sigh. “That’s great, Tam. I wish you luck,” he said with a sincere smile.

“So, will you come?”

Lucien’s smile vanished as he pictured—rather, he tried not to picture—swimming with Feyre… though a small part of him wanted to say Yes. He cleared his throat into his fist. “I still have border patrol duties,” he said gruffly, crossing his arms.

“You’ve done your part,” Tamlin assured him. “I’ll find someone else to take your place. So…?”

Lucien pursed his lips, considering. His unearthed memories and love for Jesminda were tangled up in his budding feelings for Feyre. And that was without considering Tamlin’s curse, or the fate of Prythian itself. He sighed. “Only if I can get absurdly drunk.”

Tamlin chuckled, and clapped him on the back. “It’s good to have you back, friend.”

Lucien chuckled as well. “Likewise.”

Chapter Text

It was almost obscene, how clean everything was. Feyre paused at the bottom of the stairs, gripping the hilt of the dagger in her belt for reassurance. She stared hard at the entry hall as it sparkled in the noon light streaming through the windows. If she hadn’t known a faerie died there the night before, she wouldn’t have noticed that anything was different. Except for the bouquet. That was different.

 She approached hesitantly, as if she were approaching a freshly dug grave, but she knew she couldn’t possibly avoid the entry hall forever. A fine lace table runner had been laid over the long mahogany wood table. She didn’t dare lift it to check for bloodstains on the wood. Instead, she focused on the beautiful floral arrangement, on life instead of death.

White blossoms as large as her fist were artfully arranged with delicate green ferns; the bouquet was nestled in a polished, blue-green vase. She let go of the dagger to touch the multi-petaled blooms, and wondered what they were called. Elain might know, but her sister was on the other side of the Wall. As she sadly rubbed a single, silky petal, she wondered if Tamlin had delivered her letter to the mortal lands. It seemed so long ago since she had written it, but it was only yesterday. So much had happened since then.

She sighed, then smoothed out the parchment she had crumpled in her other hand.

Aren’t these so beautiful?

For you, my beloved Tamlin.

For your collection.

She grimaced as she reread the horrible words written in that elegant script. Tamlin’s mate, whoever she was, had torn off an innocent faerie’s wings as a gift. Just because he had complained about the naga. Humans were better off on the other side of the Wall if this was a faerie’s way of expressing their love.

Even as she thought so, she felt a pang of guilt, as well. Though the message was disturbing, it was intended for Tamlin’s eyes alone, yet she had taken it before he knew it was there. She should have left it for him to find on the table, but she wanted to know what it meant: his collection.

Male voices drew near, coming from the direction of Tamlin’s study. She hurriedly stuffed the parchment into her trouser pocket before turning around. Tamlin and Lucien fell silent at the sight of her, and she swallowed, working up the courage to speak.

Before she could decide to say: ‘Good morning’, or ‘Good afternoon’, or ‘Do you have a collection of severed faerie wings I don’t know about?’, Lucien nodded at Tamlin.

“I’ll see you outside,” he said, then barely nodded at her and said quietly, “Feyre.”

As he strode past her, her face flushed. They hadn’t spoken since sharing a bottle of wine the night before. And when she had come downstairs in the middle of the night, he had been upset about the faerie, but that was understandable… So, she must have said something unmentionable when she was drunk if he wasn’t willing to tease her over it, or even look her in the eye. It wasn’t pleasant to imagine what she might have said, so she tried to think of other things as he opened the door and walked out.

It was a beautiful day, at least. Puffy white clouds floated through an azure sky. The breeze carried with it the pleasant perfume of the front garden. A walk would cheer her, she decided, once Tamlin said what he needed to say, for he had lingered when Lucien left.

“Good morning, Feyre,” he said kindly, clasping his hands behind his back as he stepped closer. “Or, should I say, good afternoon. Sleep well?”

She smiled tightly. “Good afternoon… Tamlin.” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “I slept well enough, thank you. Um… Yourself?”

“I slept some. Thank you for asking.” After the death of the faerie last night, it was a wonder either of them had slept at all.

In the resulting silence, she folded her hands and nervously played with her fingers. It was difficult to accuse Tamlin of collecting wings when he had been so kind to her, and to the dying faerie, but she had to know. She drew a deep breath. “I need to ask you—”

“My meeting was postponed—” he said at the same time.

Her face heated. “Oh, sorry—”

“Oh, forgive me—”

Their voices overlapped again, then they let out nervous chuckles.

“Go ahead—”

“After you—”

They chuckled again, then he nodded at her to speak first, and she shook her head. “I forgot what I was going to say,” she lied, then managed a smile.

He smiled in return, then took a deep breath. “I was thinking… since your supplies won’t arrive until tomorrow—” Supplies…? Oh, the paint. She’d nearly forgotten. “—and the gallery still needs to be cleaned, and, well, since my meeting was postponed, like I said…”

Feyre stared at him. Was the High Lord of Spring… rambling?

He continued, “I just thought that we could, you know, go for a ride. Together.” Her eyebrows raised, then Tamlin gestured to the open front door. “The three of us.”

She turned in surprise, and when she stood in the doorway, she saw three horses, brushed and gleaming and already saddled, waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Moonlight and Shadow she recognized, for Lucien was already climbing into the saddle of the pure black gelding, but the third she had never seen before. Tamlin’s mount was a powerful dappled gray, pawing impatiently at the earth.

Tamlin came to stand beside her. “I don’t take Thunderstorm out nearly as often as I should,” he remarked. “Perhaps that can change.”

She turned to him in wonder. “I didn’t know you rode horses.” Then she blushed at his amused smile.

“I am faster as a beast, I admit, but I do know how to ride. I am civilized, Feyre.”

She let out an embarrassed chuckle. “I know that.”

He nodded at the lush landscape beyond the doorway. “I thought we could use a break after everything that’s happened lately… that we could get away for a little while.”

It was then she realized he wasn’t wearing his usual baldric, or his knives. His tunic was a rich, mossy green, echoing the shadowed green in his eyes. Perhaps he was as tired of blood and death as she was, and she had not had to endure nearly as much as he had.

After the naga, the Attor, and the death of an innocent faerie, it would be nice to get away… But, to her, getting away meant leaving Prythian. The Suriel, however, had urged her to stay with the High Lord. Stay with him, and live to see everything righted. If it meant she didn’t have to see anyone else die, it was a small price to pay.  

“Where to?” she asked him.

Tamlin smiled, and gestured to the steps.

They did not go to the western woods, nor the southern forest, but to the hills north of the manor, and beyond. An hour’s ride brought them to a glen. No, not a glen, Feyre thought, shaking her head in wonder. An absolute dream.

Nestled between two hills, like an ancient castle with hidden treasures waiting to be discovered, lay an oak forest. Golden light bathed the emerald trees, and a silvery stream ran downhill, winding toward the forest’s heart and out of sight. Lush green grass swayed with the gentle breeze, and the breeze seemed to carry with it a wordless song that somehow spoke to her. Appropriate, since she could not find the words to describe it.

“What is this place?” she murmured, still sitting on Moonlight, though Lucien and Tamlin had already dismounted.

Tamlin came to stand by the mare’s shoulder. “It’s just a glen,” he said simply.

Lucien’s snort was audible as he rummaged through Shadow’s saddlebags.

Tamlin shot an annoyed glance at his friend. “I mean, it doesn’t have a name.”

Feyre shook her head. “I find that difficult to believe,” she remarked, then blushed as Tamlin held out his hands, offering to help her down. After a moment’s hesitation, she accepted his help with a shy smile. Resting her hands on his shoulders, her cheeks warmed further as his broad hands braced her waist as she slid off the horse. He was stronger than he looked, and he already looked strong. He set her down on the ground as though she weighed little more than a sack of grain. High Lord.

His hands lingered at her waist. “What would you call it?” he asked.

She withdrew her hands from his shoulders to smooth the hair behind her ears as she shyly looked away from his broad chest. “I-I’m not sure,” she said quietly, then caught Lucien watching them.

Lucien turned back to the saddlebags just as soon as he noticed her looking. Her shoulders slumped. When they went back to the manor, she wanted to talk with him, to clear the air between them. She didn’t want to lose him as a friend, even if she had hoped they could have been something more.

Tamlin released his hold on her then, and she stepped back to look him in the eye. “I’ll think about it,” she promised.

As Tamlin and Lucien saw to the horses, Feyre stepped forward to admire the view. Even if she had paint, she wasn’t sure she could truly capture the beauty of this place. She drew in a deep breath, then sunk into the feathery grass and hugged her knees, soaking in the glen’s warmth and beauty. She dropped one hand to brush her fingers through the long grass, and marveled at its softness, its sweet smell.

“We brought a blanket, if you would prefer,” Tamlin said behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder to see a large purple blanket spread upon the grass in the shade. Lucien plopped onto it with a sigh and stretched his legs. Tamlin stood between them, waiting for her answer.

She shook her head. “No, but thank you,” she said sincerely, then faced the forest before them. She didn’t want to make Lucien uncomfortable, and she was quite comfortable where she was.

Lucien and Tamlin whispered something behind her, but before she could turn to ask, Tamlin sat beside her. Another surprise: a High Lord sitting on the ground.

But it didn’t diminish him in any way, she realized as she studied him. The glen suited him; he seemed to fit right in, from the emeralds in his golden mask down to his brown leather boots. She could even imagine him as a beast with his golden fur, curled up in the grass and dozing. The thought made her smile.

He cocked his head. “What is it?”

She dropped her gaze and rubbed a blade of grass between her fingers. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

She could feel his eyes on her, studying her as she had studied him. She blushed as she met his gaze and blurted, “Just picturing you in your other form, taking a nap in the grass.”

An amused smirk touched his lips as he leaned closer. “Wouldn’t that frighten you, being so close to a beast?”

He was flirting, she realized. Her blush deepened, and she hugged her knees tighter as she glanced away. “Perhaps,” she said quietly.

She dared another glance as he leaned back, looking thoughtful. He jerked his chin to the landscape before them. “What do you think of the view?”

She let out a deep, contented sigh as she looked over the glen. For all the cultivated beauty of the gardens at the manor, something about the glen’s secret and wild beauty spoke to her. It was unspoiled, untouched by sorrow. For a little while, all was right with the world, and she was right where she needed to be.

“Do you like it?” Tamlin prompted.

She slowly nodded. “Very much,” she breathed.

He chuckled, and she faced him with her eyebrows raised in surprise. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he said simply, “I’m glad.”

She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “Perhaps you would prefer that I grovel with gratitude for bringing me here… High Lord.”

She could swear she could see his eyebrows raise behind his mask as he stared at her, then turned to stare at Lucien. “Did you…?”

Lucien’s eyes were wide as he shook his head, wordlessly pleading innocence.

Tamlin’s smile was one of disbelief as he looked at her again, then he clicked his tongue and chuckled. “Huh. The Suriel told you nothing important, did it?”

She smirked, then cocked her head and said, “It also told me that you like being brushed, and if I’m a clever girl, I might train you with treats.”

His grin was infectious as he tipped back his head and laughed, truly laughed. If they had been in the mortal lands, the sound would have melted the ice and snow itself.

Feyre let out a soft, shy laugh, feeling herself thaw, just a little.

“I might die of surprise,” Lucien remarked from behind her. She turned to see a bemused smile on his face. “You actually made a joke, Feyre.”

She smiled coolly. “Ooh, you don’t want to know what the Suriel said about you,” she teased, flicking up her brows.

He spread his hands in mock surrender, and she blushed as she turned back around, glad that he didn’t think she had actually asked about him. Then she wished that she had had time to ask the Suriel more questions about him. There was so much about him she didn’t know.

She looked up to see Tamlin, still smiling, as he leaned in and said, “I’d pay good money to hear what the Suriel thinks of Lucien.”

A cork popped as Lucien remarked, “I’d pay double for you not to tell him.” Feyre glanced back to see him lift a bottle of wine to his lips as he smiled to himself and muttered, “Brushed.”

She smiled, glad to hear him joking again, then shrugged at Tamlin. “I’m afraid you’ve been outbid.”

He chuckled, then nodded toward the stream running down the hill. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

As Tamlin helped her to her feet, Lucien remarked, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

As Feyre brushed the grass from her pants, Tamlin replied wryly, “That is a very short list.”

Lucien snorted and lifted the bottle to his lips.

Feyre hesitated by Tamlin, watching as Lucien sprawled back on the blanket. “You’re not coming?”

He put one hand under his head and sighed as he stared up at the canopy. “Someone has to keep an eye on the horses.”

The horses did not seem interested in doing anything more than dozing in the shade, but Tamlin only said, “If you’re sure.”

Lucien only lifted the bottle of wine in answer.

Feyre waited until she and Tamlin were halfway down the grassy slope before she asked him, “Is Lucien all right?” She shrugged at Tamlin’s thoughtful glance. “After last night, I mean. He… didn’t react well.”

“Lucien…” Tamlin released a heavy sigh. “Lucien has endured things that make times like last night… difficult. Not just the scar and the eye… Though I’m sure last night brought back memories of that, too.”

“Like what?”

Tamlin said nothing as he helped her cross a narrow bend in the stream. It wasn’t until they were near the edge of those ancient trees that he said, “It will only make sense if I tell you this… Lucien is the seventh son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.”

Feyre’s mouth fell open, and she looked over her shoulder at the cluster of trees on the hill where Lucien was resting. Lucien… a High Lord’s son? Then she pursed her lips in annoyance. The Suriel could have easily made mention of that simple fact. What else had it kept from her? After a long moment, she realized Tamlin was waiting for her response. She shook her head. “I thought he was just a courtier, an emissary. Why didn’t he tell me?”

Tamlin nodded to the trees, and as they resumed walking, he replied, “Lucien renounced his title.”

Her head jerked back in surprise. “Why?”

He didn’t meet her eye as he shook his head. “It’s not a pleasant story,” he said quietly.

“Tell me… please?”

Tamlin paused to swing his leg over a tall tree root and held out his hand. She hesitated a moment, then slipped her hand in his. His calloused fingers closed firmly around hers, steadying her, as she clambered over the large root to join him in the forest. When he did not immediately release her hand, she pulled it free to straighten her tunic, though it was hardly askew. Even if Lucien wasn’t there to see, even if he wanted nothing to do with her, she wasn’t certain how she felt about Tamlin holding her hand. Besides, no man had ever held her hand before just to hold it, not even Isaac.

Tamlin said nothing about it, but gestured to the heart of the forest. If there was a path, she did not see it, but he seemed to know the way. As they wove through the towering trees and occasionally hopped across trickling brooks, he began to talk.

“The Autumn Court lies north of here. We share a border with the Summer Court. If the blight ever ends, I’d like to show you someday… Autumn is quite beautiful, though deadly. And cutthroat. Lucien’s brothers see each other only as competition, for it is the Cauldron that decides who the next High Lord will be. It’s the same in every Court… It doesn’t matter if you’re the eldest, the youngest, the strongest, or the wisest. And it only decides when the current High Lord steps down or is killed. I know that Beron intends to rule for many more years, so he pits his sons against each other, so that they fight amongst themselves while he gets to keep his crown.”

Any fights Feyre had had with her sisters seemed inconsequential in comparison. A bed was nothing compared to a crown, since they usually argued over who had to sleep closest to the drafty window. They had learned to take turns, but then again, their father never pitted them against each other, either.

Tamlin’s gaze became faraway as he continued, “Lucien never cared about any of that; he didn’t want to be High Lord. So, he spent his youth doing everything a High Lord’s son shouldn’t: wandering the courts, making friends with the children of other High Lords—” Feyre noticed a slight smile touch his lips at that. “—and being with females who were a far cry from the nobility of the Autumn Court.”

That explained why Lucien was so easy to talk to. He didn’t seem to care that she wasn’t noble, either. He might have even considered being with her if she had asked… unless she had already done so and ruined her chances. Then Tamlin’s smile faded, and Feyre forgot about her self-pity as she felt the sorrow radiating from him.  

He continued, “Years passed, and nobody paid much attention to him, until he fell in love with a faerie with wings…” Feyre’s chest tightened; that explained why Lucien had run off last night. Tamlin caught her eye and added, “It is an unfortunate reality in our realm that winged faeries are seen as little more than animals, though individual opinions differ.”

That didn’t sound like someone who kept wings as trophies. She rubbed her hand against the trouser pocket where the note was safely tucked away. She would let Tamlin finish his story, then she would ask him what the message meant.

“Lucien announced his intentions to marry her despite his father’s wishes.” Tamlin’s throat bobbed. “Beron had her put down. Torn apart, right in front of him, as two of his brothers held him back and made him watch.”

Feyre gasped, and her hands flew to her mouth.

“Lucien cursed his father. He renounced his title, the Court… everything… and he walked out. At Beron’s command, three of his brothers chased after to him, to bring him back and undo the curse… through any means necessary.”

She lowered her hands to whisper, “They were going to kill him?”

Tamlin spread his hands and shrugged. “Like I said… cutthroat.”

Feyre touched her own throat, feeling her heart pounding painfully beneath her skin at the unimaginable cruelty Lucien had endured. “Is that how he lost his eye?” she asked softly.

Tamlin shook his head. “No. That was long after I took him in and named him emissary. It was his idea to take on the role, actually. He’s always been good at talking to people, while I…” He let out a mirthless chuckle and scratched his chin. “I tend to growl.”

Feyre managed a half-smile. “As emissary, has Lucien ever had dealings with his father? Or his brothers?”

Tamlin sighed. “Unfortunately. It goes with the territory. But, as you can imagine, the alliance between the courts is… strained. Beron has never apologized for what he did, nor has he forgiven me for protecting Lucien, or for the loss of two of his sons.”

Her eyes widened, and she recoiled. “Did you kill them?”

“One of them,” Tamlin said bluntly. “After they’d crossed into my territory to hunt Lucien down. He killed the other in self-defense. The third was sent back to the Autumn lands with his brothers’ bodies, and a warning. Since then, the others have been too frightened of me to risk harming him.”

Feyre paused and slumped against a nearby tree. “I had no idea he’d suffered so much,” she murmured.

Tamlin stood beside her. “I’ve known Lucien for well over a century. He’s always back to his snide, irreverent self within a day or two. But he has never forgotten what they did to her, or what his brothers tried to do to him. Even if he pretends that he has.”

Feyre slipped her hand inside her pocket, touching the crumpled note. Her fingers tightened around it as she glanced up at Tamlin. Even with the mask, there was no malice in his expression, only sadness for what his friend had endured. He had once told her he would go to his death to defend another’s freedom. She had to believe that was true. As she drew a breath to ask him about the message, he touched her arm.

“Enough talk of shadows,” he said gently. “We’re nearly there.”

She nodded, then relaxed her fingers with a sigh. Their discussion about the note could wait.

Tamlin led her up a steep slope, gripping her elbow to keep her steady. When they reached the top, Feyre straightened up to catch her breath, then forgot to breathe at what lay before them.

In a clearing surrounded by gnarled, ancient trees lay a pool of shimmering silver. The thick canopy above blocked most of the sunlight, but the water… It glowed.

Tamlin took her hand, and she sucked in a sudden breath. “Come on,” he said, gently pulling on her hand to lead her towards that wondrous pool. This time she did not pull away. She told herself it was so she wouldn’t slip and fall, but… it felt nice, just the same.

He released her hand only to crouch at the water’s edge, to cup a handful of silver in his palm. She leaned closer as he tilted it, spilling the water back into the pool, and she marveled at the rainbow of colors that rippled across the silvery surface.

“That looks like starlight,” she breathed.

He chuckled, then flicked his fingers, sending sparkles across the water. “It is starlight.”

She straightened up and took a step back. “That’s impossible.”

He rested his arm on his bent knee as he looked up at her, and the water’s glow reflected on his mask and danced in his eyes. “This is Prythian, where the impossible becomes real, with just a little bit of magic.”

She let out a wondrous sigh, then turned her attention to those rippling colors. Azure, lavender, rose, and citrine… shimmering like tarnished silver. Her curiosity overcame her disbelief, and she crouched beside him at the water’s edge. “What would happen if I were to drink the water?”

“Try it and see,” he said, and when she caught him looking at her, his eyes danced with mischief.

She pursed her lips. “I don’t know a rhyme that protects me from magic star water.”

He smiled. “Legend has it that you would be happy until your final breath.” He cupped another handful and let the water slide through his fingers. He sighed softly. “Perhaps we both need a glass.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think the entire pool would be enough for me.”

He chuckled. “Two jokes in one day… A miracle sent by the Mother Herself.”

A smile tugged at Feyre’s lips, and she reached out and touched the rippling surface with her fingertips. It was like touching warm, liquid silk. The colors danced beneath her fingers, and she let herself really smile.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tamlin straightened up and stepped away from the water’s edge. “Jump in.”

Her brow furrowed, and she turned her head. “Jump…?” Her eyes widened to see him unbuttoning his tunic. Blushing up to the roots of her hair, she leapt to her feet and clutched the collar of her tunic. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

His fingers paused halfway down, revealing a strip of bare, tanned skin beneath. “Don’t you want to know what it’s like?”

She swallowed and glanced away. “I-I’m sweaty and dirty… I couldn’t possibly think of swimming here.” Alone. With you. High Lord, she thought.

“That’s why I brought you here,” he offered.

“Because I’m dirty?”

He chuckled. “No. I used to come here as a child… when the world seemed wrong, this place made me feel all right again. After last night, I thought…” He didn’t need to finish his sentence; she knew what he meant.

She bit her lip. It was an innocent enough reason.

“What would be enough to make you happy?” he asked gently.

Keeping her hands at her collar, she gazed around the clearing. Reflections of starlight danced upon the gnarled trunks, and bathed the long, lush grass in a silvery glow. Then there was Tamlin, standing there with his tunic half-buttoned, waiting for her answer. If they were going to be friends, she had to open up, too; to let herself be vulnerable. He had done so much for Lucien, and for her and her family… He had brought her to this beautiful place, to help her forget the horrors of last night, so the least she could do was appreciate his generosity.

Besides, when would she ever get another chance to dip her toes in starlight?

She smiled at him as she loosened the collar of her tunic. “Actually, a swim sounds delightful.”

***

Warm, dappled sunlight danced across Lucien’s face as he lay upon the velvet blanket. The soft breeze, coupled with the half-bottle of wine, was enough to lull him into a comfortable doze. He hadn’t slept much the night before, for every time he closed his eyes, he saw Jesminda, or Rafe, or the nameless faerie who’d lost his wings to Amarantha’s cruelty. He’d used up a fair amount of magic to light a few candles in his room, but it was worth it when the warm light kept the dark memories at bay, and he slept through the dawn.

It was only his promise to Tamlin that convinced him to roll out of bed before noon. But his resolve nearly faltered at the sight of Feyre waiting in the entry hall. His heart had skipped a beat at the gold in her hair, and the dusting of freckles on her nose. For a moment, with the sun shining behind her, he mistook her for Jesminda. It seemed that Feyre was his type, after all.

So he kept his distance. He let Tamlin help her down from her horse, and sit with her, and flirt with her, and swim with her, so that she could break the curse and save them all.

And all Lucien had to do was stay behind and take a nap. The rest would fall into place—then the blanket rustled beside him. He sighed. So much for sleep. “Back so soon?” he murmured, keeping his eyes closed.

A lovely voice chuckled. “You know I can’t stay away.”

His eyes flew open, and he turned his head in disbelief. His breath came out all at once.

The faerie sitting beside him on the blanket smiled, and the golden, dappled light sparkled in her nut-brown curls. “I bid thee good afternoon, my lord,” she said softly.

He sucked in a sharp breath at her old greeting… when they used to meet for picnics in the Autumn hills. He sat up, and when she didn’t disappear, he let out a soft, though pained, chuckle. “Hey, Jes.”

Still smiling, Jesminda inclined her head, then reached for the bottle of wine between them and turned it over in her slender hands. “Did you save some for me?” she teased. Her hazel eyes twinkled.

He smiled even as his throat tightened, and he nodded, unable to speak. There was no puca, no glamour, or any trace of magic surrounding her that he could see with his golden eye. He was enthralled at the sight of her just the same.

Her tawny cheeks were just as freckled as her shoulders, her mouth just as full as he remembered. Her sleeveless golden dress resembled the one she had worn when he first met her at a harvest festival long ago. It was cut low in the back to make room for her wings… Tears stung his eyes. She had wings.

Perfectly whole, perfectly beautiful wings that were folded at her back. Slowly, so slowly, lest he somehow scare her away, he reached out to touch one.

As his fingers brushed the edge, she twitched her wing out of reach. An amused smirk traced her lips. “You know that tickles.”

He huffed a laugh. “I seem to remember a different reaction, once upon a time,” he teased gently, resting his hand on his knee.

She grinned, tilting her head as she brandished the bottle of red wine. “Speaking of remembering… Didn’t we used to share a bottle of white wine on our picnics?”

His chest tightened, but he managed a smile. “That’s right,” he said quietly.

Her grin softened, and as she set the bottle aside, she remarked, “What feasts we used to have. I brought the apples and the nuts, and you brought the cheese and wine.”

His left eye ached as a tear spilled down his masked cheek. He hastily wiped it away and whispered, “I miss those days.”

She noticed—she always noticed—and her smile faded as she reached out and gently drew her fingers down the scar on his cheek. Her featherlight touch was a soothing balm, and he closed his eyes as he turned his head and brushed a kiss against her palm.

“I miss you,” he murmured, then sighed and opened his eyes. “This is a dream, isn’t it?”

She gave him a sad smile and cupped his cheek. “So what if it is?”

He covered her hand with his own, and smiled at her long-forgotten but still familiar touch. “Jes, I’m—” He swallowed hard, then managed, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head and cupped his other cheek. “Shhhh. You have nothing to be sorry for,” she soothed, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. “You’ve been hurting for so long. Please, don’t blame yourself anymore.”

He let out a shaky breath. “But if it hadn’t been for me, you’d—”

She pressed her fingertips to his lips. “I thank the Mother for every day that we had together,” she murmured, and her hazel eyes shone. Then she withdrew her fingers to grasp his hands. “Give someone else the chance to do the same.”

His eyes searched hers. “What are you saying?”

She nodded at him as she squeezed his hands. “It’s time to let me go.”

He slowly shook his head and tightened his grip so that she couldn’t fly away from him again. “Don’t leave. Please.”

She smiled kindly, then gently teased, “A High Lord’s son, begging?”

He let out a pained chuckle. “No. Never,” he whispered.

Jesminda sighed softly, then leaned in and brushed her lips against his. He closed his eyes and breathed her in: apple blossom, and… rich, wild honey. It was comforting, somehow. She brushed another kiss against his scarred cheek, then whispered, “Fear no evil. Feel no pain.”

He let out a tight sigh and relaxed his hold on her. “Go,” he murmured. “And enter eternity.”

She straightened up and gave him a soft smile, then stood. Their fingers were the only thing that touched. “Fare thee well, my lord.”

Another tear spilled from his eye even as he smiled and squeezed her fingertips. “Goodbye, Jes,” he managed.

Her smile widened, then she inclined her head and stepped back and released his fingers. Her wings spread out wide, gold and green and brown, and so, so beautiful… before they turned into a golden blur as she leapt into the air. Tears blurred his vision as she flew above the treetops and out of sight.

When she was gone, truly gone, his shoulders began to shake, and he covered his face and wept. He wept for her, for what could have been, for her little sisters, and for himself. Moments, minutes, or hours later when his tears finally dried, he realized that for the first time in a long time, he felt peace. He straightened up and sighed, looking over the glen. It really was beautiful.

He let out another sigh, a tired sigh, then laid back on the blanket and closed his eyes. Perhaps he could finally sleep… Then the blanket rustled beside him, and he let out a weary chuckle. So much for that.

“Did we wake you?” Feyre asked apologetically.

Lucien opened his eyes and turned his head to see her and Tamlin kneeling on the edge of the blanket. Gold gleamed in Feyre’s damp, unbraided hair. He smiled softly and shook his head. “No. Just daydreaming.”

Feyre smiled back, then turned to Tamlin and remarked, “I know what I’d like to call this place.”

Tamlin glanced up as he pulled an apple from the knapsack in his lap. “What did you have in mind?”

She looked up at the canopy and around the glen with a thoughtful smile on her face. “The Golden Glen.”

Tamlin smiled. “I like it.” He looked at Lucien. “What do you think?”

Lucien laced his hands behind his head and sighed as he looked up at the dappled canopy. “It'll do.”

After a moment’s pause, Feyre reached over and picked up the bottle of wine beside him. “Did you save any wine for us, my lord?”

He lifted his head in shock, catching Feyre’s teasing smirk before he met Tamlin’s apologetic smile. “Did you…?”

Tamlin gestured to Feyre and remarked, “She asked. Now she knows who we both are.”

Lucien snorted, then glanced at her and said, “Let’s keep the bowing and the scraping to a minimum, all right?”

She chuckled, then lifted the bottle to her lips. “Yes, my lord.”

He smirked, then settled back on the blanket and closed his eyes with a sigh. “It’s just Lucien.”

“Lucien,” she repeated softly, and he smiled.

***

After a couple more hours of eating and talking and lounging in the glen, they mounted their horses to begin the long journey back to the manor. It had been the most pleasant afternoon Feyre had experienced since… she couldn’t remember when. Even Lucien had seemed more like himself, but more than once she had caught him looking at her, and more than once she resisted the urge to ask him about what she’d done the night before. It wasn’t something she wanted to discuss in front of Tamlin.

But when she caught Lucien looking at her yet again as they crossed a broad meadow, she pulled back on Moonlight’s reins and slowed the mare so that Tamlin rode on ahead.

“Yes?” she asked tentatively. This was not a conversation she’d been looking forward to, but it was best to clear the air now and get it over with.

He glanced at Tamlin, apparently waiting to speak until his friend was far enough ahead that they wouldn’t be overheard. At last, Lucien remarked, “How do you like that dagger?”

She tilted her head, confused, then she glanced down at the jeweled knife tucked in her belt. The rubies winked in the late afternoon light. When she lifted her head, she gave him a shy shrug. “It’s nice—nice to know it’s there if I need it.”

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, then let out a sigh. “About last night—” Her cheeks warmed as he cleared his throat and tried again. “About what happened—”

She blurted, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

His head jerked back in surprise. “What? What for?”

Her blush deepened. “Isn’t this about the wine?”

He shook his head and let out a bemused laugh. “No, I, uh… What about the wine?”

She swallowed hard, then winced and offered, “What I said… after the wine?”

He smirked, which made her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. “You were delightfully chatty.”

“What did I say?” she squawked.

“You mean you don’t remember?” When she shook her head, he chuckled and faced the path. “And I thought I drank too much.”

She bit her lip. “If this isn’t about wine, what is it about?”

His smile faded, and he sighed. “Last night, when Tam was trying to help that faerie, I… I handled it badly. He told me that you comforted the faerie until his final breath… There aren’t many High Fae who would have done the same.”

Feyre offered him a kind smile and shrugged. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

Lucien smiled softly. “Well… thank you. For doing what I couldn’t.”

She nodded. As he looked away, she considered telling him that Tamlin had told her about his past, and that she understood him better now… but she decided against it. She didn’t want him to think any of her feelings for him stemmed from pity. When he caught her looking this time, she smiled tightly, then asked, “So, really, what did I say after the wine?”

He smirked. “That depends. What did the Suriel say about me? Anything about brushing my glorious mane?”

Her cheeks heated as she imagined what it would be like to run her fingers through his smooth auburn hair… then she pursed her lips. “It said you’re an arrogant prick.”

He chuckled. “Well, you told me that you were going to paint everything… starting with me.”

Her face flushed and her eyes widened. “I did not!”

“Don’t you remember?” he teased, grinning.

Now that he mentioned it, she did remember saying something about painting, but if she had actually propositioned him over a portrait… oh, she’d bury herself in Tamlin’s garden. No rose could be redder than her face at that moment.

“You went on and on about my smoldering eyes, the cut of my jaw, and my dashing good looks.” He straightened in the saddle and gestured to himself with a sweep of his hand. “I believe your exact words were: How can I capture such perfection?”

Still blushing, she lifted her chin and asked, “Are you sure I didn’t say: How can I find a canvas big enough for your big head?”

Lucien laughed, and a smile tugged at her lips at the pleasant sound as she faced forward once more. Though she was grateful their friendship was still intact, she was strangely disappointed that she hadn’t suggested something more after all.

Tamlin paused on the path ahead of them, waiting for them to catch up. “Having fun back there?” he asked, a bemused smile on his face.

Lucien replied, “We were just talking about portraits.” As the three horses fell into line, he added, “I asked her to paint mine, but she declined, saying that nobody could possibly capture my essence, even if they had a hundred years to do it. And I agreed with her.”

Feyre rolled her eyes, and Tamlin chuckled.

Tamlin nodded at her and remarked, “The gallery will be ready for you tomorrow. There are several portraits you can study, if you like.”

She smiled. “Thank you. I look forward to it.”

As Lucien and Tamlin started chatting about border patrol, she rubbed the pocket of her trousers where the note still rested. Tomorrow. She would ask Tamlin about it tomorrow… About his so-called collection.

Chapter Text

On one hand, it was a relief to be relieved from border patrol duties. On the other hand, it meant staying in the manor and waiting for messages to come through from other courts. And it meant seeing Feyre more often… like now. As he paused at the top of the stairs, Lucien couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse.

Feyre arrived at the landing, dressed in a plum tunic, fitted breeches, and boots. He tried not to stare, but it was impossible not to notice how good she looked. The tunic now hugged her feminine form, her skin had caught that Spring Court glow, and she even had a spring to her step. Her eyes sparkled as she caught sight of him and smiled.

Definitely a curse, he thought, but he smiled back. “Morning, Feyre.”

“Morning,” she chirped, putting her hands on her hips and bouncing on her toes for a moment.

He chuckled and leaned against the stair railing. “You’re in a good mood.”

She nodded, still smiling. “Alis said my paints had arrived, and Tamlin is showing me the gallery today.”

“Well, if you feel inspired by the portraits there, just know that my offer still stands,” he said with a slight smirk. He couldn’t help it; flirting with her came so naturally. And he was pleased to see her lightly freckled cheeks turn pink.

She ran her hand down her braid and brought it over her shoulder. “Well, as long as you don’t mind looking like a bowl of fruit,” she said, her lips twitching into a smile.

His eyebrows raised behind his mask as his smirk turned into a saucy grin. “Oh? Is that because you want to take a bite out of me?”

Her face reddened and her knuckles whitened as she gripped her braid. “Uh… Tree. I meant tree.”

He snorted and pushed away from the railing. “I could make a terribly filthy joke, but I’ll spare your delicate mortal sensibilities.”

Her lips pursed as he passed by. “Do you spend your days and nights coming up with your witty replies?”

He paused and leaned in. “Every moment not spent in your delightful company,” he whispered, then winked. When she only reddened further, speechless, he chuckled and pulled away. Lifting a hand in farewell as he strode toward his room, he remarked, “Enjoy the portrait collection.”

“Ah, Lucien?”

He turned at her shy tone, and was surprised to see her reaching into her pocket. When she uncurled her fingers, a crumpled strip of parchment rested in her palm. He stepped closer, confused.

“Can you tell me what this means?” she asked hesitantly, handing it to him.

His brow furrowed behind his mask as he smoothed out the rumpled message. “Aren’t these so beautiful?” he murmured. “For you, my beloved…” He frowned as he silently read the rest of it. For your collection. His gut tightened.

Feyre went on, “I’ve been meaning to ask Tamlin about it, but—”

“Where did you get this?” he asked sharply. When she didn’t answer immediately, he looked up to see her wincing.

“I, uh, it fell out of the box… the other night,” she said softly, running her hands down her braid. When the faerie died from having his wings ripped off. She didn’t have to say it.

He scowled at the note, both sick and angry all at once. “Have you said anything about this to anyone else?”

“No, I—”

“Good. Don’t.” The heat in his gut spread through him and set the parchment ablaze. Using so much fire magic lately was a strain, but it was worth it when the note crumbled into ash. As he brushed off his palms, he glanced up to see Feyre’s mouth had fallen open.

“Wh-why did you do that?”

“Because Tam is in a good mood today, and I want to keep it that way,” Lucien replied coolly.

“But… but what did it mean? Who was it from?”

Lucien waved dismissively. “Tam doesn’t have a wing collection. Not anymore,” he said, then crossed his arms. “I helped him burn it myself.”

Feyre stared at him. “Then he did have one… once.”

Lucien tried not to scowl at her. It was Amarantha who was at fault here. He let out a tight sigh. Trying to keep his voice even, he explained, “Tam’s father was a brute. During the War, he started keeping faerie wings as trophies. Tam’s mate—” Damn her. “—thinks he should continue the tradition. But he never has, and he never will. End of story.”

After an uncomfortable silence, Feyre asked softly, “So Tamlin’s mate is the one who’s been doing all this? Hurting people?”

The spell on Lucien’s tongue tightened, and he put a hand to his throat and winced. He managed to nod, though, and was immediately rewarded with a stabbing headache. Cauldron boil me, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temples.

“Are you all right?” Feyre asked tentatively.

“I’m fine,” he said curtly, then straightened up and took a deep breath. When he said nothing more, the sharp, sudden headache began to subside.

When he opened his eyes again, Feyre was biting her lip, her eyes wide with worry.

He spread his hands and tried to reassure her. “I’m fine. Really.” He waved at the stairs. “Go on. Tam’s waiting for you.”

She reached out for him. “But—”

“It’s a beautiful day,” he said, shooing her away. “Don’t spoil it worrying about me or anything else.” He managed a smile. “Go paint.”

She didn’t seem convinced, but she gave him a slight smile. “If you’re sure.”

He did not reply, but waved to the stairs once more. She nodded, then turned for the steps. As she grabbed the railing, she glanced over her shoulder at him one more time, as if to reassure herself that he would indeed be all right. He lifted a hand in silent farewell, then she smiled and descended the stairs without looking back. He knew he shouldn’t, but he lingered on the landing and watched her go.

Tamlin’s voice drifted up from the entry hall below, greeting Feyre before leading her away to the gallery. As their voices faded, Lucien tried to dismiss the twinge of jealousy in his gut.

He chided himself as he turned for his room. The High Lord was the one who was cursed, not him. Even if it felt that way.

***

Feyre’s heart fluttered with excitement as Tamlin led her down hall after hall toward the gallery. The freshly mopped floors shone under the sunlight streaming in through the open windows, and the warm breeze brought with it the scent of the rose garden outside.

When he paused before a set of wide wooden doors, he looked to her and asked with a smile, “Ready?”

She smiled in return and nodded, too nervous to speak.

He chuckled softly and pushed the doors open.

Then Feyre couldn’t find the words to speak at all.

A row of plush, cushioned benches flowed down the center of the long room. The freshly polished wooden floors gleamed in the clear morning light streaming in through the windows. Small tables rested at various intervals, topped with vases full of fresh cut flowers. Gold gilt frames glittered on the walls, but did not distract from the paintings. Feyre gasped and touched her throat. The paintings…

Pastorals, portraits, and still-lifes alike filled the walls. Each painting was like a window, offering the viewer a glimpse through the artist’s eyes. Here, how the golden light streamed through a green glass vase filled with pale pink roses. There, the shimmer of a winding river as it flowed around a grassy hilltop at sunset. Scattered throughout were portraits of fair, otherworldly faces, clad in the airy fabrics and flowers of spring. Her hand moved to cover her open mouth as she slowly wandered from painting to painting.

She paused in front of a large portrait of a lovely High Fae woman holding a posy of roses. The pale green of the woman’s gossamer gown brought out her large green eyes, and her blonde curls were swept away from her high cheekbones and softly smiling rosebud mouth.

Feyre was scarcely aware of Tamlin coming to stand beside her as she studied the lifelike rendering. “It’s so beautiful,” she murmured, wondering how the artist had made the fabric look so layered and yet so sheer and delicate.

When Tamlin didn’t comment, she glanced up to see him staring intently at the woman’s face. He seemed to have forgotten Feyre was there for the way he looked at it.

She glanced between him and the portrait, and when he still did not move, she gently asked him, “Who is she?”

Tamlin drew in a sudden breath and quickly blinked, then stepped back and met her curious gaze. He gave her a sad, tight-lipped smile. “Before she became the Lady of the Spring Court, she was Lady Rosalin Darrow... my mother.”

Feyre gasped and looked to the portrait once more. Even with half of Tamlin’s face covered, she could see the resemblance. He had her eyes, her hair… If Feyre had to guess, he had her delicately arched eyebrows, too. She looked at Tamlin thoughtfully. The nose, though… His mother’s nose was delicate and slightly turned up. From what she could see from the shape of the mask, he probably had his father’s nose: strong and straight.

She studied him long enough that Tamlin gave her a bemused smile and tilted his head. “What is it?”

Her cheeks warmed, and she jerked her chin at the painting. “I—Is there a portrait of your father, too?”

He smirked. “Are you trying to piece together what I look like?” he asked, tapping on his golden mask.

She gave him a shy shrug. “Is that wrong?”

He chuckled and shook his head, then turned back to his mother’s portrait. “No. I’d be curious, too.”

When he said nothing further, she prompted, “So… are there any more portraits of your family, or of you?”

He sighed and looked down at his hand. Claws curled from his fingertips. “No. I tore them up.”

Her mouth fell open. “Why?”

Tamlin flexed his fingers, and the claws shrank and grew, back and forth. “I didn’t want to be reminded of what my family had done. I had just become High Lord, and I… I couldn’t look at them anymore. But my mother—” He glanced up at the portrait, and he sighed. “She was innocent.”

Feyre hugged her arms, warily eyeing the claws. “What happened?” she asked hesitantly.

Tamlin’s throat bobbed. “She was killed by the High Lord of another Court, in retaliation for his own mate’s death.”

“Retaliation…?” Feyre sucked in a sharp breath. “You mean your father killed someone else’s mate?”

Tamlin grimaced. “My brothers helped… but, yes.”

“Why?” At his pained look, she shrugged and shook her head. “I-I don’t mean to pry…”

He held up his hand. “No, it’s all right. I’ve kept it bottled up for a long time.” He gestured to the cushioned benches, and when Feyre seated herself, he sat beside her and began, “I had a friend, once. Rhys. His father was a High Lord, and his mother was a faerie with wings…”

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, remembering what he had shared about Lucien’s history the day before.

Tamlin’s gaze grew distant, and Feyre was surprised to see a slight smile touch his lips. “Rhys was the older brother I wish I’d had… My two older brothers wanted nothing to do with me. They fought in the War alongside my father, and they already had territories of their own by the time I reached maturity. For years afterward, they continued to treat me like a child. But Rhys, he, uh…” Tamlin chuckled. “He took me under his wing.”

Feyre smiled, but it faded as Tamlin’s eyes grew pained.

“My father disapproved of our friendship. He looked down on anyone who wasn’t pure-blooded High Fae… He had human slaves before the War, and he didn’t treat the faerie servants that well after the War, either. I turned a blind eye to all of it, until Rhys introduced me to his sister.” He let out a tight sigh. “Rowena.”

Feyre’s heart sunk at the sorrow in his voice. “Your first love?” she guessed.

“Was it obvious?” Tamlin asked with a sad smile. He dropped his gaze to his hands and picked at his claws. “She was beautiful, but she was also passionate. She and Rhys had such grand plans. He hoped to be High Lord one day, and together they were going to make a difference in the lives of their mother’s people: the Illyrians. She encouraged me to aspire for more than my father’s approval. Soon, I was no longer content to train with his war-bands, to serve him or either of my brothers who would one day inherit his title.”

“You didn’t think the Cauldron would choose you?”

“I didn’t want to be chosen,” he said, sheathing his claws and straightening up. “I never wanted to be High Lord. I was more than happy to let my brothers fight over it.”

Feyre playfully nudged him. “I can see why you and Lucien are such good friends.”

Tamlin gave her an amused smile. “We do have a lot in common.” He looked thoughtful as he reached out and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Her cheeks warmed as his fingers slowly traced her ear’s rounded shape. 

Feyre softly cleared her throat and ran a hand down her braid, smoothing it. As he withdrew his hand, she remarked, “I don’t suppose your father gave you and Rowena his blessing.”

He let out a mirthless chuckle. “Far from it. He wanted me to marry—” Tamlin swallowed hard. “—someone else.”

From the way he massaged his throat, Feyre felt a pinch of remorse. He had to mean his mate. Was the pull of the mating bond so strong that even saying her name caused him pain?

He dropped his hands into his lap and continued, “I stood up to my father. I told him that I wanted to be part of something bigger. I told him I was going away to live in another Court.” Another sigh. “He thought I was calling the Spring lands—his lands—little. He always twisted my words and blew up at the slightest offense.”

That explained why Tamlin worked so hard to talk to her when she arrived, when he could have easily put her in her place. He didn’t want to be like his father, but she certainly hadn’t made it easy for him… Now she knew better. When he didn’t continue, Feyre shyly touched his arm. “How did your mother react?”

Tamlin glanced at her hand, then lifted his head and stared at his mother’s portrait. “I knew that she understood, even if she didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t say a word against my father. In spite of everything… she loved him.”

“The way you loved Rowena?”

He smiled sadly. “I was young, but… yes. I like to think so.” He sighed. “I had made arrangements to leave the Spring Court, and to meet Rhys by the tunnels near Middengard, our once sacred mountain. It’s a faster and less taxing way to reach the Solar Courts from here. My father intercepted Rhys’s confirmation letter and confronted me. He accused me of treason and would have punished me, but because Rhys couldn’t make it—he had been called away to the northern war-camps—my father was willing to overlook my crimes. If I insisted on defecting to another Court, it had to be done properly, he said. So he took my brothers with him to discuss the matter with Lord Idris… Rhys’s father.”

Tamlin let out a bitter laugh. “I should have been suspicious that my father didn’t want me to come along, but I was just grateful he was willing to discuss it at all…” Another sigh. “They told me they were attacked by Illyrian warriors before they reached the High Lord’s keep. And my father, brute that he was, took their wings as penance, but they were really for his collection.”

For you, my beloved… For your collection. Feyre bit her lip. She understood now why Lucien had wanted to spare his friend from reliving such a terrible memory. It was too late, though; she could sense his story was nearly finished. “Were they really attacked by warriors?” she asked softly, though deep down she knew the answer.

“No. My father wasn’t lying when he told me that Rhys had been called away. What he neglected to tell me is that Rowena and Lady Velaria were going to meet me instead.”

Feyre sucked in a sharp, painful breath, then brushed away the sudden tear that appeared on her cheek. “He killed both of them?” she whispered with a sniff.

Tamlin nodded. “I didn’t find out the truth until after… after I became High Lord.”

“After your mother was killed,” Feyre murmured, putting the pieces together.

“That same night,” he replied. “My brothers were first. The servants found them… cut into pieces—ah, sorry,” he said with a wince, noticing her grimace. “Rhys killed them. Lord Idris killed my parents while they slept. And he was going to kill me, too.”

Feyre’s mouth fell open. “But you weren’t there! At-at the tunnels. You didn’t hurt anyone.”

“It didn’t matter,” Tamlin said sadly. “Unfortunately, you have some idea what a High Lord’s wrath is like.”

Feyre’s face drained as she remembered Tamlin’s beastly rage at her father’s cottage after Andras’s death… and in the forest after the naga attacked her and Lucien.

“I still remember… I woke up to this strange surge of… of power,” Tamlin continued, holding out his hands and looking at them. “I’d never felt anything like it… Then I heard voices arguing outside my door. There was a scuffle. When I made it into the hall, Rhys was on the floor, covered in blood, and his father was mad with rage. I thought Rhys was dying. I didn’t stop to think why they were there. I… I didn’t think at all. Suddenly I was a beast, and…” Tamlin lowered his clawed hands and sighed.

She stared at him. “You killed him. The High Lord.”

“And Rhys has never forgiven me,” he murmured, sheathing his claws once more. “He blames me for all of it. He’s not wrong.”

Feyre touched his arm. “It’s not your fault. You know that, don’t you?”

Tamlin covered her hand with his own, then removed it and stood. “I wish that were true,” he murmured. He stepped back and gestured to the paintings. “Please. Enjoy the gallery. Don’t let my sorrow sap your joy.”

Feyre dazedly glanced around at the walls of paintings, having momentarily forgotten where she was. “What about you?” she asked, but he was already halfway to the door.

He paused at the threshold, then turned to face her with a tight-lipped smile. “This was one of my mother’s favorite places in the world… It would give me great pleasure to see it make you happy, too.”

Feyre pressed a hand to her heart. “It already has,” she said sincerely, then smiled.

His smile softened, then he nodded and was gone.

***

When Tam didn’t show up at lunch, Lucien didn’t think much of it. It probably meant that the human and the High Lord were bonding over painting, as they should. The trip to Starlight Pond had certainly been a success. At this rate, the two would be exchanging I love you’s by Calanmai, a mere month away. Lucien just had to stay out of their way until then.

It would be difficult, but doable. As for what came afterward… The curse would be broken, naturally, but did that mean marriage? Would Feyre become the new Lady of the Spring Court? If so, it wasn’t just a matter of keeping his distance for the next month. He couldn’t avoid her for the next fifty years.

As he pushed himself away from the dining table, he wondered if he should take Tamlin aside and confess. The High Lord would probably send him away on permanent border patrol duty. Or, better yet, send him to find someone else to break the curse—Lucien shook himself. What was he thinking? Humans feared and hated faeries, just as Feyre once had. And besides, there weren’t enough sentries left to risk going over the Wall.

Lucien turned for the garden to clear his head. He should be grateful that he wasn’t being forced to fall in love with someone in less than five short months… He just had to stay out of the way until Calanmai.

He paused, and nearly laughed out loud. Calanmai… Of course. His mating instincts were merely overriding his common sense. It had been awhile… He chuckled to himself as he pushed through the glass garden doors. There would be several females visiting the Spring Court for the Great Rite who weren’t the key to breaking Amarantha’s curse. He could wait until then, and in the meantime, some fresh air would clear his head, then he would find Tamlin and talk about what to do next.

As Lucien made it to the bottom of the garden steps, who should he find alone but Feyre. Apparently the Mother wanted to test him. The girl sat in the grass with her legs crossed, hunched over a wooden drawing board and sketching. Her fingers were covered in black charcoal, and half a dozen sheets of paper littered the ground around her, covered in rough, smudged drawings. His curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped closer.

She didn’t seem to notice him as he approached; her attention was focused on the fountain nearby. He paused a few steps away and watched her for a long moment. He watched the way her brow wrinkled as she worked, the soft pucker of her full mouth, the rapid way she glanced from the paper to the fountain as she sketched. The charcoal whispered against the paper as the fountain gurgled in the distance.

When he realized he was staring, he turned his attention to the drawings on the ground. It seemed she was trying to capture the right angle of the stone heron’s neck. The sketches were rough, but she had some talent after all.

“Not bad,” he remarked.

She squeaked in fright and hugged her drawing board to her chest, then glared up at his amused smirk. “Can I help you?”

He gestured to her drawings. “Nicely done, but they don’t look a thing like me.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes at his teasing. “Faerie vanity truly knows no bounds,” she said, relaxing her grip on the drawing board.

He grinned. “None whatsoever.”

She huffed a laugh and glanced at the fountain. “So… did you need something, or…?”

He shrugged. “Just making idle conversation. Did Tam show you the gallery?”

“Mm-hmm. It’s very beautiful.”

“Has he given you your paints yet?”

“Alis showed them to me after lunch,” Feyre said simply. Her fingers drummed on the edge of her drawing board as she stared at him… evidently waiting for him to shut up and leave.

He chuckled and spread his hands as he took an exaggerated step back. “Please. Don’t let me keep you from your very important work.”

A smile tugged at her lips as she lowered the board to her lap. “You can stay as long as you don’t peek.”

He snorted and crossed his arms as he glanced around. Artists. “Was Tam banished from your presence, then?”

She snorted softly. “No,” she said as she shifted into a more comfortable position in the grass. “I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

“Where did you see him last?”

“Leaving the gallery,” she said distractedly, returning to her drawing. “I think he wanted to be alone.”

Lucien’s brows furrowed behind his mask. “Alone? Why? Did he say something?”

Feyre paused and rested the drawing board on her knees. “He saw his mother’s portrait,” she said softly, turning the charcoal over in her fingers. “He told me how she died.”

Lucien grimaced. So much for keeping Tam in a good mood. “You didn’t tell him about the note, did you?”

“No,” she insisted, then bit her lip. “But he told me about Rowena, anyway.”

“Shit.” Lucien ran a hand over his hair and let out a heavy sigh. “No wonder he wanted to be alone.”

“Did you know her?”

“I’d see her at Court functions occasionally with her family, but I didn’t really know her. Tam told me about her, though… If he told you, that means he trusts you. He likes you, you know.”

Feyre’s brow furrowed, then her cheeks turned pink and she bent her head over her drawing. “He’s just being kind. Besides, he can have anyone he wants. Why would a High Lord choose a human?”

Amarantha’s spell gripped Lucien harder than it ever had. He could barely breathe as he rubbed his throat and winced, but Feyre didn’t seem to notice.

She went on with a shrug, “And besides that, I’ve never heard of humans and faeries being together…” She glanced up. “Have you?”

He swallowed uncomfortably as the spell kept him in its grip. He wanted to tell Feyre that yes, he had. During the War, Amarantha’s sister Clythia had been seduced by a human general, Jurian, in order to learn of her plans. And when he got the information he wanted, he killed her and left the pieces of her body for Amarantha to find. It was a wonder Feyre didn’t know this story, since Jurian helped turn the War in the humans’ favor. Then again, Amarantha hadn’t exactly returned him to the mortal lands in one piece… Lucien rubbed at his left eyelid, feeling the hard metal orb beneath it, and was profoundly grateful that Amarantha hadn’t put his missing eye in a ring for all eternity.

When he didn’t answer, Feyre ducked her head as she pulled the drawing board closer. “I didn’t think so,” she murmured.

The spell eased at last, and he drew in a deep breath then blew out his cheeks. “To be fair,” he remarked, crouching down to her eye level, “humans aren’t exactly common on this side of the Wall.”

Her cheeks reddened as she caught his eye. “So you’re saying it would be possible?” she asked softly, tucking a hair behind her ear, smearing charcoal across her cheek.

“Anything is possible in Prythian,” he said with a half-smile. When she opened her mouth to speak, he stopped her and gestured to his cheek. “Ah, you have a little, uh…”

“What?” She swiped at her cheek, worsening the smear. “Did I get it?”

He chuckled and shifted closer. “Here, let me.”

Taking care not to kneel on her drawings, he reached out and gently brushed her cheek with his thumb. The dark charcoal dust smudged and softened to a pale shadow on her lightly freckled skin. Her cheeks were flushed, and her skin was warm beneath his fingers. Her eyes looked more blue than gray as she met his gaze.

“Did you get it?” she whispered as his fingers lingered against her cheek. His gaze dropped to her full lips, which were parted ever so slightly.

“I got it,” he murmured. He withdrew his hand with some regret and rested it on his knee as he pushed himself to his feet. Before he could be tempted to linger further, he cleared his throat and said, “If you see Tam, tell him I missed him at lunch.”

“I-I will,” Feyre called after him as he turned away.

As he walked back to the manor, he realized he was fooling himself if he thought one night of fucking strange females would make him feel better. What he really wanted was one female to share his bed, night after night. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to hear her moaning his name over and over, and to call out her name in turn when he came… He wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms, only to wake up before the sun rose and do it all over again.

Most of all, he wanted her to rest her head on his shoulder when she was tired, without worrying that someone might see. He wanted to reach out and brush the charcoal from her cheek, then lean in and kiss her because her lips needed kissing. He wanted to be the reason she smiled every day… He wanted to be the one to hear her say: I love you.

Chapter Text

Feyre’s mind wandered as she mixed a smear of blue paint with the creamy red on her palette, producing a lovely plum color. Just what she needed to make the shadows of the red rose she was trying to paint in the garden. Though she knew Tamlin wouldn’t mind if she plucked the rose and took it inside for reference, she liked studying it just where it was. The morning light gave it a certain glow that was impossible to replicate indoors, no matter how perfect her painting room was.

It was hard to believe that almost a full month had gone by since Tamlin had given it to her. Seeing the gallery was a gift in and of itself, but he had set aside a whole room just for her, just for painting. Located on the first floor, great windows let in glorious morning sunshine, revealing a beautiful view of the rose garden outside. She would rush there every morning after breakfast, eager to pick up where she had left off the night before. It became a comfortable routine: Dress in a loose shirt that could be worn under a smock, and wear the same pair of comfortable paint-spattered breeches that Alis had designated as her painting pants. What little magic the servants possessed was not going to be wasted on getting out paint stains, the maid chided after the fifth time it happened.

Not that she minded. She even started leaving her boots by the door to her little studio so that she wouldn’t get paint on them, either. When Tamlin passed by the doorway to check on her, she would catch him smiling at the sight of her painting barefoot. And at dinner, Lucien would tease her about the growing number of paint splotches on her clothes. But she didn’t mind any of this. After all these years, she finally had the time and the supplies to paint.

Tamlin had given her more than she had asked for. A long table held a stack of spare canvases, reams of paper, a box of charcoal sticks for sketching, and a gleaming collection of hog-hair brushes in assorted sizes. A large wooden easel and cushioned stool rested by a small table where she could keep her brushes and palette. The room even had a small sink for cleaning her brushes once she was through painting for the day. But what excited her most was the paint… Fat tins of thick paint that held a rainbow of colors; there were even tins of black and white pigment. The High Lord had given her more than she dreamed of, and she thanked him at every opportunity.

Unfortunately, those opportunities did not come often. The blight was growing worse, and Tamlin’s mate, whoever she was, continued to send gifts through the weakening borders of the Spring lands. The gifts had reverted to the try-to-kill-you variety instead of the severed-wings variety, but Feyre didn’t ask for details, and Tamlin didn’t offer. She guiltily wondered if the gifts would have stopped if he had replied to the note tucked inside the ebony box. She had had every intention of showing it to him, but Lucien had burned it before she could. She tried not to let it bother her, because she was not the one giving gifts to a man who clearly didn’t want them, but she worried just the same.

On the days when he returned from ensuring the safety of his borders, his eyes would be shadowed and weary, and he would often be covered in blood that was not his own… At least that’s what he told her, and she hoped it was true. When she would ask about his well-being, he would only smile and say that he was glad to know that she was safe, then ask her how her painting was coming along.

“Beautiful.”

Feyre jumped, then whirled around to see Tamlin standing behind her.

He smiled shyly and nodded at the canvas. “Your painting: It’s beautiful.”

She fought back a pleased smile as she angled herself in front of the easel. “You’re not supposed to peek.”

He chuckled and stepped around her so that the painting was out of his line of sight. “Can you blame me for being curious?”

She huffed a laugh and carefully tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “I suppose not.” Dropping her gaze to the palette, she swirled her brush in the plum-colored paint and said, “It’s nowhere near finished. I want it to be perfect before you see it.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

She scoffed and gestured at the garden with her loaded brush. “Everything else here is.”

“Maybe I don’t want perfect.”

Her cheeks warmed as his gaze lingered on her, and she looked to the canvas. “I just… I-I need a little more time. Before it’s ready.”

He stepped closer. “How much time?”

She swallowed, then lifted her chin and teased, “I thought faeries had nothing but time.”

She expected him to tease her back, the way Lucien did, but Tamlin merely smiled and said, somewhat sadly, “Not as much as I would like.”

She nodded, and her smile turned solemn. “I’ll show you something soon. I promise.”

“I hope so,” he said quietly, then cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you might like to go for a ride this afternoon. There’s a little spot in the southern forest I’d like to show you… It’s nothing like the Golden Glen, but I think you might like it. It’s peaceful.”

Her smile returned. “That sounds nice.” As she opened her mouth to ask if Lucien would be coming, too, the red-haired Fae appeared around the corner.

He let out a loud sigh of relief, then trotted closer. “Tam,” he said, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Border patrol just spotted a pack of martax north of here.”

The High Lord growled. “Damn it. I thought she’d be bored of this by now,” he muttered, revealing the sharp points of his lengthening teeth.

Feyre’s blood ran cold. Hunters from the village talked about martax. She had been lucky enough never to run into one, but she had seen a pelt once at the summer market. The crowd had drawn her attention, and the thick, gold-striped fur had caught her eye. The creature had the head of a wildcat and the body of a bear, and—according to the grizzled hunter who took it down—three rows of wicked teeth and a temper to match. It had taken out the hunter’s trained hounds, and if he hadn’t been carrying ash arrows, it would have killed him, too. Feyre left before the haggling started, sick with worry that she might run into a martax herself. She was only sixteen at the time, with a mere two years of hunting experience under her belt. She didn’t have the kind of money for hounds that could defend her in case of an attack. But she did have some extra coppers that could buy a single ash arrow…

“How many in the pack?” Tamlin asked Lucien, bringing her back to the present.

“Border patrol said three, but I’d bet good money on four,” Lucien said. Feyre shivered at the thought.

Curling his clawed hands into fists, Tamlin turned and gave Feyre a tight-lipped smile. “We’ll have to go riding another time, I’m afraid.”

“You have plans?” Lucien asked. He glanced between them, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Let me take care of it. I’ll round up some men—”

“No.” Tamlin pinched the bridge of his masked nose, already looking weary. “That’s what she wants.” His mate. “She’s trying to wear down my defenses.”

“Tam—”

“I said No.” The High Lord lifted his head and snarled, a beastly growl lacing that final word.

Lucien scowled, then squared his shoulders. “What she wants is your attention, and you’re giving it to her.” He gestured to Feyre, and continued, “I think your time would be better spent giving another lady that same attention, mm?”

Feyre’s eyes widened and her face flushed as the High Fae males looked at her, a human girl dressed in a paint-spattered smock and breeches, the furthest thing from a lady that she could imagine. She nervously swallowed as she set the palette down. “We can go riding some other time,” she told Tamlin, picking up a stained rag to wipe off the drying paint from her loaded brush. She straightened up and nodded at the canvas. “I wanted to finish this painting, anyway.”

Tamlin sighed, and Lucien frowned. Before the emissary said anything else, the High Lord brushed past him and said in a low voice, “We’ll discuss this later.”

“Be careful out there,” she called after him.

Tamlin nodded at her over his shoulder, but said nothing as he turned away and broke into a run. When he disappeared around the corner, the pulse of magic that rippled in his wake told Feyre that he had changed form. Only a beast Tamlin’s size could fend off four martax at once, and only a High Lord could live to talk about it afterward. Not that he would. She sighed.

Lucien sighed as well, then crossed his arms and turned on her. “Thanks for that.”

Her head jerked back in surprise. “What?”

“You could have asked Tam to stay, and he would have.”

“If you wanted him to stay, why did you tell him about the martax in the first place?” she countered.

“I’m his emissary. I’m supposed to tell him when things go wrong.”

She pursed her lips and began packing up her brushes. “Well, I’m just a human. It’s not my place to tell the High Lord of the entire Spring Court how he should spend his time.”

Lucien frowned at her. “You’re more than that, and we both know it.”

Her heart thumped as she paused and stared at him. “What do you mean?”

He blinked, as if surprised at himself for saying such a thing, then he rubbed the back of his neck and glanced away. “I mean, I… That is, I… I can’t—” Feyre’s eyebrows rose in surprise; she had never seen him stumble over his words before. He lowered his hand and sighed. “I can’t tell you… how important you are… to Tam, I mean.”

Feyre blushed and bit the inside of her cheek, disappointed in his answer.

Lucien straightened up and crossed his arms again. “But I’m sure he would tell you himself if you let him get close enough.”

She snapped the lid shut to her paintbrush box. “I’m not the one setting martax loose across the border. If he thought you could handle it, he would have stayed here and let you go in his place.”

Lucien growled in a rather Tamlin-like way. “If it weren’t for this damn blight, I could handle it.”

“So what are you getting mad at me for? I can’t fix the blight.” She picked up the brush box by its handle and picked up the drying canvas by its corner. She would come back for the rest later.

Lucien frowned and rubbed his throat as she stalked past him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going inside.”

Gravel crunched as Lucien followed her. “If you weren’t going to finish your painting, why did you tell Tam that you were?”

“The light changed, and I don’t feel like painting outside anymore.” She whirled around to face him. “Is that all right with you, Lord Emissary?”

He jerked back and stared at her. Then he scoffed and crossed his arms. “Fine by me.”

She flicked up her brows and gave him a glassy stare. “Fine.”

They frowned at each other a moment longer, but when he said nothing further, she turned on her heel and left him in the garden. When she came back for her easel and palette, he was gone.

She blinked back angry tears as she folded up the easel, wondering why the exchange had upset her so much. The blight wasn’t her fault. The Suriel had told her to stay close to the High Lord, and she had done that by staying on the grounds. With the borders weakening enough to let monsters invade his lands, she wasn’t about to distract him by tagging along. So what did Lucien expect her to do? What did he want? He could be so charming, and maddeningly flirtatious, but then to turn around and chide her… She shook her head. If this was how he was going to behave, she should be grateful she’d never worked up the nerve to ask him up to her room.

Life was comfortable now. She was well-fed, well-clothed, and she had two rooms she could call her own. She didn’t have to worry about her family anymore, either; Tamlin had taken care of them, and he had even written to them for her. They hadn’t written back, but she hadn’t really expected them to. Besides, even if they had, what news could they give her? Isaac Hale would be getting married when the snows melted that spring, but—

Her chest caved in. It was spring. Not just in the Spring Court. It was midwinter when she left, and after three months, it was reasonable to assume that the spring thaw was underway. Isaac might even be married now, for all she knew. Married to that pretty girl from another village with that handsome dowry…

Feyre’s heart thudded painfully as she carried her supplies inside, and it had nothing to do with exertion. It seemed greedy, now that she had every comfort imaginable, to want just one more thing. She didn’t want a dowry, though. She didn’t want a husband, or a family, either. Not in Prythian. She just wanted someone. Someone to sleep with in her enormous bed. Someone to wake up next to. Someone who could fill that empty ache she felt deep down.

If she was being honest, what she really wanted was someone who would take her hand for a stroll, who would kiss her outside the shadows of that creaky old barn, who wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with her in public. Someone to help her forget the world for a little while, to make her smile, and make her laugh. She thought that someone could be Lucien, flirt that he was, but every time he got close, he pulled away again. As if this was a village dance that began in the arms of one partner and ended in the arms of another… like Tamlin.

He was certainly handsome—she had noticed as much at Starlight Pond—but he was a High Lord. She didn’t want to be a Lady or a consort or a plaything or whatever she might be called if she spent the night in his bed. It was selfish, perhaps, to deny that she had noticed Tamlin noticing her… but it wasn’t just her feelings that she was protecting. What if the High Lord decided that he didn’t want to provide for her family anymore because she stopped pleasing him?

Feyre sighed as she placed her palette on the little table by the window, then set up the easel in its usual spot. She stepped back and glanced around her treasured painting room. Tamlin didn’t seem like the sort of man, or male, who would take everything away if she told him No, but none of this was really hers. There had to be something she could do to express her appreciation, without feeling beholden to him in other ways. As she placed the red rose painting on the easel, she smiled. This was especially hers. She perked up at the thought. She could paint something special… just for him. She would surprise him. It might cheer him up for a little while, and it might even distract him from whatever Hell his mate was putting him through.

As Feyre gathered the necessary supplies, she began forming a plan. She couldn’t find the Golden Glen or the pool of starlight without a guide, but surely there were similar places in the southern forest that she could draw inspiration from. There was a knapsack upstairs in her room that would fit a ream of paper and some charcoal, and some apples and cheese for a quick lunch. If she left now, she could be back by dinnertime, and Tamlin would never know she was gone…

As she shucked off her smock, she considered asking Lucien to take her through the southern forest, then thought better of it. So what if he knew the forest better than she did? She wouldn’t go far, and besides, she wasn’t in the mood for another lecture.

She closed the painting room door behind her and headed for her room. If Lucien wanted her, he could come find her. Until then, he could just boil in the Cauldron for all she cared. 

***

Lucien decided to invite Feyre to lunch. He didn’t like eating alone, and with Tamlin gone—again—he thought it might be nice to have some company. Even if she’d acted a little huffy in the garden, he hadn’t meant to growl at her, either. It was just because of the blight, he’d say, and then they could go back to being friends. Even if he wanted something more, that’s all they could be…

But Feyre wasn’t in her painting room. Lucien frowned and headed upstairs.

Blaming his bad mood on the blight was the only explanation that would make sense to her. It was the only explanation he could give her because of Amarantha’s ridiculous curse. In reality, he was on edge because Calanmai was two days away, and the High Lord was dragging his feet. Feyre had been in Prythian for nearly three months now, and the masks on their faces were no looser than the day she’d arrived.

Hell, in three months’ time, Lucien and Jesminda were sleeping together nearly every night; he had even picked out a ring. But, no, not Tamlin. He was just giving Feyre space, he said. Amarantha had nothing to do with it, he said.

Horseshit, Lucien said. But that didn’t stop Tamlin from hunting down every martax and naga that Amarantha sent over the border…

Feyre wasn’t in her room, either. It was possible that she had gone to the dining room, but not likely. Lucien tried not to worry as he headed for the stairs. It wasn’t like her to leave the manor without telling someone. She’d come to him before seeking out the Suriel, after all… He paused on the stairs and gulped. She wouldn’t. Would she? No… Maybe. It was entirely possible, since Alis had told her how to catch a Suriel without resorting to Autumn Court methods.

She wasn’t in the dining room, but he hadn’t expected her to be. Trying to stay calm, he headed for the kitchens. When Feyre had last sought out the Suriel, she said that it hadn’t told her anything worthwhile… though she later admitted that it had told her that Tamlin was a High Lord. After nearly dying at the nagas’ clawed hands, what else could she possibly need to know?

Just to put his mind at ease, he asked the kitchen staff if Feyre had asked for anything such as, say, a fresh, unplucked chicken. No, they told him, but she had taken some apples and cheese in her knapsack to go, and, no, she hadn’t said where she was going. Shit.

Lucien rushed to the stables next, but Moonlight and Shadow were in their stalls. He ran a hand over his hair, trying not to panic. Feyre couldn’t go far on two legs… He declined the stablehand’s offer to ready his horse. He didn’t want to rouse anyone’s suspicions. He could find Feyre on his own.

On a whim, he checked the gardens, but she wasn’t there, either. Truly worried now, he looked around and tried to think. She had left her paints behind, but she had taken a knapsack for food. He didn’t know if she had taken a cloak, or a robe, to lure the Suriel. If she were fleeing for the Wall—unlikely—she would have taken more than apples for nourishment, and she would have tried to take Moonlight, too, so… where had she gone, and why?

He closed his eyes and drew in a few deep breaths through his nose. His sense of smell was not as strong as Tamlin’s, but… There. Wafting among the fragrance of roses and fresh earth was the lingering scent of paint and lilac soap.

He opened his eyes and followed the scent toward the southern forest. Now it was just a matter of finding her before something else did.

***

The cool, rough bark pressed against Feyre’s back as she settled against the trunk of the towering elm tree to examine her work. The pleasant smell of wild grass and forest loam filled her nose, and a gentle breeze ruffled the hair around her face. She glanced between her drawing and the trees across the clearing, then carefully smudged in some shadows with her fingers. These oak trees were not as gnarled as the ones surrounding the pool of starlight, but she could make do.

Satisfied with the drawing for the moment, she set it aside and wiped her smudged fingers clean on her painting pants. The lump of cheese was long gone, but she had one apple left in her knapsack. She pulled it out to polish it on her shirt sleeve, but before she could take a bite, she heard… something. She froze, and tried to ignore the thudding of her heart to listen to the forest.

With the Bogge, the forest had fallen silent, and whatever dark magic it possessed had drawn the clouds across the sun. But the sun was still shining, and the birds were still chirping.

She slowly returned the apple to her knapsack and reached for Lucien’s knife at her belt, grateful she had thought to bring it along. The jeweled metal was cool and solid and reassuring as she curled her fingers around it.

There. She heard it again. It wasn’t the hiss of the naga, or the whisper of the Suriel’s robes dragging over root and stone…

It was her name. Someone was calling for her in the distance… and coming closer. The hair on the back of her neck rose. She’d never met a puca, and she didn’t plan on meeting one now. She hurriedly stuffed everything back into her knapsack, but as she slung it over her shoulder, she got an idea.

She didn’t have rope, but she did have a knife, and the creeping vines growing around the clearing looked rather sturdy…

It didn’t take long to set her trap. She left her knapsack at the bottom of the largest gnarled oak tree as bait, then scampered across the clearing and up the elm tree. It wasn’t even a minute before her prey appeared in the clearing, then headed straight for her knapsack.

The spring snare snapped, whipping her prey off his feet and into the air. “Shit!”

Feyre smirked. It seemed that this puca had a terribly filthy mouth.

***

Lucien fought to keep his sword from sliding out from its sheath as he dangled by his snared ankle. His captor laughed as she dropped down from her hiding place in the tree across the clearing. He glowered as she approached. “You are very lucky that I’m not the Suriel, or I’d be trying to strangle you right now.”

Upside-down Feyre crossed her arms and smirked at him. “That’s what you get for stalking someone.”

“I was not stalking you. I was checking on you,” he insisted as the blood rushed to his face, and not just because he was upside down. “Tam told you to stay close to the manor while he was away.”

As she reached out and plucked a stray leaf from his hair, she remarked, “I didn’t realize I was under house arrest.” She twirled the stem in her fingertips and looked him in the eye. “Besides, I’ve only been gone an hour.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

She tickled his nose with the leaf. “Setting traps for nosy High Fae.”

He puffed the leaf away. “All right. So, you caught me,” he muttered, swaying on the vine. “What now, O mighty mortal huntress?”

A coy smile touched her lips as she caught his head in her hands to hold him steady. “What now, indeed?”

He was temporarily struck mute as she slipped her fingers into his hair. Perhaps it was the blood rushing to his head, but he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, letting her run her fingers through his long strands. How long had it been since a female had touched him so gently? He let out a low growl of pleasure. It was difficult to think straight…

“I could set you free, little fox,” she murmured, tracing the edges of his mask. “Or I could keep you… so I could stroke your hair whenever I wished.”

As much as he would have liked her to do just that, he forced himself to open his eyes, breaking the spell she had on him. He gave her a polite smile. “I don’t think Tam would appreciate that,” he said quietly. He felt a twinge of regret as her soft smile faded. “I’m still his emissary, after all.”

Her cheeks turned pink as she released him and stepped away. “Of course. I’ll get you down—”

“I’ve got it.” In one smooth motion he drew his sword, then curled up and cut through the creeping vine.

She yelped, but he had already flipped and landed on his feet.

As he straightened up and smoothed his hair back from his face, he couldn’t help but grin at her as she stared at him, her eyes wide and her hands clapped to her mouth.

After he’d sheathed his weapon, she lowered her hands and whispered, “How did you…”

“Magic,” he said with a wink. A teasing wink. Not a flirty wink. No more flirting, he told himself. 

She tucked a hair behind her ear as she breathed a laugh and looked away, her cheeks reddening. “Sometimes I forget…”

“…What you were going to say? I am rather distracting,” he teased. In a friendly way, of course.

Though she tried to scowl, it turned into a smile as she caught his eye. “That you’re not human.”

Whatever answer he had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Me? Human? Huh,” he said with a nervous chuckle, scratching his head. “Maybe I should wear my hair back more often, so you don’t forget.”

She rolled her eyes and scoffed as she turned for her fallen pack. “Don’t you ever forget that I’m human?”

His eyes traveled down her lean feminine figure as she bent over. “Never,” he said quietly.

“Hmm,” was all she said as she shouldered her knapsack, then straightened. “Well. If I were one of you, I suppose I’d be a faerie like Alis. Waiting on you hand and foot?”

The idea made him pause. Not the servant part, but the faerie part. Would she still be Feyre if she suddenly became immortal? Was there even a way to make that happen, once the curse was broken? Would Tam know?

Feyre brushed past him. “It was a silly question. Forget I asked,” she muttered.

His brows furrowed behind his mask as he turned and watched her walk deeper into the woods. When she didn’t glance over her shoulder to see if he would follow, he let out a surprised chuckle, then trotted to catch up with her. “You’re angry with me,” he said in amazement when he fell in step beside her.

She lifted her chin but did not look at him. “No, I’m not,” she said stiffly.

“Yes, you are,” he insisted, tweaking her braid. She pulled the braid over her shoulder with a scowl, but he didn’t back down. “Why do you care what I think?”

She shifted her pack and glanced away. “I don’t.”

“Liar.”

She frowned at him. “It takes one to know one.”

He snorted. “Why would you want to be a faerie, anyway? I thought you hated faeries.” Tell me I’m wrong, he thought. For Tam’s sake, at least.

She looked away as she brushed aside a low hanging branch. “It’s just… I hate being weak,” she said quietly. “I can’t go for a walk in the forest alone without worrying about puca, or naga, or martax…” She gestured wildly with one hand. “I can’t help my family on the other side of the Wall… I can’t do much of anything on this side of the Wall…” She huffed. “All because of this stupid blight.”

The sounds of the forest filled the silence between them as they walked. As he watched her downcast expression, he realized that all of this had happened because he’d snapped at her in the garden that morning. He winced at the resulting twinge of guilt, then took a deep breath. He had to choose his words carefully in order to avoid triggering Amarantha’s spell.

“Well, if you were a faerie,” he began slowly, “the blight would be affecting you even more than it is now.” When that didn’t seem to comfort her, he went on, “Besides, I’m High Fae, and I walked straight into your trap.” He nudged her. “That doesn’t seem so weak and helpless to me.”

A slight smile touched her lips, and her shoulders softened. She glanced at him and gave him a playful nudge in return. “I thought you were a puca, at first.”

A puca lures you in by showing you what you want most in the world. A slight flush touched his cheeks as he rubbed his arm. “I’m not sure if I should feel flattered or insulted.”

Her cheeks were a deep pink as she looked away, smiling. “Take it however you like.”

It was possible that she hadn’t meant it that way, the flirty way, the take your hand and never let go way, but just in case, he decided to change the subject. “You know the manor is in the other direction, right?”

She nodded without looking at him. “I’m looking for a stream or a pond.” She gestured to her pack. “I’m painting something special for Tamlin.”

Relief relaxed his shoulders, followed by an unexpected spark of jealousy in his gut. Keeping his voice light, he said, “Why didn’t you say so? I could have taken you and saved us both the trouble.”

She looked at him askance. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you were being a bit of an ass this morning.”

He huffed a laugh and smirked. “When am I not?”

She chuckled and nudged him again. “You have your moments.”

Any reply he might have given her got caught in his throat as her hand brushed his. His shoulders stiffened, and he avoided looking at her, or her hand, lest he misinterpret any look she might give him. He was already overthinking it, for their fingers touching once—twice—meant nothing. Though it would be easy, natural even, to take her hand, to guide her through the forest… Instead, he gripped the pommel of his sword and cleared his throat. When she met his eye, he nodded to a patch of thinning trees to the east. “There’s a pond nearby. This way.”

As she followed him, Lucien resolved to spend the next day as far away from her as possible. The day after that was Calanmai. Two days away from Feyre would clear his head; he would feel better once the Great Rite was over with. Tamlin would, too, because even Amarantha wouldn’t dare interfere with that sacred ceremony. As for what happened after that…

They had three more full moons to find out.

Chapter Text

“You call this a pond?” Feyre said, gaping.

“Pond. Pool. Same difference,” Lucien said dismissively, crossing his arms.

A full rainbow arced over a rushing white waterfall cascading down the cliffside. Clear sunlight sparkled on the rich, blue-green pool at its base. The trees surrounding the rocky pool offered little shade from the noonday sun, but a refreshing, misty breeze ruffled the loose hairs at her neck.

“Does this pond have a name?” she asked, slinging off her knapsack.

He snorted softly as she walked past him. “Does it have to have a name?”

“I suppose not,” she mused, looking around for the best place to sit and sketch the shining pool. She chose a low, flat rock and sunk down onto it. As she crossed her legs, she went on, “But it’s more romantic that way.”

“Romantic?” he echoed, looking at her askance when she glanced up at him.

Her face warmed. “Don’t you think so?” she asked, nervously curling her fingers into the smooth leather of her knapsack. Lucien had to care for her, at least a little bit, to come looking for her, even though she hadn’t asked for his help. If only he wouldn’t keep her guessing…

He shrugged one shoulder. “That depends on what you consider romantic,” he said stiffly.

She shrugged as well, trying to seem nonchalant, but the words spilled out of her faster than she intended. “I mean like the books my sister likes to read. About the brave warrior, or the prince in exile, or the clever rogue who rescues the damsel in distress from the wicked faer—uh, villains—uh, monsters, I guess,” she stammered, when Lucien gave her an amused smirk.

“Like a storybook,” he offered, and she nodded, face burning. He chuckled, then said, “I never took you for the damsel in distress type.”

She shrugged again. “I got tired of waiting to be rescued,” she said quietly.

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Romantic, you said?” he asked. She nodded reluctantly, wishing she hadn’t said anything at all, but he went on, “And, ah, just what kind of romantic storybook name would you give this place?”

She took a deep breath, grateful for the change in subject. “Rainbow Falls, perhaps,” she said, turning her head to better allow the misty breeze to cool her warm cheeks.

“I’d call it Starvation Point.”

She scoffed and shook her head at his teasing smirk, but she couldn’t help but smile as she rummaged in her knapsack. “Always thinking about your stomach.”

“Hey. I’m not the one who decided to sneak off without telling anyone right before lunchtime.”

She straightened up. “Here,” she said, tossing her last apple at him.

He caught it easily, then let out an amazed chuckle as he turned it over in his hands. “I don’t suppose you have a sandwich in there, too?”

“If you wanted a picnic, you should have said so, instead of snapping at me earlier.”

He grimaced as he ducked his head, polishing the apple on his sleeve. “Sorry,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze.

She shrugged. “It’s all right. I decided to forgive you once I saw you dangling by your feet,” she said, trying to fight the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He snorted softly. “Remind me again why faeries are the villains in your stories,” he teased, then bit into the apple.

Her good humor faded. “I think the whole matter of keeping mortals as slaves had something to do with it,” she said, ducking her head to pull out her drawing supplies.

He coughed. “Right.” After an awkward pause, he said, “In my defense, the War was over by the time I was born. I’d never even seen a human before I met you.”

She nodded. “I’ve only ever heard stories about you—the Fae,” she said, smoothing out the paper on her lap. “Tamlin was the first one I ever met.” She turned the charcoal stick over in her fingers and remarked, “He’s not anything like I thought he’d be.”

“Better, or worse?”

She glanced up to see Lucien turning the half-eaten apple over in his hand as he watched her, otherwise expressionless as he waited for her answer. “Both,” she replied honestly. “He’s kind, but powerful, and frightening, too.”

“He’s a High Lord,” Lucien said wryly. “It comes with the territory. You don’t hold on to power by being everyone’s friend,” he added, then took another bite of apple.

She gave him a soft smile. “He’s lucky to have you as a friend, then.”

Lucien nodded, chewing slowly, but he did not reply. When he took another bite without speaking, she turned her attention to the pool and began to sketch its outline. He spoke up then, changing the subject. “What are you going to paint, anyway?”

“The pool of starlight,” she said, softening the crisp charcoal outline with her finger. She glanced up to see him looking thoughtful. “You’re not going to tell Tamlin, are you? I want it to be a surprise.”

He gave her a tight smile. “I won’t tell.”

She cocked her head. “I thought you had to tell him everything,” she said, pointing at him with the charcoal stick. “You know, as his emissary.”

Lucien snorted. “Only when things go wrong,” he said, lifting the apple for another bite.

She smirked. “Ooh, so you don’t think there’s anything wrong with getting caught in a mortal snare?” she teased, flicking her eyebrows up at him.

He grimaced at her, his mouth full. When he swallowed, he gestured with the apple. “I’m immortal. He would never let me live it down.”

She chuckled, then returned to her drawing. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

He lingered a moment longer, then walked away to finish his apple and let her draw in peace.

She sketched the waterfall next, then smudged in the arc of the rainbow. Using black charcoal to capture the beauty of a rainbow was almost laughable, but it would have to do since she had left her paints behind. She sighed, satisfied at least with the shape of her drawings, then set them aside to stand up and stretch. Rubbing her sore backside, she wandered over to the pool. The iciness of the water was a shock after sitting in the sunshine, and especially compared to the natural warmth of Starlight Pond. As she washed her hands, she tried to think of anything else she needed to draw before she could begin that painting. After drinking a couple handfuls of crisp, clear water, she realized there was nothing else she needed. They could turn back for the manor now.

As she turned, looking for Lucien, her heart skipped a beat to see him standing by her rock, looking at her drawings. “You’re not supposed to peek!” she squeaked, rushing over.

He glanced up, a berry halfway to his mouth. He must have finished the apple and gone foraging for more food while she finished her drawing. “Why not?” he asked innocently. “I’ve been to Starlight Pond far more often than you have,” he said, then popped the berry into his mouth.

She scooped up her papers and clutched them to her chest. “It’s just… You’ll make fun,” she stammered as heat blossomed in her cheeks.

“I won’t make fun,” he assured her, then pulled one of her hands free to place a large twig full of berries into her palm. “Hold this.”

She scarcely noticed him taking the papers from her as she stared at the sun-warmed berries in her hand. Each berry was the size of her thumbnail, and so darkly purple that it was nearly black. She’d never seen this kind of berry growing in the forest over the Wall, or in Elain’s little garden.

“…The far shore of Starlight Pond is perfectly round,” he was saying as she snapped to attention. He stood beside her, much closer than he usually did, and so close that she could have leaned against him if she had been bold enough. His warm breath tickled her hair as he held out the paper and traced the uneven outline of the pool. “…it can be hard to tell because of the long grass, but the overall shape you have here is very close. I think you’ve done very well.” He gave her an encouraging smile as he handed her drawings back.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her breath catching when his gaze lingered on her. I should say something else, she thought, then thrust out the berries in her hand. “What are these called?” Not that, you idiot.

He startled, as if he realized he was staring, then cleared his throat. “Ah, witchberries. You can have those. They grow all over the Spring Court,” he said, curling his fingers around the pommel of his sword. It seemed to be a nervous habit of his.

“Witchberries,” she repeated, then slipped her papers into her knapsack so that she could examine the berries in her hand. The sun shone on the whitish haze covering each dark berry; she pulled one free of the supple brown twig. “Why are they called that?”

“Because they’ll turn you into a witch.”

She froze with the berry halfway to her mouth, then scowled at his smirk.

He chuckled. “It’s because of the color of the juice. It’s gold, instead of red or purple.”

“Oh.” She carefully bit the berry in half, then held it up to the light. He was right, strangely enough: the center was reddish in color, but the juice bordered on gold. She chewed carefully, then licked her teeth at the tart aftertaste. “It’s good,” she admitted, then ate the rest. “It’s awfully sweet, though.”

“It makes great wine,” he remarked.

Her brow furrowed as she ate a couple more, the sweet juices bursting onto her tongue. “I think I’d remember tasting something like this at dinner.”

“That’s because you never have,” he said, picking up her knapsack for her. As she shouldered it, he went on, “We save faerie wine for big celebrations.”

That seemed familiar somehow, but she couldn’t put her finger on it… As he plucked a berry for himself from the half-full twig, she asked, “Will I be invited to any of those celebrations?”

He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as they walked away from the rocky clearing. “We celebrate Summer Solstice in three months,” he offered. “I don’t think Tam would mind if you joined in the fun.”

“Oh? So, what do you for spring?” she asked, then popped a berry into her mouth.

He looked straight ahead. “Nothing much,” he said stiffly.

Her eyes narrowed. When he continued avoiding her gaze, she nudged him with her elbow. “The Spring Court doesn’t celebrate the arrival of spring?”

He didn’t answer at first, but took a deep breath. “There is a ceremony,” he muttered. She was surprised to see a flush stain his cheeks below the line of the mask. “It’s in two days.”

“…And?” she coaxed.

“And it’s very faerie, all right?” he said coolly. “You’re not invited.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Why not?” she demanded, sounding like the child who had to go to bed early while Nesta and Elain got to stay up late for Mother’s parties. “I’m part of the Spring Court, too.”

“But you’re not a faerie,” Lucien shot back, turning on her. “You wouldn’t understand.”

She clenched her jaw, blinking against the angry tears pricking at her eyes. “I’m human. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he said roughly, then he pinched the bridge of his fox mask and sighed. “Look. I’m sorry,” he said in a gentler tone, lowering his hand. “It’s just… it’s too soon. There won’t be anyone there to keep an eye on you… Maybe next year,” he said with a tentative half-smile.

“I can take care of myself,” she offered, gesturing to the knife he had given her.

He shook his head. “It’s not that. There will be so many High Fae around—not just from the Spring lands—that it would be better if you stayed in your room. You won’t be missing much, I promise.”

She didn’t want to start another fight by calling him a liar, so she bit the inside of her cheek and nodded. As she twirled the stem of the witchberry twig in her fingers, she let out a disappointed sigh. “Save me a bottle?” she asked softly.

“Of course,” he said with a kind smile, then nodded in the direction of the manor.

“What’s so special about witchberry wine, anyway?” she asked as they began to walk again.

“It’s not witchberry wine. It’s faerie wine, and, well… It’s hard to explain.”

She ate all but two of the remaining berries, then offered the twig to him.

He accepted it with a quiet thanks, then said, “Faerie wine is fizzy, I guess.”

“Fizzy?”

“Tiny bubbles. You know. Fizzy.”

“Fizzy,” she repeated, then she giggled. She clapped a hand to her mouth, shocked that she could make such a noise. Lucien’s head jerked back as he turned to stare at her.

“What was that?”

“Fizzy,” she repeated, fighting another giggle.

He caught her arm and stopped her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, then tilted her head. “Has your hair always been that color?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?” he asked slowly. “What color do you think it is?”

“It’s red,” she marveled, staring at him. “Red-red.”

His auburn hair had become more fiery, almost smoldering in its intensity. Even his golden skin appeared to shimmer. She stepped closer and reached through the haze to rest her fingers on his scarred cheek, to assure herself that he was indeed real. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, and she found herself gently tracing the ridged scar down to his jawline.

“What are you doing?” he asked tightly.

She looked up to see his eyes wide as he stared at her, and she let out an amazed chuckle. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” His brown eye was not just a soft russet, but there were shades of copper and mahogany within it. His gold eye, too, was absolutely dazzling. She’d never seen it up close before, not like this. The design was so intricate, how the pieces fit together. “…It’s like I’ve never seen you before.”

“How so?” he asked softly. It didn’t seem as though he were breathing.

“The colors… It’s like you’re made of… of magic,” she said, then grinned.

Lucien held up the empty witchberry twig and stared at it. “Cauldron boil me,” he muttered, then tossed it aside.

Before he could explain whatever it was that he meant, she reached up with both hands and traced the edges of his bronze fox mask, which had somehow become duller compared to his fiery beauty. “Can I take off your mask?”

“You can try,” he said wryly.

She bit her lip in anticipation as she gripped the mask’s carved edges and lightly tugged. The metal was cold, colder than it should have been when everything about him was so warm. It didn’t budge, so she frowned and tugged harder.

“Ow.”

She huffed in disappointment, then dropped her hands and stepped back.

He rubbed at his scarred cheek. “I told you. It doesn’t come off.”

“Well, that’s just not fair,” she groused. She turned for the edge of the woods. “There must be someone who knows how to take it off.”

He caught up to her and caught her arm. “Steady now,” he said nervously.

“I am steady,” she insisted, then the world began to sway. She giggled. “The world is dancing.”

And what a world it was. The colors had grown brighter, clearer. The birds sang a symphony around them, and the wind smelled like honey. She could lay down right there in the soft, feathery undergrowth and wake up without a care in the world. As she began to kneel to do just that, Lucien heaved her to her feet.

“Oh no you don’t,” he chided, then slung her arm over his shoulder and gripped her hand.

“If you wanted to dance with me, you should have said so,” she remarked as he slipped his arm around her waist.

“Another time, my lady,” he said wryly. “Let’s make it back to the manor, first.”

As they began to walk in step, she remarked, “I’m not helpless, you know.”

“I know. You trapped me, remember?”

She giggled again. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” he said with a smile in his voice. “That’s a secret between you and me. Don’t tell Tam when we get back.”

“I won’t. I’m a woman of my word,” she declared.

“We shouldn’t mention this to Tam, either,” Lucien added. “No need to worry him over nothing.”

“That’s right,” she agreed. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m perfectly fine.”

“I hope so,” he muttered. After a minute of walking in silence, he straightened up with a huff. “This is taking too long.”

“I thought faeries had all the time in the world,” she quipped. It wasn’t her fault that he wanted to go faster than her feet did.

He snorted. “But humans don’t. Come here.”

“But I’m already here—Ooh,” she said as he bent and scooped her into his arms. Apparently, Tamlin was not the only one stronger than he looked. Lucien’s muscles were firm, and his pace was steady as he began to carry her through the magical woods.

With her knapsack resting on her lap, and her arms resting around his neck, she didn’t have to do a thing but admire the view. Her cheeks warmed as he caught her eye, and she smiled at him. “How noble.”

The scar on his cheek shifted as he chuckled then faced forward. “Not bad for one of your villains, eh?”

“Not bad at all,” she said, enjoying herself immensely. “You even have a black horse.”

“I wish I’d brought him,” Lucien said with a sigh, adjusting his hold on her. “But what does Shadow have to do with anything?”

“All the best villains carry off the damsels on black horses so that they can disappear into the night. But they usually have black hair, too. So, I suppose you’re only half a villain.”

Lucien shook his head and grinned. “And I suppose the heroes always ride white horses?”

“They do!” she exclaimed. “Have you read those books, too?”

“I guessed,” he said, still smiling. “Besides, it is said that we Fae taught you humans everything there is to know about poetry and fine speech. Some of it was bound to end up in your storybooks.”

“What sort of stories do faeries read, anyway?”

“Your stories are based on our history,” he said as they reached the edge of the woods. “Though much more entertaining, I must say.”

She forgot what she was going to say in reply as the manor came into view. It was even more beautiful than the day she had arrived. What wasn’t covered in roses and ivy gleamed alabaster in the sunlight. “It’s not much of a faerie prison, is it?”

He chuckled. “The manor? Hardly.”

Feyre turned her head and looked at Lucien thoughtfully. “I don’t think you’re a villain,” she mused.

“I don’t know about that,” he said drily. “Whisking you away on horseback would have been much easier than carrying you.”

“But I like being carried by you,” she said honestly, holding his gaze. She liked many things about him, and she finally felt free to tell him. It was a wonderful feeling.

What was visible of his face flushed as he chuckled. “I’ll remember that for next time,” he said quietly, then paused to gently set her down in the long grass of the meadow. “We’re almost there. Think you can walk?”

“Of course I can,” she insisted, putting her knapsack back on her shoulder, then she stumbled back a step. “Ooh, maybe not.”

His arm went around her waist again to steady her. “Of course you can,” he assured her, then placed her other arm around his shoulders. “And I’m going to help you.”

If it meant staying close to him, she didn’t mind his help. Not like before. They didn’t say much else as she focused on finding her footing through the meadow. She just knew her boots were weighing her down, and that she would float on the wind itself without them, but Lucien refused to let her stop and take them off.

“Soon,” he finally promised as they found their way into the south-facing garden.

When they rounded the corner of the hedges, she forgot about her feet and gripped Lucien’s hand. “Who are they?”

“Who?”

“They—I mean, them,” she said, gesturing with her free hand. “Are they gardeners?”

Masked faeries with brown and green skin were buzzing about, literally. Sheer, iridescent wings buzzed on their backs as they pruned the hedges or gathered bouquets from the flowerbeds into their long, narrow arms.

“You can see them?” Lucien sounded amazed.

“Of course I can see them. They’re right there. Everywhere,” she said, gesturing wildly. “Where did they come from? Are they here for the party?”

He chuckled instead of answering her questions. “Cauldron boil me,” he said again.

She pursed her lips. “Fine. Don’t tell me,” she said, looking ahead at the gravel path. “I’ll ask Tamlin.”

“What? No, oh, shit—”

The High Lord met them at the stone fountain, where the carved heron appeared more lifelike than ever. Feyre half-expected it to launch into the air, startled at the High Lord’s speed.

“Are you all right?” Tamlin asked tightly, reaching out to her as Lucien released his hold on her.

“Fit as a fiddle,” she declared, then promptly sank into Tamlin’s outstretched arms. She giggled again as he hauled her to her feet. “Whoops.”

“What the hell is wrong with her?” Tamlin growled at Lucien.

“Absolutely nothing,” she insisted, even as he held her upright. She slipped her knapsack off her shoulder and declared, “I have never felt better.” And it was true. Aside from the strange faeries milling about, she’d never felt happier. Giddy, even. The whole world was magic, and she loved being part of it.

The High Lord himself looked more lordly, as well. A faint circlet of sunshine wreathed his golden hair, and his tanned skin appeared to shimmer as Lucien’s had. She wagged her finger at him. “You,” she drawled, “have been keeping secrets from me.”

“Oh?” Tamlin said cautiously.

“Mm-hmm.” She jabbed her finger at his chest. “You are having a party and you didn’t tell me.”

Lucien cleared his throat. “She means the gardeners. She can see them now.”

“What?” Tamlin cupped her face and stared into her eyes. “How?”

She grasped his wrists and stared back. His eyes were greener than grass, greener than the emeralds studding his faded gold mask. “Does your mask come off?” she asked, reaching for it.

He caught her hands and shook his head. “We’ve been through this,” he said gently, then turned his head. “Lucien…” he growled.

“It’s not my fault,” Lucien stammered from beside them. “All right. So, I gave her some witchberries. How was I supposed to know that they would disrupt the glamour?”

Feyre giggled. “They’re fizzy,” she told Tamlin, then she gasped at the sudden realization. “They’re fizz-berries!” she declared, then began to howl with laughter.

Lucien burst out laughing, too, and the chorus of their laughter made her laugh harder.

Tamlin released her as she sunk onto the wide stone base of the fountain, holding her aching gut and laughing so hard that tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t seem to stop. Especially when Tamlin seized Lucien’s collar and heaved him into the fountain.

The last thing she remembered was a strange birch-skinned faerie with Alis’s voice leading her into the manor so that she could ‘sleep it off’. It was a wonderfully strange dream, she thought as she fell into bed, and she would be sad to wake from it.

***

Lucien sighed and squeezed the damp hair at the back of his neck as Tamlin paced before him. After being thrown into the cold water of the fountain, he was ordered to report to the study. He hadn’t even been allowed to change first, but was forced to use his magic reserves to dry off. Everything was uncomfortably moist at best, but he was already exhausted.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Tamlin growled.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Lucien said tiredly, dropping his arm. “I thought witchberries were harmless. I swear it on the Cauldron.”

“I meant your little outing,” Tamlin snarled, turning on him. “Taking Feyre into the woods while I was gone. What if there had been another naga attack? Or a martax had gotten loose? She could have died—”

“But she didn’t,” Lucien retorted. “She went out there on her own, so I did what you asked. I kept her safe.”

“Safe?” Tamlin repeated incredulously. “I come back from hunting five martax—” Lucien winced. “—to find the two of you staggering into the garden, and you have the gall to tell me that you kept her safe?”

Lucien crossed his arms against the twinge of guilt and glanced away. “At least she’s not dead,” he muttered.

The High Lord scoffed. “No. She’s only tripping over her own feet and laughing herself sick.” He shook his head in disgust and walked over to the window overlooking the garden and rested his arm against the frame. “But you’re right. At least she’s not dead.”

Lucien bristled at this. “I fucked up, all right?” he snapped. “But none of this would have happened if you had stayed with her like you were supposed to.”

Tamlin turned toward him, actually bristling. “Don’t blame me for your mistake,” he growled, the points of his teeth visible through his curled lips. “I’m doing everything I can to keep Amarantha’s beasts as far away from Feyre as possible.”

“Including yourself.”

The High Lord snarled and stalked closer. “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked in a dangerously quiet voice. Claws glinted at his fingertips.

Lucien squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Calanmai is in two days, Tam,” he said evenly. “One less martax in the Spring lands is not going to make Feyre fall in love with you any faster.”

Tamlin glowered, then turned away with a low growl of frustration. But his claws retracted as he walked over to his desk and sunk into his chair. He covered his eyes with one hand and sighed. “I can’t… I can’t do this, Lucien.”

“What?” Lucien stepped closer and gripped the headrest of the other chair. “You can’t do what?”

Tamlin kept his eyes covered as he muttered, “Fall in love with her.”

Lucien straightened up and sighed. “That’s not part of the curse, you know,” he said softly, even though it pained him to say so. Feyre deserved to be loved by someone. And so did Tamlin.

“I know,” the High Lord said quietly, then straightened up enough to rest his elbows on his desk. He covered his fist with one hand and then rested his chin against them. “I just… I don’t want to lose her… like I lost Rowena.”

Lucien’s heart twinged painfully. Like I lost Jesminda. “You haven’t lost her yet,” he offered. “And I can tell you that she does care about you, or she wouldn’t have gone into the forest to plan a painting for you.”

Tamlin looked up, his eyes wide and hopeful behind his mask. “What?”

Lucien gave him an encouraging smile. “She wants it to be a surprise. I promised I wouldn’t say what it was, but… that’s why she was there. Drawing.”

The High Lord let out a deep breath, and the tension in his shoulders melted away. “I didn’t realize…” he said quietly. “Her heart was in the right place, I suppose…”

Right where it should be, Lucien thought ruefully, rubbing the spot above his own heart.

Tamlin nodded at him. “Thank you,” he said, then smiled. “For keeping an eye on her.”

Lucien breathed a laugh, then tapped his mask beneath his golden eye. “I do what I can.”

Tamlin chuckled as he pushed himself to his feet. As he rounded the corner of the desk, he asked, “Any problems with it, lately?”

Lucien tiredly rubbed his left eyelid. “No. I can see just fine. Some glamours are harder to see through than others, though.”

“As long as you can see,” his friend said, clapping him on the shoulder. “If I have to send you to the Dawn Court to get it fixed, I will. But I can’t risk sending for Nuan with Amarantha watching the border.”

Lucien nodded. “I understand,” he said as Tamlin withdrew his hand. “And speaking of glamours… What are you going to do about Feyre’s?”

“First things first,” Tamlin said with a grimace, wiping his hand on his tunic. “You should change. You smell like a wet wolfhound.”

Lucien snorted. “And whose fault is that?”

Tamlin smirked. “Yours.”

Chapter Text

The clatter of the breakfast tray startled Feyre from a dreamless sleep. She blearily opened one eye to see the sky beyond the window was a soft blue. How long had she slept? As she groggily lifted her head from her pillow, Alis remarked nearby, “I wondered when you were going to wake up.”

Savory steam filled the air, but it didn’t smell like tea or toast. Feyre smacked her lips. Her mouth felt sticky. “What time is it?”

“It’s dinnertime. The master thought you would prefer to eat in bed until you felt steady enough to make it downstairs on your own.”

Feyre’s brow furrowed as she sat up. Steady? Why wouldn’t she be steady? And why was she in bed before dinner in the first place? She shook her head and rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, trying to remember.

Alis continued, “If either of my nephews had pulled the same stunt as that fool Lucien, they would be mucking out the stables for a month.”

Feyre slumped against the headboard and asked, “Why? What did he—” then sucked in a sharp breath and snatched up the bedcovers to her chest as Alis turned to face her.

But it wasn’t Alis. The bronze bird mask was familiar, but the faerie’s skin resembled birch tree bark, with dark knots against papery white skin. Her dark hair was no longer smoothed into a bun, but was a wild thicket of curls resembling birch leaves.

Feyre took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart, but she did not lower the covers. “Alis?” she asked hesitantly.

The faerie’s bright brown eyes widened expectantly as she folded her hands, knobbed with birch knots. “Yes?” It was Alis’s voice. And she had Alis’s eyes.

“You look… different…” Feyre ventured.

“I look how I look, child,” the faerie said curtly, turning back to the tray. “It’s your eyes that have changed.”

Feyre frowned; her shoulders relaxed, but only slightly. She glanced around the pastel-hued bedroom, her bedroom. That hadn’t changed… She released the covers to turn her hands over. Her skin had begun to develop pale freckles in the Spring Court sunshine, but her hands looked the same, too. She touched her face and straightened as she realized what Alis had said. “What happened to my eyes?”

The faerie clicked her tongue as she turned with a large steaming mug. “That fool Lucien gave you witchberries,” she explained tersely. “They gave you faerie sight. You are seeing more than you were ever meant to see.”

The events of that afternoon sprang to mind with astounding clarity. It was different from being drunk on raspberry wine. There was no headache, only a strangely bitter aftertaste, and the memory of every silly thing she had said to Lucien and Tamlin. She rubbed her throat and swallowed uncomfortably. “Will it wear off?”

“Eventually,” the maid said dismissively, then offered her the steaming mug.

Feyre eyed the steam warily. “What’s that?” If a faerie invites thee to dine; Taste not its food, drink not its wine. Such is not meant for mortal men, lest ye be bound to Prythian. Perhaps there was some truth to those old rhymes after all…

The faerie’s mouth was a dark line against her birch-white skin as she pursed her lips. “It’s chicken soup,” she said wryly, then offered the mug again.

Feyre bit her lip, then reached out and took it, letting her hand brush against the faerie’s long, pale fingers. Real. Alis was real; the real Alis. Feyre cupped the warm mug and gently blew at the curling steam. Her faerie sight didn’t reveal any secrets floating in the golden broth; only chunks of chopped carrots and herbed chicken. She took a deep breath—the smell made her mouth water—then brought the mug to her lips and took a hesitant sip. It tasted like chicken soup was supposed to taste, flavorful and savory. She slowly licked her lips, then sighed as the hot broth soothed her throat.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Alis gave her a curt nod, then turned to pick up Feyre’s paint-spattered breeches from the floor. “You certainly know how to cause a fuss.”

With a start, Feyre realized she was only wearing her linen undershirt. Her face flushed as she clutched her collar closed. It seemed that faerie sight was not the only effect witchberries had had on her. At least she had had enough presence of mind to strip after she was safely in her room.

 “I suspect that troublemaker has been egging you on. The two of you make my job twice as difficult as it needs to be,” Alis went on, then she muttered, “Thank the Mother Calanmai is coming up. The Cauldron knows I could use a holiday—”

“Cala—what?”

“Calanmai,” Alis repeated, straightening up. “Though some call it Fire Night. When the sun sets on the old year and rises with the new.”

“Calanmai,” Feyre repeated softly, then took another sip of soup. Why did it sound so familiar? “Is it a spring holiday?”

Alis shook out the rumpled tunic in her hands. “We celebrate it all over Prythian, though it is the most important holiday in the Spring Court. It heralds the arrival of spring, of new life, and new magic.”

“Lucien said there’s a ceremony…” Feyre offered.

“So there is,” Alis replied simply, laying the tunic on the bed and smoothing it.

Feyre swallowed a mouthful of soup. “Are you going?”

Alis scoffed. “I have two young boys to keep an eye on. There will be other ceremonies…” She paused, and her wry smile faded. “I hope,” she said softly, then busied herself smoothing out more imaginary wrinkles.

“They’ll be grown up before you know it,” Feyre offered.

The maid gave her a tight-lipped smile as she straightened. “So, they will,” she said lightly. “I can only pray that the world will be a welcoming one when… when the time comes.”

Feyre nodded at that mysterious sentiment as the faerie walked away, then lifted her mug for another swallow. Perhaps it had something to do with the blight.

“Now then, let’s get you ready for bed,” Alis said, bringing out a clean nightgown.

Feyre pointed to the blue sky outside the window and protested, “But I just woke up. It’s not even dark out.”

“Witchberries do not let you dream, child. You will eat, and then you will get a proper night’s sleep.”

Feyre pursed her lips, then squared her shoulders. “I’ll eat dinner with Lucien and Tamlin, then I’ll go to bed,” she declared. She had more questions that she knew Alis couldn’t—and wouldn’t—answer.

The maid straightened up and put a hand on her hip. “If you can walk a straight line, I’ll let you go downstairs to dinner.”

Feyre set the mug on the tray and eagerly threw aside the bed sheets from her bare legs, then Alis added, “In a dress, of course.”

Feyre grimaced, then reluctantly agreed as she pushed herself to her feet.

***

Dinner was half over when Lucien’s ears pricked up at the sound of familiar footfalls. He turned his head toward the dining room doors and remarked, “Look who woke up,” then his eyes widened. As one, he and Tamlin rose to their feet.

Feyre’s cheeks turned from pink to red as she hesitated in the doorway. “You don’t have to do that. It’s just me.”

For once, it was not Amarantha’s spell that silenced him. He stared in awe at the vision before him, wondering if the witchberries had affected him, too. By the Gracious Mother above, he hoped not, but it would explain how enchanting Feyre looked. She had traded her traditional tunic and pants for a clingy velvet jade gown that perfectly flattered her slim figure and rosy complexion. Her usual braid had been combed out and swept away from her blushing face in a simple half-knot. She wore no jewelry, but she didn’t need to. The simplicity suited her.

Tamlin was the first to break the silence. “You look beautiful,” he said reverently. “What’s the occasion?”

Though she smiled, her hands clenched to nervous fists at her sides as she stood there. “I made a deal with Alis,” she admitted begrudgingly, then took slow, mincing steps closer to her usual seat. Lucien’s gaze traveled down her slim, shapely figure to see heeled slippers on her feet. A pitying smile touched his lips. The poor thing wasn’t wearing her usual boots, either.

As Tamlin swept past him to meet Feyre at her chair, Lucien remarked, “You should lose bets more often.” As the High Lord seated their guest, he added, “Now you look like a proper lady.”

As Feyre settled into her seat, she flicked her eyebrows up at him. “I didn’t say I lost.”

An amused smirk touched his lips, and he gave her an approving nod. Her lips twitched in return.

“Lucien is right,” Tamlin interjected as he stood at her side. “You look like a true lady of the Spring Court.”

Lucien’s smile stiffened for a moment. Was he calling her a lady, or Lady of the Spring Court? He tried to dismiss the jealous twinge in his gut as he imagined the latter.

“It’s just the dress,” Feyre told Tamlin, waving her hand as she looked up at him. “I wasn’t raised to be a lady like my sisters were.”

“Either way, it suits you,” Tamlin said kindly as he caught her hand, then lifted it to his lips for a courtly kiss.

As Feyre turned a new shade of pink, Lucien cleared his throat and asked her, “Are you feeling better?”

She breathed a laugh, then looked toward him with a wicked smirk. “You mean after you gave me those enchanted berries?”

He chuckled as he sat back down. “I guess I did forget you were human, after all.”

Tamlin released her hand at last, but lingered at her side. “How do you feel?” he asked her.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, placing her hands in her lap. Apparently satisfied with her answer, Tamlin reached for a crystal decanter of pale wine. No fizz, though. Lucien covered his mouth to hide his smile at the memory.

As Tamlin filled her goblet, she said, “I need to ask you something.”

“Anything,” the High Lord said, setting down the decanter.

She took a deep breath. “There are a lot of people—faeries—around. When did they arrive?”

Tamlin and Lucien exchanged surprised looks. “You can still see them?” the High Lord asked her.

“Yes, I—” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him askance. “Are they usually invisible?”

It was Tamlin’s turn to take a deep breath. “Yes,” he admitted, taking Feyre’s plate to fill it for her.

Feyre sunk into her seat, stunned. “But I didn’t hear them. I didn’t hear anything.”

Lucien remarked, “Of course not. Tam made sure that you couldn’t see or hear anyone but those who were absolutely necessary.”

She stared at him. “How? Unless…” She gasped and turned to Tamlin. “You glamoured me.”

The High Lord’s mouth was pinched as he set the full plate in front of her. “I thought it would make the transition… easier.”

Feyre’s gaze fell to her plate. “Because I’m human,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” he said softly, standing beside her. He didn’t try to deny it. “I was going to give you a little more time to adjust before I removed it…” He trailed off.

“And then I ate those berries,” she finished.

“Yes,” Tamlin said again, shooting a glare Lucien’s way.

Lucien winced. Though his friend had forgiven him, it was terrible timing, what with Calanmai happening the day after tomorrow. But Feyre didn’t seem to notice.

As Tamlin returned to his seat, he explained, “Once the magic from the witchberries wears off, the glamour will start working again. You won’t see any of the others—”

“What if I want to see them?” Feyre said.

Lucien and Tamlin exchanged surprised glances. “You actually want to?” Lucien remarked.

She quickly nodded. “I was… surprised when I first saw Alis,” she admitted—though shocked was probably more accurate since she had likely never seen a Urisk before—then she looked to Tamlin. “I know you were just trying to protect me, so that I wouldn’t cower in my room, but…”

Tamlin leaned forward. “But?”

She took a slow, deep breath. “I’m tired of secrets. Of being afraid.”

“The world will not become less dangerous just because you can see it,” Tamlin warned.

She nodded again. “I know.” Then she bit her lip. “Would I be able to see the Bogge, if it came back?”

The High Lord shook his head. “No. It is not that kind of creature, but you shouldn’t look at it anyway if you can help it. Besides, it doesn’t belong to my Court.”

“So that’s why I could see the naga,” she said, realization dawning on her face.

He nodded. “Creatures like the puca—and worse—can still glamour you, though. So, I don’t want you to go looking for trouble once your faerie sight fades.”

“I won’t,” she agreed.

“And no more witchberries, either,” he added, glaring sidelong at Lucien.

Lucien scratched at his scar and glanced away, wondering if that included the bottle of faerie wine he’d stashed in his room for Feyre.

Feyre loosed a deep breath. “Agreed.”

“Not so fast,” the High Lord said, surprising them both. “If I do this—if I remove the glamour—what will you give me in exchange?”

Feyre looked at him askance. “What do you mean?”

A sly smile touched Tamlin’s lips. “I spent a fair amount of magic on you these last three months, keeping you blissfully ignorant of the world around you. I’d like to know that magic was well-spent.”

Feyre crossed her arms and cocked her head. “So, you want me to grovel with gratitude, High Lord?” she teased, echoing what she had said that day in the Golden Glen.

The High Lord chuckled. “Nothing that dramatic.” He tilted his head and smirked. “I’ll settle for a kiss.”

Feyre’s eyes widened as she straightened in her chair. She blushed up to her hairline and down to her flattering scooped neckline. “I-I didn’t ask you to glamour me,” she stammered. But she didn’t say no.

“Faeries never give anything without getting something in return,” Tamlin countered slyly.

You sneaky bastard, Lucien thought with a wry smile. “It’s true,” he told Feyre, and it was. “We are very good at getting our way. You just have to listen and pay attention so that you get a fair bargain, too.” When she said nothing and only sucked her lips inside her mouth, he decided to put her more at ease. “For example,” he added, half-teasing, “if I were to offer you the moon on a string, would you give me a kiss, too?”

What was visible of Tamlin’s face flushed beneath the mask as he turned to Lucien with a soft snarl. “Don’t be an ass.”

Lucien spread his hands wide. “Hey, I said: If.”

“Fine.”

Lucien and Tamlin turned as one to look at Feyre, who had spoken. “Fine?” they repeated in unison.

She squared her shoulders and nodded. “Fine,” she said again. “I’ll give you a kiss if you remove the glamour,” she told Tamlin.

Behind his mask, Lucien’s brows raised in surprise as Feyre stood and walked toward the other end of the table. Each soft click of her heeled slippers echoed through him as she came closer, a vision in velvet. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he was disappointed that Feyre had agreed to kiss the High Lord instead, but that meant everything was happening the way it was supposed to.

For his part, Tamlin’s bravado appeared to melt away as he quickly, nervously rose to his feet. Lucien didn’t blame him. Whether it was the look in her eye—faerie sight, probably—or the way she looked in that gown, he’d be nervous, too. The High Lord cleared his throat as he stepped away from his chair to join Feyre where she stood, waiting for him to fulfill their bargain.

Lucien crossed his arms and sat back in his seat, half-wishing he could glamour them from his sight so he didn’t have to watch, but the other half of him was curious to see what would happen, just the same. And unless Tamlin told him to leave, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Close your eyes,” Tamlin said quietly. Lucien pretended not to hear that part.

Feyre’s eyes obediently closed, then she lifted her chin for good measure. Lucien found himself holding his breath as he watched them, then noticed her fingers curling into her velvet skirts as she stood, there, waiting. She was nervous, too, but better at hiding it.

Tamlin’s fingers came to rest under her chin as he wet his lips, then he leaned in and brushed a kiss against one of her closed eyelids, then the other. Then he pulled away without stealing another kiss, though he certainly could have.

Feyre swayed there a moment, her eyes still closed, as she waited for something else to happen. When nothing did, her eyes fluttered open. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Tamlin said with a shy smile.

Feyre glanced around, at the room, the table, at Lucien. “Everything looks the same,” she remarked, turning to Tamlin.

“It won’t tomorrow,” the High Lord replied. “Once the faerie sight wears off, everything will look more… normal.”

“But no more glamours,” she said pointedly.

“No more glamours,” he assured her.

Her relief was evident as she took a deep breath and smiled. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“What about your part of the bargain?”

She stiffened again. “My what?”

Tamlin’s sly smile returned as he leaned in. “What about my kiss?”

She pursed her lips and looked at him askance. “Close your eyes, then,” she said at last.

When he did so, she grabbed his hand and slammed her mouth against the back of it. “There’s your kiss,” she declared at Tamlin’s shocked expression. Then she grinned. “You didn’t say on the mouth.”

Lucien tipped back in his chair and howled with laughter. Luckily there was no fountain nearby, though Tamlin looked tempted to throw him into the fireplace, just the same. But then Feyre began to laugh as well, and Tamlin joined in, loudly and heartily.

Chapter Text

“No gown today?” Lucien remarked at dinner the next night.

Feyre smoothed her tunic as she sat down at her usual place at the table. “I was painting and lost track of time. There wasn’t time to change,” she explained with a shy smile.

“That’s a shame,” he said, reaching for his wine. “I was beginning to get used to the sight of you in a dress.”

Her cheeks warmed. Wearing a dress to dinner hadn’t been as terrible as she thought, even if the shoes pinched. The awed look on Lucien’s face alone had made the pain worth it, but now he barely glanced in her direction. He hadn’t even teased her about the newest splotch of paint on her breeches. It was a rather pretty shade of lavender, too, mixed especially for the Starlight Pond painting. “I’ll dress up for you tomorrow night, if that pleases you,” she said coolly, hoping for a more enthusiastic response.

Lucien smiled into his goblet. “It’s a shame I won’t be here to see that,” he said, eyeing her sidelong, then tipped his head back for a swallow.

She blinked. “Are you going somewhere?”

Tamlin interjected, “You don’t know?”

She met the High Lord’s eye and wordlessly shook her head.

Tamlin cleared his throat. “Calanmai is tomorrow night. We won’t be here, so I’ll make sure the kitchen staff leaves you a dinner tray.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I thought the ceremony was after dinner.”

Tamlin cocked his head. “How do you know about the ceremony?”

“Lucien told me.”

Lucien coughed into his fist. “I just told her she wasn’t invited,” he told Tamlin quietly.

Her face flushed as she glared at him. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

Tamlin held up his hand. “It’s not what you think,” he said soothingly. “It’s for your protection.”

“My protection?” She shifted in her chair. “What kind of ceremony is it?”

The High Lord rubbed his neck and glanced away. “It’s… just a ceremony. We light bonfires, and… the magic we create helps regenerate the land for the year ahead.”

She looked to Lucien when Tamlin fell silent. “How do you create the magic?”

Lucien coughed into his fist again. “You take this one,” he muttered to Tamlin.

She frowned at him. Unless the blight had something to do with this, he had no reason to be so mysterious. “If you don’t want to tell me, just say so,” she said irritably.

“Feyre.” Tamlin’s voice was low and firm as he locked eyes with her across the table. She stiffened at his disapproving tone, as though she were a pouting child. He took a deep breath. “It begins with the white stag.”

She straightened at the subtle shift in his voice. It was deeper, and heavier, somehow. Wandering storytellers sometimes sounded that way when telling old legends around a crackling bonfire, at least the good ones did. But this… this was not a story being told in hopes of getting a few coppers or a hot meal… She could sense that whatever Tamlin was going to say had probably inspired those old legends, once upon a time.

He held her gaze as he went on, “No one knows where the stag comes from, but it appears every year, without fail, on the eve of Calanmai. We believe it is a gift sent from the Mother Herself, a symbol of the magic that controls our world. The stag represents the death of winter and the birth of spring. The end of one year, the beginning of another…” He turned to the window and gestured to the hills beyond. “When the bonfires are lit, the Hunt begins.”

Feyre drew in a sudden breath and rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms. “You kill it?” she asked softly.

Tamlin gave her a grim nod. “It is my duty as the High Lord of Spring to hunt it down. If I do not, our crops suffer. We partake in the Great Rite by consuming its blood and its flesh, and… celebrate with a feast afterwards.” He looked toward the hills and said quietly, “Every High Lord across Prythian performs a similar ritual. It has been this way for generations.”

When he said nothing more, Feyre asked, “And that’s where the magic comes from?”

“Yes,” Tamlin said stiffly.

She glanced between the two of them, but Lucien only stared into his wine, and Tamlin stared at those distant hills. “So,” she said tentatively, “why can’t I go?”

Tamlin turned his head to frown at her, and there was a trace of beastliness in his voice as he growled, “Because I will be hunting, that’s why.”

“He doesn’t want you in the way, Feyre,” Lucien said quietly, without looking up from his goblet.

“I wouldn’t be in the way,” she tried to argue, but Tamlin cut her off.

“You’re not going, and that’s final.”

Feyre slumped in her chair with a huff, then picked at her food. They said nothing more for the rest of the meal, which was in stark contrast to the light-hearted dinner they had shared the night before. She had begun to feel like she belonged there, especially with the glamour gone, but now she felt like the sullen girl on her first night in the Spring Court, whose presence was merely tolerated by the lordly High Fae. She wished she didn’t feel that way, but she did, and they didn’t try to make her feel better.

The tension from dinner didn’t dissolve with the dawn. Even painting in her lovely little room didn’t cheer her, so she set aside the half-finished painting of Starlight Pond to work on something else. The resulting browns and greens she mixed on her palette were a perfect fit for her mood: muddy and dark.

It didn’t help matters that it seemed like every other faerie in the Spring Court was going to the celebration. With the glamour lifted, she could see them as they passed by the garden window, heading for the hills north of the manor. They were talking and laughing and carrying baskets of food, wearing fine robes that accentuated their glittering masks. She watched for Lucien, but no handsome redhead passed by the window, and Tamlin didn’t come to the painting room to see her.

Around noon, Alis brought her the usual lunch tray, but she didn’t linger. Before she turned to go, she told Feyre to behave herself while she was gone, for she would not return until the day after Calanmai. Feyre promised her that she would, though it was a sullen promise.

As the shadows grew and afternoon turned to dusk, Feyre put her paints away to take a walk in the garden. She told herself it was to watch the sunset, but her gaze kept sliding to the northern hills. As she stared at them, she thought she could see lights appearing in the distance. Despite the lingering warmth of the day, she shivered. Something was going to happen. She could feel it.

Boom. Her breath caught in her throat as that single distant drumbeat rippled through her, then two more sounded in answer. A signal. Or a summoning. Other drums joined in, echoing the first. One beat, then two more. Over and over. The rhythm filled her with a strange longing. Without meaning to, or perhaps she meant to, she took a step toward that beckoning call. Come.

“What are you doing out here?”

Feyre whirled, startled at the rough voice behind her.

Tamlin stood there, bathed in the red light of sunset. She swallowed hard at the sight of his muscled form. She hadn’t seen him shirtless since that day at Starlight Pond, and even then, she had kept her gaze modestly averted. This time, though, she couldn’t look away. Aside from the leather baldric strapped across his broad chest, form-fitting trousers were the only thing he wore. Even his feet were bare. There were no weapons at his sides, only the long claws gleaming at his fingertips, and the single knife sheathed in his baldric. Without him saying so, she knew that blade was meant for slaughtering the stag.

His unbound hair gleamed at his shoulders as he looked her over, studying her in a rather beastly way. Her heart pounded. He was the hunter incarnate. And she was in the way.

“What are you doing out here?” he said again, rough and low.

“S-sunset,” she managed, half-heartedly pointing at the deepening sky.

He did not follow the line of her finger, but continued to stare at her; the emeralds in his mask glittered in the dying light as he took a silent step closer.

She clutched the collar of her tunic and took a wary step back. Hunter. High Lord. Beast.

His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared as he inhaled—her heart skipped a beat, hoping that he wasn’t smelling her—then his head whipped toward the hills. She tentatively turned her head to follow his line of sight, then she noticed faint plumes of smoke rising into the sky. When the bonfires are lit, the Hunt begins.

“Go inside, Feyre,” he growled, still staring at the hills.

Though she knew she shouldn’t, she opened her mouth and asked, “Can’t I—”

“No,” he snarled at her, his canines lengthening. “Go to your room. Lock your door. And don’t come out until morning.”

“But I—”

“Do as you’re told.”

She bit the inside of her cheek as bitter tears stung her eyes, but she took an obedient step back.

The hard line of his mouth softened as he watched her, and for a moment the kind Fae who had taken her to Starlight Pond had returned… then the drums called to him, and he was gone.

***

A cheer rose through the assembled crowd. The white stag had been spotted. Lucien craned his neck above the sea of faeries and small tents to see a blur of white disappearing into the distant woods. He smiled. It was a good omen to see the stag before the Hunt. He glanced heavenward at the deepening sky. Soon the stars would appear, and the celebration would begin in earnest.

Already the air was thick with smoke and the thrum of magic. Faeries began to dance to the beat of the drums as the tempo quickened, encouraging the Hunter in his pursuit. Sometimes the stag was caught quickly; sometimes it took half the night. There had never been a year in Lucien’s memory that the white stag had not been caught, but there were whispered tales of droughts and famine from generations back. Tam, however, always caught the stag. Lucien had no reason to believe this year would be any different, but he whispered a prayer to the Mother, just the same.

He was startled from his thoughts by someone shoving an overflowing goblet of faerie wine into his hand. He turned to see who it was, but it was only one of many eager revelers that had broken into the wine and were passing it around. One of them raised his goblet high and cheered, “To Prythian!” and the crowd echoed it, clinking goblets, linking arms and drinking.

To Prythian, Lucien thought, drinking deeply from his wine. There were no borders between Courts on Calanmai. As he lowered his goblet, he caught sight of the first star as it twinkled into view. I pray that next year we will all celebrate Calanmai underneath the stars, and not Under the Mountain, he thought, but didn’t let himself dwell on it. Not tonight. It was finally Fire Night, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy it. 

***

The drums fell silent.

Feyre paused in her pacing to look out her bedroom window. The moon was high, and the sun had been down for some time, but the bonfires still burned brightly against the hills. She checked the clock. It was not yet midnight, but the air remained still. What did it mean? Had Tamlin caught the white stag? Would the feast soon begin? Or was the silence of the drums proof that the feast had ended and she had missed everything? It was not a pleasant thought.

She sighed and hugged her arms as she stared at those distant, taunting bonfires. It was late. She was already in her dressing gown. She should just go to bed…

Then the drums began again. She held her breath as she listened. It was a new sound. A triumphant sound. A smile touched her lips, and her heartbeat echoed their joyous rhythm as she stared at those wonderful, beckoning bonfires.

She glanced at her half-eaten dinner tray, then bit her lip, hesitating. Alis had told her to behave, and she had done that. Tamlin had told her to lock herself in her room, and she had obeyed. Lucien hadn’t given her orders; he had merely told her she wouldn’t be missing much, but it was difficult to believe that when listening to the call of the drums. She could go to the hills and see just how much she was missing for herself, just for a little while. She wouldn’t even take a sip of faerie wine, but it would be nice to taste the faerie feast. Besides, hadn’t the Suriel told her to stay with the High Lord?

Her mind was made up as she threw her dressing gown onto the bed, followed by her nightgown.

Though it was tempting to choose a dress—the faeries she had seen that day all wore robes—none of the dresses in her wardrobe had belts suitable enough to hold her jeweled knife. Instead, she chose a dark blue tunic and dark leggings with her usual boots. Though her skin was pale, she could hide her face with her hooded cloak if she had to.

As she left her bedroom behind, her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and it seemed to echo through the empty halls, echoing the distant drums. There was nobody to hear her, though; nobody to stop her. It was absolutely thrilling.

She hesitated, though, when she arrived at the stables. There was nobody to help her saddle her horse. And she didn’t know how to ride bareback. Besides, Moonlight would attract more attention in the, well, moonlight, and she didn’t dare take Shadow. Though it would take longer, she would be less conspicuous on foot. Her eyes quickly adjusted to her moonlit surroundings as she turned away from the stables and followed the call of the drums toward those glimmering bonfires in the distance.

***

A victorious roar echoed through the hills, silencing the drums, then a host of cheers drowned out the roar. The Hunter had caught his prey. The white stag was dead, and with it, the old year.

From his place near the banquet tables, Lucien saw a few coins change hands, glinting in the firelight. He shook his head and scoffed as he raised his goblet to his lips. Some faeries liked to bet on whether Tam would catch the stag before or after midnight, but the ones who bet on the latter usually lost. It had been close this year, but Tam had succeeded in taking down the stag before the night was half gone. If Lucien was the betting type, he could have made a lot of money, but there was no such thing as a sure bet. Unless you cheated. And he wasn’t the cheating type, either.

The drums began again, faster this time, the rhythm drawing more dancers while the rest of the crowd watched for the Hunter’s triumphant return.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucien noticed one of those dancers watching him as she turned and swayed with the music. He faced her and studied her in turn. She wore no mask—not Spring Court, then—and her form-fitting robes were a flattering pale blue. He himself wore the traditional green of Spring, though it was darker, mossier, echoing his Autumn Court heritage. This High Fae female could be from any of the northern Courts, though it was traditional to attend the Great Rite in one’s own territory. Not that he should care. It didn’t matter where she was from, as long as he didn’t have to see her every day after this. He’d made that mistake his first year in the Spring Court.

The female broke away from the other dancers and came closer, tossing her smooth black hair over her shoulder. Winter Court perhaps, or Dawn, maybe, based on her pale skin. No freckles, though. Not that it mattered. He glanced away and took a deep breath before taking another swallow of wine. He had to focus on the here and now. Not on the one female who wasn’t allowed to attend.

“Care to dance?” this female purred, pressing her soft curves against him.

He gave her a sly smile. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

She smiled in return, then took the goblet from his hand to take a sip of his wine. If it was any other year, he’d have been thrilled at her boldness, thrilled to be sought out by a female before the Great Rite took place. As it was, he was more annoyed than aroused.

She slowly licked her lips as she cupped the goblet—his goblet—and looked him over. “I remember you.”

He gave her a soft smirk. He had no idea who she was, but she didn’t need to know that. “Do you?”

She nodded. “I saw you last year.”

It was a relief to know that he hadn’t slept with her, then; that he didn’t need to pretend to remember her. “I’m flattered that I made such an impression on you.”

She smiled, then reached out and drew her fingers through the unbound hair at his shoulders. Though she had been dancing, her skin was cool to the touch, cool enough to make him shiver. Winter Court, then. With a start, he remembered the way Feyre had touched him, gently running her fingers through his hair, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to jerk free of this Fae’s cold hands. But he remained still and let her play. It was Calanmai.

She wound a strand of his hair around her finger as she remarked, “I’ve heard that Autumn Court males fuck like there’s fire in their blood.” She released his hair and looked up at him through her long dark lashes. “Is that true?”

He blinked, not sure which shocked him more: her candor, or her blue eyes. His heart thumped. By the Cauldron, was every female going to remind him of Feyre? He shoved the thought back and smirked. “Afraid you’ll melt, little Winter?” he teased, though it was halfhearted.

She smirked back, clearly pleased that he had guessed her Court correctly. “I stood with the Maidens last year,” she said. “But I was not chosen.”

“How unfortunate for you,” he said quietly.

She lifted her chin and tilted her head, baring her long, pale throat as she looked into his eyes. “Tell me,” she murmured, stroking her neck down to the exposed line of her cleavage. “Should I stand with the Maidens this year?”

His gaze flicked back up to her eyes as his stomach tightened. “There is a good chance you could be chosen,” he said honestly. Rowena had had black hair… Not that it was Tamlin doing the choosing, however.

She gave him a soft pout. “But what if I’m not chosen,” she said, walking her fingers up his collar, “and some other female catches your eye, what then?” She reached up and tapped the right side of his mask, beneath his brown eye.

Though she probably meant nothing by it, his fingers curled into his palms as he said evenly, “I have two eyes, you know.” 

She pulled away and gave him a playful smirk. “Then watch for me, Fire-blood.”

“I will, little Winter,” he said, then watched her sashay away with his wine. It shouldn’t have irritated him, but it did. When she was out of sight, he blew out his cheeks then ran a hand over his hair. He should have been excited, but he wasn’t. When had Calanmai become so complicated? Perhaps he was finally getting old. It was not a pleasant thought. Before he could start feeling sorry for himself, the crowd began to whoop and holler. He turned, then raised his fist and cheered with them. The High Lord—the Hunter—had appeared at the edge of the crowd, bearing the slain white stag on his shoulders. The Great Rite was about to begin.

Chapter Text

Feyre paused to catch her breath and evaluate her surroundings. It had taken a good half hour, but she had finally arrived at the first foothill. A large red bonfire blazed at the top, illuminating the milling crowd. She shook her head in amazement. Lucien hadn’t been lying when he said there would be too many High Fae around so that he couldn’t keep an eye on her. There must have been hundreds of them, if the number of bonfires lit were any indication. She took one more deep breath and squeezed the hilt of her dagger for reassurance before making her way up the hill.

Her legs burned, both from the long walk and the climb; it was strange how one month of painting could have made her so soft so soon. No matter, she told herself, trying to keep her breathing even. She would be sure to rest before she turned back to the manor, then she could sleep in the next day. Everyone else would likely be doing the same. The celebration did not look like it was going to end anytime soon.

Firelight glinted on several masked faces as they danced to the beat of the drums, but Feyre noticed that not all of them wore masks. After living so long among masked Fae, it was startling to see faces without them, so she tried not to stare.

Some noticed just the same, giving her curious glances as she passed, but she did not linger, and no one grabbed her arm and demanded to know what she was doing there. Even so, she ran her fingers down the edges of her hood, to make sure that it still concealed her rounded ears. But as she wound her way through the crowd, she realized that no one was paying that much attention to her. They were more interested in dancing and drinking.

She swallowed hard as she eyed those glittering goblets. What she wouldn’t give for just a sip to soothe her parched throat—no. She shook herself. The last thing she needed was to wake up half-naked among a crowd of strangers—and faeries at that—especially if faerie wine didn’t dull one’s memories afterwards. If she could only find the banquet tables, perhaps they would have another kind of wine. She didn’t dare hope for plain water.

When she reached the top of the hill, the heat of the flames was too much, and she allowed herself to drop her hood. She drew a deep breath. The air was thick with smoke and the metallic tang of magic. Hopefully it would conceal her human scent, whatever that smelled like to faeries. Sweeping her braid over her shoulder, she shook her head, letting the chill night air at her back cool the sweat on her neck. The drums were louder here, echoing the beat of her heart—or perhaps it was the other way around—then she saw the cluster of the drummers playing off to the side.

But the drummers did not keep her attention, for several faeries had begun drifting down the other side of the hill, toward a trench between the next two hills. Each hill had its own bonfire, its own crowd of faeries, but most of them seemed to be heading for the same place. The feast, perhaps. She swallowed, hoping to soon quench her thirst, and followed them.

The crowd grew thicker on the other side of the hill. A large path wound its way through the hollow between the hills, and at the other end lay a large cave mouth in yet another hillside. Bundles of flowers adorned its exterior, and firelight flickered from within. Was that where the feast was supposed to be? She frowned and glanced around. No one seemed to be going inside, but they were instead lingering along the sides of the path. As if they were waiting for something. Her pace slowed, and she hesitated as she tried to figure out where she was supposed to go.

Faeries began to jostle past her in their eagerness to reach the bottom of the hill, so she broke free from the crowd and stumbled toward the nearby line of trees to catch her breath.

She huffed. This place was more crowded than she had expected, and more crowded than any village gathering she had ever been to. What made Calanmai so special, anyway? She’d missed the Hunt, and she had yet to see a plate of food in anybody’s hands. Her stomach grumbled; she wished she had finished her dinner. She was even beginning to wish that she hadn’t come at all when someone seized her arm.

“What have we here?” a male voice leered.

She stiffened as three male faeries sauntered into view, the largest of them keeping a firm grip on her elbow. The light from the surrounding bonfires was enough to see that none of them wore masks, so their sharp, ethereal features were completely visible. With long black hair and large bottomless black eyes, they smiled at her with teeth that were a little too long and sharp for her liking. With a start, she realized she had seen them before… or at least one who looked like them, long ago. The blue-skinned faerie whose hand she had held when he died from losing his wings. But these three had their wings; she could see the glittering edges of them folded at their backs as they began to circle her.

“What manner of faerie are you?” one asked, lifting her cloak to inspect her figure. She snatched the fabric from his long-fingered grip, trying not to panic.

“No wings,” another remarked, then reached out and traced the shell of her rounded ear. “So she’s not an Illyrian.” She slapped his hand away. He rubbed his hand and chuckled. “Ooh, feisty.”

“Too pale to be Illyrian, anyways,” the third said, keeping her arm in his grip as he caught her chin and turned her head. The thought of these three scoundrels with their wings intact while the other had lost his made her sick.

“Let go,” she snapped, jerking her chin free. Her skin burned where his long nails scraped her; she hoped she wasn’t bleeding.

“So she can speak,” the first said, then poked a sharp finger in the flesh of her hip. She yelped and twitched away, but he poked again, this time at her knife. “Autumn Court, you reckon?”

“Nah,” the faerie holding her arm said. “I think she’s human.”

Feyre froze at the way he said that. It was not contempt in his voice. It was something worse.

“Hmm… I’ve never had a human before…” the second said thoughtfully, leaning in. His bottomless black eyes glittered as he looked her over.

“What do you want?” she snapped, grateful that she sounded braver than she felt.

“Just some Fire Night fun,” he said, reaching for the braid resting over her shoulder. He slid it through his fingers, then tugged the ribbon free.

Terror seized her as she watched him lift the ribbon to his nose, and she realized what exactly their idea of fun was. Her fingers edged toward her knife, but the first faerie caught her wrist before she could grab it. “Let me go,” she said, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice.

“Why?” the second asked innocently, winding her ribbon around his wrist. “Aren’t you here for the Rite?”

She hesitated. Hadn’t she already missed the ceremony…?

The three faeries shared knowing smiles. “Thought so,” the third said, turning her towards the trees.

“No,” she grunted, trying to dig in her heels, but the grass was too slick, and their grip on her arms was too strong.

“I doubt you would have been chosen, anyway,” the first remarked, looking her over. “That honor is reserved for High Fae females.”

She tried to yank her arms free, but they held her fast. What was he talking about? Chosen?

“You’ll have more fun with us,” the second said from behind her.

“She’s probably never had three at once, though,” the third said. “We’ll start slow…”

“After all, we have all night,” the second drawled. Her throat tightened as he slid his fingers through her hair, loosening the braid.

“We could even teach her wingplay,” the first added, and they chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound.

Tears sprang to her eyes. They were nearly to the trees. “Get your hands off me,” she choked out, hoping that someone was listening. But the incessant drums filled the air, and everyone else was gathering in the hollow between the hills. No one had noticed her standing there alone. No one except these three bastards.

They’d cornered her just like the naga, but somehow these faeries with their unearthly beauty were worse than those snakes. Would the High Lord hunt them down, if he knew? But by the time he finished hunting the white stag, it would be too late. She blinked back tears. Why had she thought sneaking away was a good idea? Lucien had warned her… She drew a sharp breath at the thought. Would Lucien come running if she screamed?

Just as she opened her mouth, a deep male voice said, “Going somewhere?”

The faeries froze, mere steps away from the cove of trees when another faerie stepped out from the shadows. No. Not a faerie. A High Fae male dressed in black, with short dark hair, moon-pale skin, and… wings. She stared at them in awe. Unlike the dragonfly wings of the faeries holding her, his were large and leathery, shaped like a bat’s, with a curved, shining talon at each apex. What Court was he from? Did some High Fae have wings? She couldn’t remember.

“The Great Rite is the other way,” he said coolly, then his gaze flicked to her. The distant firelight gleamed on his vivid violet eyes, and he smiled. “Hello, darling,” he purred, tucking his wings behind him. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The three faeries stiffened and sucked in sharp breaths at the same time. “We didn’t know she was yours,” the one behind her said hurriedly. The other two released her and the third shoved her toward the stranger, as if the touch of her burned them.

She staggered forward. Though she wasn’t his—or anybody’s—she gratefully ran to the stranger’s side. He slipped a casual arm around her shoulders as she turned to face the others, rubbing her sore arms. Their expressions were a mix of fear and disdain as they glanced between her and the High Fae male.

“We were just having a bit of fun,” one of them muttered.

“We meant no harm,” another insisted quickly.

“Of course not,” the stranger drawled. “You were merely providing the lady with an escort…”

“Yes! Yes, an escort,” the third agreed.

Feyre grimaced at their lies, then glanced up to see the stranger smirking at them.

“It’s Calanmai, so I’m feeling charitable,” he remarked. “What with the death of the old year and all…”

His grip on her shoulder tightened. The other three seemed to be holding their breaths.

“Enjoy the Rite,” he said lightly, but there was enough of a bite behind those words that the faeries scrambled over each other to get away. As they disappeared into the crowd, he sneered. “Cowards,” he muttered. “They give winged faeries a bad name.”

It was only once they were out of sight that Feyre let herself relax. She let out a heavy sigh, then stepped out from under the stranger’s arm to thank him. But before she said a word, his wings disappeared. She blinked, but they were gone; it was as if they had never been.

The stranger straightened his tunic and tugged at his embroidered cuffs, apparently unbothered by the fact that his wings were just… gone. Vanished into nothingness.

She gaped. “How… how did you—”

“I glamoured myself,” he said dismissively, slipping his hands in his pockets. His gaze slid to her, then the crowd in the distance. “A handy little trick for scaring off the riff-raff.”

“Oh,” she breathed, then glanced over her shoulder at the growing assembly. The drums continued to draw the crowd into the hollow, but she saw no sign of those three awful faeries. She sighed again and clutched at the collar of her cloak, grateful to still be wearing it.

“Tell me,” he said smoothly. “What is a human woman doing here, all alone, on Calanmai?”

Her grip tightened on her collar as she bit her lip, considering her answer carefully. The way he’d frightened off those faeries made her hesitate. He had saved her, but to what end?

“Hunting, perhaps?” he suggested in a low purr.

She glanced up, startled, to see his sights set on the knife at her hip. She drew her cloak closed and squared her shoulders. “My friends brought me,” she lied.

He arched an elegant eyebrow. “Some friends,” he quipped. “Abandoning you before the Great Rite.”

She swallowed. If the Great Rite wasn’t the Hunt, what was it? Then again, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to know. “They went to get refreshments.”

He smiled, a knowing smile. Her heart thumped; he had somehow seen through her lie. “Did they now?”

She lifted her chin. “Yes. So if you’ll just point me in the direction of the… the feast, I’ll be on my way.”

His hands remained in his pockets. “Who are these friends of yours?” he asked. “Humans, like yourself?”

“No. Faeries,” she said stiffly. It wasn’t a complete lie, since she considered Alis a friend. Lucien and Tamlin were High Fae, but this stranger didn’t need to know that.

“Hmm.” His gaze swept over her. “Strange for a human to be friends with faeries.” He flicked his eyebrows up at her. “I thought humans hated our kind.”

“Not all of them,” she said warily. She jerked her head in the direction the three faeries had gone. “Just the wicked ones.”

His eyes gleamed as he smirked. “How do you tell the difference?”

“I—” Her mind went blank as his words sunk in. “I think my friends are looking for me.”

He snorted softly. “Be sure to tell your friends to keep you out of trouble.” He turned back toward the trees. “Enjoy the Rite.”

She stared at his wingless shoulders as he walked away, then she blurted, “I never thanked you.” When he paused, she stammered, “You know. For saving me.”

He turned his head. “No. You didn’t.”

Her cheeks flushed. “I—um. Thank you.”

He half-turned, arching an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

She bristled at his bored, arrogant tone. “Thank you, noble sir, for saving me from those wicked faeries. I am forever in your debt. Satisfied?”

He chuckled, then turned to face her with a rather wicked smile. She gulped; she had forgotten who—what—she was talking to. “A life-debt,” he purred. “Interesting.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she stammered. “Besides, I’ve already done that.”

His smile disappeared as he looked at her askance. “Done what?”

“A life for a life. My life. It’s spoken for.”

His eyes narrowed, and he took his hands out of his pockets. “Who did you say brought you here?” he asked quietly, stepping closer.

She stepped back. “I didn’t say.” She’d already said too much.

His gaze flicked to the crowd behind her. She’d nearly forgotten where she was, why she had come. She had forgotten about the drums. How they echoed her rapidly beating heart. The High Fae male looked down at her then, and smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “Enjoy the Rite,” he said softly, then straightened up and returned his hands to his pockets.

She knew a dismissal when she heard one. Though she would have liked nothing more than to turn tail and flee, she made herself turn and walk slowly, carefully, back to the hollow. More faeries had arrived in the few minutes she had been away, though it felt like an eternity had passed. As she let herself be swept into the crowd, she realized her hands were shaking.

***

High Fae beauties of every Court jostled for a place at the edge of the path, hoping to be chosen by the Hunter as his Maiden to complete the Great Rite.

It was a story as old as Prythian itself. Before the Mother, there was the Maiden. The Hunter: her mate. The white stag was his offering to her, proof that he could provide for her, that he could fill the Cauldron with the life-blood that had made their world. When she accepted his offering, she cooked the flesh of the stag herself and gave it to him, a sign that she had accepted their bond. The skin of the stag was their mating bed, spread upon the floor of the cave that represented the shelter he would give her as his lifelong mate, as the Mother of his offspring.

It played out the same way in every Court, though more symbolic than it was in Spring. If the High Lord in question was already mated, the selection of the Maiden was simple. Unless that High Lord had Amarantha for a mate. Then it was anybody’s guess. Tamlin had never accepted their bond, so he let the magic choose a ‘mate’ for him. The Maiden was different every year, both in looks and the Court she hailed from.

Lucien had never attended Calanmai in any other Court but Autumn, so he did not know how the other High Lords made their selections. In Autumn, unless things had changed since he left, Beron would choose the youngest and prettiest of the females for the Rite. No matter that Lady Melora was an auburn-haired beauty with soft russet eyes. No matter that she had born him seven sons. She was not his mate, so he was not obligated to choose her. A pathetic excuse, Lucien thought, but he never said so.

Lucien gathered with the other males behind the line of hopeful females. Once the High Lord—the Hunter—had made his choice, he would take the designated Maiden to the cave to complete the Rite, to ‘claim’ her as his mate. Then the others were free to feast and mingle and couple as they chose, multiple times if they wished. Every dalliance, no matter how trivial, was an affirmation of that ancient Rite, and generated more magic that helped the land and made it prosper.

The drums began to increase in tempo as the High Lord appeared in the distance. Lucien could not make out more than the glint of his golden mask or the green laurel wreath on his head, which was a symbol of his victory over the stag. When the High Lord drew closer, the blue woad painted on his chest would be visible, a symbol of the muddy struggle to take down the stag as the Hunter.

The white stag’s throat had already been slit, and its blood captured in an ancient golden goblet that represented the Cauldron itself. Though it had been mixed with wine to make it more palatable, he would present the vessel to the Maiden of his choice, and when she accepted by drinking from it, they would go to the cave. There, several skins would be lining the floor to make it more comfortable for them as she roasted a single piece of stag meat over the fire, which she would present to him as his ‘mate’. Then the feast, in every sense of the word, would begin.

The rest of the stag would be cooked and served with the food outside the cave. The quicker the stag was taken down, the more time there was for feasting and drinking and coupling. For when the dawn came, Calanmai—Fire Night—would be over, and a new year would begin, filled with magic and promise.

The Hunter slowly drew closer, letting the magic guide him in his quest to find the Maiden. The air was thick with it; Lucien could feel it pulsing through him. It was the one night of the year he felt strong again. Not as strong as he had been before Amarantha came along, but strong enough to winnow if he had to. It was no wonder Amarantha never interfered with this ceremony. No one, not even the High Lords, got to keep the magic they made. What didn’t go to the land went to her. The euphoria from faerie wine could not compare to that rush of power.  

The rejected females began to fall back as the Hunter passed them by. Lucien glanced around the remaining selection of potential Maidens, looking for the hopeful Winter female with long black hair and blue eyes. Instead, his gaze fell upon another female with blue eyes and freckles, and hair that shone like burnished gold… His eyes widened in horror. Feyre.

Chapter Text

Feyre glanced around the High Fae females surrounding her, looking for one with a mask, looking for a Spring Court Fae she could trust. She’d had enough of maskless faeries for one night. She wanted to go home, but the manor would have to do.

There were no Spring Fae nearby, though, and no one paid any attention to her. Every one of the females near her was too busy primping as they smoothed their hair and adjusted their robes, all the while they looked toward the far end of the path, the one leading up to the cave. She strained to see what they were looking at, but she couldn’t see who—or what—everyone was waiting for. She sighed, feeling tired and thirsty and terribly alone.

She looked across the path, hoping to spot a faerie like Alis. There were no bird-masked Fae around, though, but there was one wearing a fox mask… She blinked, and the fox-masked faerie blinked back. Then his mismatched eyes—one russet, one gold—widened. Lucien.

Relief flooded through her, sagging her shoulders, and she smiled. But just as she opened her mouth to call to him, he vanished. She stared at the empty spot he had just occupied, and wondered if she had imagined it, when someone grabbed her elbow and yanked her out of the crowd.

She yelped and staggered, trying not to panic. Not again. She tried to twist her arm free; those faeries must have found her—but no. She straightened at the familiar Fae holding her arm. It was Lucien. But he didn’t look as happy to see her as she was to see him.

“Have you lost your mind?” he cried, grasping her shoulders. His face had turned deathly pale. “What are you doing here?”

Bewildered, she pointed in the direction where she thought the banquet tables might be. “I-I just wanted to—”

“You idiot!” He glanced in the direction the other faeries stared. “You don’t know what you want.”

She frowned. Her retort turned to a yelp as he bent and slung her over his shoulder as though she were a sack of potatoes.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked above the drums as he began carrying her away from the crowd. He’d never carried her like this, even when she was falling over her own feet.

He didn’t answer, but she could feel him take a deep breath, as though he was preparing to take off running. She braced herself for the uncomfortable jog, but it never came. A sudden blast of cold, dark air made her gasp, and all was still. Before she could register what had just happened, she was being dropped to her feet.

She stumbled back, disoriented. The air was warm again, but there were no bonfires nearby. The drums were a distant rumble that she could feel through the floor. Its polished, checkered surface gleamed in the moonlight which streamed through large, starry windows. She straightened her cloak and turned around. It didn’t seem possible, but… she was back. Lucien had brought her back to the manor.

She gawked at him. It had taken her half an hour to travel to the northern hills, and he had brought her back in an instant. She couldn’t decide which was more the relevant question: how, or why?

He panted as he glared at her. Whatever magic he had used to bring them here had taxed him greatly. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, then pointed to the stairs. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in your room? Didn’t Tam tell you? Didn’t Alis?”

She blinked back surprised tears and clenched her fists at her sides. “You didn’t, but I stayed in my room until the ceremony was over—”

He swore and grabbed fistfuls of his hair. “That wasn’t even the ceremony!” he shouted.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

“By the Cauldron,” he moaned, looking to the ceiling. “If Tam had found you there…”

Her chest tightened. “What?” she snapped. “He’d yell at me, too?”

He straightened up and stared at her. “You have no idea what the Great Rite is, do you.” It wasn’t a question, but that didn’t stop her from answering it.

“No,” she said bitterly. “Because nobody tells me anything.” Then she mockingly splayed her hand against her chest. “Because I’m just a human. I wouldn’t understand—”

“Feyre, it’s a mating ceremony!” Lucien cried. His words hung in the air between them, ringing through the empty entry hall.

She stared at him, stunned, as he growled and turned away from her to run a hand over his hair. Her mind raced with questions, but all she could manage to say was, “I… I thought Tamlin hated his mate.”

Lucien barked a laugh as he turned back to face her. “This is older than their bond, Feyre. Much older.”

She slowly rubbed her shoulders, fighting off the shiver those words sent across her skin. Three months living with faeries hadn’t taught her much at all, it seemed. “What… what is it, then?”

Lucien sighed, then glanced at the starry windows. Moonlight gleamed on his bronze mask, gleaming on the sheen of sweat on his skin. “Tam wasn’t just hunting the white stag. The same magic that makes the stag appear also summons the spirit of the Hunter. The High Lord of Spring is his chosen vessel, so that he may hunt the stag and find the Maiden.”

Feyre hugged herself tighter as she realized that Tamlin had told her the same thing, but she hadn’t understood what he meant when he said he was hunting. Then again, he had been vague on purpose, because she was being nosy. Again. But how could she not be, when every story she’d heard across the Wall was just that: another story? “So… who’s the Maiden?”  

Lucien looked at her. “No one knows until it’s time. After he sacrifices the white stag, he makes his way to that sacred cave, where he’ll find the path lined with hopeful females waiting to be chosen as his mate for tonight. It’s the same ritual every year, but never the same female… It’s an honor to be chosen.”

I doubt you would have been chosen, one of the faeries had said. Her blood ran cold. “Then… then I was—”

“Standing with the potential Maidens? Yes.”

Feyre stepped back and slowly shook her head. “No… He wouldn’t have chosen me. I’m not High Fae. I’m not even a faerie—”

“He cares for you, Feyre,” he said quietly. “And if he chose you tonight…” Lucien shook his head. “It wouldn’t be him. Not really. This mating ceremony… It’s not for lovemaking.”

She swallowed hard against the rising bile and put a hand to her mouth as she turned away, sickened at the thought of some… some thing forcing her to… to… like those three faeries had wanted to—

Lucien turned for the door. “I have to go. I have to make sure the magic doesn’t lead him to you.”

She grabbed his hand. “Don’t leave. Please.” Don’t leave me alone again, she thought. The three faeries, the dark-haired stranger, Tamlin… Lucien was the only one who made her feel safe, especially tonight.

Lucien turned to face her; his mismatched eyes were wide, his lips parted in surprise as he met her gaze, then looked down at their joined hands. But he did not pull away.

She slowly ran her thumb over the back of his hand. His skin was warm, almost hot but pleasantly so, as she curled her fingers around his. After a breathless moment, his fingers tightened around hers in turn.

Warmth spread up her arm at his touch, and a slight smile touched her lips. Her heartbeat echoed the distant drums as she lifted her head and stepped closer. His gaze slowly slid from their joined hands to her ardent expression.

She wet her lips. “Stay,” she said softly. “The magic won’t hurt me if you’re here.”

With her other hand, she reached out and stroked the smooth hair at his shoulders. It was as soft and silky as that day she’d trapped him in the woods, when she thought he was the puca, showing her what she most wanted in the world… Him.  

His breathing quickened, but he said nothing as her hand came to rest at his neck.

“Will you?” she whispered breathlessly. “Stay with me?”

His shadowed eyes were half-lidded as they dropped to her lips. “I’ll stay.” His voice was a rough whisper.

She did not know if it was her blood or the drums that pounded in her ears as she pulled him down to meet her mouth.

His lips were soft and hesitant as they slowly melded to her own. She tasted a trace of sweet wine as he lingered against her mouth. Then they drew a shared breath as their lips parted before coming together once more. Moving together. Testing… Tasting… Teasing.

She let out a shaky gasp as he pulled back, just a little; his own breaths sounded ragged. She tucked her lips inside her mouth, tasting his kiss, as her hands slid free from his neck. As her hands skimmed down the rich fabric covering his firm chest, the heat of his skin leeched through the raw silk of his robes, and the warmth of his breath stirred her hair as he bent his head over hers. His hands came to rest ever so gently on her arms, as if afraid to touch her.

Her fingers paused at the fine embroidery on his lapels. He never wore robes, so it must be something special he wore for Fire Night. Her face flushed as she imagined sliding her hands beneath them… what she might see beneath, how his skin would feel beneath her palms, how she would feel beneath his palms, and what might come after… Her breath caught, and as she lifted her head, all thoughts vanished as their eyes locked.

His mismatched pupils were wide as if he had read her thoughts, his lips parted as he looked at her. It was not the way the other faeries had looked at her. Her heart grew still. She had just enough time to gasp before he crushed his mouth against hers, his arms crushing her against him. She opened her mouth beneath his, and they kissed deeply, hungrily. Her fingers curled into the collar of his robes, trying to pull him even closer.

The heat of his hands sliding beneath her cloak and roaming over her back seemed to singe through her tunic, but it was not enough. She wanted that heat against her skin, sliding over her neck, her breasts, her stomach… She wanted—no, needed—his fire between her legs.

She was wildly grateful when his clever fingers unclasped her cloak pin so that she did not have to release her hold on him, and the hot, heavy fabric slid to the floor at their feet. Their mouths parted only when they stumbled back against the nearest wall. Her chest heaved in time with his as she panted, “Your bed or mine?” before bringing her eager mouth to his.

Lucien grew still against her, and confusion made her open her eyes as he drew back. He stared at her, breathing hard. Though she kissed him again, holding his gaze, he did not kiss her back.

“What’s wrong?” she murmured, cupping his neck.

His throat bobbed, and he caught her hands and dropped his gaze. His sigh was shaky, and his hands trembled around her own. “This was a mistake,” he whispered.

Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. She slowly shook her head, unsure that she’d heard him correctly. “Wh-what was?”

“This,” he repeated. He dropped her hands and stepped back and gestured at her. “You—This. I can’t do this with you.”

The heat of her humiliation burned colder than the fire of her desire. Blinking back sudden tears, she bit her lip as he turned away. Away from her. She drew a quivering breath, then called after him, “Is it because I’m not one of you?”

Lucien paused, but did not turn around, nor did he speak.

She wasn’t sure whether to take his silence as an affirmative answer. Stepping closer, she managed to keep her voice steady. “I thought it didn’t matter to you… that I don’t have magic.”

He sighed, then turned to her with a grimace. “It’s Calanmai,” he said gruffly. “This…” He gestured to her again. “What happened between us just now… It’s not real.”

His words pierced her like a knife. She hugged herself, trying to shield herself from what she hoped was a lie. Faeries could lie. It had to be a lie. There had been no mistaking that look in his eye when she wore that jade dress, or when he’d brushed that charcoal from her cheek in the garden, or that moment right before he kissed her back. She slowly shook her head. “What do you mean?”  

Lucien looked away, toward the hills. “The Hunter and the Maiden are not the only ones who get to perform the Rite tonight,” he said flatly. “Though it’s not the Great Rite, every coupling makes the magic that much stronger and feeds the land when dawn comes.”

“Coupling?” She swallowed hard as she remembered standing with the other Maidens, seeing Lucien waiting with other males across the path.  “So—so you were there to…” She couldn’t say it. What was it those faeries had said? Just some Fire Night fun.

“Yes,” Lucien said quietly, answering her unspoken question. “Do you understand now why… why we didn’t want to tell you?”

Because she was human, and they didn’t think she’d understand. But she did. Too well. It was no different than every hour she had spent in that shadowy barn with Isaac. It was a release. But to her, it was more than that. It was an attempt to escape what her life had become since her father lost his fortune. There was no thinking involved, no worrying about hunting or chopping wood or washing their patchy clothes. Only the sensations of the moment. Of bruising kisses, fingers sliding across sweat-dampened skin, the groans of pleasure in her ear as he pushed himself into her, pushing her harder against the pile of threadbare horse blankets covering the solid barn floor. And every once in a while, her head would fall back with her own pleasured cry, and the hard knot of anger and frustration and fear in her core would melt away… She would float home, contented, and it made the days more bearable until their next meeting. It was the only thing she looked forward to, until it all came crashing down. She had just turned nineteen, and Isaac proposed to someone else.

It hurt to breathe. “I understand,” she had told Isaac then, and she said it to Lucien now. “I understand.” She swiped the tears away from her flushed cheeks, and pursed her lips to keep them from trembling.

He looked at her the same way Isaac had: with pity. She couldn’t stand it.

“Go. Enjoy the Rite,” she said bitterly. “I hope she’s everything you want.” As soon as she said it, she wished she could take it back. She wished he would refute it. But he didn’t. Isaac hadn’t, either.

Lucien looked away and turned for the door. “Stay in your room tonight, Feyre,” he said quietly. “No matter what happens tonight, keep the door locked. And don’t come out until morning.”

Before she could retort, before she could say anything else, he took a step toward the door and vanished. She sucked in a sharp, painful breath. He was gone. He had left her alone to be with someone else. Someone beautiful and immortal and magical… Someone who wasn’t her.

***

Lucien slumped against a tree somewhere near the hollow, breathing hard after winnowing for the third time that night. The nearby drumbeats pulsed through him, but he was exhausted. The night was half over, and he still hadn’t participated in the Rite. Not that he didn’t want to. Oh, he wanted to. But the female he wanted was the one female he couldn’t have. And worst of all, she wanted him, too.

He ran a hand through his hair as he pressed his back to the tree and closed his eyes. He could still taste her, could still feel the woven fabric of her tunic rumpling beneath his palms as he caressed the soft curve of her waist. He could still hear the soft sound she’d made against his mouth when he tugged her against him… He could still see the hurt in her eyes when he pushed her away.

No matter what decision he could have made, it would have hurt her. Even if he had taken her to bed, he couldn’t be gentle; not on Calanmai. And even if she hadn’t wanted him to be gentle—he groaned, trying not to imagine it—Fire Night ended at dawn. Would either of them feel the same way when morning came? He shuddered to think what might have happened if Tamlin had found them, and what that meant for Amarantha’s curse.

As much as it hurt him to do it, hurting Feyre’s feelings was the only thing logical choice he could have made. And he hated himself for it.

He pushed away from the tree with another groan, hard and aching. Though the magic of Calanmai had given him the ability to winnow until dawn, he didn’t think he had it in him to do it again. Completing the Rite was going to be difficult enough. Which reminded him. He had to make sure Tamlin didn’t leave the hollow to go looking for Feyre—

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the High Lord’s pet fox.”

Lucien snapped to attention and whirled around, looking for the owner of that smug voice. His gold eye saw through the shadows beyond the trees, and he growled. “Rhys.”

The High Lord of the Night Court stepped out from the shadows and sneered at him. “Only my friends and equals call me Rhys. As I recall, you threw away your chance to become my equal a long time ago.”

“So, what does your master call you, then?” Lucien quipped. “Besides whore.”

Rhysand frowned. “If it wasn’t Calanmai, I’d rip out that golden eye of yours and make you choke on it.”

“If it wasn’t Calanmai, you’d be sitting in a cage Under the Mountain with the rest of them,” Lucien snarled. “So, if you have something to say, say it. I’m sure Amarantha’s bed is growing cold, and you still have to perform the Rite before sunrise.”

Rhysand’s face darkened. “I don’t take orders from lackeys like you.”

“Yet here you are, talking to one. I’m flattered. Really.”

The High Lord glared at him. “I grow tired of your mindless chatter, so I’ll make this quick.”

Lucien lifted his chin and squared his shoulders as Rhysand began to circle him. His fingers curled into his palms, itching to touch a weapon of some kind, if only for reassurance. Eris had warned him repeatedly never to let his guard down, yet here he was, at the mercy of the High Lord of the Night Court, and his sword was back at the manor. It was only the unspoken truce between Fae that kept them from shedding blood on Calanmai. Thank the Mother for small mercies.

“There was a human here earlier tonight,” Rhysand remarked. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Lucien’s blood ran cold. Feyre. “What kind of human?” he said dumbly.

Rhysand frowned at him. “The kind of human that would mess up her plans.” Amarantha’s.

“And I’m supposed to be worried?” he quipped. “After all these years Under the Mountain, I think you’ve forgotten whose side you’re on.”

The High Lord turned on him and hissed, “I’ve forgotten nothing.”

Lucien stiffened as Rhysand’s pupils turned to slits. Tamlin’s wolfish beast form didn’t scare him, but Rhysand’s draconic form did.

But before the High Lord began to shift further, he straightened up and quickly composed himself. Tugging at his tunic, he said coolly, “I have a very, very long memory. Especially when it comes to members of the Autumn Court.”

Lucien clenched his jaw. Lady Morrigan was Rhysand’s cousin. Their hatred of her former betrothed, his eldest brother Eris, extended to the entire Vanserra family. “Threatening me won’t do you any good. I haven’t had anything to do with the Autumn Court for a long time.”

“It’s not a threat,” Rhysand said coolly. “It’s a fact.”

Lucien breathed out carefully. “Are we done here? There’s a pretty little Winter Fae waiting for me in the hollow.”

Rhysand slipped his hands into his pockets. “The human said she had made friends with some faeries,” he said quietly. “I know you know who they are.”

“Even if I did,” Lucien said smoothly, “how do you know she wasn’t lying?”

Rhysand’s eyes glimmered. “I don’t have to reach into everyone’s minds to know when they’re lying to me.”

Lucien fought back a shudder. It was bad enough that Rhysand was a daemati, but he was a High Lord, too, and worse, he also answered to Amarantha. And if he had met Feyre… He glanced away from Rhysand’s piercing violet eyes. He didn’t know how a daemati’s power worked, but he suspected it had to do with prolonged eye contact. “I’ll keep an eye out. For Tam’s sake.”

“You do that, Fox-boy,” the High Lord said coolly. “You only have one left to lose.” When Lucien turned his head and growled at him, Rhysand flicked up his eyebrows and added, “That was a threat.”

As the High Lord stepped away, Lucien said, “Even if I found her, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Rhysand replied over his shoulder, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed as the High Lord returned to the shadows of the trees, beyond the reach of the firelight. “So, what will you tell Amarantha?”

Rhysand paused without turning around. “I’ll tell her what she wants to know,” he said coolly. “Her mate caught the white stag, as usual, and he chose a Winter Court female, which is unusual.”

Lucien wondered if the Winter Fae who had chosen him had in turn been chosen by Tamlin. If true, it was almost justifiable that he had kissed Feyre, who was supposed to end up with Tamlin… Almost. He might have even laughed at the irony, except it left him without a partner for the Rite. At least temporarily.

Rhysand continued, “I rather pity Kallias. Amarantha is going to have a fit when she finds out.”

Lucien winced. He wasn’t sure who was going to bear the brunt of her ire: the court of Kallias, the High Lord of Winter, or Rhysand, in her bed. He felt a strange sort of pity for Rhysand, then. “You don’t have to tell her yet,” he said. “Enjoy the Rite. There are plenty of females around here to choose from. You don’t have to complete the Great Rite with her.”

Rhysand continued to face the shadows. “I could drag you Under the Mountain for suggesting such a thing,” he said quietly. “It might prove to be most entertaining to watch her make you squirm.”

Lucien straightened up and clenched his fists tighter to avoid reaching up and touching his scar. He could still remember how his skin burned as she slowly sliced him open, and that had not been the worst of it.

Rhysand turned around then, and though Lucien could have been imagining it, his golden eye saw through the glamour that had hidden the dark shadows beneath the High Lord’s eyes.

In a tired, quiet voice, Rhysand said, “I think I will stay, for a time. I might overhear something useful. Besides.” He glanced up at the heavens. “It has been a long time since I have looked upon the stars.”

Lucien glanced up as well. He had been to the Night Court once, in his youth. This was in the days before Amarantha, when there was a tentative truce between all the Courts after the War. They were there because they were going to celebrate Starfall with Eris’s new betrothed, Lady Morrigan. He didn’t remember much about that visit, but he remembered the stars. If the forests of the Autumn Court were a jewel-box during the day, the skies of the Night Court were a treasure trove. A sea of diamonds twinkled in that blue-black expanse, and that was before they began to rain down in a dazzling shower of blue and white.

The skies of the Seasonal Courts paled in comparison to those of the Solar Courts. Even now the full moon of Calanmai washed out many of the stars twinkling above their heads, but Lucien imagined that a Spring Court moon was a more welcome sight than the dark stone ceilings Under the Mountain. He shivered. Another full moon meant another month gone, and Summer Solstice was that much closer. If he could reach out and pluck the moon from the sky to stop the passage of time, he would.

If I offer you the moon on a string, will you give me a kiss, too?

Lucien winced as he remembered saying those words to Feyre only two days before. At least he didn’t have to worry about flirting with her ever again. He would be lucky if she ever wanted to speak to him again, much less look in his direction. And there was nothing he could say to make it right.

There had been a moment, just before he left, when she had asked him, Is it because I’m not one of you? He couldn’t tell her that that was exactly why he couldn’t be with her, but not for the reasons she thought. Amarantha’s curse silenced him from telling Feyre everything. If she wasn’t human, she couldn’t break the curse. She had to fall in love with Tamlin, not him, and she had to be human to do it.

Rhysand was still staring at the midnight sky when Lucien quietly slipped away. He had more pressing matters to attend to, for the feast had begun.

He let the music and the crowd swallow him up as he entered the hollow. The wine flowed freely, and the savory smells of roast stag and other fine meats filled the air. Carefree Fae laughed and flirted, many already making their way outside the ring of firelight to complete Rites of their own. And why shouldn’t they? The Hunter had found his Maiden, the white stag was dead, and all was right with the world.

So what if Feyre hated him? Once she fell in love with Tamlin and broke the curse, she would understand why it had to be this way. This was how it should have been all along. And perhaps by Solstice, they could go back to being friends.

Lucien grabbed a goblet filled with fizzing faerie wine, then smiled sadly to himself as he watched the bubbles rise from the golden liquid. Perhaps by Solstice, it wouldn’t hurt so much to remember sharing witchberries with Feyre on that warm afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow he would give her that bottle of faerie wine he had saved, and she could share it with Tamlin.

It was the least he could do to try to set things right. In the meantime, though, he had to salvage what was left of Fire Night. For Prythian.

Chapter Text

Feyre blotted the bathwater and tears—not tears, she told herself sternly—from her face before rising from the tub.

After crying herself to sleep like some weepy damsel from one of Nesta’s books, she’d woken up well after sunrise, stiff and aching and irritable. By the time she realized why Alis had not woken her up for breakfast, or why she was still dressed in a rumpled tunic and breeches, she was too disgruntled to try to go back to sleep. She needed a bath anyway; she smelled like magic and bonfire smoke and faeries who didn’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. Besides, it would feel good to wash out the feel of that faerie’s fingers in her hair, and while she was at it, she could wash away the sensation of Lucien’s mouth against hers.

Though the hot, lilac-scented water had soothed her aching legs and bruised arms, it was difficult to relax and enjoy her bath. Her thoughts kept drifting back to that kiss—and what it might have led to—so she sat up with a huff of frustration, and sloshed bathwater over the sides in the process. To distract herself from such thoughts, she washed her hair twice, then scrubbed every bit of skin she could reach. Though she’d nearly scrubbed her lips raw and rinsed her mouth several times, it didn’t help. She could still taste him.

She stepped out of the now empty tub with a growl and threw the used towels to the floor, then reached for her plushest dressing gown. Knotting the sash closed, she strode to the vanity to do something with her towel-snarled hair. As she sat and reached for a comb, she caught sight of her frowning reflection in the mirror. Three months of good meals had softened the sharpness in her features, but with her wild hair and red-rimmed, swollen eyes, she looked more human than ever. It’s just bonfire smoke, she thought with a sniff, then began combing out the snarls with a vengeance. I’m not crying. I won’t cry anymore.

Lucien probably hadn’t given her a second thought anyway. Not with so many perfect High Fae maidens to choose from. And none of them had freckles.

She threw the comb down and stood up without braiding her hair, suddenly restless. This was just one of those ridiculous faerie holidays that humans had no use for. Why should she care?  He certainly didn’t. What happened between us… It’s not real, he’d said.

She stopped in the center of the floor, and her hands curled into fists. But it was real to me, she thought, then choked back a sob. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes to prevent more tears from falling. Ridiculous. She was being absolutely ridiculous. Humans didn’t fall in love with faeries… The thought shocked her, and she pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. Love? There was an attraction, certainly, but… love?

She took a deep, cleansing breath and hugged herself, needing to think about something—anything—else. Swallowing hard, she glanced around. The bedclothes were a rumpled mess, and her clothes were scattered across the floor, not to mention the wet towels she’d left in the bathroom. Since Alis wouldn’t return until tomorrow, she might as well tidy up. She needed to do something with her hands anyway.

By the time the bedsheets were smoothed out, the clothes picked up, and the wet towels draped over the empty tub, her stomach was grumbling in protest over missing breakfast. The sun was high, and Fire Night was officially over. And good riddance, she thought, throwing open her wardrobe. She’d gladly lock herself up in her room next year, and celebrate alone with heaps of chocolate torte and a large bottle of wine. Now that was her idea of a holiday.

As she reached for an azure blue tunic, her eyes fell on the cloak she’d hung up, and the cloak pin dangling from the collar. Her fingers trailed over the rose-shaped carving, and unbidden, her mind drifted back to that moment Lucien’s mouth had been against hers as he unclasped the pin, then slid the cloak over her shoulders… She hissed and shoved the cloak—and the memories—aside.

She crossed her arms and frowned at the remaining clothes hanging in her wardrobe. Every tunic held some kind of memory associated with Lucien. As much as she didn’t want to think about him, she couldn’t avoid him forever. She might as well get it over with, and do it with her head held high.

As she nodded firmly at the thought, her eyes fell on something she hadn’t worn yet, and she let a wicked smirk touch her lips. Perfect.

***

It was only the thought of a hot cup of ginger tea that dragged Lucien out of bed before noon. The servants were still asleep, and Lucien planned on crawling back under the covers himself once he’d had a bit of food. But not wine. Not ever again… Or at least until tomorrow.

His head rested heavily in one hand as he picked at the food on his plate. Chicken? Veal? With the dining room curtains drawn and the candles dimly lit, it was difficult to tell, not that it mattered. Food was food.

With one eye closed and the other half-open, he glanced at Tamlin. The High Lord was sprawled in his chair, not even trying to keep his eyes open. He had stayed with this year’s Maiden until almost sunrise, which promised a very, very good year… at least until Summer Solstice. What happened after that was anyone’s guess.

Lucien had been surprised, and a little put out, to discover that the Hunter hadn’t even made it to the end of the row before finding his Maiden. That was a bet Lucien would have lost, if he had been the betting type. Feyre had not been in any danger, after all. The magic had known better than he did, and he’d used up quite a bit of it to winnow her back to the manor. If he had been in the High Lord’s position, he certainly would have been tempted to choose her… He nearly had anyway. And their near tryst had ruined their friendship.

He sighed and closed his other eye all the way, trying not to picture those stolen moments. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to see her until dinner. Perhaps he’d volunteer to go on patrol that evening, once he’d rested his eyes a moment… 

The next thing he knew, early afternoon sunlight was flooding the dining room. “Merciful Mother,” he swore, clapping his hands to his sensitive eyes. His golden eye clicked, and his good eye throbbed as he buried his head in his hands. “Boil me in the Cauldron,” he groaned, “but do it with the lid on.”

“Good afternoon, my lords,” Feyre chirped nearby as she approached the table. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

Shit. He kept his eyes covered and groaned something incoherent as Tamlin murmured that yes, he supposed it was.

Dishes clanked as Feyre served herself, humming.

Lucien managed to open his eyes to a squint as Tamlin remarked, “You look… refreshed.” Poetic as ever, old friend, he thought, then straightened up at the sight of Feyre sitting directly across the table from him, instead of across from Tamlin. And he was once again struck speechless.

He noticed her shoulders first, because the neckline of her wine-red gown was so wide that her shoulders were bare. There were no freckles there, only smooth, pale skin. His gaze traveled along the line of her collarbone and down the braid she had pulled rather seductively over one shoulder. Her fitted velvet bodice showed every soft curve she had gained in her time at the Spring Court, and the rest of her curves were, regrettably, hidden under the table.

He swallowed hard as he willed his gaze upwards, only to find her smirking at him. His eyes widened. You little minx, he wanted to say, cocking his head. Are you trying to get me in trouble? But the High Lord spoke before he said anything that stupid. 

“Did you sleep well?” Tamlin asked her, sounding more awake than before.

She gave the High Lord a syrupy-sweet smile. “Like a lamb,” she said, then turned her attention to the pile of food on her plate, completely ignoring Lucien.

There was no ignoring her, however. Not in that gown. “Did you lose another bet? I thought Alis was away,” Lucien remarked.

She shrugged as she cut up her meat into precise, dainty chunks. “Do I need a reason to dress up?”

“You have so far.”

Her lips tightened as she glanced up at him, then she gave him a polite, indifferent smile. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to look.”

Like Hell I don’t, he thought, then turned to Tamlin. “When is the next celebration? We should give Feyre a real reason to dress up.”

Tamlin, who had been watching them with a bemused smile, slowly rubbed his chin. “Solstice, officially, but… Nynsar is in a week.”

“Nynsar?” Feyre repeated.

“The Day of Seeds and Flowers,” Tamlin explained. “It’s a minor Spring Court holiday. We haven’t celebrated in years because of… of the blight—” Amarantha had prohibited any celebrations that weren’t necessary, or that weren’t about her. “—but it’s a new year. Why not?”

Lucien knew exactly why not, but he wasn’t about to say so, even if Amarantha’s spell had let him. Because the High Lord’s mate would be furious when she found out, and she would find out.

Tamlin must have known what he was thinking, because he nodded at him and added, “What’s the point of being High Lord if I can’t declare a holiday once in a while?”

Lucien let out a soft snort. Indeed.

“Will I be invited this time?” Feyre said coolly.

Tamlin turned to her and smiled kindly. “I wouldn’t dream of celebrating without you.”

Her cheeks reddened, echoing the flattering wine-red shade of her gown. “Except on Calanmai,” she said quietly, looking at her plate. Was that jealousy or bitterness in her voice? Lucien couldn’t tell.

Tamlin sighed, then straightened up to rest his hand over hers. Lucien stared hard at that hand as the High Lord said softly, “I am sorry you could not attend. One day, I’ll tell you why. One day, there will be answers for everything. But not until the time is right. When it’s safe.”

You mean after she’s fallen in love with you, Lucien thought bitterly, then clenched his jaw and reached for his teacup. He wasn’t about to admit that he had already told Feyre all about the Great Rite. That would mean admitting that he had taken a potential Maiden out of the line, even if she hadn’t realized what was going on. And he wasn’t about to admit that he had nearly taken that Maiden for himself.

“I understand,” Feyre said softly, looking at Tamlin’s hand over her own. I understand, she’d said bitterly the night before. I hope she’s everything you want.

Lucien wanted to tell Feyre that no, that Fae hadn’t come close to what he wanted, but instead he tipped his head back and swallowed his lukewarm tea, wishing he was back in bed.

“It seems rather soon to have another party,” Feyre remarked, pulling her hand free to reach for her goblet.

“Oh, it’s nothing like Fire Night,” Tamlin assured her. “This was more common before the blight, of course, but after the land-workers finish seeding the fields, villages across the Spring lands celebrate with singing, dancing, drinking, playing games, and telling stories. It’s a rather light-hearted holiday. No magic. No rituals. Just fun, food, and flowers.”

Feyre licked the wine from her lips and smiled. “That sounds nice.” As she set down her goblet, she asked, “Will I have the chance to try some of that famous faerie wine?”

“Famous?” Tamlin repeated. “Who told you about faerie wine, any—wait, let me guess.” He shot a glare at Lucien.

Lucien winced and poured himself another cup of tea. “I didn’t think it was a secret.”

Tamlin sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Faerie wine is made from witchberries, Feyre,” he said slowly. “After what happened to you…”

“But that was before you removed the glamour,” she pointed out. “And you just said Nynsar is a holiday. Lucien told me you save faerie wine for holidays.”

Tamlin scowled at him. “Of course he did.”

Lucien crossed his arms. “She was going to find out eventually, one way or the other,” he said defensively.

Tamlin sighed again. “I’ll think about it,” he told Feyre, “but I’m not promising anything. It will be your first holiday here, and I don’t want you wandering off, faerie sight or no.”

Lucien lifted his teacup to his lips to avoid looking at Feyre, lest he look guilty, or see her looking guilty, and make Tamlin wonder why. She’d done plenty of wandering during Calanmai, but Tamlin didn’t need to know that.

Feyre offered, “Lucien could keep an eye on me.”

Lucien sputtered into his teacup and nearly choked. After a few hacking coughs, he managed to take a deep breath to reply, then ended up coughing again.

Tamlin reached over and thumped him on the back, then when Lucien held up his hand to signal that he would be all right, he sat back. “Mother help us,” the High Lord said, shaking his head with a wry smile. “The two of you get into more trouble together than you do by yourselves.” He nodded at Feyre. “It’s no wonder you have my emissary worried.”

Lucien swallowed hard and wiped his streaming eyes. You have no idea, he thought, then dared a glance at Feyre. She flicked her eyebrows up at him, as if daring him to say something.  

Lucien pushed himself away from the table. “I just remembered I’m late for something terribly important.”

Before Tamlin could question his lie, he stood and walked away. He could feel their eyes on his back, but he couldn’t tell them he was doing this for them, and it wasn’t because his tongue was bound. It was because he didn’t want to admit that he knew Feyre was trying to get a rise out of him, or that it was working. So, he did the only thing he could, and walked away before he said something he would regret. Again.

***

The late afternoon gardens were calm and quiet, even without the glamour. The servants must still be in bed after celebrating all night, or they were enjoying themselves somewhere else. Feyre, however, wasn’t enjoying herself at all. The drawing board rested on her lap as she sat on the wide stone base of the fountain, but there were only half-hearted scribbles on the parchment.

Not wanting to change out of the red velvet gown, she hadn’t dared use her painting room, even with the smock on. She had promised Alis she would behave herself, after all, so the least she could do was keep paint stains off of such a lovely gown.

And it was lovely, if a little difficult to get into on her own. But it had been worth it just to see the look on Lucien’s face… What she could see of it, anyway. It was a delicious combination of desire and misery. He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her… but, then again, neither had Tamlin. Her petty revenge scheme had not included being left alone with the High Lord halfway through lunch.

She had hoped to make Lucien squirm a little longer, but she wasn’t about to call him back, either. So, while they finished lunch, Tamlin told her more about Nynsar. There was a rather charming custom called First Flower, in which you gave the first flower clippings of the year to someone you admired. Younglings often gave daisies to their parents or to each other, and lovers usually gave each other roses. He gave her a rather hopeful look when he said that, so she kept her voice light and asked what sort of flowers friends gave one another. He smiled and said it depended on the village, but tulips were a favorite.

It was an easy way to change the subject. She told him about Elain’s little garden, and how her sister hoped to one day be able to afford the tulip bulbs that were imported from the continent. It was a pleasant, if somewhat bittersweet, conversation. But it was easier to talk about the family she’d never see again than to flirt with Tamlin. She wasn’t ready to lose another friend…

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Feyre snapped to attention and looked up, startled to see Lucien standing there, then she frowned at him. “Do faeries always sneak up on people?” she groused, returning the charcoal stick to its little box.

“If you were a faerie, you would have heard me coming,” he quipped, then sucked in a sharp breath. “Ah. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” she said coldly, setting aside her drawing board to turn to the fountain behind her. He said nothing as she rolled up her narrow sleeves and washed the charcoal dust from her hands; he didn’t have to say another word. He had already reminded her that because she wasn’t a faerie, he didn’t want to complete the Rite with her.

After an awkward pause, he commented, “You’re not wearing your dagger.”

“I can’t wear it with a dress,” she said flatly, flicking the water from her hands. Though it was true that only her tunics had belts, she wasn’t exactly eager to wear something from him. Besides, she didn’t plan on going into the woods alone again anytime soon. When he didn’t reply, she glanced up and asked him, “Is that all you came to say, or do you have somewhere more important to be?”

He took a deep breath. “No. I, uh…” He cleared his throat and held out a large green wine bottle. “Here.”

She stared at it in confusion. “What’s that?”

“Faerie wine. I promised to save you a bottle… Remember?”

Her heart twinged at the bittersweet memory of that warm afternoon, but she didn’t take the bottle from him. “Don’t.”

He lowered the bottle with a surprised blink. “But you said you wanted—”

“I don’t want you to give me things because you feel guilty. My father used to do that when my mother was angry with him.”

Lucien sighed. “I don’t know how else to make it right,” he said quietly, then set the bottle beside her on the flat fountain ledge.

She rolled down her sleeves and clasped her hands in her lap to stop herself from picking it up and taking a closer look, no matter how pretty the shade of green was. “Maybe I don’t want you to make it right. Maybe I want to stay angry with you,” she said coolly, staring at the bottle.

To her surprise, he let out a wry chuckle. “You may not be Fae, but you certainly act like it.”

She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

He sat on the edge of the fountain, keeping the wine bottle between them. “The Fae are very good at holding grudges. We live a long time, and we have very long memories,” he said, and gave her a soft half-smile. The sight of it made her heart ache.

She sighed, then dropped her gaze to play with her fingers. “I don’t want to stay angry with you,” she said softly.

“What do you want, Feyre?” he asked gently.

She bit the inside of her cheek. You, she wanted to say. “I don’t know,” she murmured.

He sighed again, then slapped his knees and stood. “Keep the wine,” he said. “I already told Tam I was giving it to you, because I did promise to save you a bottle… Before.”

Before you kissed me, she thought sadly.

When she said nothing, he cleared his throat. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he said gruffly, then walked away.

When he was gone, Feyre gingerly picked up the wine bottle and held it up to the light. The emerald-green glass sparkled in the afternoon sun. She turned it over, and gently traced the red wax seal: a rose surrounded by thorns. She wondered if it was the seal of the Spring Court, or if it was Tamlin’s seal. It certainly fit him: someone beautiful, who also had claws. She set aside the bottle and sighed. She was no faerie beauty, and she didn’t have claws, but she had her thorns. And if she didn’t stop pricking Lucien, he would stop reaching out to her, and she might lose him forever.

***

Though Lucien was not content with the way his conversation with Feyre had gone, he had at least given her the wine he promised. Forgiveness, if there was any to be found, was up to her. He had lived a long time, and he knew from experience that the pain would ease, eventually.

For her part, she seemed preoccupied when she came into the dining room for dinner, which quickly turned to surprise when she saw Tamlin waiting by her usual chair.

She blushed and gave the High Lord a shy smile. “It’s not Nynsar yet, Tamlin.”

Tamlin smiled, holding a single white rose from his mother’s garden. “I know. This is a peace offering.”

Feyre tentatively walked closer, her fingers curled into her full skirts. “For what?”

“For snapping at you in the garden last night, before I left. I never did apologize for my rather beastly behavior.”

She breathed a soft laugh as she stood before him, then delicately accepted the long-stemmed rose. “Thank you,” she said softly, lifting it to her nose, then she smiled. “I accept.”

Lucien breathed a sigh of relief for his friend. Progress, he thought, watching his friend seat her at the other end of the table. One day, perhaps, she would smile at him again, too.

“You’ll be pleased to know that I sent out an official declaration to celebrate Nynsar,” the High Lord said, reaching for her plate to serve her.

“Was that an order to your subjects?” Feyre teased, laying the rose alongside the silver cutlery.

Tamlin chuckled as he filled her plate. “Even if it was, I know it’s one that no one will mind following,” he said. “The blight has shadowed our lands for too many years. It’s time to stop living in fear.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Lucien remarked, reaching for his goblet. Though it had water in it, the sentiment was the same. He wasn’t quite ready for wine, yet.

“So will I,” Feyre said, lifting her own goblet.

Lucien paused with the goblet halfway to his lips and looked at her in surprise. She gave him a half shrug.

“To peace?” she suggested, then smiled softly at him.

He nodded and gave her a soft, understanding smile in turn, then lifted his goblet. “To friends.”

Tamlin set Feyre’s plate in front of her, then flicked his fingers, and his goblet appeared in his hand.  

Lucien huffed a laugh. “Show-off,” he said with a smirk.

Tamlin chuckled, then turned to Feyre. “To magic,” he said, then clinked goblets with her, and she smiled.

Lucien breathed another relieved sigh, then lifted his goblet. To breaking the curse, he thought, then drank.

Chapter Text

“Don’t know if I should be pleased or worried,” Alis remarked, looking over the dresses in Feyre’s wardrobe the next evening. She looked over her shoulder and asked, “Did something happen while I was away?”

Still wrapped in her dressing gown, Feyre smiled shyly and patted her braided crown as she sat on the edge of her bed. “I just thought it might be nice to dress up for dinner once in a while, that’s all.” If only to see that look in Lucien’s eye once in a while, at least until it didn’t hurt anymore.

Alis smiled and turned back to the wardrobe. “Good to see that you aren’t losing your common sense entirely, then.”

Feyre huffed a laugh and dropped her hands to her lap. “It’s just a dress.”

Alis chuckled. “Not to menfolk,” she said, bringing out a sheer turquoise overgown with a silky golden underdress.

Feyre gasped at the maid’s choice. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. That’s too much—” She faltered as Alis cocked her head.

“You wore the red dress to lunch yesterday. That sort of gown is reserved for special events, such as when other High Lords visit. This is more than appropriate for dinner with Lord Tamlin.”

Feyre sighed, then reluctantly agreed, but secretly she was not that reluctant. It was a beautiful gown, and one she wouldn’t mind being seen in, no matter who was doing the admiring.

As Alis slid the shimmering underdress over her upstretched arms, Feyre asked, “Do the other High Lords ever visit?”

Alis tugged it down, and the slick fabric slid over her hips and to the rug. “Not since the masquerade ball,” she said dismissively.

Feyre smoothed the fine lace over her bodice as Alis reached for the overgown. “The ball was here?”

“Where else do you think servants would be allowed to attend such a fine affair?”

“Oh,” was all Feyre could think to say as she obediently lifted her arms again. The gossamer gown was so light and airy she could scarcely feel it as it floated into place. “Are the other High Lords stuck wearing masks, too?”

“No,” Alis said stiffly, fluffing out the turquoise skirt. “Just everyone in the Spring Court.”

“Well, that’s not fair,” Feyre declared. “Why were you punished and no one else?”

Alis cleared her throat as she straightened up. “I cannot say,” she said coolly. “Only that the blight is to blame. Nothing more.”

“Is there anything that can be done to undo it?”

Alis smiled kindly, and her brown eyes twinkled as she turned Feyre towards the standing mirror. “All you need to do is show up to dinner like this, and the rest will sort itself out.”

Feyre swallowed hard at her reflection. Though Elain was the beauty of the family, she had to admit that she did look rather pretty. It was amazing what three months of good food and good sleep had done to her face and figure; the Spring Court had softened her in all the right ways. The gown hugged her in all the right places, too, and the colors flattered her complexion. Even if she did have freckles, she didn’t look so human and out of place standing next to the birch-skinned faerie.

One day, perhaps, she would find a man—or male—who would gladly stand beside her, too. She didn’t know of any other humans who lived on this side of the Wall, but one day she might dredge up the courage to ask. In the meantime, none of the other males in the Spring Court had caught her eye. They, in turn, merely glanced at her with an idle curiosity. The only ones who looked, really looked, were Lucien and Tamlin. And Lucien had made it clear that he didn’t want her, or at least, he didn’t want to want her.

That left Tamlin, with his not-so-subtle hints about hoping to woo her. Stay with the High Lord, the Suriel had said, once upon a time. Perhaps, after all this time, she ought to give him a proper chance.  

***

Lucien tried not to let his gaze linger on Feyre this time, but it was difficult. She had forgone her usual tunic and pants again, and had chosen a slinky gold dress beneath a wispy blue-green gown that reminded him of sunshine through mist. He could almost feel the smooth fabric in his fingers, and could well imagine how it would look pooled on the floor—He curled his fingernails into his palm. Such thoughts were not appropriate about Tamlin’s future Lady.

Feyre caught his eye and smiled, but it was not the sly smile from yesterday. There was a hint of sadness to it that echoed his sentiments exactly, but he managed a friendly smile in return.

“There has to be a mortal holiday you’re not telling us about,” he teased as Tamlin seated her. “Why else would you dress up again? Or are you just spoiling us now?”

She chuckled as she dropped her gaze to her lap and smoothed her skirts. Her freckled cheeks were a rather lovely shade of pink when she looked up again. “There aren’t that many mortal holidays, but I think Jurian’s Day is coming up, not that I need a reason.”

Lucien’s smile froze in place as her words sunk in. Jurian’s Day. He exchanged shocked looks with Tamlin. Did Feyre actually know about Jurian, and Amarantha?

Tamlin reached for Feyre’s goblet. “What is Jurian’s Day?” he asked lightly as he poured. As if he didn’t already know about the man his mate had torn into pieces for killing her sister.

“It’s a day of remembrance,” Feyre explained, “for when the War ended. Nobody works on Jurian’s Day. We gather flowers and form wreaths and hang them on our doors, and the elders tell stories of the War. That sort of thing.”

“Stories about Jurian?” Tamlin prompted, filling her plate. Lucien pressed his fist to his mouth and stared. How the High Lord could even think of feeding her when she might say something vital was beyond his reckoning. If Feyre said anything about Jurian battling Amarantha, they might be able to tell her more about the curse.

Feyre nodded after she took a sip of wine. “I don’t know how much is true, but the story goes that there was a general named Jurian who was responsible for—” She stopped, and her cheeks turned from pink to red. “I’m sure you know all this. You were alive during the War.”

Lucien leaned forward. “I wasn’t,” he offered, desperately wanting to know what she knew. He could almost taste his freedom from the curse that bound their tongues to this ‘mortal silence’.

Feyre tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, I know there was a great battle. The Battle of Clythia, I think—” Lucien sucked in a sharp breath at hearing the name of Amarantha’s younger sister. “—Anyway, they say he carried a sword of iron, and he rode a great white horse. He’s the one who singlehandedly turned the tide of war to the mortals’ favor. Everybody who’s anybody important claims to share Jurian’s bloodline, but nobody knows exactly how they’re related. He never had children.”

“What happened to him?” Tamlin asked in a low voice, gripping the back of Feyre’s chair. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Nobody knows,” Feyre said, reaching for her wine. “His body was never found. I’m not even sure he really existed, or if he was just another poem for children to memorize.”

“There was a poem?” Tamlin asked. “Do you remember it?”

Feyre bit her lip, looking reluctant. “It’s just a silly rhyme,” she muttered into her goblet.

“I’d love to hear it,” Lucien said, trying not to sound too eager. When she hesitated, he offered, “I won’t make fun, I promise.”

She quirked her mouth to one side, looking skeptical, but then she set the goblet down and recited:

“O, sing us the song of Jurian, the man of mighty deeds,

Who fought the Fae, who freed us all, from a life of misery.

O, tell us the tale of Jurian, who rode a stallion white,

Who led his armies onward, with a sword of iron bright.

Yes, tell us more about Jurian, noble, wise, and fair,

His shoulders broad, his eyes of brown, and darkly curling hair—”   

Feyre faltered, and her cheeks turned red again. “I forget the rest,” she said softly.

Lucien sat back and let out a disappointed sigh. As usual, the humans had ignored the more important parts of the story and instead romanticized their hero. That, or they didn’t know what Jurian had really done, sleeping with Clythia to obtain vital information to aid their cause, or they had left it out of their stories entirely because they hated faeries that much. In any case, there was no mention of Amarantha in this story.

“Thank you, Feyre,” Tamlin said with a kind smile. “Perhaps if you remember more, you can recite it for me again. I’d love to write it down. I am quite fond of poetry.”

Lucien straightened up, ready to change the subject. “Tam used to write poetry,” he offered.

The High Lord blushed as he glared at Lucien; red stained his cheeks at the edges of his golden mask. “That was a very long time ago,” he said pointedly.

Lucien smirked and crossed his arms. “And you used to write songs, too.”

“Do you sing?” Feyre asked Tamlin as he ran a hand over his hair, clearly embarrassed.

“I used to play the fiddle,” he muttered, then lowered his hand and sighed. “But High Lords’ sons don’t become traveling minstrels. It was a romantic idea I had in my youth… To knock some sense into me, my father sent me to live with his war-bands across the border.”

Feyre tilted her head. “He wanted you to become a warrior, instead of a minstrel?” When he nodded, she remarked sadly, “That’s a shame.”

“You wouldn’t think so, but soldiers can be surprisingly poetic,” he said, then breathed a laugh when her head jerked back in surprise. “We used to have contests to see who could write the, ah, dirtiest limericks.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he fought back a smile. “Let’s just say I don’t like losing.”

Feyre chuckled and ducked her head as her cheeks reddened further. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Lucien smiled at their exchange. “Perhaps you can recite some at Nynsar,” he teased, then chuckled when his friend glared at him.

“Or you could play the fiddle,” Feyre suggested. “You did say Nynsar was about having fun.”

Tamlin laughed softly and rubbed the back of his neck again. “Maybe I will. It was a long time ago, but…” He sighed, then straightened up and smiled at her. “All right. I’ll play for you.”

Feyre smiled back. “I look forward to it.”

Tamlin nodded, then turned to Lucien. “And what will you do to keep yourself out of trouble?”

Lucien snorted, then reached for his wine. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

In truth, he didn’t have to do a damn thing except stay out of their way. Everything was beginning to fall into place. It would have happened sooner if Tamlin hadn’t gotten so distracted by Amarantha’s gifts. If they were lucky, she wouldn’t send anything else until Nynsar was over. By then, Lucien hoped that Feyre’s heart would be healed. And in the meantime, who better to heal a broken heart than the High Lord himself?

As for Lucien’s heart, it would heal on its own. It had once, and it would again. He just had to give it time, for unlike the High Lord, he had time to spare.

***

The white rose rested in a small crystal vase next to Feyre’s paintbrushes. It was still as fresh as the day Tamlin first gave it to her; she was certain magic had kept it well-preserved. There was a slight coppery tang hiding in the rose’s perfume, but it was altogether not unpleasant. She reached out and rubbed a velvety petal between her fingers. It had not yet begun to wilt in the sunshine, but had bloomed even more. The midmorning sunlight revealed a blush of pink in the petals, and the softest whisper of yellow.

Like starlight, she thought, glancing at the nearly finished painting on her easel. Soft shades of citrine, lavender, rose, and azure blended softly in a pool of silvery gray, which reflected on the dark gnarled trees rising out of the waving grass. She had been fussing with it most of the morning, adding another highlight here or a blade of grass there, but there wasn’t much left to paint. Still, she was reluctant to say it was done, because that would mean giving it to Tamlin. With Nynsar coming up, he might think this gift meant more than it did.

She wasn’t even certain what it meant anymore. She had painted it from a place of friendship, of openness, to thank him for everything he had done for her and her family. But after Calanmai, after Lucien’s rejection, it could represent a fresh start… She sat back and sighed.

If she did that, it would mean acknowledging that what she wanted with Lucien was over. She could give her heart more time to recover, because Tamlin didn’t know she had painted something for him. Then again, Nynsar was coming up.

Even if she waited until after the holiday to give it to him, she suspected that he wanted to give her another rose for First Flower. And what flower would she give him, or Lucien, for that matter? Giving tulips to either of them seemed wrong, somehow. She didn’t think she could give them roses, either. Was the solution to give them nothing at all? She shook her head and sighed again. What should have been a lighthearted holiday was becoming anything but.

Unable to concentrate on painting, she decided to clean her brushes and take a walk in the garden. She might be able to find some inspiration there. If nothing else, she could find something to sketch.

When she stepped into the garden, she found it strangely empty. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought that the servants had been given another day off after Calanmai. But she did know better. Alis’s presence at breakfast alone was proof that life at the manor had returned to normal. Except it didn’t feel normal. The crunch of gravel sounded strangely loud beneath her boots. The hairs on the back of Feyre’s neck rose as she realized that the birds weren’t singing. There wasn’t even much of a breeze to fill the silence. The only thing she heard was the trickle of the fountain at the center of the garden. It wasn’t until she was ready to set her drawing supplies on the fountain ledge that she realized why she felt so unsettled.  

There was blood in the fountain. She froze, and her eyes slowly traveled up the trail of blood staining the stone body of the heron sculpture. The blood was so bright against the gray stone, she might have mistaken it for paint, except… There, spiked on the heron’s beak, was a head. A male faerie’s head, and it was still bleeding.

She clapped a hand to her mouth at the horror of it, the horror of his expression, at the sickly blue-gray tint of his skin, the way his dark eyes stared blindly, and the way his mouth slackened, revealing broken and bloody teeth… Her drawing board and charcoal fell to the gravel as she backed up a step, then turned to run—where, she didn’t know—but she slammed into someone standing behind her.

“It’s me,” Tamlin said quietly, gripping her shoulders.

She kept her hand over her mouth and stared at the clean, emerald-green shade of his tunic, trying to replace the color of blood in her mind’s eye, the awful shade of red blood on stone.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently.

No, she wasn’t all right. She had hunted and skinned animals before, but she’d never made them suffer. Even Andras… She closed her eyes at the memory of leaving the skinned wolf behind. Is this how Tamlin had felt? Finding his sentry, his friend? The fresh guilt sickened her.

“Is she all right?” Lucien said from beside them.

No, she wasn’t all right, but she wasn’t bleeding. Even though she had Andras’s blood on her hands… she opened her eyes and managed to nod.

Tamlin let out a quiet sigh, then gently turned her toward the manor. “I’ll take you inside.”

“Wait,” she choked out, then half-turned toward the fountain. “Who is he?”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Lucien offered, striding toward the fountain. As he peered up at the head, he pushed up his sleeves and called out, “I don’t recognize him.”   

“Neither do I,” Tamlin growled. Though his grip tightened on her shoulders, he managed to keep his beastly side at bay, for his claws did not come out.

Lucien stepped over the wide ledge and into the reddening water. “There’s something on his neck,” he called out, then began climbing the statue.

Whoever the unfortunate faerie was, his maskless face indicated that he didn’t belong to the Spring Court. But whoever had killed him had done it recently, perhaps somewhere on the grounds, if the amount of blood was any indication. And he—or she—had managed to sneak into the garden without anybody noticing. Feyre swallowed hard at the thought. If she had come out of the manor any sooner, would it have been her head up there?

Lucien yanked the head off the heron’s beak, and Feyre cringed at the sickening sound of bleeding flesh spattering on stone. As she looked away, Lucien swore. “They branded him behind the ear… A mountain with three stars.”

“Night Court,” Tamlin muttered.

One of the Solar Courts, and as far away from the Spring Court as one could get. “Why here? Why this?” she breathed, glancing up at Tamlin’s masked face.

He frowned as Lucien splashed into the fountain. “It’s some kind of message. I’ll be damned if I understand the Night Court’s reasons anymore.”

“There’s something else,” Lucien called out, sloshing through the water.  

Feyre clutched the collar of her tunic and willed herself to look up as Lucien approached, holding the severed head. Her stomach turned over at the blood on his hands and his clothes.

“There’s a-a ribbon knotted in his hair,” Lucien mused, turning the head on its side.

Feyre stared at it in bewilderment. A dark blue ribbon secured the end of a small, messy braid flopping on one side of the bruised and bloodied face. The ribbon was absurdly large for such a small braid, but it was the perfect size for the braid she usually wore, and had worn on Fire Night…

She stiffened. The head belonged to one of the three winged faeries from Calanmai. She was sure of it. If it wasn’t for the ribbon, she wouldn’t have recognized him, but the black hair, the dark eyes, the bluish tint to his skin… it had to be him. This was the one who had taken her ribbon and wrapped it around his wrist, as if it was his. As if she was his. And now he was dead. Dead and beheaded…

Tamlin growled, bringing her back to the present. “We’ll discuss this later. Get rid of it,” he told Lucien.

“Right. Sorry,” Lucien muttered, turning away.

Feyre pressed a fist to her mouth as she listened to the crunch of gravel as Lucien carried the head away. Whoever had put the head on the fountain had wanted her to see it. But who, and why…?

Tamlin put a strong but gentle arm around her shoulders. “Come on,” he coaxed. “I’ll take you inside.”

“Wait,” she said breathlessly, and he paused. She swallowed. “My-my things…” Her drawing board, her charcoal, her papers, scattered on the gravel… That blood-soaked gravel…

“Later,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “Let’s get you some wine first to calm down.”

“Faerie wine?” she suggested, half-joking.

He breathed a laugh and led her up the steps. “You sound just like Lucien.” But his tone grew somber as he said, “You don’t want faerie sight right now. Trust me.”

She did trust him, but she still couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she knew who that faerie was, or what had happened on Calanmai.

***

There was a cemetery that lay within the woods near the hills where the Spring Court had celebrated Fire Night. There was a temple there, too, but the priestesses who worshipped the Mother were long gone, thanks to Amarantha. Every High Lord and Lady in living memory was buried there, as were many members of the Spring Court. Tamlin’s brothers were buried there. Andras was buried there. Though Lucien didn’t know which Court this faerie belonged to, what remained of him would feed the soil and nurture new life. It was the Spring Court way.

As Lucien hunted around the mossy ground for a suitable spot, a male voice behind him said, “Do you really think that faerie deserves this kind of honor?”

Lucien whirled around to see the High Lord of the Night Court casually leaning against the ivy-covered stone monument of the previous High Lord, Magnus, and his Lady, Rosalin. Lucien growled. “Show some respect for the dead.”

The High Lord didn’t move, but his mouth shrugged as he casually patted the weathered stone. “Old Magnus here was responsible for the slaughter of my mother and sister. He’s lucky I don’t piss on him.”

Lucien grimaced and squared his shoulders. “What are you doing here, Rhysand?”

The High Lord pointed to the head in Lucien’s hands. “I see you got my little gift.”

“Your gift was unnecessary.”

“Oh, but it was,” Rhysand said, straightening up to brush the dust from his immaculate black tunic. He slipped his hands in his pockets and began circling Lucien as he explained, “You see, there were three faeries, and three heads to deliver. One for Tarquin, since they hailed from his lands. One for Kallias, as a thank-you for providing Amarantha’s mate with such a pleasurable Maiden…” The High Lord nodded at the head. “…And one for Tamlin, my old friend.”

Lucien frowned as the High Lord stepped away. “Next time, send flowers.”

Rhysand chuckled and shook his head. “It’s rather cliché, isn’t it? Sending flowers to the Spring Court?” He turned and nodded at the rosebush planted over Lady Rosalin’s grave.

“If you give severed heads to your friends, I shudder to think at what you give your enemies,” Lucien tried to quip, but it was half-hearted. He didn’t actually want to know.

Rhys did not reply, but continued to smile, as though he knew what Lucien was thinking… which was quite possible.

Lucien looked away from those knowing violet eyes. “Why not give him the gift yourself? Instead of making a mess of the fountain. The servants have enough to do.” He dared a glance at the High Lord’s face.

A hint of a smile remained as Rhysand cocked his head. “The gift wasn’t just for him.”

Lucien narrowed his eyes in confusion.

When he said nothing, Rhysand’s smile turned to a smirk. “Any luck finding the human yet?”

Even without a daemati’s gift, Lucien knew that Rhysand already knew the answer to that question. Even so, he averted his gaze. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“I don’t,” the High Lord said meaningfully.

Lucien swallowed hard. “Does she know?”

“She knows what I tell her.”

“What have you told her?”

“I’ve told her what she needs to know.”

Lucien clenched his jaw. He was tired of Rhysand’s mind games, and he was tired of holding the bleeding head of a faerie who didn’t deserve to die. “I might know the faeries who know where she is. Satisfied?”

“Immensely.”

As Rhysand turned to leave, Lucien blurted, “Why this faerie? What did he do wrong?”

The High Lord paused, and without turning around, he replied, “I caught him and the others stealing away with a potential Maiden before the Great Rite.”

Lucien grimaced. He had done the same thing, but he hadn’t gotten caught. “So, you tortured and beheaded three faeries for being horny,” he said wryly, then he shook his head. “What did Amarantha have to say about that?”

Without turning around Rhysand replied coolly, “Her Majesty thinks they were traitors to the crown. She sat back and enjoyed the show.”

Lucien blinked. Amarantha’s whore had lied to her, but why? “You should have let Tamlin or Tarquin deal with them,” he said carefully. “Death is too harsh a punishment when our numbers are dwindling.”

The shadows around the High Lord of the Night Court seemed to deepen, and Lucien took a wary step back. “You speak your mind too freely for one of your station,” Rhysand said quietly, dangerously.

Lucien bristled and bit back a retort, not wanting to share the fate of the faerie’s head in his hands.

“Besides,” the High Lord added, “it was a human Maiden.” His words sent ice rushing through Lucien’s veins. Feyre. As if that was not bad enough, Rhysand turned his head and added, “She was not willing.”

Lucien sucked in a sharp breath, then dropped his gaze and stared at the bruised and bloodied face in his hands, at the ribbon knotted into the faerie’s hair. His stomach clenched as he realized why Feyre had been staring at it so intensely. She recognized this faerie as someone who had tried hurting her, who might have raped her, and he hadn’t even realized what she had been through. He’d yelled at her for being careless, then kissed her, and left her alone in the manor after all of that… The thought made him sick. He looked up to see Rhysand studying him thoughtfully.

“Anything you’d like to share before I depart?”

“Stay out of my head,” Lucien snapped, unnerved by the thought that the daemati might have witnessed his memory of kissing Feyre.

Rhysand snorted and glanced away. “If I wanted to visit an empty room, I’d take a stroll through the dungeons Under the Mountain.” When Lucien growled at him, he added, “I don’t snoop through people’s heads without her say-so. Count yourself lucky that she hasn’t said so.”

Lucien frowned. “Until you have me dragged Under the Mountain, you mean.”

“Why would I do that?” Rhysand asked lightly. “You just said you don’t know where the human is. There’s no need to tell Her Majesty anything until I’m certain. Unless you’d like to pass along a message. Emissary.”

“No, but I do have a question for you,” Lucien said carefully. When Rhysand tilted his head expectantly, he asked, “Why did you save the human?”

Something flickered in Rhysand’s violet eyes, but his answer did not reveal whatever truth was hidden there. “To keep the game interesting,” he replied.

Lucien stared at him in disbelief, then slowly shook his head. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Mine,” Rhysand said with a smirk, then stepped toward the shadows beyond the cemetery. “If you still wish to bury that head, I will not stop you. His body has already fed the Middengard Worm, but if you’re looking for ideas, I hear that water wraiths are always hungry.”

Before Lucien could reply, the High Lord of the Night Court vanished into the shadows, winnowing away with the magic Amarantha had granted him for doing her dirty work.

There was a large lily pond near the cemetery that had once been tended by the priestesses of the Spring temple, but it had since been taken over by water wraiths. They had Amarantha to thank for that. Lucien drew a deep breath as he looked upon the wild pink and white lilies dotting the murky green water, then hurled the severed head into the center of the pond. The ripples had not even reached the shore where he stood when the waters began to churn, and he watched them with a grim sense of satisfaction. As much as he disliked the High Lord of the Night Court, Rhysand was right about one thing: Water wraiths were always hungry.

Chapter Text

Feyre lay curled up on the covers of her bed, staring at the softening sky outside her window. The picked-over lunch tray remained uncovered on the little breakfast table where Alis had left it hours ago. Aside from a couple bites of chicken and potatoes at the maid’s insistence, she’d only had the glass of wine from Tamlin. Despite the lateness of the hour, she still had no appetite.

The appearance of the head in the garden bothered her more than it should have. She still bore the purplish bruises on her elbow and wrist from the winged faeries’ tight grips as they pulled her toward those shadowy trees on Fire Night. If it hadn’t been for that dark-haired stranger, a couple bruises would have been the least of her complaints. She sniffed and brushed a sudden tear from her cheek.

She was certain that stranger was the one responsible for the head in the garden. She didn’t know how he knew where she was staying, or why he had bothered to make sure that she recognized what he had done. Night Court, Tamlin had said. I’ll be damned if I understand their reasons anymore. She should be grateful that justice had been dealt, but those faeries hadn’t actually hurt her. Death—no, torture, and then death—seemed too harsh a punishment, but perhaps that was the faerie way. However, if she hadn’t left the manor in the first place, those faeries might still be alive, and they might have found a maiden more willing than her.

She curled up tighter and turned her face against the pillow, feeling more fragile and human than ever. She didn’t know how long she lay there, only that a gentle knock startled her from her dark thoughts. She lifted her head and looked toward her bedroom door, wondering why Alis didn’t just come in, when the knock sounded again.

“Feyre?” It was Lucien.

She sighed, then wiped at her hot face before rising from the bed. When she tentatively opened the door, she was relieved to see that he had changed clothes, and the only red on him was his hair. He now wore a rich blue tunic embroidered with gold thread that echoed the glint of his gold eye as he looked her over.

“Are you all right? You didn’t come to dinner…”

“Oh. I, um…” She glanced at the clock. “Alis must have let me sleep… I’m sorry.”

“Did you sleep?” he asked gently.

She opened her mouth, tempted to lie, then she sighed and shook her head.

He sighed, too, then gave her a tight-lipped smile. “You hungry?”

She breathed a half-hearted laugh at the familiar question. “Not really.”

He nodded to the hall. “Keep me company, anyway?”

“You mean you haven’t eaten?” When he shook his head, she asked, “What about Tamlin?”

Lucien shrugged. “He went to the border. He’ll be back later.”

She nodded, then rubbed her throat. “Are you sure you want to be alone with me?” she asked softly. Despite the horrible day she’d had, she was somewhat gratified to see him look guilty.

“I just don’t want you to be alone,” he said quietly.

She dropped her hand and shook her head. “I’m fine…”

He gently shook his head in turn. “Liar,” he said softly, and gave her an understanding smile.

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to hold back sudden, unwanted tears.

His smile softened. “Come on,” he coaxed, nodding to the hall again. “Otherwise, a perfectly good chocolate torte will go to waste,” he said with a gentle smirk.

Despite her misgivings, a smile touched the corners of her mouth. “All right,” she agreed softly.

He nodded, clearly pleased, and stepped away from the door while she went to get her boots.

They didn’t speak again until they’d reached the bottom of the grand staircase. As she looked around at the empty entry hall, she asked, “Where is everyone?”

Lucien replied, “You’re not the only one without an appetite. The servants, the courtiers… they’re keeping to themselves tonight.”

Feyre nodded. It was only Lucien’s coaxing that had convinced her to leave her room at all. As they approached the dining room doors, she swallowed hard and asked, “Wh-what did you do with the—” Her throat tightened, and she couldn’t say it after all.

“I took care of it,” Lucien said quietly. “He got the burial he deserved.”

Feyre nodded again. The less Lucien knew, the better. She didn’t think she could explain what had happened to her that night.

When she turned to go to her usual seat, he surprised her by gently touching her elbow and leading her to the chair across from him instead. “No formalities tonight,” he explained.

She breathed a laugh. “Is that so? I couldn’t tell,” she teased gently, poking at the fine embroidery on his chest.

He smiled as he pulled out her chair for her. “I quite like the newest color on your pants, though. Lavender, is it?”

Her smile grew, and she nodded. “I wondered when you’d notice,” she said, taking her seat.

“I always notice,” he said quietly, pushing in her chair for her.

“But you didn’t say anything,” she chided gently as he rounded the corner of the table.

As he sat down, he shook his head and said, “Calanmai was coming up. I couldn’t—”

They stared at each other across the table. There it was, hanging unspoken between them. Calanmai… The kiss. Feyre bit her lip and dropped her hands to her lap. “When… when is Tamlin coming back?” she asked softly. Though she could have asked, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know if Lucien spoke the truth that night, if what he felt for her wasn’t real.

“I don’t know,” Lucien said. “He went to the border to find out more about the head in the garden.”

Her face flushed with guilt; she should have known that the High Lord of the Spring Court would want to find out more about where the head came from. She should have told him what she knew, but now he was gone, and there was nothing she could do but hope that he would make it back to the manor in one piece… She squeezed her fingers in her lap and asked Lucien, “So… what do we do now?”

Lucien cleared his throat. “Have dinner, I-I think.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his stammer. It was rare that he fumbled his words. “Dinner sounds good,” she softly agreed. They were still friends, after all.

“Wine?” he asked quickly, reaching for the nearest decanter.

“Water, for me,” she said, and let him pour it for her.

Though she didn’t think she could eat much, she managed a bowl of savory vegetable soup and a chunk of hot bread to sop up the broth, and, of course, a slice of chocolate torte. Lucien chose some kind of spiced bread pudding for himself, but he seemed more interested in moving it around on his plate. The silence between them was filled with the occasional clank of silver against their dishes, but neither seemed to know what to say. It wasn’t until she had managed to eat half of her torte that he spoke again.

“Feyre,” he said quietly. She paused with the fork halfway to her mouth. His throat bobbed. “What happened to your wrist?”

She glanced down to see that her sleeve had slipped down enough to reveal the discolored bruises marring her pale skin. The fork clattered onto her plate as she hurriedly pulled up her sleeve. “Nothing,” she lied.

Lucien’s lips pinched as he stared at her, and her heart sunk as she realized that she couldn’t keep this from him.

She swallowed hard. “Would you believe me if I told you that it could have been worse?”

He stared hard at her as he asked, “Are there more?”

She bit the inside of her cheek as she hesitated, then she nodded.

“Where?”

“Just my arms,” she muttered.

“What happened?”

Her chest tightened as the horrible memories flooded back. “Before you found me, o-on Fire Night, I mean… I… I ran into some faeries. They thought I was there for the Rite.”

Lucien closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh as he placed his elbows on the table to rest his head in his hands. “If I had just told you about the Great Rite in the first place, none of this would have happened,” he muttered.

Tears stung her eyes as she realized what he was really saying: I wouldn’t have kissed you. After everything she had been through, it was too much. “Well, you can thank the Mother that nothing happened,” she snapped.

He lifted his head to stare at her with wide eyes, and his gold eye whirred.

Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked, trying to keep them back as she clenched her fists in her lap. “Nothing happened,” she repeated. “Not between us, and not with those awful faeries, either. Oh, except one of them lost his head because of me. That head on the fountain? That was him.” Her lips began to tremble as hot tears spilled down her cheeks anyway.

Lucien straightened. “Feyre,” he said in a voice so gentle that it nearly broke her heart. “It’s not your fault.”

She sucked in a painful breath and looked away from his pitying stare. “Yes, it is. If I hadn’t been there, he’d still be alive. Someone stepped in and scared him off, all three of them, but if I hadn’t left the manor in the first place, they might have found someone else who wanted—” Her voice failed her, and she covered her mouth, unable to say more.

Lucien’s chair scraped against the floor, and in the next moment he was at her side. “You don’t know that that’s what would have happened,” he said gently, resting his hand on the back of her chair as he leaned over her, trying to catch her eye. “Besides,” he added, reaching for a linen napkin, “they should have waited until the Hunter found his Maiden before approaching anyone.”

She accepted the proffered napkin, but kept her gaze averted. After she wiped her dripping eyes and nose, she muttered, “They knew I was never going to be chosen, because I’m just an idiotic human who doesn’t know better.”

“Hey.” The word was a reprimand, but his tone was still gentle. She froze as his fingers touched her chin, then she closed her eyes as he gently turned her head. “Feyre, look at me.”

She sniffed, then bit her lip and unwillingly met his gaze.

His hand hovered over her cheek as he gave her a sad half-smile. “The only one who gets to call you an idiot is me.”

She huffed a laugh and wiped at her other cheek. “Go ahead, then.”

He gently shook his head. “No.”

Her wry smile faded, and her heart skipped a beat. “No?”

“No.”

Fresh tears filled her eyes, and she dropped the napkin as she rose to her feet. He straightened, but did not object as she tentatively stepped forward to press her forehead against his chest. As his arms slowly came around her, her shoulders began to shake, and she clutched at his tunic and let herself cry freely at last.

His cheek rested against her head, and his warm breath stirred her hair as he murmured, “I’m sorry.” He rubbed her back soothingly and murmured again, “I’m sorry.”

She knew he wasn’t apologizing for the kiss. This moment was about everything else. The anger, the bitterness, and the guilt melted away under the heat of his touch, and she felt herself begin to calm down at last. She opened her eyes and sniffed as she nestled against his firm chest. The embroidery on his tunic was scratchy against her cheek, but she didn’t care. This is what she had wanted after Calanmai, to be held by someone she knew and trusted… someone who truly cared about her.  

She drew a deep, though somewhat shaky breath, then lifted her head to look into his eyes. His gaze was soft as he looked her over, then his lips parted as if he meant to ask her a question, but he said nothing. When he didn’t pull away, she found herself breathing faster, suddenly aware of how closely he held her, the strength in his arms, the heat of his skin leeching through his tunic. Whatever he may have said on Fire Night, this was real.

She shyly lifted her chin, but as his face lowered to meet hers, he stiffened, then whipped his head to the side. She followed his line of sight to see Tamlin standing in the doorway of the dining room. A hint of claws glinted at his fingertips.

“What’s going on?”

Lucien dropped his hold on her then, but he said nothing as he stared at Tamlin, still standing in the doorway.

Feyre rubbed at her arms, feeling strangely guilty for getting caught in this position, yet already missing the warmth of Lucien’s embrace. “We-we were talking,” she tried to explain, but from how closely they were standing together, she was sure Tamlin could guess that was not all they were doing. Besides, the dining room was hardly the proper place to do whatever it was they were about to do.

Tamlin’s gaze didn’t waver as he stared at his friend. “Talking,” he repeated coolly.

Lucien’s throat bobbed, but the silver-tongued emissary remained strangely silent.

Feyre offered, with a nod at Lucien, “He was, ah, comforting me, because of what happened o-on Fire Night.”

Lucien made a strange noise in his throat as the High Lord’s eyes narrowed.

“Was he?” Tamlin said, taking a slow, deliberate step into the room. “What did happen on Fire Night, Feyre?” he asked, still staring at Lucien. He crossed his arms and frowned, his claws pricking into his sleeves.

Before she could say anything more, Lucien held up his hand. “I—” He swallowed again, then choked out, “We need to talk.”

***

“Exactly how banished am I?” Lucien asked wincingly, pressing himself into his chair in the High Lord’s study.

Tamlin did not look at him as he sat at his desk, covering his mouth with one clawed hand and slowly scratching at the arm of his leather chair with the other. His claws had nearly decimated the leather by the time Lucien had confessed to everything that had happened.

When his friend—now former friend, he supposed—did not answer, he shifted in his seat and ventured, “Tam?”

The High Lord moved only to lower his hand from his mouth. “Forty-eight years, ten months, and twenty-five days,” he said stiffly.

Lucien’s shoulders slumped. “That’s oddly specific, but as you wish,” he said quietly, then leaned forward to stand.

Tamlin’s beastly green eyes flicked to him, pinning him in place. “Forty-eight years, ten months, and twenty-five days,” he repeated, then leaned forward to steeple his hands on his desk. “That is how long we’ve been wearing these damn masks.”

Lucien sighed. “I know that—”

“I wasn’t finished,” Tamlin said coldly.

Lucien clenched his jaw and obediently held his tongue. He deserved whatever punishment the High Lord deemed fit to give him.

When Tamlin seemed satisfied that he wouldn’t speak again, he squared his shoulders and went on, “One-hundred and twenty-six years and eight months. That is how long we have been friends.”

Lucien’s chest caved in. He would take a whipping over this torment any day.

“Three months, and three days.”

Lucien’s brows furrowed at this number, but his unspoken question was quickly answered.

“That is how long Feyre has been here, and that is how long it took for everything we worked for to turn to ash,” Tamlin said coolly.

Lucien dropped his gaze to the floor. “I’m not going to argue with you, Tam,” he said quietly. “But it didn’t take that long.”

Tamlin let out a snort of disgust. “No, I suppose it only took a week of fucking her to lose your common sense.”

Heat flared in Lucien’s chest. He leapt to his feet and slammed his hands onto the desk. “I told you I didn’t touch her,” he snarled.

Tamlin rose slowly, dangerously, and placed his clawed hands onto the desk as he squared off against Lucien. “Are you certain of that?” he said quietly. “Because I am beginning to wonder what exactly the two of you were doing every time I left you alone together.”

Lucien held his gaze and replied, “It was on Calanmai, and Calanmai alone, that I disobeyed your orders. I kissed her back, but that’s all.”

“Yet you waited until today to tell me that you met Rhys on Fire Night, and that you saw him again this afternoon. So please forgive me if I don’t trust you as I once did.”

Breathing hard, Lucien said, “I don’t expect you to trust me again, but do not insult my honor.”

Tamlin held his gaze a moment longer, then pushed away from the desk and straightened up. “Anything else?” he said coolly.

Lucien’s anger drained away, and he wearily pushed himself upright. “No, Tam. That’s it.” He frowned as he realized his handprints had burned the smooth surface of the High Lord’s desk. His shoulders slumped. One more fuck-up on this fucked-up day.

Tamlin seemed to notice as well, for he growled and clenched his fists as he looked away. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” he muttered.

Lucien gritted his teeth, then turned to go. He was nearly to the door when Tamlin called after him.

“Is that really it?”

Lucien grimaced, then turned his head to see Tamlin had rounded the edge of his desk, as if he meant to follow, but had stopped himself.

“We’ve known each other for a hundred and twenty-seven years, yet not once in these last twenty minutes have you begged for my forgiveness. Why?”

“Because I don’t deserve it,” Lucien replied honestly, then turned to face his old friend. “You took me in after what happened to Jesminda, and I’ll always be grateful. But I can’t go on pretending that I’m not attracted to the one human girl who can break your spell. So, if you want me gone by sunrise, I will be. Then the only one standing between you and Feyre will be Amarantha. Do with that what you will.”

Lucien expected Tamlin to growl at him, to snarl, to flex his claws or grow fangs, but he did none of that. The High Lord only looked down at the ruined surface of his desk and wordlessly touched the burn marks.

Lucien sighed, then nodded. “Good luck, Tam,” he said quietly, then reached for the door handle. As he pulled it open, he stumbled back in shock as Feyre stumbled in.

She tugged at her tunic and straightened, blushing furiously. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I… Sorry.”

Lucien gaped at her. “I thought you went to bed,” he said, amazed he hadn’t heard her standing in the hall.

“I was waiting for you,” she said, then it was Lucien’s turn to blush. Her eyes widened, then she let out a nervous chuckle and amended, “I-I mean, I was waiting to-to talk to you.” She turned to Tamlin and said, “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. Please don’t send Lucien away.”

Lucien’s eyebrows rose behind his mask, and he turned to see Tamlin staring at her in wonder.

“You were listening?” the High Lord said.

Feyre bit her lip, then nodded. “I know I shouldn’t have, but all of this was my fault. I thought I should be the one to explain…”

“What did you hear?” Tamlin asked, ignoring her offer. With a start, Lucien understood why.

“Not much,” she said, nervously running a hand down her braid. “But…”

Lucien nodded at her. “But?” he prompted.

Feyre dropped her hand to play with her fingers, and she shrugged as she looked between them. “Who’s Amarantha?”

Chapter Text

“Who’s Amarantha?” Feyre asked hesitantly.

Tamlin and Lucien exchanged looks that were nearly impossible to read from the masks on their faces, but if she had to guess, it was worry.

Her stockinged feet nervously curled into the thick rug as she waited for their answer. Though she had been clever enough to leave her boots behind so that she could sneak up to the study door undetected, her hearing was still not as keen as theirs. Even with her ear pressed against the door, she had heard little before Lucien suddenly opened it, and there was no use pretending she hadn’t been eavesdropping.

Tamlin carefully touched his throat with clawed fingertips. “A-Amarantha…” he began slowly, then cleared his throat, “is my… my mate.”

“Oh.” It seemed like such an obvious answer, she was almost embarrassed for asking. At least now she had a name for the cause of Tamlin’s suffering: Amarantha. Feyre looked to Lucien for his usual quippy commentary, but his mouth had fallen slightly open as he stared at the High Lord in apparent wonder.

What was it he had said? The only one standing between you and Feyre will be Amarantha. Her face warmed, and she swallowed hard as she tried to remember what little she’d heard about the High Lord’s mate. “Then… she’s the one who’s been sending you those-those gifts?” she asked Tamlin. The naga. The martax. The wings.

He nodded. “We… we haven’t s-seen each other for-for nearly fi-fifty years,” he said haltingly, rubbing his throat, then winced.

Feyre struggled to understand why they hadn’t told her sooner. “So, she’s sending you those gifts because she… she misses you?”

Lucien snorted. “That’s one way of putting it,” he muttered, crossing his arms.

Tamlin frowned, but he did not disagree.

“Have you ever asked her to stop?” Feyre offered, thinking of the note she’d found.

Lucien barked a laugh beside her. “She doesn’t like taking no for an answer,” he said, then tapped his left cheek with a grim smile.

Feyre gasped, then reached for him. “She did that to you?”

Lucien turned his face away before her fingers could touch his scarred skin. “Emissary business. It was a long time ago,” he said quietly, then glanced at Tamlin.

Feyre shyly lowered her hand as she noticed Tamlin staring at them, then she cleared her throat and smoothed the front of her tunic. “No wonder you don’t want to accept the mating bond,” she remarked to Tamlin.

A wry smile touched his lips. “I’ve known her for most of my life. Even before I knew about our bond, there was no way in Hell I would have accepted her hand. Not after everything she’d done.”

Feyre noticed Lucien mindlessly scratching his scarred cheek, scratching at the edge of his fox mask, and she frowned at a sudden thought. “Was Amarantha there? At the masquerade ball?”

Tamlin’s throat bobbed. “Yes. It… it was her idea.”

“Is she stuck wearing a mask, too?”

“No, she—” Tamlin coughed. “She isn’t,” he muttered with a frown.

“But she should be,” Lucien added, then muttered, “The witch.”

Tamlin growled at him, and Lucien growled back. No matter how much Tamlin detested their bond, he was still bound to her, and seemed to be strangely protective of her.

A witch. Witches were not unheard of on the other side of the Wall, but they were usually poor village women who doled out herbal remedies when a Healer could not be found. However, nobody wanted to admit to going to a witch for help, because witches were said to rely on spells… on magic. And only faerie-kind knew magic. So, if Tamlin was mated to a witch, then… Feyre frowned and scratched her head. It felt as though the answer should be obvious, but it eluded her.

Tamlin and Lucien continued to frown at each other in silence. Feyre was half-tempted to step between the two bristling males, but she had not become so comfortable around faeries that she would risk Tamlin’s claws. Instead, she distracted him by asking, “So… if you don’t care for her, then why did you go along with the idea? For the masquerade, I mean.”

Tamlin glared at Lucien a moment longer, then sighed and looked away to run a hand over his hair. “I should have suspected she would try something… But it was on my lands, in my home, and I knew she wanted to make amends… I didn’t think she would dare cause trouble on my birthday.”

Feyre blinked. “Oh…” Alis had told her about the masquerade ball, and about the other High Lords’ attendance, but she didn’t know that it was a birthday celebration. It seemed like such a human thing to do. Once we reach maturity, one’s age is insignificant, Tamlin had once told her. “I thought you didn’t keep track of birthdays.”

Lucien quipped, “And miss out on a party? Never.”

His lighthearted tone helped to ease the tension in the room, and Feyre smiled.

Even Tamlin’s tight shoulders relaxed as he breathed a laugh, but his smile quickly turned solemn. “That’s why I agreed to the masks. Lucien may be an ass—” That prompted a ‘Hey’ from Lucien. “—but I didn’t want him hiding in his room any longer. I couldn’t heal him—not completely—but I could help him. Besides…” Tamlin sighed. “I wanted my friend back.”

Feyre glanced between them as Lucien’s defensive posture softened, and the two males shared a mournful look. They had been friends for over a hundred years, and they had nearly thrown it away because of her.

Lucien sighed as well. “Of course, if it hadn’t been for my big mouth, Amarantha wouldn’t have taken my eye, and we wouldn’t be stuck in these masks in the first place.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tamlin said before Feyre could. Lucien had said the same to her earlier, though she hadn’t believed him. Even so, she hadn’t asked the dark-haired stranger to behead that faerie any more than Lucien had asked Amarantha to take his eye. Tamlin went on, “I should have gone to Amarantha myself. I never should have put you in harm’s way.”

“And let her trap you Under the Mountain? I don’t think so,” Lucien countered.

Feyre’s stomach dropped at the thought. “What mountain?” she asked.

“Middengard,” Tamlin muttered. “Or at least it used to be.”

Feyre’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Used to be?”

“Before Amarantha came and chased away the priestesses living there. We simply refer to it as the Mountain, anymore. For that is all that remains of that once sacred place.”

“It’s a better name than Hell, anyway,” Lucien quipped. When Feyre widened her eyes at him, he shrugged and said, “It’s little more than a prison, now.”

Feyre’s blood ran cold. “A prison for what?”

Lucien grimaced and rubbed his throat, but he did not answer.

Tamlin coughed. “It’s late. Such things are best discussed when the sun is high. We can talk more tomorrow.”

“We?” Feyre repeated, nodding at Lucien.

Lucien cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m going on border patrol tomorrow,” he said. “The two of you can talk just fine without me tagging along. Right, Tam?”

The High Lord pursed his lips, then gave his emissary a gruff nod. “Right.”

Feyre’s heart twinged as she looked between them, and she shook her head. “If this is because of me—”

Lucien shook his head in turn. “No. Nynsar is coming up, and Amarantha isn’t invited. We can’t have her finding out and ruining your first faerie holiday, can we?” he asked with a wry smile, but there was a trace of sadness in it, too.

Feyre managed a sad, tight-lipped smile in return. “I suppose not.”

Lucien nodded, then stepped toward the door. “Stay with Tam. He’ll keep you safe.” Stay with the High Lord, the Suriel had said. That is all you can do. Feyre sucked in a sharp breath. The blight…

She took a step toward him, suddenly nervous. “What about you?”

Lucien paused in the doorway, then turned and touched the jeweled sword he always carried, which was the match to the dagger she had stopped wearing because she was angry with him. She regretted that anger now, afraid she might never see him again. He smiled as if he knew what she was thinking and said, “I can take care of myself.”

Tamlin stepped forward and rested a hand on Feyre’s shoulder. “Lucien knows how to handle a blade,” he assured her, then looked to Lucien. “And if he needs my help, he is free to ask.”

The two males nodded at each other; it was a truce, at least, if not reconciliation.

“See you, Tam,” Lucien said quietly, then nodded at her. “Good night, Feyre.”

“Ah, good night,” she managed before he disappeared through the doorway, leaving her alone with the High Lord.

In the resulting silence, she played with her fingers, unsure of what she should say now.

Tamlin cleared his throat as he removed his hand from her shoulder. “May I see to your room?” he asked politely, then offered her his arm.

Her cheeks warmed, and she gave him a shy smile and nodded. “All right,” she said softly, then lightly rested her fingers in the crook of his elbow. Though there was more she wanted to ask, it was clear that the conversation about Amarantha and the “prison” Under the Mountain was over.

As Tamlin closed the study door behind them, he glanced down at her stockinged feet and remarked, “Where are your boots?”

Her face grew warmer as she admitted, “In my room. It was the only way I could sneak up on you, for once.”

Tamlin smiled. “I suppose it’s only fair, considering how many times I’ve startled you.” As they began to walk down the empty hall, he asked, “Did you overhear anything useful?”

Feyre shrugged. “That depends on what you consider useful.”

“Perhaps you should start by telling me what you heard.”

She grimaced. “I know, I shouldn’t have eavesdropped. I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry. I do not know what you know unless you tell me… I will not get angry with you, I promise.”

She hesitated, then sighed. “I did hear you accuse Lucien of-of fucking me.”

Tamlin stopped dead in his tracks. As Feyre glanced up at him, his eyes were closed, his mouth pinched, and his skin flushed with embarrassment. “I should not have said that,” he said tightly, then pinched the bridge of his masked nose. “I should not have questioned Lucien’s honor, or yours.” He grimaced, then lowered his hand to meet her gaze. “I… I am truly sorry. Can you forgive me?”

She nodded, if only to ease his guilt, then she shrugged again. “Would it have been so terrible if we were?”

Tamlin’s shoulders slumped. “You care for him, then?” He sounded disappointed.

Her cheeks warmed, embarrassed to be admitting that she had feelings for someone else. “He’s easy to talk to,” she said quietly. There wasn’t much else they had in common, human and High Fae, but she couldn’t deny that there was an attraction there. “And… he doesn’t have a mate.”

Tamlin sighed. “That does complicate matters,” he muttered, then gently pulled on her hand to continue toward the stairs. “If it were not for the blight, I would be happy to see you together… But… after all this time… I had hoped for some happiness of my own.”

Feyre waited until they were at the top of the stairs to pull her hand free from his arm and face him. “What are you saying, Tamlin?”

The High Lord drew a deep breath, flexing his fingers at his sides, as though willing his claws to stay put. “A-Amarantha… She has pursued me ever since I reached maturity. She and my father knew each other during the War, and he always wanted me to choose her. But I… If nothing else… I want to prove to her that I…”

When he hesitated, Feyre prompted, “Yes?”

Tamlin’s throat bobbed. “I would like to… that is, I am asking you… if-if I may court you.” He pursed his lips and clasped his hands behind his back, waiting for her response.

Feyre blinked. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that. “Court me?”

He nodded ever so slightly. “You can refuse,” he said softly. “I just… I just want one chance… to choose my own fate for once, rather than let the Cauldron decide for me.”

Feyre’s face warmed as his words sunk in. The Cauldron had chosen him as High Lord, and it had chosen his mate, too. Perhaps Amarantha would leave him alone and dissolve their bond if he chose someone else. That someone might have been Rowena if she had not been killed. Feyre swallowed. “Tamlin, I… I don’t want to be High Lady,” she whispered, shaking her head.

Tamlin breathed out slowly. “You wouldn’t be,” he assured her, then his face flushed again. “I-I mean, there is no such title. Lucien’s mother is the Lady of the Autumn Court, but she is not High Lady.”

“Oh,” Feyre said quietly, then bit the inside of her cheek as she considered his words.

“I am not asking you to marry me,” Tamlin said gently, stepping closer. “I am not asking you to my bed, either. I am only asking for the chance to get to know you properly.” His fingers touched her chin and lifted her gaze.

She swallowed as his emerald-green eyes searched hers. “A human?” she whispered.

“That is what you are, but not who you are,” Tamlin murmured, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind her rounded ear.

Her heart began to beat faster when he did not look away. She knew that look. “Why me?”

He did not reply, but lowered his head. She drew a sudden breath—inhaling his earthy scent in the process—and held it, then closed her eyes, anticipating the pressure of his mouth against hers. Instead, his lips brushed her cheek, as warm as a ray of sunshine and just as gentle.

“Because you are human,” he whispered against her skin. “I want to see the world through your eyes for a change. Will you let me?”

She opened her eyes and let out a shaky exhale as he pulled away. She found herself unable to speak, so she nodded.

He smiled, a rather handsome smile, then reached for her hand to press another soft kiss to it. “Until tomorrow, then, Feyre,” he said softly, then turned and left her standing at the top of the stairs.

As she watched him go, she lifted her hand and touched her cheek where he had kissed her. Her thoughts were as scattered as petals in the wind. It wasn’t until he was out of sight that she realized what she had agreed to, and she wondered if her heart could take it.

***

One after another, Lucien slid each hunting knife back into its sheath after checking its sharpness. His bow and quiver rested against the worktable beneath the window, with his sword on the table itself, ready to be buckled around his waist before he left for border patrol the next morning. As he mulled over whether he needed to take anything else, a quick knock sounded at the door.

His brows furrowed, and he turned toward the door. “Tam?” he called out, surprised the High Lord would be checking on him this late.

“It’s Feyre,” she called back meekly.

His mind went blank as he stood there, dressed only in a pair of pants. When he did not respond, she tried again.

“Can I come in?” she said through the door. “I-I need to talk to you.”

Shit. He whirled around, then darted for the shirt he’d shucked off earlier. He needed to say something so that she wouldn’t think he was ignoring her, but he didn’t want to be caught half-naked, either. As he shoved his arms through the sleeves, he tried to sound cool and collected as he called back, “You can come in.”

In his hurry, though, the ears of his fox mask caught on the collar, and he only managed to tug the shirt into place after Feyre had opened the door.

Her cheeks were as flushed as his felt as she stared at him from the doorway.

He swallowed hard, and his fingers curled into his palms. “You said you needed to talk?” he said tightly, feeling a little light-headed.

She blinked, startled. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I know it’s late…”

No doubt she’d seen more of him than he intended. If she wasn’t the key to breaking Tamlin’s curse, he wouldn’t have minded being caught shirtless. His slender physique was nothing to scoff at, though it did not compare to the High Lord’s broad build. Then again, she had seen Tamlin shirtless at Starlight Pond. He caught himself wondering how they compared in her eyes, then shook his head. He was getting distracted from the matter at hand, which was to make sure that he didn’t break Tamlin’s trust. Again.

“It’s all right,” he assured her, trying to seem casual as he crossed his arms.

She bit her lip as she took a tentative step inside his room in her stockinged feet. “About tonight…”

His mind raced as he looked her over. Had she been wearing boots earlier? Is that how she’d snuck up on them in the study? Or had she sought him out after going to her room? If that was so, was she going to ask him about the kiss from Fire Night? Or the almost-kiss when Tamlin came in? Or was this about Amarantha? He took a deep breath to quell the rising panic in his chest. “Go on,” he said, sounding calmer than he felt.

She played with her fingers and glanced away. “Tamlin asked if he could court me.”

Lucien blinked. Oh. It hadn’t taken the High Lord long at all to heed his advice. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or disappointed. As he cupped his elbow with one hand, he used the other to stroke his chin. “What did you say?” he asked quietly.

Feyre’s eyes shone as she met his gaze. “What do you want me to say?”

His chest tightened. Say no. Say yes. Say I love you and break this damn curse. Just put me out of my misery once and for all. He sighed and looked away. “What I want is secondary to what the High Lord wants,” he said quietly.

She stepped closer still. “What about what I want?”

He swallowed hard as she stood before him, then shook his head. “Tam can give you anything you could ever want. I can’t.”

“What if I want—” She wet her lips. “What if I want the moon on a string?”

His heart skipped a beat, and he lowered his hands as he looked her over. Her full lips parted slightly as she lifted her chin, silently offering that kiss he’d once asked for. He managed a slight smile, then said sadly, “Then I’ll need to go and fetch it, won’t I?”

Her shoulders slumped as he turned away, but she seemed to forget her apparent disappointment when he returned with a gift for her. “In the meantime, I… Here,” he said, offering her the jeweled belt in his hands. “Since you said you couldn’t wear your dagger with a dress.”

She bit her lip as she hesitated, but she did accept his offering. He tried not to focus on the way her cool fingertips brushed against his too-hot skin, but he let himself smile as she admired the gift. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, shifting the belt so that the studded rubies glittered in the candlelight.

The jewels would match those on the dagger he’d given her, if she ever chose to wear it again. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to have it made for her, especially when she had rejected the faerie wine he’d offered. Besides, Nynsar was a day for exchanging flowers, not gifts, and Winter Solstice was the more traditional gift-giving holiday, not Summer Solstice. Still, he had commissioned the belt just the same, and the leatherworker in the nearest village had been grateful for the work since few could afford such extravagances in these uncertain times. Besides, if Feyre was going to be wearing gowns more often, she needed a way to defend herself in case Amarantha sent one of her cronies to the manor for a visit.

“Thank you,” Feyre breathed, then her full lips curved into a lovely smile as she looked into his eyes. “I don’t have anything for you, though.”

Lucien smiled back and shook his head. “You don’t need to give me anything,” he said honestly. “Consider it an early Solstice gift.” If Tamlin asked about it, he might raise an eyebrow at such an extravagant gift, but even he could not argue against its usefulness.

“I’d still like to give you something,” she said softly.

He swallowed, suspecting she meant a kiss. No matter how much he wanted it, he couldn’t accept it. Not after Tamlin had asked to court her.

“Perhaps on Nynsar?” she offered.

He breathed a soft sigh of relief. “If Tam doesn’t need me on patrol that day, I wouldn’t say no to a crown of daisies.”

It was the wrong thing to say, though, for her face fell. “Daisies,” she repeated softly, rubbing the jeweled belt between her fingers. Perhaps he shouldn’t have suggested anything, but daisies were plentiful, and he knew she didn’t have much to give. Except…

“Hey,” he said gently, and when she met his gaze, he gave her a kind smile. “If you really want to give me something, you could paint my portrait after Solstice.” There was little risk to asking for a portrait that far in advance. Either she would forget, or she would be so in love with Tamlin by then that painting Lucien’s portrait would pose no threat to breaking the curse. As she considered his offer, he remarked, “Although, if you think about it, I would be giving you a gift twice over, so… you’re welcome.”

She pursed her lips at him, but his teasing worked, for it coaxed out a smile. Her smile turned to a smirk, however, as she countered, “Wherever will I find a canvas big enough for your big head?”

He smirked back, then nodded to the doorway. “Come on,” he said gently. “I’ll walk you to your room.”

Though his teasing had lightened the mood, she said nothing as they walked down the quiet corridor. It wasn’t until he’d bidden her good night that she turned from her door to face him. “I agreed to Tamlin’s proposal,” she said quickly.

Lucien stared at her. “Proposal?” he echoed.

Her cheeks reddened. “To court me, I mean.”

“Oh. Good,” he said, still somewhat stunned. It was a good thing, though he felt foolish for thinking she’d actually wanted his opinion.

She nodded. “I just… I wanted you to know.”

“Now I know,” he said quietly.

She nodded again, running her thumbs over the ruby-studded belt in her hands.

When she didn’t speak, and she didn’t make a move to enter her room, he offered, “I’m happy for you, you know.”

“You are?”

“Of course,” he said, and he meant it. No matter how he felt about her, if she wanted to be with Tamlin, he wouldn’t stand in her way. Especially if it meant breaking Amarantha’s curse. “I’ve known Tam a long time,” Lucien continued. “He wouldn’t ask to court you if he didn’t think you were special.”

She smiled softly. “Really?”

He nodded. “Really,” he assured her, then turned to go before he was tempted to say or do anything else to prove it.

“Will I see you at dinner tomorrow?” she called after him.

He hesitated, then sighed and faced her one last time. “Perhaps,” he said vaguely, though in reality he planned on skipping it so that Tamlin and Feyre could be alone.

Her smile faded. “Will I see you at Nynsar?” she asked, apparently guessing at his plans.

“We’ll see,” he replied, trying to sound reassuring. “If Tam doesn’t need me for border patrol, I’ll be there.”

She nodded, but she didn’t seem convinced. “Until Nynsar, then,” she said softly, then turned to go into her room.

Though he should have let it end there, he couldn’t help but call after her, “Just because you and Tam are courting now doesn’t mean that we can’t still be friends.”

“Friends,” she repeated softly, then half-turned her head and said, “Good night.”

“Good night,” he echoed as she closed the door.

 He waited in the corridor a moment longer, staring at her door. If anyone had found him there and asked him why he was standing outside the human’s door, barefoot, he could only say that it was because his mind was elsewhere. And it was. As he walked back to his room, alone, his mind drifted from what lay beyond Feyre’s bedroom door to what waited for him in Amarantha’s prison Under the Mountain if he was not careful.

He did not douse the candles before he went to sleep that night. Even so, his dreams were haunted by the memory of Amarantha carving out his eye. And when he escaped that nightmare, he fell into another one in which Rhysand spiked his head on the fountain for daring to take what did not belong to him: Feyre’s hand.

Chapter Text

Sunlight dappled the wooded path as Feyre and Tamlin rode their horses deep into the southern forest. It was strange to see a gray stallion plodding alongside her instead of a sleek black gelding, and it was equally strange to turn her head and see a golden-haired rider instead of an auburn-haired one.

Alis had awoken her with the news that the High Lord wanted to take her riding. After dressing in an emerald-green tunic and the jeweled belt, she hurried to the stables, only to find that Lucien and Shadow had already gone on patrol. She tried not to show her disappointment to Tamlin. After all, she had agreed to be his consort, not Lucien’s. Not that he had asked.

Consort. That’s what Alis had called her, for word had already spread among the servants that the High Lord was now courting her. I am not asking you to marry me, Tamlin had told her the night before. I am not asking you to my bed, either. He just wanted to get to know her properly. Alone.

Trying to quell her nervousness, Feyre asked him, “Where are we going this time?” 

He gave her a sly smile. “It’s a surprise.”

Her heart thumped. “Does this surprise have a name, at least?”

He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, it does. But because I am curious as to what you would call it, I won’t tell you until you see it for yourself.”

She quirked her mouth to one side. “What is it with faeries and names?” she declared, which made Tamlin chuckle again. “You never mentioned Amarantha’s name once until yesterday.”

He straightened in the saddle, his good humor gone in an instant. “I couldn’t,” he said quietly, lifting a hand to rub his throat.

Feyre shifted in the saddle. “Is it painful for you to talk about her?”

Tamlin gave her a wry smile. “More than you know,” he replied. When she tilted her head in confusion, he simply said, “Are there any mortal rhymes that warn of revealing names to our kind?”

Her brows furrowed in thought. “I can’t think of any… Why?” she said with a twinge of dread.

“Names are a form of magic, Feyre.”

That might explain why the Mortal Lands had no other name—not like Prythian—for there was no magic to be found there. Even so, hearing him say her name that way made her wonder aloud, “Is my name magic?”

A slight smile touched his lips. “It could be. It certainly is an old name, found in our earlier texts.”

“Oh.” She had never thought to wonder where her name came from, or why her mother had chosen it other than the fact that it sounded pretty. Fay-ruh… Fae.

Tamlin went on, “In the right hands, giving someone your name is a declaration of trust. In the wrong hands… it gives them power over you.”

“You mean like cursing someone?”

He winced as he nodded.

She swallowed hard. “Is… is that how you were able to glamour me?”

He looked away. “A glamour isn’t the same as a curse, but… yes. It made the glamour stronger.”

How strong was the glamour on her family, then? Feyre tried to remember that night in the cottage when Tamlin came to claim her. Her father had said her name, asking her to be spared for killing the wolf, but everything else was a blur. Tamlin was a High Lord, though, and in spite of the blight, his powers were great. Her family was probably happy to forget about a faerie-beast bursting into their cottage, especially if it meant having enough to eat and a decent roof over their heads. He could have done so much worse to them, and to her.

She mused, “So if I knew magic, I could glamour you, too?”

He gave her an amused smile. “You could try,” he said, then pulled on Thunderstorm’s reins. “We’re here.”

She pulled on Moonlight’s reins as well, bringing the mare to a stop in the middle of the path. “Where?” she asked, looking around. This part of the forest seemed no different from the rest.

He nodded to a golden gap between the trees, but the light was so bright against the shadows, she couldn’t see much.

“Another secret pond?” she guessed as Tamlin helped her down from her horse.

He set her on the ground and smiled. “Nothing that romantic, I’m afraid,” he said as his hands lingered at her waist. The High Lord and his consort.

Her cheeks warmed at the thought, suddenly aware of her hands resting on his arms. She’d never been pursued before, for she was the one who had taken Isaac into the barn in the first place. And she was the one who had kissed Lucien on Fire Night. Perhaps she should let someone else do the pursuing for a change.

Tamlin released his hold on her then to take Moonlight’s reins, then he nodded again at the gap. “You go on ahead. I’ll be along in a moment.”

She nodded as she stepped back, then turned for the sunlight beyond the shaded path. Her hands tingled, so she nervously rubbed them against her breeches as she stepped into the sunshine.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but when they did, she was surprised at how ordinary everything looked. After the wonders of Starlight Pond and the Golden Glen, and the unexpected beauty of Rainbow Falls, the clearing seemed rather plain. Granted, the grass was lush and green, and the clear, winding brook did sparkle in the sunlight, but she had expected something… more. The only thing of note was a lone weeping willow at the center of the clearing, its vine-like branches swaying in the warm breeze.

“What do you think?” Tamlin asked, appearing at her side.

She avoided looking at him as she struggled to come up with a decent reply. “It’s… nice.”

To her surprise, he chuckled. “Is that all?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted, then turned her head to meet his eye. “I’m still trying to make up my mind.”

He smiled thoughtfully, then nodded to the willow. “Shall we?”

Her heart gave an unexpected thump. “Shall we what?”

His smile grew. “Sit. Talk.” He held up the saddlebag he’d brought along in his other hand. “Eat.”

“Drink?” she added, falling into step beside him.

He chuckled again. “It’s a bit early for wine, especially faerie wine,” he said, parting the willow boughs so that she could duck into the shady space beneath it. “Besides,” he added as he followed her. “I wanted to see the world through your eyes for a change. Remember?”

She did. Her face warmed at the memory of his lips brushing against her cheek the night before, when he’d asked to court her. Feeling his eyes on her, she turned her attention to the bend of the brook curving into the circle of the hanging willow boughs. “Will drinking that give you mortal sight instead of faerie sight?” she asked, half-joking.

“Let’s find out,” he said lightly, and shocked her by handing her the saddlebag.

She clutched the saddlebag to her chest and gawked as the High Lord of Spring himself knelt at the water’s edge. He cupped his broad hands into the clear stream, then drank a couple handfuls before flicking the rest from his fingers. Resting an arm on his knee, he looked up at her and smiled.

“What do you see?” he asked. “Then we’ll compare.”

She saw the shine of moisture on his curved lips, for one thing. She saw the delicate arch of his pointed ear, so different from her own, for another. She saw the sunshine filtering through the willow canopy, streaming onto his golden hair and golden mask. And for once, she saw him not as a High Lord, nor a High Fae, but as a male, and a rather handsome one at that… But she couldn’t tell him any of those things.

She swallowed hard and glanced around. “I see a brook,” she said simply, “and green grass, and wildflowers, and… the willow…” She faltered as he gracefully rose to his feet to stand before her. He was taller than Lucien, and broader, too.

“Anything else?” he asked softly.

Her mouth was dry. “And you,” she replied simply. Her heart began to quiver, but she wasn’t sure why.

He nodded thoughtfully, then gestured to the willow trunk without comment. Bewildered, she watched him seat himself in the long grass, then look up at her and pat the place beside him.

She blinked. “No blanket?” she remarked, at a loss for what else to say.

“Do you want a blanket this time?”

She shook her head, suddenly remembering when he sat beside her in the grass on that pleasant afternoon weeks before. This was no different, except Lucien was gone on border patrol, leaving the High Lord and his consort alone to get to know each other. Properly, Tamlin had said. What was a faerie’s definition of proper, anyway? Besides going on horseback rides to mysterious locations in an enchanted forest…

Realizing she was standing there and staring, she stepped forward to hand him the saddlebag. As he set it on his other side, leaving nothing between them, she took a deep breath and sat beside him in the cool grass. Though he had given her no reason to be nervous, she hugged her knees to her chest.

Keeping her voice light, she said, “Now it’s your turn. What do you see?”

“I see you,” he replied without hesitation. Her cheeks warmed beneath his unwavering gaze.

“A human?” she asked softly, for that was why he had chosen her. He had said as much the night before. To her surprise, he shook his head.

“A woman.”

Not a female, a woman. Her heart thumped. “Is that why you brought me here?” she whispered. When he cocked his head in apparent confusion, she dropped her gaze to stare at the tops of her knees. “To be alone with me? A woman?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pull away. “If I have made you uncomfortable—”

“No,” she insisted, squeezing her eyes shut and grimacing against the pang of guilt in her gut. “I’m sorry. I mean… I’m your consort. I should be alone with you.” Her face began to burn. “I-I mean…”

Tamlin’s fingers brushed her arm. “I only brought you here to talk. Nothing more,” he said softly.

She took a deep breath, then lifted her head to meet his gaze. She wished she could read his expression, but the mask prevented that, and the line of his mouth revealed nothing. “What would you like to talk about?” she whispered.

He rested his arm across his bent knee and said, “We can start with you telling me why you think you’re my consort.”

She gaped at him. “You mean I’m not? Alis said I was.”

A smile touched one corner of his mouth. “That would imply that we’ve started sharing a bed, which I don’t think either of us are ready for.”

The tension in her shoulders eased, and she lowered her knees as she straightened up. “I thought consorts did much more than that,” she remarked.

He let out an amazed chuckle, and what was visible of his face began to redden. His green eyes twinkled as he remarked, “You are unlike any woman I’ve ever known.”

“How many women have you known?” she asked pointedly.

He conceded a nod. “You are the first woman I’ve come to know since the War ended,” he admitted, then looked away to the brook streaming past their little hiding spot. “But I’ve had many lovers,” he said quietly. “Females of noble birth, warriors, princesses…”

Feyre began to play with her fingers, uncertain why he was telling her, and confused that his admission bothered her. Perhaps it was that he was experienced, and she wasn’t.

He went on, “But I was a title to them. A conquest. And I would be lying if I said that they meant more to me than that.” He turned from the brook and looked at her. “After Rowena died, I didn’t think I could love anybody else,” he said, then sighed and dropped his gaze to pluck at the grass between them. “Sometimes I wonder if I even remember how.”

Feyre stared at his hand, broad and tanned against the emerald carpet. It would be easy to touch his hand, to lay her palm against the back of it and curl her fingers into his palm and feel the callouses there. But that would mean letting go of Lucien, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that yet.

Instead, she shifted closer to nudge Tamlin’s arm with her elbow. When his fingers stilled against the grass and he turned his head to look at her, she gave him a shy shrug. “You never did tell me what this place was called,” she said softly.

A gentle smile touched his lips. “What do you think it should be called?”

She took a deep breath and glanced around. “Consort Creek?” she guessed, then grinned when he laughed.

“Willow Glade,” he replied, still smiling. “Or, as it used to be known in the old texts, The Glade Where the Willow Maid Sings for Her Lost Love.” He nodded at her. “And do you want to guess what the willow maid’s name was?”

From his tone, she didn’t have to guess, but it was impossible. She looked at him askance. “You don’t mean…”

He nodded again. “A very old spelling for faerie. Feyre.”

Her mouth fell open as she stared at him in disbelief. “You’re making that up,” she declared.

He shook his head. “I finally found it last night in one of my old books. Ne’er hath dwelt a willow Fae as fair as Feyre Fair. Some translations don’t give her a name at all but claim that Feyre simply refers to a forest faerie or a willow nymph. Still, I prefer the versions that give her a name.”

Feyre finally remembered to close her mouth, and she ran a hand down her braid, at a loss for words. Feeling Tamlin’s eyes on her, she nodded at the curved willow trunk behind them and managed to ask, “How-how do you know it’s the same tree?”

Tamlin’s gaze followed the curve of the trunk and up into the canopy. “There’s only one willow tree I have found in the Spring Lands that sings, and it’s this one.”

She dropped her hand to her lap. “It sings?”

He tilted his head. “You mean you can’t hear it?” When she shook her head, he shifted close enough that his arm rested behind her. “Would you like to?”

She swallowed hard, surrounded by his natural warmth. “And what of your price?” she asked, heart pounding.

He smirked down at her. “You’re learning.”

She flicked her eyebrows up at him without speaking, without agreeing to whatever devious bargain he might have in mind.

His gaze drifted down to her lips, and she knew what he wanted even before he spoke. “A kiss,” he said.

“Another one?” she squawked.

He grinned. “One can never have too many.”

When she opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand, then turned his head and tapped at his cheek. “A kiss,” he repeated. “In exchange for a song.”

Her eyes narrowed as she leaned away from him, considering whether to believe his innocent smile. Her curiosity won out, though, and though her heart beat harder, she nodded. “Fine,” she agreed, then leaned in before she lost her nerve.

As her nose brushed his cheek, he turned his head so that their lips touched, and he kissed her. It was the briefest of kisses, but it was a kiss. He kissed her.

Her eyes widened and she shoved him away. “Oh!” was all she could think to say as he sat back on his hands and grinned. Her brows furrowed, and she frowned. “Oh,” she growled and hugged herself. “You tricked me.”

“To be fair, I didn’t say on the cheek,” he said, looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

She pursed her lips and scowled at him.

He chuckled, then leaned forward to rest his arms on his bent knees. “Now for my part of the bargain,” he began.

“Oh, no. I’m not falling for that again,” she declared. “You probably made up that story about the willow maid.”

“I would never,” he said in a gentler tone, then shifted closer.

She leaned away, but she did not push him back. She could have gotten up and walked away, or stormed off in a huff, but she didn’t. She had agreed to a kiss, after all. The realization that she had done so surprised her.

“Feyre,” he murmured, and his gaze flitted between her eyes and her lips.

She turned her head to avoid being tricked again. Her lips still tingled, and the kiss had only lasted for a heartbeat. Not like that kiss with Lucien on Fire Night.

Tamlin’s breath was warm against her cheek as he leaned in and whispered, “For a song, as promised.” Then he pressed his lips against her ear.

She jerked away and touched her ear as she stared at him in shock. “What are you—” She faltered as a low hum sounded in that ear, and her hand dropped to her lap as she listened. The hum turned to a soft croon, and the pitch changed from low to high. It was a woman’s voice, and she was singing a sad, wordless melody. The willow was singing.

Feyre let her eyes follow the curve of the willow trunk up to the canopy. It was easy to imagine a delicate faerie maid—not too unlike Alis—with bark-brown skin and willow-green hair, standing on the banks of a sparkling stream and singing about love and loss and everything in between.

She let out a soft, shaky breath, then turned to Tamlin. “I can hear it,” she murmured.

He gave her a rueful smile. “I did promise,” he said softly.

She sighed, then quirked her mouth to one side as she shook her head. “Make thee no deals with faerie-kind,” she recited, then clicked her tongue. “And I did. Then you tricked me.”

His smile widened. “Was it not a fair bargain?”

She rubbed her tingling ear and grimaced. “That depends. Is this another glamour?”

“No,” he said, sounding sincere. “Just a little spell. It’ll wear off in a few minutes.”

She blinked at him. “A spell?” She scoffed and crossed her arms. “You neglected to mention that before you kissed me.”

His self-satisfied smile returned. “You didn’t ask.”

“I didn’t ask you to kiss me on the mouth, either, but here we are.”

“Here we are,” he repeated, looking at her lips.

She turned her attention to the willow behind them. The melody had changed again. “What is she singing about now?”

Tamlin cocked his head and listened. “Forgiveness?” he offered, then caught her eye and smirked.

She fought back a smile, uncertain whether she should forgive him just yet. The kiss had been unexpected, true, but it hadn’t been completely unpleasant. “What is she really singing about?”

Tamlin’s smirk softened, and his gaze grew far away as he listened again. “She sings of a dream,” he mused. “A dream where her human lover has returned, and she can fall asleep in his arms at last.”

Feyre’s face warmed. Though the lulling melody was low and sad, it was peaceful, too. “Is that true?” she whispered. A human and a faerie. Together.

“Not all humans were slaves, Feyre,” he said gently. “Some were happy here, once upon a time.”

“Happy,” she murmured, blinking slowly. Though she didn’t understand the words, the willow’s song soothed her and promised pleasant dreams if she wanted them. She turned and slid her fingers through the grass, stretching out between the tree roots before curling onto her side.

“Feyre?”

“Mm?” she said, tucking her hands beneath her cheek and closing her eyes.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I didn’t think the willow’s magic was strong enough to actually put you to sleep.” He reached over and shook her shoulder.

“Mm. Sleep,” she grumbled, shrugging him away with her eyes still closed.

He removed his hand and sighed. “That’s what I get for tricking you, I suppose.” The grass rustled as he shifted closer, then his fingers brushed a stray hair from her cheek. “Sleep well, Feyre Fair,” he murmured, before she slipped into slumber.

***

Lucien yawned and rolled his neck as Shadow’s easy pace threatened to lull him to sleep. He was tasked with patrolling the Wall itself today; his golden eye could make out the gaps between the enchanted stones. Or at least it would, if he could manage to keep his eyes from rolling around in his head. He hadn’t slept well the night before, but since he was the one who had volunteered for patrol, he had forced himself to roll out of bed before sunrise. It wasn’t fair to the few remaining sentries if he backed out because of a few lousy nightmares.

Being able to tell Feyre a little more about Amarantha must have triggered the memory of what that witch had done to him forty-nine years ago. Worst of all, he never managed to wake before she began cutting into him. There was nothing he could do but let it play out until then. The nightmare always started in the throne room.

The vast chamber was once a temple dedicated to the Mother, and it was rumored to be the final resting place of the Cauldron itself. But now the priestesses were gone, either killed or chased off by Amarantha and her army. It had not taken long for Amarantha to then turn the altar into her own personal throne, carved from shining black rock.

Winged faerie artisans from the Summer Court were already hard at work carving another throne just like it beside hers.

“What do you think?” Amarantha had asked Lucien, sitting back in her stolen throne and smiling wickedly. She ran her sharp, polished nails along the pad of her thumb as she waited for his reply.

Lucien squared his shoulders. Ignoring her question, he declared, “Tamlin Darrow, High Lord of the Spring Court, has asked that I deliver this peace offering to you—” He held up the ribboned bouquet that his friend had hand-picked for her. “—and requested that you hear his plea. If you will return even a small portion of his magic, he will gladly resume trade with King Hadrian of Hybern, just as his father once did.”

Amarantha’s smile disappeared as she straightened up. “Bring them to me,” she said curtly. The flowers.

Lucien warily eyed the Attor as he approached the steps leading up to her throne. Amarantha’s loyal pet lurked at the edge of dais, leering at him and hissing.

Amarantha’s ruby lips pursed as she looked over the bouquet without taking it from Lucien’s outstretched hands. “Amaranth blossoms. How original,” she murmured.

Lucien bit back a retort. Tamlin had spent a lot of precious magic to quickly grow those ruby-shaded flowers from seeds specifically for this bouquet.

Amarantha tilted her head. “Meadowsweet, for peace, I think,” she mused, then she scoffed and took the bouquet at last. “Does your High Lord think he can make me homesick?” She plucked a sprig from the bundle and brandished it in her sharp fingers. “Green clover from Hybern?”

Lucien stepped away and clasped his hands behind his back. “It’s Spring Court clover, my lady,” he said carefully. “For good fortune.”

Amarantha frowned and flicked the sprig of clover from her fingers. “I have more than enough of that.”

Lucien clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. Since he no longer had the power to winnow, that meant a long, tedious ride back to the manor. The sooner she gave him an answer, the sooner he could leave. He didn’t want to waste any more time Under the Mountain than was absolutely necessary. “Shall I tell Lord Tamlin that you will consider his offer?”

She pursed her lips, then crossed her legs and sat back in her throne. “No.”

He blinked. “No?”

“No,” she repeated. “There is only one thing I want from him, and it is not a bouquet of common weeds,” she said coldly, then threw the flowers to the floor. Tiny petals of red and white scattered onto the polished blood-red marble.

Lucien’s chest tightened as he stared at the ruined bouquet. Tamlin had chosen everything so carefully, hoping to win her over. Lord Magnus and Amarantha had been friends once. Since she recognized meadowsweet, surely she understood what Tamlin was trying to say through the language of flowers: let us not be enemies.

Amarantha went on, “I want him here on his hands and knees, or not at all.”

“You’d know all about being on your hands and knees, wouldn’t you,” Lucien said flatly.

Her dark eyes narrowed.

“How else could you have crawled out of that shithole you came from,” he said coolly, then snorted as he turned his back on her to descend the steps.

“I did not dismiss you,” she declared.

Lucien called back over his shoulder, “Don’t worry. I’ll tell Tamlin not to waste any more of your time.”

The next thing he knew, his face was being smashed into the smooth red marble, and a heavy knee pressed into his back, pinning him to the floor.

The Attor’s claws dug into his scalp as he let out a dazed moan. “What the hell…?” He tasted blood.

“Shall I remove his head, Your Majesty?” the Attor crooned. “As a gift for your beloved?”

Lucien’s heart quivered as he watched Amarantha’s full skirts descend the dais steps into his line of sight. “No, my pet,” she said above him. “I have a message that only his emissary can deliver.”

He tried to reach for the jeweled dagger at his belt, but before he could draw it, the Attor gripped his wrist then flipped him onto his back. He groaned as the Attor pinned his arms to the floor.

Amarantha did not look at him as she slipped a large pearl ring onto her first finger. “Do you know what happened to the last man who told me I belonged in a shithole?” she asked lightly.

Man, not male. Lucien’s blood froze as the pearl spun on her finger to stare at him. It was an eye, its iris as brown as his, but he knew without her saying so that it was human. Or at least, it had been.

She flexed her fingers and continued, without waiting for an answer, “I cut him into pieces.”

Lucien tried to rise, but the Attor kept his arms pinned to the floor. He managed to choke out, “I-I can’t deliver a message to Tamlin in pieces.”

“No,” she drawled, then looked down at him at last. “I don’t suppose you can.”

As he opened his mouth to reply, Amarantha was on him in an instant, gripping his throat.

She held up her ringed hand, and to his horror, a familiar, curved black claw grew from her first fingernail. “I suppose that means you are the message,” she said, then ripped him open.

When it was over, she pushed herself away from his bleeding face with a satisfied sigh. “It’s a shame you don’t have blue eyes, Lucien,” she crooned, brandishing his left eye in her bloody fingers. “But I already have one brown eye for my collection.”

Jurian’s brown eye stared at him, the pupil wide in its glass prison.

Lucien stared back with his remaining eye as hot blood slid down his face, between his numb fingers.

Amarantha smiled. “There is one thing you can tell Tamlin for me,” she said, rising to her feet. Blood—his blood—spattered her golden gown. She lifted her other hand, ready to snap her fingers. “Tell him I said hello.”

Lucien shuddered as he willed himself back to the present. Shadow nickered beneath him, and he pulled on the reins to catch his breath. His left eye ached, and his head pounded; he may not have been breathing as he relived that terrible night Under the Mountain.

Shadow tossed his head and jingled the reins, and Lucien gratefully leaned forward to pat the horse’s neck. “It’s a good time to take a break,” he said wearily. “It’s lunchtime.”

As he led his horse to a nearby stream, he remembered that day when he and Feyre had encountered the Bogge. To distract them both from the horrors they had experienced, he had taken her to the water, and they shared a sack of provisions. He hadn’t really known her then, but he had been grateful for her company. Though he knew he shouldn’t, he wished she was with him now.

But that honor was reserved for the High Lord. He told Lucien that morning that he was taking her into the woods for a picnic. Even if Lucien hadn’t volunteered for patrol, he doubted that he would have been invited to go along. Not after nearly kissing Feyre in the dining room the night before.

He was lucky that Feyre had shown up at the High Lord’s study when she did, or Tamlin might have chosen to banish him after all. As it was, there was an unspoken truce between them, and as for Feyre…

What if I want the moon on a string? she had asked him.

When the curse is broken, I’ll give you anything you want, he thought sadly. Until then, what he wanted was irrelevant.

Chapter Text

That night, Feyre sat at her vanity and watched Alis in the mirror as the maid placed yet another jeweled pin into her hair. “Are you sure this isn’t too much?”

The reflection showed Alis smiling patiently as she secured the elaborate updo. “This is your first dinner as the High Lord’s consort,” she explained. “You must look the part.”

Feyre quirked her mouth to one side to avoid telling the maid that Tamlin himself had refuted that particular claim earlier that day. But if she wasn’t his consort, what was she? She had to figure it out soon, for Nynsar was coming up, and she still didn’t know what kind of flower to give him.

“There now,” Alis said, touching her shoulder. “Have a look.”

Feyre angled her head from side to side. She had to admit that the tiny, jeweled roses did look rather pretty in her hair, though such a look might suit Elain more than herself. Even as a child, she’d never worn anything more elaborate than braids. “It’s lovely. Where did you learn to do hair like this?”

The mirror revealed a pleased smile on Alis’s lips before the maid turned away from the vanity. “My mother taught me and my sister, and her mother taught her before that,” Alis said, walking toward the wardrobe to select a dinner gown.

“Is your mother still—” Feyre faltered, but it was too late to take the question back. She watched Alis’s back in the mirror, at the way the faerie’s shoulders slumped.

“The blight took them both,” Alis said quietly. Her mother and her sister.

Feyre’s heart ached. The village might think her mad, feeling sorry for a faerie, but she knew what it was like to lose a mother. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said softly, turning around in her chair to look at Alis.

Alis did not turn to face her, but she nodded. “They are with the Blessed Mother now, and that is what counts,” she said lightly, throwing open the wardrobe doors.

Feyre decided to change the subject. “Will you be bringing your nephews to Nynsar?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Alis replied, selecting something gauzy and green. “Though they’ve been begging to go ever since they heard about it. They were very young when we left the Summer Court, so they’ve never had the chance to celebrate a proper faerie holiday. Still, I want to make sure it’s safe before I agree.”

Because of the blight, Feyre thought. Neither of them needed to say it. There wasn’t much else to say without asking more about the people she had left behind—a painful subject Feyre understood all too well—so she said nothing.

Instead, she turned her attention to the pale green gown. The sheer sleeves were edged in gold thread, and that same thread glinted at the waist of the garment before spilling into a full, filmy skirt. The thread, she noticed, had been carefully stitched into the shape of delicate roses, mimicking the jeweled roses in her hair.

As Alis turned her to face the full-length mirror so that she could fasten the delicate buttons in the back of the gown, Feyre couldn’t help but stare at her reflection. Her hair had been arranged in such a way that her rounded human ears were covered, and the gown enhanced what little curves she had. Her freckles were not as apparent as usual, and the soft green flattered her complexion. She looked as though she belonged to the Spring Court. She looked like she belonged on Tamlin’s arm.

Feyre swallowed hard. “Now that I’m, ah, Tamlin’s consort,” she said slowly, “does this mean I have to wear green from now on?”

“Green is the official color of the Spring Court,” Alis explained, fastening the last button. Her nimble fingers plucked at Feyre’s shoulders and sleeves, straightening the garment as she went on, “But, as consort, you may wear whatever color grows in the gardens.”

Feyre tilted her head in the mirror and considered this as she swished the layered skirt. There were dozens of colors to choose from, except… “No black, then?” she asked. Over her shoulder, she noticed Alis give her a quick, incredulous look before turning her face away.

“Do you wish to wear black?” Alis asked politely.

“No,” Feyre replied honestly. “I just wondered.”

“Hmm,” was all Alis said as she stepped back from the mirror. “You may not know this, but that color belongs to the Night Court. You would be making quite the statement by wearing it.”

The dark-haired stranger had been wearing black that night, and he had left his brand behind the ear of the unfortunate faerie who had crossed his path. The brand of the Night Court. As she turned to ask the maid more about the Night Court and its mysterious denizens, she was distracted by Alis rolling up the jeweled belt to put it away.

“Oh, I’ll take that,” Feyre said, reaching for it. “I wanted to wear it tonight, anyway.”

The maid’s eyes widened, but she did not hand it over. “I hope you’re not planning on wearing a weapon to dinner.”

“I always do,” Feyre said, continuing to hold out her hand. “So does Lucien.”

Alis pursed her lips. “There are more knives in Lucien’s room than feathers in his bed,” she said wryly, setting the jeweled belt and knife down on the bed to reach for the dressing gown draped over the coverlet. “You needn’t worry the way he does. The master is powerful enough to protect you from any threat that comes onto the grounds.”

Feyre joined her by the bed and leaned against the carved bedpost. “Yet you’re worried about your nephews attending a little flower holiday,” she pointed out.

“Nynsar will be celebrated outdoors and away from the safety of the manor,” Alis said coolly, draping the dressing gown over her arm. “Anything could happen, and anyone could show up uninvited.”

Remembering what Lucien had said the night before, Feyre asked, “Like Amarantha?”

Alis gasped and clutched the dressing gown to her chest. “Where did you hear that name?”

Feyre shrugged. “I heard Lucien and Tamlin talking yesterday,” she explained. “They told me a little bit about her. She’s Tamlin’s mate. I don’t see why that’s a secret.”

The faerie’s dark lips became a thin line against her birch-white skin. “If you knew half of what she…” Alis shook her head and turned for the wardrobe. “No. You’re better off not knowing.”

Feyre twisted her mouth to one side. What had happened to Lucien’s eye was certainly horrible enough. “Have you met her?” she asked as Alis hung the dressing gown on its peg.

“I saw her from a distance,” Alis replied coolly, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the quilted fabric. “When she tried to trick the master into accepting the mating bond.”

“She what?”

Alis froze, then half-turned, touching her throat with her fingertips. “I… We don’t speak of it,” she said in a low voice.

Feyre crossed the room to stand before her. “Why not?”

Alis glanced around nervously, though they were the only ones in the room.

Feyre tried to catch the maid’s eye. “Did Tamlin forbid you from talking about it?”

“No,” the maid said quickly, then clasped her hands before her and squared her narrow shoulders. “No. But you must understand how sacred mating ceremonies are to faerie-kind. It is an important moment when a female offers her mate food. My sister and her mate threw a party—many mated pairs do—because it means… it means that she has accepted the bond.”

Feyre shook her head and began, “But Tamlin—”

“Hasn’t,” Alis finished. “He had been tricked once. He would not be tricked again.”

“Again? Who tricked him the first time?”

Alis winced, then rubbed her throat. “You mustn’t keep the master waiting,” she said roughly. “Ask him yourself, if you must know, but at least let him eat something before you ruin his appetite. He will tell you what he can, but be warned: It is not a pleasant story.”

Whether it was the blight binding her tongue or her status as a servant, Alis said nothing when Feyre chose to buckle the jeweled belt and dagger around her waist before going downstairs to dinner. The gold and rubies weighed down the fine, filmy fabric of her gown, but it was a reassuring weight, just the same. If the Attor could show up at the gardens, and the stranger from the Night Court could make it as far as the fountain undetected, there was no telling who—or what—could show up next, or where. As Lucien had once told her, the High Lord could not be everywhere at once.

“Good evening, Feyre,” Tamlin said, standing by her usual chair when she entered the dining room. He held out his hand as she approached, then lightly kissed her fingers when she slipped her hand in his. “You look lovely.”

She smiled and demurely lowered her gaze. With a glance at the other end of the table, she could see that Lucien had decided to skip dinner after all. She wasn’t surprised, but she was disappointed. Tamlin was quiet in the same way that she was quiet. If nothing else, Lucien’s presence always livened up the dinner table. But she and Tamlin were courting now, and he clearly wanted to give them space to get to know one another. Alone.

Remembering her manners, she lifted her head to meet Tamlin’s gaze and said, “Thank you. So do you—uh, I mean…” She let out a nervous chuckle and blushed as he gave her an amused smile.

“Thank you,” he replied in a sincere tone, still holding her hand.

He was dressed in one of his finer tunics, emerald-green and embroidered with gold thread. Alis could not have planned it better, though she probably had. The shade of Feyre’s gown did not match Tamlin’s tunic, but it complemented it. By wearing green and gold—his colors—Feyre was not only acknowledging his courtship, but accepting it.

Tamlin’s emerald eyes flicked to the ruby belt buckled around her waist, but he said only, “Sleep well?”

She smiled and gave him a polite nod. “I woke up in bed,” she said as he seated her. The last thing she remembered before Alis woke her for dinner was the song the willow maid sang, echoing through her dreams. Feyre smoothed her skirts and remarked, “So much for our picnic.”

Tamlin gently pushed in her seat and replied, “I didn’t mind. The ride back was certainly pleasant enough.”

Her face warmed. She hadn’t thought to wonder how she had gotten back, only that she had been in a good mood upon waking. It was only natural that they would have shared a horse on the ride back. Lucien had once shared a horse with her after the naga attack, she reminded herself, and this time was no different… Except it was. She and Tamlin were courting now. No one would wonder if Tamlin had his arm around her waist, or if she rested her head on his shoulder… Her blush deepened. “Did you sleep?” she asked politely.

“For a short while,” he said kindly, stepping into her line of sight. “I was surprised that you were still asleep when I woke. I didn’t think the willow’s magic would have such an effect on you. Remind me to apologize to Lucien later.”

Feyre tilted her head in confusion. “Apologize?” she repeated, then glanced toward Lucien’s usual—and empty—chair. “What for? Where is he, anyway?”

Tamlin reached for her plate and began to fill it as he explained, “He said his eye was bothering him, and he wanted to sleep it off. He said not to expect him for dinner.”

“Oh,” Feyre said softly. She had hoped to see him later that evening, perhaps for a glass of wine, but if he wasn’t feeling well… When Tamlin didn’t continue, she prompted, “And the apology?”

Tamlin set the filled plate before her and replied, “This time I was the one who had to rescue you from magical… circumstances, shall we say. Circumstances that I caused, for once.”

Feyre thought back on those ‘circumstances’ where she had gotten into trouble: There was the Bogge, the Suriel and the naga, the witchberries, the three faeries on Fire Night, and the singing willow, to a degree. To be fair, she was partly to blame for the circumstances on Fire Night, even if Lucien and Tamlin had made it worse by not warning her, but the Bogge had been an accident. Still, it was amazing what she and Lucien had endured together. She smiled, then shrugged at Tamlin and remarked, “I’ve been through worse.”

Tamlin smiled back, then gestured to the crystal decanters before her. “Wine?”

“Red for me,” she said, and let him pour. Though the savory smells of seasoned roast chicken and gravy made her mouth water, she hesitated to pick up her fork, even after Tamlin had seated himself at the other end of the table.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, reaching for a decanter of white wine.

She played with her fingers in her lap. “It’s just… It really is just the two of us tonight, isn’t it?”

As he poured, he asked, “Is that all right?”

She quickly nodded, then lifted her hand to gesture to the table between them. “There’s just… There’s just so much food… I couldn’t possibly eat it all,” she said with a nervous chuckle.

He straightened up in his chair, apparently surprised at her answer, then set down the decanter. As the crystal thudded against the wood, the quarters of the table vanished, shortening the table and the distance between them in an instant.

 She yelped and grabbed at the arms of her chair as she pressed herself against the back of it. The smell of magic seared her nose as she gaped at the much smaller and more intimate table, and the handful of platters remaining.

Tamlin’s pleased grin was evident now that he sat no more than four feet away from her. “Better?”

She blinked. “How… how did you do that?” she asked, though the answer—magic—was quite obvious. She amended her question to ask, “Where did everything go?”

“The food is back in the kitchen,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a slight wince. “And the table is… between.”

“Between?” she repeated, releasing her clawed grip on the chair arms. She leaned forward and looked the table over, but could not see what he meant. “Is this another glamour?”

“No,” he said, lowering his hand to gesture at the table. “Think of it as a… a pocket. I’ve simply put the table away until I need it again.”

She stared at him in awe, then let out a surprised laugh. “I could have taken a closer seat. You didn’t have to hide the table.”

He grinned. “And miss the chance to show off to a beautiful woman? Never.”

Feyre’s face warmed, and she dropped her gaze to smile at her plate. “You don’t have to show off for me.”

“I want to,” he insisted. “If there’s anything I can do to improve your opinion of us, I want to.”

Her smile softened as she lifted her gaze to meet his. “You don’t have to worry about that,” she replied honestly. “I do like you. Both of you,” she added quickly.

Tamlin gave her a thoughtful smile. “Thank you, Feyre. I… I like you, too.”

They said nothing else as they ate, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. With spring slowly turning to summer, the sky beyond the window had only turned a dusky blue by the time they finished.

“Would you care for some dessert?” he asked her as she sat back with a satisfied sigh.

She shook her head and rested her hands on her full stomach. It wasn’t ladylike to slouch, but she didn’t care, and Tamlin didn’t seem to mind, either.

“More wine?” he offered.

She shook her head again and smiled. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

With a wave of his hand, the dishes disappeared, leaving behind their half-full goblets and a handful of crystal decanters. The tang of magic was not so strong this time, and she noticed Tamlin sit back in his chair with a wince, cupping his goblet.

“Does it tax you?” she asked.

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Once, it was as easy as breathing… But now, it requires more… concentration.”

She swallowed. “Is the blight growing worse?”

He dropped his gaze to look into his goblet. “It’s difficult to say,” he said quietly. “There haven’t been any sightings of martax or naga lately… Then again, the blight has always been… unpredictable.”

Feyre straightened in her chair to rest her arms on the table. “May I ask you a question?”

“As many as you like.”

Remembering Alis’s warning, Feyre took a deep breath. “What happened the night of the Masquerade Ball? Alis told me that Amarantha tried to trick you into accepting the mating bond, and Lucien called her a witch…” When Tamlin frowned, she hurriedly added, “I don’t know her, but I can’t understand how she can do all this to you if the blight continues to grow.”

Tamlin winced as he straightened in his chair. “There-there is only so much I can tell you, Feyre,” he said tightly. “Suffice it to say that Amarantha thought to… to surprise me by presenting me a special dish she had prepared herself. She made an announcement in front of my Court, the other High Lords, everyone. I was her mate, and this was my chance to—” He groaned and rubbed his throat. “—to acknowledge our bond, and to join her Under the Mountain.” He sighed. “It is customary for the female to present the male with food when she accepts the mating bond, but… I didn’t know we were mates until she arrived at the Masquerade Ball that night. Actually, not until she made her announcement.”

Feyre winced at the thought. “She caught you off guard, then.”

Tamlin huffed a laugh, then lifted his goblet for a drink. “To say the least.”

Feyre slowly shook her head in disbelief. “You said you’ve known her for years, yet you never knew that you were mates?”

He reached for the nearest decanter, a red wine this time. “I avoided her as often as possible. I have no idea how long she knew, only that she had been planning this for a while.”

Though Feyre did not want to make him relive that night, something inside her whispered that it was important, so she pressed on. “What did you do?”

 He grimaced. “I don’t want you to think less of me…”

She shook her head. “I won’t.”

He took a deep breath, then released it. “I was angry… I knocked the dish out of her hands. I told her I would sooner bed a human than accept our bond.”

Despite her promise not to think less of him, his comment stung. Especially after his insistence that he cared for her because she was a human.

He must have noticed her crestfallen expression, for he hurriedly added, “I didn’t know any humans then, Feyre. But I knew Amarantha, and I knew how much she hated them…”

Feyre’s throat tightened, so she could only manage a nod.

He leaned forward, as if to reach for her hand, but then thought better of it. “If I had known you then,” he said gently, “I still would have chosen you.”

Feyre rubbed her arms as she glanced out the dusky window. “Is that only because you hate her that much?”

“No,” he said firmly and without hesitation. Even though she knew faeries could lie, she believed him. He continued, “I was angry, and embarrassed, and I wanted her to dissolve our bond right then and there in front of everyone.”

Feyre turned her head and met his rueful gaze. “I’m guessing she didn’t like that idea very much.”

He shook his head. “She said—” Tamlin groaned and pinched the bridge of his masked nose as he slumped forward.

Feyre forgot her hurt in concern for him. “Are you all right?”

“Mm,” was all he said for a long moment before straightening up with a grimace. “Let’s just say I haven’t celebrated my birthday since,” he said roughly, then gave her a pained smile.

She knew what that was like. She hadn’t celebrated her birthday since they moved into the cottage. “When is your birthday?” she asked gently.

“Just after the Summer Solstice,” he said, running his hand over his hair with a weary sigh.

She bit her lip in thought, then rose from her chair to circle the table and stand beside him. “Come with me,” she said, and held out her hand. “I have something for you.”

His gaze flicked between her face and her outstretched hand. “For me?” he said. When she nodded, he placed his hand in hers and rose to his feet. “Where are we going?” he asked as she led him out of the dining room.

“My painting room,” she said, keeping her gaze forward. It was strangely difficult not to pay attention to the way his warm, broad hand engulfed hers, or the scrape of his callouses against her skin, or the way he held onto her when she would have let go.

“Ah. Are you finally going to show me that rose painting you were working on?” he asked.

She dared a glance at him and smiled shyly. “Something like that.” Her heartbeat quickened when he smiled back and squeezed her hand.

“I can’t wait.”

Blood rushed to her face as she nodded and faced forward once more. Everything was moving so quickly, yet each step seemed to take an eternity.

When they finally reached the painting room, he released her hand at last so that she could open the door. Her hand felt strangely cold and light without his reassuring grip. Suddenly aware that he was waiting for her to speak, she cleared her throat and swept inside. “If you would, uh…” She cleared her throat again in a meaningful way.

“Ah, yes, of course,” he said, apparently understanding her request as he waved his hand. The candles sparked to life, sending flickering shadows around the small, twilit room as they slowly grew brighter. She winced from a twinge of guilt, having asked him to use yet more of his magic to light the room. Would there come a day when he could not use his magic at all? Once she might have delighted at the idea of a High Fae being brought so low, but now she felt sorrow and pity.

Since he had already used so much magic on her behalf, there was no changing her mind now, so she nodded to the easel by the window. “Over here,” she said, walking to the large, finished painting of Starlight Pond.

Though she would have liked to look it over one last time before giving it to him, there hadn’t been time after waking up from her magical nap. Still, she had fussed with it so many times, the only thing it really needed was her signature. As she reached for a narrow brush and a jar of yellow paint, Tamlin’s large presence came to stand beside her. She ducked her head to avoid looking at him, or his reaction, as she dipped the brush into the creamy paint.

“You painted this for me?” he said softly.

“It’s a gift,” she said quickly, daring to look at him at last. “To thank you for everything you’ve done.”

He did not look at her, but studied the painting in silence. His mouth revealed nothing, and his mask made it impossible to tell what he was thinking. It was selfish to wish that she could remove his mask only so that she could see his every expression, but she wished it just the same.

“It’s the pool of starlight,” she offered. “I usually paint flowers, but…”

“No, you did well,” he murmured. “I knew what it was right away…”

Warmth flooded her cheeks as she turned her attention to the painting, uncertain if that meant he liked it. She bent and carefully added her signature to the waving grass at the bottom right corner. Alis would be furious to know that she hadn’t worn a smock over her gown, but Feyre was more worried about what Tamlin thought about her work than a stray fleck of paint.

With her signature in place, she straightened and recapped the jar, but Tamlin was no longer at her side. Her heart leapt to her throat as she found him slowly wandering around the room, examining her scattered drawings on the table.

When he noticed her looking at him, he remarked, “You are quite talented.” She expected him to say: For a human, but he didn’t. Instead, he lifted his gaze and gave her a soft smile. “I’m flattered that you made something for me.”

She managed a smile in return. “It was the least I could do…”

He nodded, then turned his attention to her drawing of Rainbow Falls.

While he was distracted, she turned for the sink to clean her little brush, feeling slightly better about bringing him here. When she was done, that good feeling dissipated, for he had turned his attention to her unfinished paintings leaning against the walls.

“Oh! Those aren’t finished,” she said, darting forward.

He lifted his gaze from the red rose painting she had been working on that day in the garden. “I only wanted to see the world through your eyes,” he said gently, reminding her of what he’d said the night before. “May I?”

She clasped her hands before her and twisted her fingers, but she agreed with a nod.

He turned back to the rose painting. “This is you,” he said thoughtfully.

She tilted her head in confusion. “Me? No, I don’t really paint portraits…”

He went on, “I have gardens filled with roses, yet you were drawn to one single rose… Red roses represent passion. And you clearly have passion.”

She stared at him, too stunned to reply.

He moved on to the next unfinished painting, a cluster of tulips, snapdragons, and roses resting in a brown vase. “Your life… your old life,” he mused, then glanced at her. “In the cottage.”

She closed her mouth, which had fallen open. “How can you tell?”

He gestured to the smudge of brown paint that was meant to be an underpainting for a much prettier vase, but she had set the painting aside to work on other projects. “The cottage housed you and your family… your sisters,” he amended, “but it was small and dull compared to the life you left behind, so you focused your attention on your family instead.” He gestured at the flowers. “But there are only three kinds of flowers here. Your father isn’t in this painting… That, or he could be the vase itself, a shadow of his former self.”

She swallowed hard as Tamlin moved on to the next painting, a row of birch trees. “Alis,” he mused, putting a finger to his lips in thought. “Or the time you went hunting for the Suriel…” He looked at her. “Birch trees represent adapting to change. You were still adjusting to your new life here.”

Her throat tightened, and sudden tears sprang to her eyes to have her feelings put into words, especially since she hadn’t realized what emotions she was pouring into her paintings. As she rapidly blinked back those unwanted tears, he turned from the row of paintings with a rueful grimace.

“Would you like me to stop?” he asked gently.

She swallowed hard, then nodded at the Starlight Pond painting. “What about that one?” she whispered.

He smiled softly and nodded, then walked with her to stand before the large painting. “Oak trees represent strength and endurance. They cannot thrive in starlight, yet they continue to grow.” He gestured to the bent and gnarled trees. “They bend, but they do not break. Though they are surrounded by beauty—” He motioned to the pool. “—It is the earth that sustains them.”

When he fell silent and clasped his hands behind his back, Feyre prompted, “Does that mean you like it?”

He chuckled, then nodded at her with a sincere smile. “Very much.”

She smiled back and nudged him. “Is that all?” she teased.

He grinned, apparently remembering their exchange in the Golden Glen. “No… I love it.”

***

Lucien stared up at the scarlet canopy covering his four-poster bed as the sun began to set beyond the western window. The color usually grounded him and reminded him of happier times spent beneath the red maples in the forest beyond the Forest House… Usually. Today he was exhausted from a long day spent in the saddle, and visions of Amarantha’s cruelty continued to plague him every time he closed his eyes.

His eyes slid in and out of focus, and his golden eye clicked and whirred as he fought to stay awake, waiting for his dinner tray. Feyre would be joining Tamlin for dinner anytime now, but Lucien had opted to stay in his room instead, complaining of a headache. It was the truth, though it was not as simple as that. Feyre and Tamlin were courting now, and it was best that Lucien left them alone as often as possible. That near-kiss from the day before had nearly ruined everything.

He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand against the left eyehole of his fox mask, trying to ease the clicking that echoed through his throbbing head. Unbidden, lights and colors began dancing in his vision, and he slipped into another dream.

The ballroom was a sea of masked faces. Lucien’s golden eye clicked and whirred as it tried to focus on the glittering masks lit by hundreds of candles. Made of bronze, silver, and gold, some were simple, and others were decorated with pearls or gemstones, but all were fashioned in the shape of a common animal. It was difficult to tell who belonged to which Court, but, then again, they were not here to represent their Courts. Everyone present was here to celebrate the birthday of the High Lord of Spring, and to pay homage to his power of shapeshifting.

Even the servants of the Spring Court wore masks. Several of the maids wore bird masks, the stableboys wore horse masks, and the sentries wore wolf masks. As for Lucien himself…

He gently tugged the edges of his bronze fox mask further down, trying to hide the gashed scar on his face. Tamlin had done his best, but with his reduced powers, he could only heal the wound. The scar—so rare among faeries and High Fae alike—was there to stay. At least the mask covered most of it, and few of the revelers in attendance gave him more than a passing glance.

It was a welcome change from the hurriedly averted gazes of the servants, or the equally horrified and pitying stares of his fellow courtiers whenever he could be convinced to leave his room. As loyal as he was to Tamlin, it was only the allure of wearing a mask that had convinced him to attend this party in the first place.

“Thanks for coming,” Tamlin said beside him. The High Lord wore a simpler golden mask with emeralds studded in the shape of whirling leaves. Unlike the rest of them, his mask did not represent any particular animal. Each of the seven High Lords could take the form of the ancient beast that protected their borders, but Tamlin was the only one who could take more forms than that, even if he did prefer the horned wolf. And though his powers had been greatly diminished in the months since Amarantha’s treachery, he still stood tall as he looked upon his menagerie of masked guests. A king of beasts.

“Just so you know,” Lucien remarked. “Once the masks come off at midnight, I’ll be taking my leave and a bottle of wine for company.”

Tamlin turned to him with a grim smile. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay longer? These parties aren’t nearly as much fun without you.”

Lucien scoffed and nodded at the revelers. “I don’t think you have nearly enough wine in your cellars to make everybody think that this—” He waved at the left half of his face. “—is just a scratch.”

“You can leave the mask on,” Tamlin offered.

Lucien shook his head. “I can’t wear a mask for the rest of my life,” he said, then muttered, “No matter how tempting.”

Tamlin adjusted his own mask, looking thoughtful. “How about a glamour?” he suggested.

Lucien shook his head and crossed his arms as he looked out at the crowd. “No. Save your magic. You need it more than I do.”

Tamlin sighed at the reminder. “I hope you’ll reconsider,” he said quietly. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll find someone who doesn’t care about the scar…”

“And the eye?” Lucien asked wryly, turning his head to look at his friend. It whirred as it came into focus.

Tamlin gave him another grim smile. “Give it time.”

“Sure,” Lucien said, then breathed a laugh. “When I least expect it, I’ll turn around, and there she’ll be, trying to decide if she wants the good-looking High Lord, or the scarred-up swordsman standing next to him.”

“You never know,” Tamlin quipped. “Besides, I don’t want to settle down anytime soon. If you can find a female willing to put up with your mouth, I won’t stand in your way.”

Lucien snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Before he could say more, Nostrus, the High Lord of the Summer Court, approached them with a small entourage. All of them shared their High Lord’s long silvery-white hair, sea-green eyes, and dark skin. Their masks were either covered in pearls or iridescent fish scales and shaped like the various sea creatures they favored in the coastal city of Adriata. Nostrus, dressed in silvery blue robes, wore a basilisk mask covered in shimmering scales.

“Nostrus. Welcome,” Tamlin remarked with a polite nod. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Tamlin,” Nostrus said coolly. “Any other year I would be celebrating the Summer Solstice with my family…” he said, gesturing to his entourage. Lucien recognized the High Lord’s wife and daughters, as well as his cousin Tarquin, among others. Guards, perhaps. Nostrus went on, “Then I heard the Deceiver herself would be attending your little… celebration…” Amarantha.

Tamlin’s polite smile vanished, and he squared his shoulders. “She said she wanted to make amends,” he said coolly.

Nostrus’s gaze flicked to Lucien, to the scar visible on his cheek. “And you believed her?”

Lucien clenched his jaw. Though he hated to be used as an example, the Summer High Lord could be forgiven for being skeptical of Amarantha’s claims. He and the other six High Lords had lost more than half of their magic thanks to her.

Tamlin replied, “I do not want another war, Nostrus. I will do what I can to preserve peace in the Spring Lands.”

Nostrus straightened up and breathed out slowly. “It is a weak tree that bows before the storm… High Lord,” he said in a low voice.

Behind his mask, Lucien’s eyebrows raised at the Summer High Lord’s boldness. He was grateful for his mask so that his stunned expression could be mistaken for stoicism.

Tamlin’s mouth grew pinched, and he clasped his hands behind his back. “There is a difference,” he said slowly, "between trees that bend… and those that break.”

He and Nostrus stared at each other in silence for an uncomfortably long moment before the Summer High Lord conceded a nod. “Enjoy your birthday celebration, Tamlin,” he said in a more respectful tone. “May the Good Mother favor your… endeavors this year.”

“Thank you, Nostrus,” Tamlin said coolly, then nodded at him and his Lady. When the Summer Court entourage had disappeared back into the crowd, Lucien released a heavy sigh.

“Well, I need a drink,” he said wryly. “How about you, Tam?”

Tamlin did not answer at first, but he closed his eyes and sighed, then rolled his neck. When he brought his hands out from behind his back, his beastly claws were shrinking back into his fingers. Lucien could see faint red marks healing in the High Lord’s palms from where the claws had cut into his flesh.

Lucien winced, but he was impressed that Tamlin had managed to keep his beastly temper at bay this time.

“Later,” the High Lord of Spring answered quietly. “It looks like Thesan has just arrived, and I have other guests to attend to.” He sighed, then gave Lucien a tight-lipped smile. “Would you like me to ask him to take a look at your eye?”

Lucien shook his head. “No. This is supposed to be a party, remember?”

“I remember,” Tamlin muttered, then huffed a laugh and shook his head. “This is why I never wanted to be High Lord.”

Lucien felt a lot less sorry for himself in that moment. He gave Tamlin a friendly slap on the back and quipped, “Better you than me.”

That made Tamlin laugh, and Lucien grinned at the sound of it. Tamlin shook his head, then smirked at him. “You’re an ass, you know that?”

Lucien smirked back. “So I’ve heard.” He stepped back and jerked his thumb at the banquet tables lining the walls of the ballroom. “If you need me, I’ll be getting drunk enough for the both of us.”

“Enjoy yourself,” Tamlin called after him, then stepped away to greet his other guests.

Lucien was content to stand at the sidelines and watch as High Fae and faeries alike danced and swayed to the lilting Spring Court music. The fizzing faerie wine relaxed him, and his eye did not click and whir as often. Even so, he did not feel like joining the dances, and nobody asked.

“So, the fox emerges from his den,” a familiar and friendly voice declared, before a broad hand clapped him on the shoulder.

Lucien smirked as he caught Andras’s eye. “The fox followed his nose to the wine barrels,” he said, lifting his half-drunk goblet.

Andras, wearing a wolf mask made of pewter, smirked back. “Are you certain you weren’t smelling this?” he asked, holding up a familiar flask.

Lucien wrinkled his nose and jerked his head back. “This is the one chance you have to drink the same wine that the High Lords of Prythian enjoy, yet you continue to choose cheap swill.”

Andras grinned as he replaced the flask on his hip. “What can I say? I like the taste.”

Lucien chuckled and shook his head as he lifted his goblet for a drink.

“And speaking of taste…” Andras surveyed the room. “Has anyone caught your eye yet?”

Lucien licked his lips. “Besides Amarantha, you mean?” he said drily.

Andras coughed into his fist as what was visible of his face turned red. “Cauldron boil me. I didn’t mean—”

Lucien waved him off with a wry smile. “If anyone should be able to joke about it, it’s me.”

Andras managed a wincing smile in return. “Any sign of the old witch?”

“Not yet, but I’m keeping an eye out,” he quipped, then smirked as Andras snorted.

“At least she didn’t take your sense of humor,” the sentry remarked.

“She’d have to kill me first,” Lucien said, facing the room. His smile vanished, and he stiffened as he caught sight of someone with long red hair coming toward him. “Mother,” he breathed.

“Mother what—oh,” Andras said, then straightened up as the Lady of the Autumn Court approached in a shimmering brownish-gold gown.

Though most of the revelers had chosen to wear masks tied to their faces, some ladies chose masks with a long, sculpted handle that they could carry in their hands. Lady Melora had chosen such a mask in the shape of a phoenix decorated with golden feathers, so her rosy cheeks and perfect porcelain complexion were visible.

Andras quickly bowed. “My lady,” he said in a respectful tone.

She inclined her head, then turned her attention to her youngest son, and she smiled. “Hello, Sunshine,” she said warmly.

Lucien swallowed hard at the sound of her special name for him. “Hello, Mother,” he managed.

Andras leaned toward Lucien and said quietly, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going deer-hunting.” As the wolf-masked sentry stepped away, Lucien caught sight of a pretty Fae wearing a brass fawn mask nearby, then smiled to himself. Same old Andras.

The Lady of the Autumn Court and the Emissary of the Spring Court were left alone to exchange idle pleasantries as they wished. It was a rare moment when he could see his mother, much less spend time alone with her. But knowing Beron, it wouldn’t be long before the Autumn High Lord noticed she had slipped away.

Lucien jerked his chin toward the other revelers. “Where is he?”

His mother knew who he meant. “Arguing with Tamlin about something trivial,” she said dismissively, then stepped closer. “But we don’t need to talk about him. I wanted to see you,” she said gently, then reached out and touched the left side of Lucien’s mask with her delicate fingertips.

As much as it pained him to do it, he turned his face away. “You don’t want to see me like this,” he muttered, then winced as his golden eye clicked again.

“Nonsense,” she said gently, then turned his chin and looked him over. “I want to make sure my little boy is all right.”

Lucien huffed a laugh, then caught his mother’s hand to plant a kiss on top of it. “I’m not a little boy anymore, you know.”

Her russet eyes twinkled as she smiled. “Nonsense,” she said again. “You’ll always be my little boy.”

He gave her hand a fond squeeze. “That may be why I keep getting into trouble,” he said quietly.

Her smile grew sad. “What happened, Sunshine?”

He shook his head. “You know what happened. Everybody knows what happened.”

“I know what everybody says happened,” she replied, then she sighed. “We don’t need to talk about that, either. I heard that Tamlin sent you to the Dawn Court for a little while…”

Lucien nodded. “Thesan has a tinkerer in his Court: Nuan,” he explained, then gestured to his new eye. “She, uh, gave me this.”

“And you can see with it?” his mother prompted.

“It’s fuzzy, sometimes, but yes.”

The Lady of the Autumn Court released a deep sigh. “Praise the Great Mother,” she murmured, then lifted herself on tiptoe to kiss his scarred cheek. “You’ll be all right, Sunshine,” she whispered.

His left eye ached as he blinked back tears. As she stepped back, he said quietly, “Thanks, Mum.”

“Melora?” Beron’s booming voice called through the crowd.

The Lady of the Autumn Court stiffened as her husband approached, then she quickly but gently tucked Lucien’s loose hair behind his left ear. “Be brave,” she whispered, before withdrawing her hand to turn and stand beside him. Lucien wasn’t sure if she was speaking to him or herself.

Beron appeared at the edge of the crowd, dressed in a quilted tunic of brown and gold, which echoed the horned fox mask he was wearing. As he caught sight of his wife and exiled son, he stopped and frowned.

Lucien couldn’t help but sneer in return. “High Lord,” he said coolly.

Beron squared his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back as he came closer. Lucien clenched his jaw as his father towered over him, but he refused to cower before him. He might have been his mother’s little boy, but he was no longer the little boy who could be whipped into submission.

Beron’s dark brown eyes swept over him. “What the hell are you supposed to be?” he growled, glaring at Lucien’s fox mask, a near twin to his own.

That had been by design. Lucien lifted his chin and replied, “Don’t you remember your old Lord of Foxes?” he mocked, tapping his bronze mask.

Beron’s lip curled. “Some emissary you turned out to be,” he sneered. “You are supposed to be the eyes and ears of the Court, and you can’t even do that right.”

Lucien’s chest tightened, and his golden eye clicked as if in answer. As Beron snorted, Melora gently squeezed Lucien’s elbow.

“Beron, please,” she said quietly.

 The Autumn High Lord turned his ire on her, and she flinched. “I told you to stay close.”

Lucien found his voice then and nodded at the nearby banquet tables. “She was thirsty. She just wanted a cup of wine. Didn’t you, Mother—” 

“She does not,” Beron growled, and Melora looked away. Lucien frowned at him, but before he could retort, the Autumn High Lord went on, “We only drink from Autumn casks. You know that.”

“Except when you don’t,” Lucien countered.

Beron scowled at the implication. “A mistake I will never make again.”

It was unlikely he would ever get another chance. Amarantha had spent the last fifty years ingratiating herself to every Court in Prythian. Even Tamlin had been swayed to believe her lies at the end. As a special emissary from Hybern, she had been allowed to attend the High Lords’ council at the Hewn City somewhere in the Night Court. No other emissary had been permitted to attend, not even Lucien, so he still didn’t know the whole story. He only knew that was where Amarantha had shown her hand by drugging the High Lords’ wine. That was how she had stolen most of their magic.

As if on cue, a ripple of magic swept through the crowd, and the orchestra fell silent as the dancers turned toward the other end of the ballroom. Lucien’s skin prickled, and his scar throbbed as his heart began to race. His mother gripped his arm more tightly, and even the Autumn High Lord did not look so sure of himself.

In the silence, someone thudded a staff against the ballroom floor to get the crowd’s attention, as though everyone present wasn’t watching and waiting with bated breath.

A clear voice announced, “Presenting the Royal Emissary of the Isle of Hybern, the Never-Fading Flower of Prythian, and your High Queen Under the Mountain… Queen Amarantha.”

The staff struck the floor three more times, and Lucien startled awake.

He blinked at the dark canopy of his bed as he tried to sort dream from reality, then he sucked in a sharp breath as he realized someone was knocking at his door.

He cleared his throat and ran a hand over the lower half of his face, then forced himself to sit up. His gold eye whirred as it quickly adjusted to the twilit room. He groggily snapped his fingers over the candle at his bedside, then slumped over and covered his eyes with his hands to give them another moment to adjust to the flickering light.

“Come in,” he said gruffly, expecting one of the servants to bring in the long-awaited dinner tray.

The door swung open, and skirts rustled over the rug. “Did I wake you?” Feyre asked gently.

Lucien straightened up and blinked at her, uncertain if he was still dreaming. She looked more beautiful than ever. The candlelight glittered on the gold thread in her pale green gown and on the ruby belt and dagger he had given her. It seemed that she had forgiven him, but at the moment he couldn’t remember what for. “It’s all right,” he said with a tired smile, grateful that he was still dressed in his shirt and pants. “Are you all right?”

She nodded and stepped closer. “You didn’t come to dinner. You’ve always been thoughtful enough to check on me, so I thought I’d check on you…”

Before she could get too close, he pushed himself to his feet and stepped away to light the rest of the candles in his room. “It’s just my eye,” he said dismissively, sparking one wick after another.

Feyre stood in the center of the room and watched. “Does it bother you often?”

“Every now and then,” he said, distracted by the covered dinner tray resting on the table among his weaponry. He hadn’t heard the servants come in.

“What can you see with it, anyway?”

He smiled, then turned to face her at last. As he opened his mouth to answer, his gaze fell to the bottle of wine she held at her side. “I can see you have some wine. What’s the occasion?”

“It’s faerie wine,” she said, holding it out. “For you.”

“Where did you get—oh.” His smile faded. “Are you giving it back?”

“Oh, no,” she said hurriedly. “I just thought… Tamlin said you had a headache, and I thought… I thought it might help.”

 “It’s yours, Feyre,” he insisted. “Unless you don’t want it…”

 She shrugged. “We could share it.”

His heart began to pound. It was so tempting to say yes. “What about Tam?”

She sighed and cradled the bottle in the crook of her elbow as she glanced away. “I like him,” she said quietly. “But I like you, too.”

That’s what he had been afraid of. Amarantha’s curse on Tamlin had been so specific: Find a mortal girl who hated faeries enough to kill one, then fall in love with one and admit it with her whole heart. And by flirting with her when Tamlin wouldn’t, Lucien risked damning them all. He swallowed hard, swallowing down the words he wanted to say, but couldn’t.

“It’s just physical, Feyre,” he said quietly. “Whether I sleep in your bed or you sleep in mine, we might find some release, but we’d both regret it in the morning.”

Her eyes shone in the candlelight, and her freckled cheeks flushed. “We would?” she whispered.

His heart thudded painfully as he nodded. “You and Tam are courting now. He’s my best friend… I can’t betray his trust again, no matter what happened between us on Fire Night.”

Feyre looked away. “He wasn’t courting me yesterday,” she said quietly. He knew she was referring to the almost-kiss in the dining room.

“But I knew how Tam felt about you,” Lucien said. “It just took him a while to say something.” He almost waited too long.

“He only said something after he saw us together.”

“But you did say yes, Feyre,” Lucien reminded her.

Her gaze dropped to the rug at their feet. “Yes, I did,” she said quietly.

Lucien drew a deep breath and let himself step closer. “Give him a chance, Feyre,” he said kindly. “He could make you happy.”

She nodded, but she didn’t seem convinced. “Happy,” she murmured, then lifted her gaze. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

She didn’t answer, but instead again offered him the bottle of wine. “Here. I want you to have this. I-in case you can’t come to Nynsar.”

He sighed, then reluctantly took it from her outstretched hands. “As you wish,” he said softly.

He pretended to study the bottle in the candlelight in the resulting silence, but instead he watched Feyre play with her lovely, slender fingers as she stood before him. There was a slight smear of dried yellow paint on her right forefinger.

“Good night, then,” she said suddenly, then hurriedly turned toward the still-open door. He was lucky no one had passed by and seen them.

Though he should have let her go, he hated to see her leave like this. “Let me walk you to your room, at least,” he offered.

She paused, then turned in the doorway. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said quietly, then turned away and pulled the door closed behind her.

Chapter Text

A soft breeze fluttered the wildflower crown resting on Feyre’s head as she wandered through Tamlin’s rose garden. The midmorning sun was warm on her unbound hair, and the earth was cool beneath her slippered feet. Since it was a holiday, Alis had dressed her in a simple chiffon gown that matched the pink wildflowers in her crown, instead of her usual tunic and boots.

Other faeries in the garden were similarly dressed. Unlike the robes they wore on Fire Night, the Fae of Tamlin’s court wore dresses or simple shirts and pants. Some carried baskets, but all of them wore flowers in their hair. They wandered around the garden, talking and laughing, and occasionally bending down to choose a flower or two to give to one another. The First Flower of the year.

Though Tamlin had said roses were for lovers, no one but Feyre stood among the dozens of rosebushes that had once belonged to his mother. Perhaps these roses—a mating gift—were more significant than Tamlin was letting on. Then again, what could be more significant than roses on Nynsar? Especially since choosing anything but a rose for Tamlin would send a message to him and everyone else in his court: she was not his consort. Yet here she was, the not-consort of the High Lord of Spring, trying to choose the right rose to give him.

Before she could fuss about it further, gravel crunched nearby. She knew without turning around who it was, but just the same, her fingers brushed against the dagger buckled around her waist for reassurance.

“Were you trying to sneak up on me?” she remarked, examining a large, burgundy bloom.

Tamlin chuckled as he drew nearer. “It just happens naturally, I’m afraid.”

She turned her head and smiled as he came to stand beside her. “Thanks for the warning, this time.”

He smiled back and bent his head to brush a kiss against her cheek. “Anything for you.”

The scent of the wildflower crown resting on his unbound hair melded naturally with his earthy scent, as if they had sprouted from his skin. Like many of the faeries she had seen that day, he wore a simple linen shirt and breeches instead of his usual tunic. He had even left his baldric behind, but as he pulled away, she noticed the hilt of a knife sticking out of his boot. It seemed that she was not the only one worried about Amarantha.

She hadn’t seen Lucien yet, but after learning what Amarantha had done to him, she could well imagine how many knives he would try to hide on his person… Even on a beautiful, unassuming day like this one, the Day of Seeds and Flowers.

Feyre’s heart thumped as she nodded at the ruby-red rose Tamlin held in his hands. “For me?” she said, trying to keep her voice light, and he nodded.

“If you’re ready,” he said.

No. She would never be ready. Though Lucien had encouraged her to give Tamlin a proper chance since rejecting her advances—again—the thought of being a High Lord’s consort still unnerved her. She swallowed hard, then managed another smile. “I’m still trying to make up my mind.”

“I’m in no hurry,” he said kindly.

She breathed a laugh then turned to stroll down the row of rosebushes. Letting her fingers brush against the dark, scalloped leaves, she remarked, “Because faeries have nothing but time.”

“That’s not entirely true,” he replied, trailing along behind her.

She half-turned her head. “Oh?”

“Nynsar will be over when the sun goes down. It would be a shame to miss all the fun by spending it in the garden instead of in the hills.”

Indeed, many of the faerie couples she had seen in the garden earlier were beginning to make their way to the same hills where they’d celebrated Fire Night. Though Tamlin had promised Nynsar was nothing like Calanmai, she still didn’t know what to expect. Holidays were rarely celebrated in the Mortal Lands, and Jurian’s Day was a rather somber affair.

Feyre paused before a cluster of bright yellow blooms. “Then… how about this one?” she suggested, touching a rose that had just begun to unfurl its golden petals. “I think it would go nicely with your mask…”

Tamlin’s mouth was pinched as he nodded once, but he said nothing.

Her shy smile faded. “Did I choose wrong?”

He quickly shook his head. “No, of course not. You can’t choose wrong…”

“But…?”

“But…” he said slowly, “yellow roses imply friendship… among other things.”

“What other things?”

He ran a hand over his hair and said, “Well… it means that you’ve rejected someone’s advances and you only want to be friends…”

She pulled her hand back from the yellow rosebush as though it had pricked her. Being rejected in person was bad enough. It was a toss-up as to which was worse: being rejected in a letter that she couldn’t read, or in a flower language that she couldn’t understand. At least Lucien hadn’t given her any flowers… Yet. Forcing herself back to the present, she remarked, “I thought tulips meant friendship.”

“Pink tulips are the traditional choice between close friends. Other colors mean something else.”

“Oh…” Feyre rubbed her arms as she looked around. “I didn’t realize flowers were so complicated.”

Tamlin breathed a laugh, then remarked, “This is how faeries spend their immortal lives: Making everything complicated. Especially flowers.”

A smile tugged at her lips as she folded her hands in front of her. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

“At least that’s how it is in the Spring Court,” he said, turning and gesturing to the rosebushes surrounding them. “For generations, flowers have been used to express emotions like sorrow, joy, and adoration,” he explained, gesturing to the white, pink, and lavender roses in turn.

“And yellow for friendship,” she added, and he nodded. “But we are friends, aren’t we?”

He nodded again, but slowly. “We are, but…”

“But…?” she said again.

“We are courting, Feyre.”

“And that means we can’t be friends?”

“No, but it’s—”

“Complicated,” they said in unison, then she sighed.

She bit her lip in thought as she reached out and touched another blossom, a peachy-pink rosebud. “I’m not ready to give you a red rose, yet, Tamlin,” she said quietly.

“You don’t have to give me a red rose,” he insisted.

She nodded at the ruby-red rose in his hand. “And that?”

He held it up, and the color softened from its vibrant red to a much gentler pink. He smiled as he offered it to her. “We still have time, Feyre. I can wait a little longer.”

Awed, she slowly took it from his outstretched fingers and twirled the smooth stem. The scent of magic mingled with the rosy perfume. “Is this another glamour?”

He shook his head, then gently took the thornless rose from her hand to tuck it behind her ear. “It’s true magic.”

Her cheeks warmed as his fingertips brushed her cheek when he withdrew his hand. “You don’t have to spend your magic on me,” she said softly. “You’ve already done so much…”

He smiled. “The tradition is called First Flower, not Second Flower,” he teased gently, then nodded to the garden. “Choose any color you want, and I won’t complain.”

She glanced around and took a deep breath to try to calm her wildly beating heart. “What color means: ‘I’m beginning to like you as more than a friend, but I’m not ready to be your consort, even if I’m pretending to be’?”

He chuckled, then led her to a rosebush filled with honey-colored roses touched with a blush of red. “How about these?”

She was certain her face was turning as red as those rose petals as she nodded. “Perfect.”

Before she could lose her nerve, she reached for one of the fresher blossoms, then yelped as thorns bit into her thumb and forefinger. She popped her bleeding thumb into her mouth and winced as it began to sting.  

Tamlin swore as he reached for her. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you. I thought you were going to use your knife to cut it free…”

She swallowed down the metallic taste of blood as she pulled her sore thumb from her mouth. Her forefinger was still bleeding. “If I had realized the roses were going to attack me, I would have,” she said, half-joking as she shook her pained hand.

“It’s a spell,” he said apologetically, taking her bleeding hand and covering it with both of his. A tingling warmth spread into her fingers, then the stings faded as they had when he healed her after the naga attack.

“A spell,” she repeated breathlessly as she watched him lift her hand to his mouth.

After placing a soft kiss on her fingers, he replied, “These roses belong to me. I’m the only one that can pluck a rose without being pricked by its thorns. Even the gardeners need heavy gloves to protect them.”

It was difficult to think. “I… I thought these were your mother’s roses…” she whispered.

Tamlin smiled as he gave her freshly healed hand a gentle squeeze. “The spell passed from my parents’ hands to mine. When I find a new Lady of the Spring Court, she will enjoy the same protection from these thorns. It’s a simple spell, but quite effective.”

Feyre let out a shaky breath as he released her hand to reach for the same rose that she had tried to pluck earlier. It practically fell into his hand, as if it had always belonged there.

As he held it out to her, she stammered, “Now what?”

He smiled in an amused way. “You can give it to me, if you wish.”

She swallowed hard as she gingerly took it from him. The stem was completely smooth, as was her skin. It was as if she had imagined the thorns and her wounds. If it wasn’t for the trace of her blood on Tamlin’s lips, she might have. “What do I say? I-I mean, is there a special saying for Nynsar, or First Flower, or…?”

He chuckled as he wiped the blood from his mouth. “You can let the flowers do the talking this time.”

She smiled, secretly relieved that she didn’t have to come up with a fancy speech, even if they were alone in the garden. She motioned for him to bend down, then gently tucked the yellow-red rose into his hair behind his pointed ear as she said simply, “For you.”

He smiled in a rather boyish way as he straightened. “Thank you,” he said in a sincere tone, then offered her his arm. “It’s been a long time since anyone has given me their First Flower.”

She couldn’t help but smirk at the unintentional implication as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Well, I’m not exactly a maiden anymore, Tamlin.”

He paused to stare at her in shock, then he tipped his head back and laughed. She grinned, then laughed with him as he led her out of the garden and toward the hills. “Somehow I don’t think my ancestors had that in mind when they came up with this holiday,” he remarked when they had caught their breaths.

“Or did they?” she teased.

He smiled in answer, and his eyes twinkled.

If he wasn’t a High Lord, it would be easier to fall in in love with him, she thought. Out loud, she said, “As High Lord, I would think that you would be the first to receive many flowers.”

He conceded a nod. “Naturally, as High Lord, I receive many flowers from my courtiers and subjects—” Which would explain the wildflower crown he wore. “—but the First Flower is different. It’s special.”

Feyre touched the pink rose behind her ear. “Did Rowena ever give you flowers?”

Tamlin’s soft smile faded even as he nodded.

“Roses?” she prompted when he didn’t reply.

“No,” he said quietly, which surprised her. “She gave me moonflowers.”

When he did not elaborate, she asked, “What do moonflowers mean?”

He did not explain, but said simply, “They were her favorite flower, and that’s all that mattered to me.”

Feeling guilty for mentioning it, she gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”

He gave her a tight smile. “Don’t apologize. Something will always remind me of her… But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the day.”

Even so, they walked for several minutes in silence. The journey to the hills did not take as long by daylight as it did on Fire Night, nor did the sound of drums lead them on. As they drew near, Feyre heard the sound of merry fiddling, and that sound caused Tamlin’s shoulders to straighten and his mood to lighten.

“Are you going to play for me?” she asked, nudging his arm.

He smiled down at her, and this time it was genuine. “If you’ll dance for me.”

Her cheeks warmed at the thought. “Oh…” she said with a nervous laugh. “I might need some wine first.”

He chuckled. “Likewise. It’s a bit early for wine, though.”

“What about faerie wine?”

“Especially faerie wine,” he said, leading her up the first hill. She was too distracted by the sights and sounds of Nynsar to answer.

Colorful ribbons streamed from the trees, and merry music filled the air. There weren’t as many faeries around as on Fire Night, and most of them wore masks. It was somehow more comforting that way. Yet among the menagerie of masks shaped like butterflies, birds, rabbits, deer, wolves, and horses, she couldn’t find a single fox.

“Where’s Lucien?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“He volunteered for patrol this morning,” was all Tamlin said, for just then, someone called out, “A merry Nynsar to you, High Lord,” and he repeated the greeting in turn as others began to notice his presence.

Feyre didn’t mind that no one greeted her the same way. She wasn’t ready to be called by any particular title. She was content to be Feyre Archeron for a while longer.

The plateau at the top of the hill was larger than she remembered. There was no bonfire this time, nor on any other hill, only groups of musicians playing merry tunes and maypoles being raised. Tents and tables of food were lined up on the edges of the plateau, leaving room for drinking and dancing in the center. Even with Tamlin beside her, she was grateful that she wouldn’t have to go down the hill for food or drink. She wasn’t ready to face the hollow, or the cave, or even look at the clump of trees where she’d first met the dark-haired stranger.

As she began to wonder if that stranger would show up again, Tamlin released his hold on her and stepped away.

“Oh! Where are you going?” she called after him, suddenly feeling quite exposed.

He gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” he said, then nodded to the line of faeries getting food for themselves. “Have something to eat. I’ll be back soon.” Before she could ask to be taken along, no matter where he was going, he disappeared into the crowd.

Trying hard not to look like a lost child, Feyre took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She was human, but she wasn’t helpless, she told herself with a firm nod. With that thought in mind, she joined the line of faeries waiting for a plate. Even so, she was grateful that her presence didn’t garner more than a passing glance from the faeries around her. With her ears covered, she could have passed for Fae. A few months before, the idea would have disgusted her. She didn’t mind it, now.  

 Tamlin still hadn’t come back by the time the line reached the tents. Since she didn’t know when he would return, she filled her plate with a variety of finger foods. Cold chicken, a wedge of nutty cheese, a still-warm poppy seed roll, a raspberry tart in the shape of a flower… There was no silver in sight, only plates and goblets. It seemed that even with the help of magic, no one wanted to waste the holiday by washing dishes.

Most of the faeries took their plates down to the shady hollow, but Feyre decided to stay on the plateau. There was a lone sycamore tree near the edge where she could sit and listen to the music and wait for Tamlin. Though it would have been nice to have company, she didn’t mind the solitude. It gave her time to think about her next painting.

As she rested her back against the wide trunk, she nibbled on the bread and cheese and mused over the landscape. It was a shame she hadn’t thought to bring some paper and charcoal. The ribbons in the trees were quite beautiful. The wildflower garlands gracing the maypoles were lovely, too. Then again, she had promised to paint Lucien’s portrait by Solstice. Or was it after Solstice? She couldn’t quite remember. If he kept avoiding her, she would have to paint him as a bright red apple or something. Is that because you want to take a bite out of me? he’d once teased.

Though the memory made her smile, it also made her heart twinge. It was clear that he cared for her, or he wouldn’t have given her the jeweled belt she now wore. Perhaps he meant it when he said it was only physical, what he felt. Then again, faeries could lie. She sighed and reached for the raspberry tart on the plate at her side.

“I wouldn’t eat that if I were you,” said a familiar voice.

Her eyes widened as she lifted her head to see Lucien standing by her tree, holding Shadow’s reins. Unlike the rest of the faeries present, he wore a dark, mossy green tunic and dark pants with his usual brown leather boots. He had even tied his hair back. If it hadn’t been for the stark red color against the spring shadows, he could have been invisible. A true fox.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked in amazement.

He nodded at the pastry in her hand. “Long enough to see that you were about to eat a witchberry tart.”

“Oh?” She frowned at the purplish-red jam baked in the center of the flower-shaped tart. “I thought it was raspberry.”

“You’re lucky I came along when I did, then,” Lucien remarked. “Tam would gut me if he found out I’d let you eat more witchberries when he wasn’t looking.”

The memory of how silly she’d been after eating fresh witchberries made her drop the tart onto her plate. As she brushed the crumbs from her hands, she remarked drily, “Always looking after your best interests, I see.” After she’d settled back against the sycamore trunk, she asked, “How did you manage to sneak up on me with a horse, anyway?”

Lucien smiled and patted Shadow’s neck. “You think I named him Shadow just because of his color?”

“It crossed my mind.”

Lucien chuckled. “As it happens, Tam glamoured the horses on patrol today.” As if to prove that point, Shadow shook his head and lowered it, but the bit and bridle remained silent. Lucien rubbed Shadow’s ears and added, “This way, we have the upper hand if something sneaks through the border. Tam doesn’t want to risk ruining the holiday for anyone, but he can’t use that much magic all the time. It would make things easier if he could, though.”

Feyre glanced around, but Tamlin still hadn’t appeared. She wondered if he was checking on some of the other sentries. “Have you seen him? Tamlin, I mean.”

“I was surprised to find you here without him.”

She shrugged. “He said he’d be back soon, but that was a while ago.”

Lucien nodded thoughtfully as he glanced around, but he didn’t reply.

Feyre bit her lip and played with her fingers. This was the first time they’d spoken in three days. He was either away on patrol or gone on emissary business when she and Tamlin had dinner. “So…” she began politely, “are you through with patrol now, or—oh, I know…”

“It’s lunchtime,” they said in unison, then chuckled together. The tension between them eased at once.

She turned for her plate. “Here. You can have the rest of my—oh…” A glamour-silenced Shadow had taken advantage of their distraction to gobble up her witchberry tart, and the gelding was snuffling up the crumbs, apparently hoping for more.

Lucien turned to his horse, and with a soft, ‘Hey’, crouched down and nudged Shadow’s muzzle away from the plate. “Greedy,” he chided, then clicked his tongue when Shadow snorted at him. “Always wanting what you can’t have.”

Feyre’s heart twinged as Lucien ruefully caught her eye. She knew the feeling. “Is he going to be all right?” she asked gently, reaching out and stroking Shadow’s velvety muzzle.

“He’ll be fine,” Lucien assured her as he rubbed Shadow’s chin. “More than fine, actually. He’s going to feel so fine that he’ll want to spend the rest of the day with the pretty girl who gives him faerie treats.”

A pleased smile tugged at Feyre’s lips. “Fine by me,” she said playfully, then grinned when Shadow began snuffling at her face, smelling of warm grass and sweet hay.

Lucien let the reins go slack and sat back on his heels. “Traitor,” he muttered, and Feyre laughed. It wasn’t until Shadow tried nibbling on her flower crown that Lucien caught the reins and pulled him back. “Come here, you overgrown pony,” he grumbled, but he fondly scratched the horse’s chin. Shadow made a soft blowing noise in response and nosed Lucien’s mask.

Feyre chuckled and straightened the flowers in her hair. “You’re not wearing any flowers,” she noticed.

Lucien smiled a half-smile as he patted Shadow’s neck. “I can’t wear them on patrol. I have to blend in,” he explained, and lightly ran a hand over his hair. He looked rather handsome with his hair tied back that way, but she kept that thought to herself. He already liked to boast about his good looks, and it didn’t seem proper to compliment a male who wasn’t courting her.

She shifted against the tree trunk. “Is someone going to give you any flowers?” she asked lightly, running her fingers through the soft grass between them and trying to pretend that she didn’t care about his answer. After a moment of quiet, she looked up to see a sly smirk touching his lips.

“Are you volunteering?”

Her heartbeat quickened at the familiar sight. If he kept this up, she was never going to get over him. Even so, that smirk sparked something bold inside her chest. “Here,” she said quickly, then reached for one of the many small yellow flowers growing around them. She plucked it, then offered it to him with a shy smile. “Your First Flower.”

Lucien stared at the proffered dandelion without taking it, and Feyre wondered if she’d chosen wrong again. If yellow roses meant friendship, surely yellow dandelions were a less flirtatious choice… After a moment, though, he smiled and took it from her. She tried not to focus on the way his warm fingertips brushed over hers, or how her heart fluttered. It would be so easy to love him if he’d let her.

“It’s a good thing you already gave Tam a flower, or I’d be in trouble again,” Lucien remarked, twirling the dandelion stem.

“Why?”

“Because of what it represents.”

She let out a half-hearted chuckle. “It’s just a dandelion…”

Lucien shook his head. “No, I mean… It’s about who you give the First Flower to, no matter what kind of flower it is.”

Her face warmed as she remembered the rose she had given Tamlin. Did the tradition of First Flower still count if she hadn’t picked the rose herself? Or had she inadvertently given her First Flower to Lucien?  

I didn’t realize flowers were so complicated, she’d told Tamlin earlier, and it had become even more so. Feyre sighed, then managed a smile. “I’ll turn it into a dandelion crown for you if you’re worried,” she offered. “I’m sure I still remember how…”

“Nah,” Lucien said, tucking the dandelion behind his ear. “I’ll wear it like this.” The warm yellow was bright against his auburn hair, but it suited him. When Shadow snuffled at his hair and tried nibbling at the flower, Lucien gently shoved the horse’s nose away. “Get your own, you lazy beast,” he said lightly.

Feyre smiled at the sight, then grinned as the gelding yawned.

“Serves you right for eating witchberry jam,” Lucien remarked as the horse knelt down before laying in the warm grass. Shadow let out a deep sigh in answer.

“Is he really going to be all right?” Feyre asked as Lucien unbuckled the bridle.

“He will be after a good nap,” Lucien said, sliding the bridle loose. He looked up and smiled at her. “Just like you were.”

She cocked her head at him. “But I’m not a horse,” she said.

“And he only ate one tart,” Lucien countered. “Besides, witchberries grow all over the Spring Court. Nobody has ever died from eating too many… even if they felt like it.”

She chuckled. “Are you speaking from experience?”

Lucien grinned but did not answer as he set the bridle aside, then pushed himself to his feet. “Come on,” was all he said as he offered his hand.

Her smile faded, and her heartbeat quickened again. “Where are we going?”

“The hollow. There’s a good chance Tam will be there.”

She stiffened at the memory of what had happened there on Fire Night. “No,” she said quickly, and crossed her arms. “No, I-I’ll just wait for him here.”

Lucien’s teasing smile disappeared as he dropped his hand and straightened up. “I can’t just leave you here alone…”

She slowly rubbed her arms, trying to rub away the cold, empty feeling growing inside her. Even though she knew that at least one of the three winged faeries was dead—and chances were good that the stranger had killed all three of them—she couldn’t face the hollow. Not yet.

As if he knew what she was thinking, Lucien said in a soothing tone, “Feyre… You don’t have to go to the hollow if you don’t want to.”

She nodded, but she didn’t trust herself to speak yet. She had already told him about the three faeries, but words could not describe what it had been like to be at their mercy. She had gotten away relatively unscathed, but the thought of returning to the hollow still unnerved her.

Lucien crouched down to her eye level. “Hey,” he murmured, holding her gaze. “I won’t let anything happen to you… I promise.”

Though such a promise was impossible to keep, it helped her relax, just a little bit. She managed a slight smile. “Promise?”

He nodded and gave her a kind smile, then said, “Are you still hungry? You know, since Shadow ate everything…”

She huffed a laugh, finally distracted from her dark thoughts. “No,” she replied honestly. “But I could use a drink.”

His smile widened. “A woman after my own heart,” he quipped, then offered his hand again to help her stand.

Even after everything he’d said, she still hesitated. “What about Shadow?” she asked, nodding at the dozing horse.

“He’s not going anywhere for at least an hour,” Lucien said wryly, then nodded to the sunshine beyond the shade of the sycamore tree. “Come on,” he coaxed gently. “It’s Nynsar. Let’s enjoy it.”

Her shoulders relaxed at last, then she nodded and slipped her hand in his.

***

After patrolling a quiet forest by himself all morning, Lucien was grateful to have some company. He was even more grateful that Amarantha hadn’t sent anything through the cracks in the borders. If they were lucky, news about celebrating Nynsar wouldn’t reach her until the next day. Let her send whatever horrors she could scrounge up then. As for today…

He looked to Feyre strolling at his side. She appeared to have forgotten all about the hollow as they walked around the wide plateau, taking in the sights and sounds of Nynsar. Large canvas tents held tables full of food and drink, shaded from the bright sunshine yet open to the fresh air. Colorful flags and streamers rippled in the gentle breeze, and music and laughter filled the air as younglings began to gather around the maypole. Several faeries were already dancing to the lively melody. Nynsar had never been a big holiday, even before the years of Amarantha, but this year was an exception. It seemed that everyone was eager to let their hair down and enjoy themselves, including Feyre.

He had never seen her with her hair down before. It had a slight wave to it and curled at the ends near her waist. With her rounded ears covered and a wildflower crown in her hair, she looked positively Fae… Not that he could tell her that. Not when she was being courted by someone else.

Instead, he nodded to the platters of food spread between the tents and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m sure,” she said, standing back as he snatched up a couple of poppy seed rolls from a corner of the nearest table. As he bit into one, she asked, “Are there any other foods I should know about?”

He paused midchew, confused. “Like what?” he asked around a mouthful.

She shrugged. “Like witchberries.”

Lucien nodded in understanding, then swallowed. “I didn’t know witchberries would affect you until they did. Everything else in the Spring Court is harmless, as far as I know,” he said, then stuffed the rest of the roll in his mouth.

“What about the Autumn Court?”

“Mm-mm?” was all he could manage with his mouth full.

She smiled in an amused way. “I mean… What’s the food like there?”

He managed to swallow, then he chuckled. “Here. Look at this,” he said, pulling apart the other fluffy roll. “It’s mostly air. That’s Spring Court cooking for you. Autumn Court bread is thick and chewy… It’s great with stew. All Autumn foods are rich and heavy and spicy… They fill you up and keep you warm when the sun goes down and frost comes creeping up the windowpanes.”

“Mmm…” Feyre nodded slowly, then straightened up and breathed a laugh. “No wonder you’re always hungry.”

He smiled in answer and ate the rest of the roll as they continued their stroll.  

She clasped her hands behind her back and remarked, “I always liked autumn. In the Mortal Lands, I mean…” Her blue-gray gaze grew far away as she continued, “There was always enough to eat before winter came… We didn’t have much of a garden, but Elain figured out how to grow potatoes. Sometimes that’s all we had when I couldn’t catch anything…” She shook herself as if the memory pained her, then smiled tightly. “It was the colors that I loved best, though.”

“I’ll have to take you to the Autumn Lands sometime,” he said with a smile. “You can bring your paints, and I’ll fatten you up on spiced cider and pumpkin bread.”

Her tight smile turned into a grin, and her lightly freckled cheeks turned pink as she nodded. “I’d like that.”

Realizing the significance of what he had just suggested, he brushed the stray poppy seeds from his hands and said gruffly, “You know. When all of this is over. When it’s safe.”

Feyre nodded slowly but did not reply.

They’d arrived at the wine tables by this time. He gestured to the fizzing goblets and asked, “Did Tam say anything about drinking faerie wine?”

With her hands clasped behind her back, she leaned toward the table and breathed deeply, then sighed. “He said it was too early,” she said longingly.

“But he didn’t say no?”

“No, I guess he didn’t.”

Lucien glanced around, then leaned in and said conspiratorially, “If you sip it, you should be fine.”

She cocked her head at him. “Says the male who thought witchberries were harmless.”

He spread his hands and gave her an innocent smile. “And they are… For faeries,” he added, grinning.

She pursed her lips, but the smile tugging at her lips proved that she was tempted. “You’re not going to stand back and watch me make a fool of myself, are you?”

“And let you have all the fun?” he teased.

She seemed to take that as a challenge, for she straightened up and squared her shoulders. “All right,” she said, then scooped up two goblets. She held one out to him with a wicked smirk. “Here.”

His eyebrows raised behind his mask, but he took the proffered goblet without a word.

She lifted her goblet and said, “To not making fools of ourselves.”

He chuckled, then lifted his wine in solidarity. “To Nynsar,” he said, then clinked goblets with her.

She lifted it to her lips while he took a large swallow. As he lowered his half-drunk goblet with a satisfied sigh, she gawked at him.

“I thought you said to sip it!”

“You sip it,” he rasped, then cleared his throat. “I drink it.”

Before he could stop her, she lifted her goblet for another drink and drained it in one go. Then it was his turn to gawk.

“What happened to sipping it?”

She let out a happy sigh, and he groaned. “What happened to not making fools of ourselves?” she countered, swaying slightly.

He pointed at her, then himself. “Human. Faerie.” He waved his goblet at her. “Faerie wine.”

“What can I say?” She shrugged. “You’re a terrible influence,” she said with a smile, then reached for another goblet.

He reached out and covered the top of it with his hand. “Not that terrible, I hope.”

“Do I even want to know?” said a familiar voice from behind them.

Lucien and Feyre turned as one to see Alis standing there with one hand on her hip and holding a food-filled plate in the other. She had traded her usual brown maid’s dress for one of Summer Court blue, and she wore a crown of daisies atop her leaflike curls, as well as a daisy necklace. Before he could speak, Feyre did.

“Alis, you came!” she exclaimed happily, then inclined her head. “A very merry Nynsar to you.”

“A very merry Nynsar,” Alis said drily, then her gaze flicked to Lucien. “Indeed.”

Before the maid could say more, her two young nephews bounded up to her and began tugging at her skirts. “Auntie! Auntie!” they squealed, wearing daisy crowns of their own. “Come on! The maypole’s starting!”

“All right. All right, you two. I’m coming,” she said patiently, then shot Lucien a look as they began pulling her away. “I am off-duty,” she declared, pointing at him. “She’s your responsibility.”

Lucien let out a deep sigh as the three birch-skinned faeries trotted away. So much for keeping Feyre at arm’s length, he thought, shaking his head. Where was Tamlin, anyway?   

“Alis brought them,” Feyre said in a wondrous tone. He looked down to see a thoughtful smile on her face as she watched Alis’s nephews join the maypole dance. “She really brought them…”

Lucien found himself smiling, too. “Well, it is Nynsar,” he said kindly.

Feyre straightened up. “Yes, it is,” she declared, then turned and set the second goblet aside. “And you are going to dance with me,” she said, seizing his hand.

“What? No-no-no,” he said, digging in his heels as she tugged at his hand.

“I thought you weren’t going to stand back and watch,” she said lightly, swaying either from the wine or the music, or both.

Though he’d only had half a glass of wine, his will to resist was quickly fading as the music swelled and Feyre wrapped both of her hands around his.

“Come on,” she coaxed, using his own words against him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Cauldron boil and fry me,” he muttered, then tilted his head back and quaffed the rest of his wine. “All right,” he declared, setting his empty goblet beside hers before unbuttoning the top of his tunic. “We’ll be fools together.”

She only had time to grin in answer before he swept her up in the ring of dancers. As younglings danced around the maypole, holding colorful streamers and weaving them in time to the music, faerie couples danced in a wide ring around them. It was the same all across the hilltops, and in the villages across the Spring Lands. The seeds of the future dancing with the flowers of today.

Faerie females dressed in Spring yellow, pink, and green gowns twirled around them, but he only had eyes for Feyre. There was no glamour around her that made her features fuzzy like some females he’d known since getting his golden eye. She was beautiful on her own, with her flushed, freckled skin and sparkling eyes. The Spring Court sunshine had broken through the ice around her heart, and she was warm and alive in his arms. She laughed as he spun with her. It was so easy to make her laugh, and he laughed with her, delighted at the sound.

All too soon, the music ended, and the crowd cheered at the ribbon-finished maypole. The dancers broke apart and clapped for the musicians who had played such a merry tune. He panted for breath, grinning as Feyre grinned back at him.

She touched his arm as the musicians began to play another song and asked, “Do you want to go again?”

It had been so long since he had danced, it was tempting to say yes. He might have if he had not been breathing so hard, but he happened to look up and catch the eye of one of the fiddlers playing nearby, so he closed his mouth. He swallowed hard, then carefully touched her waist and turned her around. “Look, I found Tam,” he said lightly.

The pink of the rose Tamlin had given her matched the natural flush in her cheeks, Lucien noticed, as she looked toward the musicians and grinned. “There you are,” she declared and skipped over to where the High Lord played his fiddle.

Tamlin didn’t cease his playing, but smiled as Feyre stood before him, entranced by the music. The rose Feyre had given him was tucked behind his ear, but he had rolled up his sleeves to better let the bow sing across the strings. There was no sign of his claws… yet.

Lucien swallowed hard and followed Feyre. “I’m sorry, Tam,” he said quickly. “I had a little wine and so did she, and…”

Tamlin’s eyes flicked up at him, but he kept playing. “It’s all right,” he said above the music, with his chin resting against the dark wood of his fiddle. “I’ll look after her.”

Lucien hadn’t meant it that way, but he didn’t argue when Tamlin added, “Go. Enjoy yourself.”

Leaving the High Lord alone to play for his consort, Lucien retreated. He had no appetite for food just then, so he found a place near the tables and stood with another goblet of wine to watch the dancers. He watched as Feyre danced alone before Tamlin, twirling her skirts and spinning and laughing, just for him. He watched as Tamlin swept Feyre into his arms mid-song and joined the rest of the couples skipping in time to the music.

“So, where’s the girl?” someone asked near his elbow.

He glanced down to see Alis standing beside him with her own goblet of wine, her lips pursed. He could easily imagine an arched eyebrow behind her bird mask.

Lucien nodded to the ring of dancers. “With Tam,” he said, then took a swallow of wine.

“As she should be,” Alis said with a decisive nod, then took a sip herself.

“As she should be,” he repeated flatly, then set down the empty goblet and turned to go.

Alis called after him, “Mortal hearts are fragile, Lucien.” When he paused and frowned at her, she continued, “Leave her be.”

He let out a slow, careful breath. “I know,” he said simply, then left before she could lecture him further. He could have chided her for speaking to him out-of-turn, servant that she was, but this wasn’t the Autumn Court. He liked Alis, and her boys, and he didn’t want to spoil anyone’s holiday by snapping at her.

When he reached the sycamore tree, Shadow was just beginning to stir, blissfully unaware of everything that had happened. “Hey, old boy,” he said gently, bending down to rub the gelding’s ears. “Let’s get you back to the stables, eh?”

As he retrieved the bridle from the grass, his gaze fell upon a spot of yellow: a dandelion. He straightened, bridle in hand, then reached up in his hair and pulled out the flower Feyre had given him. As he stared at it resting in his palm, he was tempted to drop it on the ground among the dozens of others growing at his feet. It was just a dandelion. No one would miss it… But he would. He sighed, then tucked it into the open collar of his tunic.

Mortal hearts are fragile, Alis had said. But so was his.

***

The grass was warm and soft beneath Feyre’s bare feet as she and Tamlin left the dancers behind. Her slippers dangled from her fingers as her other hand rested in the crook of his elbow. A soft breeze cooled the sweat that made her hair and her dress cling to her body. Though the two of them were breathing hard and she could feel Tamlin’s sweat dampening his shirt, as High Fae, he probably could have danced for hours more. The sky had turned golden when she wasn’t looking, and the shadows were growing longer. Whether it was the wine or the music or both, she and Tamlin had danced the afternoon away.

He led her to the tents with the food and drink. Most of the food was gone, but there was, amazingly, still plenty of wine. She removed her hand from Tamlin’s arm as he reached for two goblets.

“Here’s the faerie wine I promised,” he said, offering her one with a radiant smile.

She accepted it with a gracious nod. “Thank you. To Nynsar,” she said, raising her goblet.

“To Nynsar,” he repeated, then clinked his goblet against hers.

Unlike the first glass she’d had with Lucien, she carefully sipped this one. The faerie wine had gone straight to her head the first time; now she wanted to savor the experience. After sitting on the table for a while, most of the fizz had bubbled away, but it still left a pleasant tingle in her mouth. It tasted like liquid sunshine and reminded her of summer days spent wading in the river with her sisters as their washed clothes dried on the warm, flat stones of the riverbank.

“What did you think of your first faerie holiday?” Tamlin asked as they began to stroll.

She licked her lips and sighed. “It was wonderful,” she said honestly. “I didn’t know holidays could be this much fun.”

He smiled, clearly pleased. “It’s not over yet,” he said, then placed his hand on her back. “Not until sunset.”

“Oh? Where are we going?” she asked as he began to lead her to the edge of the plateau.

“Hunter’s Hollow. It’s cooler down there.”

She faltered and nearly dropped her shoes. “Do we have to?”

He paused and looked down at her with a surprised frown. “You don’t want to?”

She swallowed hard. Her mouth had gone dry. “No. I’m tired,” she muttered, then lifted her goblet for another sip. Though it was true—she was tired—she didn’t want to spoil the mood by telling Tamlin about the three faeries. Perhaps Lucien had already told him, but she didn’t want to relive it either way.

His frown softened. “Is it because of Calanmai?”

She lowered the goblet and nodded.

He sighed, then turned to face her, leaving his hand at her waist. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the ceremony,” he said softly. “I thought it might make you jealous.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Jealous?”

Tamlin nodded. “Jealous that I couldn’t choose you. It’s such an old ceremony, and humans aren’t invited. There’s never been a mating bond between humans and faeries before, and I had to honor the old ways.”

Fresh blood rushed to her already flushed face. “I wasn’t ready to be chosen by you,” she said softly, remembering her kiss with Lucien, and her heart sunk to learn that human-faerie mating bonds weren’t possible after all. She shrugged. “I just wanted to know what it was like.”

His smile was strained as he reached up and brushed a stray tendril of hair from her forehead. “Can you forgive me for keeping it a secret?”

The tension in her shoulders eased. “Of course I can,” she said, and she meant it. “I had a wonderful time today.”

“So did I,” he said, holding her gaze as his fingers lingered at her cheek.

It was a wonder that her heart could still quicken after all the dancing she had done that day.

“I was thinking about that kiss I took from you at Willow Glade,” he said quietly.

“Mm-hmm?” she managed, unable to think at all.

“I was thinking of giving it back…” he murmured, then leaned in.

Her breath caught as he came closer. Tamlin was courting her now. They had exchanged roses on Nynsar. Lucien hadn’t even given her flowers. She had no reason to deny Tamlin a kiss—Her eyes closed as he pressed his lips to hers.

After a soft, breathless moment, he pulled back and murmured, “Merry Nynsar, Feyre.”

She let out a quivering breath, and realized she’d dropped her shoes. “Merry Nynsar, Tamlin,” she whispered. Her lips tingled, and it wasn’t from faerie wine.

He smiled as he straightened, then offered her his arm. “Let’s go home.”

***

Lucien watched the sky turn from gold to scarlet as he stood in the garden sipping from a glass of red wine. The bottle of faerie wine that Feyre had returned to him was still in his room; he didn’t have the heart to open it. Besides, Nynsar was almost over, and he’d had his fill of faerie wine for a while.

A warm wind ruffled his shirt and his hair and brought the sound of voices drifting into the garden. Everyone was making their way back to the manor after a long day spent merrymaking in the hills. Lucien sighed and told himself that he didn’t mind spending most of it alone. Nynsar was a Spring holiday, after all. He tipped his head back and drained the rest of his wine. Faeries didn’t exchange flowers for Autumn holidays, anyway—He froze with the empty goblet against his lips.

He had forgotten to give Feyre flowers. The dandelion was still tucked in his shirt collar, nearly wilted now, but it had been freely given. As a resident of the Spring Court, the least he could do was return the favor. He lowered the goblet and ran his hand over his mouth as he looked around the garden.

All the wine he’d had made it difficult to remember what every flower meant. He didn’t have much time to decide, for the voices were drawing nearer. He didn’t know if Tamlin and Feyre were among them, or if they would return closer to dusk. Just then Lucien’s gaze fell on a patch of small blue flowers growing near the yellow tulips. Perfect.

He plucked a sprig and took it inside just as the first of the servants began to appear in the garden. He made it all the way to her door when it sunk in what he was about to do. The wine had clouded his judgement, he knew, but surely nobody would think twice about flowers smaller than a fingernail. Besides, she had given him a flower first, and as her friend, he was giving something back.  

A quick knock returned only silence, but he hadn’t expected her to answer. She was with Tamlin, and would be for the rest of the evening.

Her room was decorated in soft pastel hues, so different from the autumn colors he’d chosen for himself. The servants had turned down Feyre’s bed before they left the manor, so no one else but Feyre would see the flowers if he left them on her pillow. As he approached the empty bed, doubt crept in, and he nearly turned back. It was just a sprig of forget-me-nots, he told himself, to thank her for the time she’d spent with him that day, then he laid it on the pillow.

After studying the lonely sprig, he pulled out the dandelion from his collar and laid it next to the pale blue flowers so that she would know they were from him.

“Merry Nynsar, Feyre,” he whispered as the last light of sunset faded into a dusky blue. He turned and left the room before anyone could know he had been there.

Nynsar was finally over, and Solstice was next.

Chapter Text

It never rained in the Spring Court, yet the grounds were always lush and green. Feyre had never given it much thought until she woke up the day after Nynsar, and misty gray clouds covered the sun.

As she sat at her vanity, dressed in a sapphire tunic and her usual painting pants, rain began to spatter against the crystal windowpanes. The simple beauty of it surprised her. She hadn’t liked the rain since moving to the cottage with its drafty windows and leaking roof, but now she wondered what it might be like to paint it.

Like teardrops, she thought, twirling the sprig of Jurian’s Tears in her fingertips. Lucien had left the sprig of pale blue flowers on her pillow, right next to the dandelion she had given him the day before. No one else but Tamlin could have given her flowers, and he had given her a rose. Roses were for lovers. As for the Jurian’s Tears… If they meant the same thing in the Spring Court as they did in the Mortal Lands, then Lucien was expressing regret. She just didn’t know what he regretted doing this time.

Alis gently but firmly turned her head away from the window to begin braiding Feyre’s hair. “Don’t worry,” the maid remarked. “The rain should clear up by this afternoon.”

“I don’t mind,” Feyre said honestly, setting the sprig next to Tamlin’s pink rose. “It’s a nice change from all the sunshine.”

Alis smiled to herself in the mirror, and Feyre frowned at a sudden thought.

“Can Tamlin control the weather?”

Without looking up, Alis replied, “Most of the time.”

Feyre had suspected as much, given that it was a land of eternal springtime, but the wind was never stronger than a breeze, and clouds were few and far between. During her time here, she had forgotten about the rain. Nodding to the gray window, she asked, “Is this because of the blight?”

Alis said nothing, but reached for a sapphire ribbon that matched the tunic. Her continued silence made Feyre’s chest tighten with worry.

“Is Tamlin’s magic failing?” she asked nervously.

Alis sighed as she secured the ribbon. “I have been alive long enough that I heard stories of the former High Lord’s moods, and how they affected the weather here in the Spring Court,” she said quietly. “Lord Tamlin is not like his father. So, if it rains here now and then, I would not worry about it.”

Feyre tried not to worry about it, but it bothered her just the same, and she no longer felt like painting the rain. As Alis stepped away to tidy the room, she picked up the flowers lying on her vanity. The sprig of Jurian’s Tears and the dandelion were beginning to dry out, but the pink rose remained as fresh as it had been the day before. That alone was proof that Lucien was responsible for the other flowers. The white rose from Calanmai continued to bloom in the crystal vase in her painting room. As she left her bedroom behind, she decided she could use that vase for her new bouquet, since the white rose didn’t seem to need water.

When she made it downstairs, she was surprised to find the front doors open, and Tamlin standing before them, watching the downpour. He looked almost human, standing there with a cup of tea, but his arched ears and unearthly stillness gave away his faerie heritage. As she approached, he turned his head to look at her, then gave her a gentle, if tired, smile.

“Good morning, Feyre,” he said with a nod, and when she returned the greeting, he turned back to the curtain of rain falling outside and lifted his teacup for a sip. He seemed somehow distant, as if he hadn’t kissed her goodnight or spent most of Nynsar dancing with her. It was as if they had gone back to being friends, instead of not-quite lovers: High Lord and consort.

She stood beside him and folded her arms, resting the bouquet in the crook of her elbow as they watched the rain together. It was a different kind of beauty, but it was beautiful just the same. The colors in the garden were muted, and the growing puddles reflected the gray sky above. The air was cool and moist against her face, and every so often she could hear a low rumble of thunder in the distance.

“It’s raining,” she remarked.

Tamlin chuckled. “So it is,” he agreed, then lifted his teacup for another sip.

Her face warmed, and she wet her lips, trying to think of something else to say. “On purpose?” she asked him.

He drained his teacup and lowered it before he replied. “Yes, on purpose,” he said quietly. “I used a lot of magic yesterday to make Nynsar perfect.”

“And it was perfect,” she assured him, which earned her a soft smile in return. “But why not let it rain here more often?”

Tamlin’s mouth pinched as he considered his answer. “The weather is one of the few things in my life that I have control over,” he said at last. “Most of my subjects prefer sunshine, so that is what I give them. I let the rain fall at night, but it’s always cleared up by morning. It’s more… convenient that way.”

Feyre eyed the way he held his teacup and thought she could see the shadow of claws at his fingertips. Perhaps Tamlin kept his temper on a shorter leash than his father had, if the weather truly reflected a High Lord’s moods. “It sounds exhausting,” she said.

He merely smiled in reply. Nodding at the bouquet in her arms, he remarked, “Forget-me-nots.”

Her cheeks warmed as she turned the bouquet over to inspect the unsuspecting sprig. Lucien’s message to her was now clear: Forget me not. “Is that what they’re called?” she said lightly. “We always called them Jurian’s Tears.”

“In remembrance of your fallen hero, I take it,” Tamlin guessed.

She nodded without looking at him. “Jurian’s Day is coming up,” she said, trying to change the subject. She didn’t want to get Lucien in trouble by revealing that he was the one who had given them to her. “I… I thought I might paint them.”

“Don’t let me keep you, then,” Tamlin replied kindly. As she turned to go, he added, “Perhaps you can show me when it’s completed.”

She looked back at him with a tentative smile. “Perhaps,” was all she said. She didn’t want him to know she didn’t plan on painting them anytime soon. She had another project in mind.

They both turned at the sound of boots splashing on wet marble, and a moment later, a cloaked figure appeared, climbing the stairs.

“Cauldron boil me,” Lucien grumbled beneath his hood as he tried to shake the rain off his cape. “At least it would be warmer than all this wet.”

Feyre bit back a smile. With the beads of rain dripping down his mask and long red hair, he was the living model of a poor, bedraggled fox caught in a storm. As the emissary stepped inside, Tamlin waved the doors closed behind him and remarked, “You didn’t have to volunteer for patrol this morning.”

Lucien sniffed and pulled down his hood. “I wouldn’t put it past Amarantha to sneak something through the borders when we’re not looking,” he muttered, pulling off his gloves. “But it would seem her monsters don’t like getting wet, either.”

A servant appeared to take his wet things, and only when the faerie had gone did Lucien notice Feyre standing there. “Good morning,” he said politely as his gaze fell to the flowers in her hand, then he quickly looked away. “Tea?” he asked Tamlin without waiting for her answer.

Tamlin gestured with his teacup. “In the dining room,” he said, and Lucien quickly disappeared, leaving wet footprints in his wake.

Feyre swallowed down the greeting she had been about to give. It would have been too easy to thank him for the flowers, too, and with Tamlin present, it was best to say nothing at all. She’d find him later and thank him privately, and perhaps even get him to sit still long enough to sketch his portrait. It was an innocent enough reason to be alone with him, and then she could ask him about the forget-me-nots.

Tamlin turned to her with a rueful smile. “Would you like some tea? I should have offered, but… I was distracted.”

A cup of hot tea did sound nice, so she readily agreed and fell in step beside him. “Is it because you’re worried about Amarantha?” she asked as they walked.

“Among other things,” he said quietly, but did not elaborate as they walked into the dining room.

A cheery fire blazed at the other end of the room as rain streamed down the tall crystal windows. The dining table had remained small and personable ever since the night Tamlin had magicked away the middle of it. It now held a modest assortment of biscuits, tea cakes, and other baked goods appropriate for tea, along with a round crystal vase filled with an assortment of flowers from Nynsar.

Lucien stood beside the table now, pouring what Feyre guessed was a second cup of tea. He looked calmer already, and warmer, too. Wisps of steam rose from his clothes, no doubt helped along by his fire magic.

“Pour some for me?” she asked him as they approached.

He did so without a word, then smiled politely as he lifted the steaming teacup by its rim to hand it to her.

She set her little bouquet onto the table and let her fingers brush over his as she took the cup from him with both hands. Catching his eye, she said: “Thank you” in a meaningful way, thanking him for the flowers, for the dance, and for everything else.

It appeared that he understood, for his smile softened, and he nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said gently.

As she cupped the warm porcelain to sip the fragrant, steaming tea, Tamlin stood beside her and touched the stems of the assorted flowers in her bouquet. He was frowning.

“Lucien…” he said slowly, then he snarled.

Feyre startled and stepped back, but Tamlin wasn’t looking at them. He was snarling at the open doorway, and his claws were out, long and gleaming.

“Lucien,” he said again, growling deep in his chest. “Get Feyre to the window. Now.”

Her heart dropped to her stomach, and she had just enough time to set down her teacup before Lucien grabbed her by the elbow. “What’s—”

“Come on,” Lucien hissed, pulling her around the small table. His golden skin had gone pale.

As they took their places next to the nearest window, the sound of rain drummed in her ears as the coppery scent of magic wrapped around her. Nothing else changed as far as she could tell, so if Tamlin hadn’t glamoured her sight, then he must have glamoured her… but why? As Lucien stepped in front of her, cutting off the view of the open doorway, she remembered the green hedges of the garden and the dark presence of the Attor.

“Lucien,” she breathed, heart pounding, “what’s going on?”

He turned his head ever so slightly and whispered, “Don’t talk. Just listen.”

She tried to peer around his shoulder, but he lifted his arm and touched the velvet curtain, subtly blocking her off as he pretended to look out the window. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he murmured. “I promise.”

She opened her mouth to ask what was coming, but then she heard them: Footsteps.

Lucien’s other hand came to rest on the pommel of his sword. He didn’t draw it, but his ready stance was a warning to whatever was coming their way.

Through the steady, drumming rain, Feyre could hear the click of heeled boots coming closer. She had imagined the Attor with claws, but she didn’t actually know what it looked like. She hoped she wouldn’t find out now.

If she turned her head, she could see Tamlin had remained standing, facing the doorway. He had sheathed his claws, but he now wore his baldric filled with knives across his chest. He must have summoned it when she wasn’t looking, for he had not been wearing it when she came downstairs.

She reached for her own dagger, then sucked in a sharp breath as she realized she had left it upstairs. With flowers in her hand and painting on her mind, she had not thought to buckle it at her waist as she usually did. She eyed the butter knives near the basket of scones and wished she had thought to grab one. Before she could pursue that thought further, the owner of the footsteps arrived in the dining room.

“I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in,” a deep male voice drawled.

Tamlin’s lip curled. “Rhys,” he growled.

“High Lord,” the voice known as Rhys simpered, pausing just out of sight. “I do hope I wasn’t interrupting.”

“What are you doing here?” Tamlin said roughly, not bothering to be civil. Feyre could see it was an effort for him to keep his fangs and claws at bay.

Rhys sighed dramatically. “It’s been almost forty-nine years, and that’s how you greet me? After all we’ve been through…”

“You’re fucking my mate,” Tamlin snarled. “You’re lucky I don’t tear you apart.”

Feyre’s eyes widened at this revelation as Rhys scoffed. “If you want to trade places, I’d be happy to find someone to break the curse in your stead,” he said lightly, then muttered, “The Mother knows you’re doing fuck-all about it.”

Lucien snapped, “Get on with it, Rhysand. We’re busy.”

Rhys—or Rhysand—chuckled as he sauntered into view. “Yes, I can see that,” he drawled, crumbling a bit of scone in his long fingers before letting the crumbs fall to the floor. “Having tea and biscuits while the whole world goes to Hell.”

Feyre sucked in a sharp breath as she recognized the owner of the voice at last. With short, night-dark hair and moon-pale skin, her High Fae savior looked the same as he did on Fire Night. Elaborate gold-and-silver embroidery was the only decoration on his otherwise black ensemble. With a start, she realized that his black boots left no wet imprints behind. He was perfectly dry.

As he rounded the corner of the table, he looked toward the window where she and Lucien stood, and his violet eyes gleamed. She tried not to shrink away from that all-knowing stare, wondering if he could see her. Part of her wondered why Tamlin had bothered to glamour her after Rhys had saved her from the three faeries, then she remembered what had happened to the one who had taken her ribbon, and she hoped that Tamlin’s glamour would hold.

Lucien squared his shoulders, subtly angling himself in front of Feyre as his hand moved from the pommel to grip the hilt of his sword. “If you think that’s all we’ve been doing, you’ll soon learn otherwise.”

Rhys didn’t falter as he came closer. “Threatening a High Lord?” he crooned. “You should know better than that.”

Feyre stared in awe as she realized that this Rhysand was not only from the Night Court as she had previously surmised, but he was also its High Lord. No wonder the three faeries had faltered in his presence.

“Then again,” Rhys paused, squaring up against Lucien, “perhaps you’re tired of that gold eye and you want Tamlin to get you another.” He flicked up his eyebrows in a meaningful way, staring Lucien down. “I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

Lucien growled, deep and low, but he said nothing further.

Tamlin interjected, “Enough of this, Rhys. You wouldn’t be here without Amarantha’s permission, so deliver your message and be on your way.”

“Oh, very well,” Rhys drawled as he turned back toward Tamlin. Either he had ignored her, or he hadn’t seen her. In any case, she slowly, carefully leaned around Lucien to watch the High Lord of the Night Court round the other side of the table to face the High Lord of Spring.

Rhys remarked, “Rumor has it that you and the entire Spring Court had a little celebration yesterday.”

Tamlin lifted his chin in defiance. “So, what if we did? Nynsar is a minor Spring holiday, hardly worth mentioning.”

Rhys shook his head and tsked. “You broke the rules, old friend. Her rules. Now, I have to break something of yours.”

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed, and his lip curled, but he remained silent.

“Let me see,” Rhys mused, beginning to circle the table once more. He picked up Feyre’s pink rose and twirled the stem as he continued, “The rose garden, perhaps…”

The pink rose disintegrated into shimmering black dust that swirled into the air like tendrils of smoke.

Feyre gasped at the same time Lucien and Tamlin did.

The High Lord of Spring turned deathly pale. “You wouldn’t.”

The High Lord of Night brushed the last of the glittering powder from his hands and sneered, “Oh, wouldn’t I? You don’t know what I’m capable of.” Darkness gathered around him, and even the hearth fire seemed to shrink in his presence. Feyre stepped closer to Lucien as he leaned back, and somehow their hands became linked. She was deeply grateful he gave her a hand a protective squeeze instead of pulling away. The room grew darker as Rhys went on, “You don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know how close I’ve come to breaking.”

He flung out a hand, and the crystal window where Feyre and Lucien stood cracked from floor to ceiling.

Lucien swore as Feyre yelped, and together they stumbled back against the wall as window after window in the dining hall began to crack and splinter.

Still facing Tamlin, Rhys curled his fingers and said darkly, “I could bring this entire estate down on top of you and not lose a wink of sleep over it.” The walls groaned, and the windows continued to splinter against the incessant rain.

Lucien backed Feyre away from the wall, but he seemed reluctant to run for the doors. If he hadn’t been holding her hand so tightly, she might have tried running herself, glamour or no glamour. However, neither of the High Lords seemed to be paying any attention to them.

Tamlin stared Rhys down, breathing hard as his eyes glowed a beastly green in the darkening room. The once-distant thunder grew louder and shook the foundation, a warning of the Spring Lord’s own strength.

Rhys cocked his head and lowered his hand, but left his fingers curled. “Then again, she would be unhappy with me if I mussed that pretty hair of yours, so I’ll go easy on you.” His hand tightened into a fist, and all the windows shattered inwards.

Feyre cried out and found herself crushed in Lucien’s arms as broken glass and wind-whipped rain blew into the dining room. After what seemed like an eternity, Lucien’s hold on her loosened, and she lifted her head from his chest and looked around. The High Lord of the Night Court had vanished, leaving tendrils of darkness in his wake.

***

Though thunder continued to rumble outside the manor, the sounds of cracking and shattering furniture outside the dining room had finally died down. At Lucien’s insistence, Feyre was safely tucked away in the kitchen with Alis while he stood watch over the dining room doors, alone. After Rhysand left, Tamlin had ordered them out, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t argue. Feyre looked like she wanted to, but he led her out of the room before she could. Once the doors were safely closed behind them, a pulse of magic swept outward. As he had suspected, Tamlin needed to be a beast for a little while, and it was best that they stayed out of the High Lord’s way until he was done.

Lucien drew a deep breath and pushed one of the doors open a crack. “Tam?” he called out, peering into the room.

It was cold and dim. Wind and rain continued to blow in through the shattered windows, and the tiny hearth fire at the other end of the room did little against the wet and the gloom. As he pushed the door open, shards of crystal glass and white porcelain tinkled along the once-polished floor. Splintered chairs were scattered around the room, along with the silver and the flowers and what was left of the food. Even the parts of the table that had been magically tucked away had been brought back, but only so they could be broken, too. And in the center of it all knelt the High Lord himself, shoulders slumped and head bowed, watching as his long claws slowly shrunk back into his fingers.

Glass crunched beneath Lucien’s boots as he tentatively approached. “Tam?” he said again, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“What.” His friend’s voice was low, gruff, and weary.

Lucien paused a safe distance away and tried to smile. “Feel better?”

Tamlin’s hands, resting on his knees, curled into fists. “Now is not the time for jokes,” he muttered without lifting his head.

“Who was joking?” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “I just wondered if you were feeling better.” Even so, he gave Tamlin a wide berth as he walked toward the dying hearth. After tossing another log onto the pile, he stretched out his hand and managed to summon enough magic to bring the flames back to life. Once they were crackling merrily, he briskly rubbed his hands together and turned to face what was left of the room.

Tamlin remained where he was, kneeling amidst the ruins, his back to the hearth.

Lucien sighed, then slowly approached. “It was only a matter of time before Rhysand showed up here,” he said gently. “But at least it wasn’t the Attor—”

“Forget-me-nots.”

Lucien paused near Tamlin’s shoulder and frowned, unsure whether he had heard correctly. “What?”

Tamlin finally lifted his head; his eyes were shadowed and weary. “You gave Feyre forget-me-nots. Why?”

Lucien swallowed. Knowing it was pointless to lie, he tried to shrug it off. “She danced with me. I was just thanking her for the dance, that’s all. What does that—”

“Are you honestly trying to tell me that you forgot what forget-me-nots mean?” Tamlin growled.

Lucien spread his hands and gestured to the wreckage around them. “I don’t see why it matters—”

Tamlin shot to his feet, and Lucien startled backwards. “It matters because less than two months remain until Amarantha comes to collect me herself,” he snarled. “It matters because Feyre prefers your company to mine. It matters because no matter how much time I spend with her, I don’t feel a damned thing!”

Tamlin’s words echoed through the room as Lucien stared at him, numb with shock.

Tamlin’s snarl softened as he shook his head then stepped back. “I don’t feel anything,” he said tiredly, spreading his hands wide before dropping them in defeat. “I’ve kissed her, danced with her, given her everything she could possibly want… but it makes no difference.” He let out a heavy sigh. “When we’re alone together, do you know what she says to me?”

Lucien managed to shake his head.

Tamlin smiled sadly, then shrugged and murmured, “Where’s Lucien?”

Lucien straightened, and warmth spread through his chest to think that Feyre missed him enough to ask about him, then his heart sunk as he realized what this meant for Tamlin’s curse. “That doesn’t mean anything,” he began, trying to sound comforting.

“You don’t think so?” Tamlin crossed his arms. “Feyre kept your flowers and said she was going to paint them.”

“Well, she painted Starlight Pond for you,” Lucien tried to argue, but Tamlin ignored him.

“Forget-me-nots mean true love.”

Lucien blinked in surprise. “No… I didn’t… What? Since when?”

Tamlin scoffed. “Since a river nymph swore that she would never forget her drowned lover. Forget-me-nots have grown wild along riverbanks ever since. It’s one of the first flower stories Spring children ever learn. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

Lucien turned away with a grimace and ran a hand over his hair. “There’s so many of them,” he muttered. “It’s hard to keep track of what they all mean.”

“I don’t suppose flowers mean much to the Autumn Court,” Tamlin said quietly.

Lucien sighed and dropped his hand. “No. They don’t.”

For a long, painful moment, the only sounds in the room were the crackle of the fire and the rain falling outside the broken windows. Then Tamlin asked, “Do you deny it?”

Lucien turned to him with a question on his lips, but before he could ask it, Tamlin went on.

“Do you deny that’s how you feel about her?”

Lucien spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t deny that there’s something there,” he said, shaking his head. “But I never let myself get close enough to know for certain.”

Tamlin’s mouth tightened in a thin line. Before he could say anything, Lucien gestured to the remains of the room.

“Are you going to try to tell me that this means you don’t feel anything? Not fear, anger, or jealousy?”

Tamlin rubbed the space above his stone heart. “Not love,” he said quietly.

Lucien’s hands fell to his sides. “I don’t believe you,” he declared, then pointed out the window. “Not when Rhysand threatened your mother’s roses. You still love that garden. You still love Rowena, and you could love Feyre, too, if you let—”

“They’re memories!” Tamlin snapped. He pointed at his chest. “They’re locked away in this stone heart. Nothing else can get in. I should have realized that forty-nine years ago, before I sent out my men to be slaughtered like cattle.”

Lucien stared at him. “So that’s it? You’re giving up?”

Tamlin let out a long sigh, then turned to the windows and waved his hand. Something wet rustled above the pattering rain, and leafy vines began to creep and curl over the broken windows, blocking out the wind and the rain. “Not yet,” he said quietly as the room grew darker, then he looked to Lucien. Firelight silhouetted his blond hair and the edges of his golden mask, but his face was hidden in shadow. “If it wasn’t for this damn curse, I’d let you have her… but I can’t. Do you understand?”

Lucien slowly nodded, then stepped back as the High Lord trudged past him.

“Tell the servants to sweep everything into piles. I’ll fix this mess later,” Tamlin said above the crunch of broken glass, then left Lucien standing alone in the dining room with the flickering hearth as his only company.

***

Feyre hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Not this time.

Lucien wouldn’t let her stay with him while Tamlin raged on the other side of the door, so she’d been forced to stay in the kitchen with Alis. After narrowly avoiding being discovered by Rhys, she’d had little to no appetite, despite being surrounded by food. It was only once she’d finished a mug of fresh molten chocolate that Alis let her leave, and that was after the roaring in the dining room above them stopped.

She had wanted to ask Lucien about painting his portrait, just to take her mind off what had happened that morning. Instead, she’d found the dining room door cracked, and heard Lucien talking to Tamlin inside. She thought they might be talking about Rhys, or even Amarantha, but she heard her name, instead. They were talking about the forget-me-nots Lucien had given her. No… They were talking about her.

Forget-me-nots mean true love, Tamlin told Lucien. Do you deny that’s how you feel about her?

He didn’t deny it. When had his feelings changed? Months of playful banter had turned into something more, and she knew it the moment he had kissed her back on Fire Night. No matter how much he denied it, she knew he cared. She just didn’t realize how much… but was it really love? Feyre slowly rubbed the space above her trembling heart. From forget-me-nots on Nynsar to always making sure she had eaten something, she realized that Lucien had tried to keep his distance in spite of his feelings for her, not because he didn’t have any. The only thing standing between them was Tamlin.

No matter how much time I spend with her, I don’t feel a damned thing, Tamlin had said. Not love.

His declaration cut her deeply. He didn’t feel anything? Not after stealing a kiss in Willow Glade, or looking through her paintings and voicing her innermost thoughts, or playing for her on Nynsar? Faeries were even better liars than humans, it seemed. And to learn all this now, just when she was beginning to really fall for him…

As Tamlin walked through the dining room doors, she stood back and watched him go. He didn’t seem to notice her, and even if he had, what was there to say? ‘I don’t love you, either’? It was as if winter had come again and settled into the hollow where her heart used to be. Once he was out of sight, she turned for her painting room, too numb and too distracted by what she’d heard to consider waiting for Lucien to come out and explain. Perhaps he would have encouraged her to give Tamlin another chance, that perhaps she had simply misunderstood. There was no misunderstanding Tamlin’s words, though. He didn’t love her. He couldn’t. Not if he had a stone heart.

It didn’t make sense, though. If he didn’t feel anything for her, then why did he want to court her? Was he just pretending to want her? If so, why?

Feyre stopped and stood in the doorway of her little painting room as she tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat. He had done so much for her, and her family… Why give her all of this?

She’d once asked him: Why be so kind?

It’s selfish, he had said. If I can make you happy, perhaps a little bit will rub off on me.

Selfish was just the right word for it. She blinked back the angry tears stinging her eyes and rolled up her sleeves. She needed to think about something else for a while. At the very least, she’d be able to think more clearly with a brush in her hand.

She didn’t have Lucien’s forget-me-nots for reference, and it was too wet and stormy outside to sketch anything new. None of her previous sketches appealed to her stormy mood, so after buttoning her smock, she reached for her stack of unfinished paintings and began sorting through them, looking for inspiration.

There was a muddy green canvas she had started painting on Calanmai but hadn’t known what to do with. She’d been upset at Tamlin then, so it was a perfect fit for her now. As she set it up on her easel, she decided that it would become the forest outside the cottage, just as the seasons began to change. She mixed red and yellow into a beautiful red-gold, then mixed red and blue for soft purple shadows.

At the first stroke of red paint on top of green, Feyre began to relax. This is what she needed. Painting soothed her when she had no one else to talk to, no one to confide in. Even if there was someone around, whether it be Lucien or Alis, they might try to fix things. She didn’t want to be fixed. She wanted to sit there, and paint autumn leaves that were the color of Lucien’s hair in sunlight. One of these days, she would ask him to take her to the Autumn Court, just the two of them, then she could paint all the colors of autumn. And when she wasn’t painting, he had promised to fatten her up on spiced cider and pumpkin bread. The thought warmed the cold space within her chest and made her smile, but it wasn’t long before that smile grew sad.

They could have been together so much sooner if Tamlin hadn’t pursued her. And to what end? He was cursed with a stone heart, and that was on top of the blight. Perhaps Amarantha was responsible for cursing him after he publicly rejected her. Lucien had called Amarantha a witch, but even if she wasn’t, it made sense that a High Fae with magical powers could retaliate with such cruelty. Perhaps she wanted to make sure her mate couldn’t fall in love with anyone else.

And in turn, Tamlin had tried to make sure Feyre wouldn’t fall in love with anyone else, either. But her heart was made of flesh and blood. She couldn’t be controlled that way.

It was a game, she realized. A spiteful faerie game. Tamlin had told Amarantha that he would rather bed a human than choose her. It didn’t seem to matter which human. Feyre just happened to be the first one he came across, and because she had killed a faerie, the Treaty allowed him to do whatever he wanted to her… It was little consolation, but at least he had tried to romance her first.

Now that she knew the truth, that wasn’t going to work anymore. He was just using her to spite his mate. If it wasn’t for this damn curse, I’d let you have her, he had told Lucien, but I can’t. The thought made her sick, and she lowered her brush from the half-finished autumn forest painting.

After a moment’s consideration, she wiped the excess red paint from her loaded brush and decided to work on another project, something new. Something that would aptly express how she felt after learning what Tamlin had done. It wasn’t anger, necessarily, or even disgust… It was something else.

She nearly emptied an entire jar of black paint onto the blank canvas to make it dark enough for her liking. She swirled midnight blue and deep violet onto the still wet surface, then blended in smaller streaks of yellow for brightness. As she stood back and examined the painting as a whole, she realized it was becoming the night sky. It was anger turning into sorrow.

Tamlin would never love her—a human—the way he’d loved Rowena. There was bitterness there, and, if she was being honest, disappointment. It had been nice to feel wanted for a little while. Now she knew that Lucien had wanted her, too. She wouldn’t have met Lucien if not for Tamlin, after all… Maybe, eventually, she thought, reaching for the jar of white paint, there could be forgiveness, too.  

How strange to find peace in a painting of the night sky, given everything that Rhysand had done during his short visit to the Spring Court that morning. At Amarantha’s behest, he had turned one of Tamlin’s roses into glittering black dust and shattered every window in the dining room just because they had dared to celebrate Nynsar. There was no telling what he would have done to her if Amarantha had found that Feyre was acting as the High Lord’s consort. Even though Tamlin and Lucien had protected her, she didn’t ever want to be put in that position again. If Feyre had her way, she wouldn’t have a position at all.

A gentle knock startled Feyre from her painting. Glancing out the window, she realized the day was nearly over. Gray clouds still covered the sun, but the rain had finally stopped, and what little light was left was quickly fading. If she had to guess, it was dinnertime. As she looked around the other side of the black and purple canvas, she expected to see Alis with the dinner tray, but instead she saw Tamlin standing there in the doorway.

He lowered his hand from the door with a weary smile. “I’ll be sending out some messengers in the morning,” he said by way of explanation. “I wondered if you could use any more supplies. Paper, canvas, paint…”

It was easy to believe that he actually cared, but she knew better now. She managed a tight smile in return and shrugged. “I could use some more black paint, if it’s not too much trouble,” she said politely.

He straightened up in surprise. “Black paint?” Stepping into her little painting room, he asked, “What exactly are you working on?”

She bit her lip and hesitated, then shifted on her stool as Tamlin came to stand beside her. “The night sky,” she explained, nervously running her thumb across her loaded brush, smearing the cool, white paint onto her skin. Specks of white dotted the swirls of deep purple and midnight blue blending into the black canvas.

Tamlin leaned away from the canvas and studied it with a thoughtful frown. “You painted Rhys,” he said flatly.

She hurriedly went on, “No, I didn’t. Not really. I mean, I thought it would help if I painted him—the sky, that is—so I wouldn’t have nightmares… um, about what happened.” Her face warmed, for saying so made her sound like a silly, frightened child. It was true, though, in a way; it just wasn’t the complete truth.

To her dismay, Tamlin snorted softly, but his remark surprised her. “Once upon a time, Rhys would have loved to know that you painted him, even like this. He’s rather vain about his good looks, you know.”

Feyre tilted her head and examined the simple painting thoughtfully, her embarrassment forgotten. “No, I didn’t know.”

“You mean you didn’t notice his looks?”

Feyre couldn’t help but smirk at Tamlin’s baffled tone as she added a couple more stars to the painting. “I noticed. He’s just not my type.”

Tamlin chuckled. “I wish I could tell him that and knock his ego down a peg. We used to be good friends. I knew his sister rather well, too…” he trailed off.

“Rowena,” Feyre finished for him, then she paused as the pieces began falling into place. She turned to Tamlin with a gasp. “Rhys… That was him?”

Tamlin nodded. “Yes, Rhys is—was—Rowena’s older brother.” He sighed and tiredly ran a hand over his masked face. “I forgot that I told you about them.”

She couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him in that moment. He hadn’t asked to be cursed. He hadn’t asked to become High Lord, either. He hadn’t asked for anything but to live in the Night Court with people who loved him, and that had been taken from him. “It’s all right, Tamlin,” Feyre said gently. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yes, it has,” he murmured, then turned to face her, and his gaze fell to her mouth.

Her shoulders stiffened, and her heart turned over as he leaned in. She quickly pressed her hand against his chest and pushed him back. Thankfully, he didn’t force it. As she removed her hand, she realized too late that her fingers were still covered in paint.

“Oh! Sorry, I—Oh, no, I ruined your…” She winced, then ran her hand down her smock with a nervous chuckle. “I’m such a mess.”  

Tamlin looked down and pinched his newly decorated tunic between his fingers, the white paint stark against the green fabric. “It’s all right,” he assured her with an amused half-smile. “The laundress can fix it, don’t worry.”

She managed a pinched smile as she nodded. “Don’t let me keep you, then,” she said lightly.

He hesitated, then gestured to the doorway behind him. “Aren’t you coming to dinner?”

She swallowed hard. “I thought the dining room was…”

“It should be fixed by tomorrow,” he said. “But there are other places we can eat together…”

She could guess where he meant. Her cheeks flushed at the thought, and she quickly shook her head. “No. I mean, I thought I’d just have something from the tray while I finish this painting,” she said, instead of telling him that she didn’t want to be invited up to his rooms. “Then I want to go to bed. I’m tired.”

His mouth tightened in a thin line as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Certainly. I understand,” he said softly. He was clearly disappointed, but she wasn’t sure if he truly understood why she would turn down his invitation. She wasn’t about to tell him, at least not yet.

As he turned to go, guilt made her heart twinge, but she said nothing until he was nearly through the doorway. “Tamlin?” she called after him.

He paused and wordlessly turned around, perhaps hoping she had changed her mind.

She wet her lips. “I’m sorry.”

He touched the doorway and tilted his head in surprise. “For what?”

I’m sorry that I can’t give you what you want. I’m sorry that I couldn’t feel your stone heart beating beneath my hand. I’m sorry that I can’t love someone who can’t love me back, she wanted to say. Instead, she said, “For getting paint on your clothes. And… for what happened today. With Rhys.”

Tamlin’s stance softened as he shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said in a sincere tone. “I’m just grateful you weren’t hurt.”

Feyre managed a more sincere smile. “Thank you for the glamour. And for protecting me and Lucien.”

Tamlin stared at her for a long moment, then he nodded and gave her a tight smile before leaving her alone to finish her painting.

***

With the crackle of the fireplace and the low rumble of another storm overhead, Lucien almost didn’t hear the knock on his bedroom door. He half-opened his eyes and glanced at the clock; it was nearly midnight. With a weary groan, he set aside his half-drunk glass of wine and pushed himself out of the stuffed chair near the fire. As he walked to the door, he grabbed his shirt and carefully slipped it over his head. He’d been caught shirtless once before, and if his suspicions were correct…

With a final tug at his shirt, he cracked open the door and peered into the dark corridor. As the firelight behind him illuminated the soft gleam of gold in her loosely braided hair, a soft half-smile touched his lips. “Hey,” he said gently. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Feyre stood before him, clutching the collar of her robe closed, and she smiled shyly. “Can I come in?”

Lucien sighed and rested his shoulder against the doorframe, blocking her way. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he murmured. “It’s late, and…” And I’m almost too drunk to say no.

Her smile faded. “Can I ask you something, then?” she said with a shrug.

He nodded. “Of course.”

She bit her lip as she drew in a deep breath. “Is Tamlin’s heart really made of stone?”

Lucien blinked and straightened up, suddenly alert. Swallowing hard, he nodded to the interior of his room. “Perhaps you’d better come in, after all.”

After she had brushed past him, Lucien glanced out at the hall, but saw no one else around. It was risky being alone with her in the first place, but even more so at this hour. Making sure the door was firmly closed, he turned to see Feyre standing in the middle of the rug, staring at his rumpled bed.

“Did I wake you?” she asked softly.

His face flushed as he stepped closer and carefully guided her to the two stuffed chairs resting in front of the fire. “No. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Because of the storm?”

“Something like that,” he said quietly, then perched on the rolled arm of his chair as she sat on the edge of hers. As he crossed his arms, he asked, “So… what was it you were saying? About Tam?”

He waited for the familiar spell to tighten his throat, but it didn’t come. Still, he didn’t let himself get too excited as he waited for her to speak.

She twisted her fingers in her lap and kept her gaze averted as she replied, “I heard you and Tamlin talking earlier. In the dining room. A-about his stone heart. Then I remembered something you said a long time ago… You said the same thing.”

Lucien thought back to the first few days after her arrival, and remembered that he had managed to say something before Amarantha’s spell kicked in. He had known Feyre was listening in then, but he hadn’t this time, just as he hadn’t realized she was standing outside the study door. She was learning. “What else did you hear?”

The warm firelight gave her cheeks a rosy glow, or perhaps she was blushing as she replied, “That he’s cursed, and…”

Lucien’s heart pounded as he leaned forward. “…And?”

“He can’t love me,” she murmured, then lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Not like you can.”

Time seemed to slow down as Lucien straightened up to stare at her. “Feyre…” he breathed, uncrossing his arms.

She rose to her feet and stepped closer. Her voice sounded as breathy as his as she whispered, “I heard you. You told Tamlin, and you said… you said there’s something there.” She reached out and touched the space above his heart.

He had no doubt she could feel it beating rapidly beneath her palm. It was difficult to think of anything but the warmth of her hand through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Am I wrong?” she whispered, looking into his eyes.

“No,” he whispered in turn.

He’d never noticed, but her eyelashes were the same color as her hair, long and golden in the firelight. Those eyelashes fluttered closed as she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against his mouth. Beneath the scent of lilac soap was the sharp tang of paint, but she tasted like raspberry wine.

Her breath was warm against his parted lips as she pulled away, but she didn’t go far. He opened his eyes—he didn’t remember closing them—to see her eyes shining as she watched his reaction.

“Did you feel anything?” she asked breathlessly. Her hand was still pressed against his heart.

Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t lie. Not anymore. “Yes,” he murmured, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her back.

Chapter Text

The drumming of the rain outside the windows was nothing like the drums on Fire Night, and the crackle of the hearth behind them was but a candle to the bonfires in the hills. Yet here they were again, mouths moving together and hands tugging at unbound hair and loose clothing, as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed.

Lucien wasn’t pulling away this time. Feyre’s robe was already at her feet, and at the rate he was sliding the lace hem up and over her hips, her nightgown would soon follow. She wasn’t wearing anything else.

He must have noticed this as well, for as his hands found nothing at her waist but smooth skin, he pulled his mouth free to kiss her neck.

Her hands flattened against the hot skin of his back beneath his shirt, then she let out a shuddering gasp as his teeth nipped her sensitive skin, and her eyes drifted closed. “I want you,” she whispered, curling her fingertips into his skin.

His lips closed over the love bite, then he gave it a gentle lick before slowly kissing his way up her neck. “The Cauldron knows I want this,” he murmured. His breath was hot against the moist imprints on her skin. “But are you sure you want me?” His hands were still beneath her nightgown, his thumbs resting at the curve of her hips as he waited for her answer.

With nothing between them but lace and linen, she could feel him growing hard against her. If she said no, he would let her go. She knew he would. Breathing heavily, she half-opened her eyes to meet his mismatched gaze. One warm brown eye was the color of mahogany, and the other was intricate, metallic gold. The firelight shone on his messy auburn hair, glinting off the carved whorls of his bronze fox mask, and illuminating the scar that gashed his otherwise smooth skin. Heart pounding, she leaned in to brush her lips against that brutal scar, then whispered, “I’m sure.”

His sigh was soft and hot near her ear. As he turned his head to meet her mouth, the bronze mask was surprisingly cool against her skin as it brushed against her nose, but his lips were warm as they captured hers. He parted only long enough to say, “I want you, too.”

Her nightgown slipped back into place, but only long enough for Lucien’s shirt to join her robe on the floor. The first and only time she had seen him shirtless was an accident, but she had never forgotten it. He was more muscular than his slender physique would imply. She had just enough time to note the fine trail of dark auburn hair on his lower abdomen before his hands slipped beneath her lace hem again. Instead of pulling her nightgown off, though, he cradled the backs of her thighs and hefted her against him.

The firm heat of him leeched through the thin silk of her nightgown, pressing against her breasts and pooling between her thighs. Though it felt completely natural to lock her ankles around his slim waist, and to slip her hands around his neck and curl her fingers into his smooth hair, she did not quite feel in control of herself. There was a certain vulnerability about it that she was not used to, letting herself be carried to bed. His bed.

How long had it been? As Lucien laid her on the feather mattress, she remembered that there had been old horse blankets under her back the last time. She remembered it was cold enough in that old barn that she could see her shallow breaths misting the air as Isaac pounded into her, panting hard against her neck. And after he had poured his release into her, filling her and yet leaving her somehow empty, he had reached for his trousers without another word. And when she had asked if she could see him the next day, since winter was coming on and they wouldn’t have many more opportunities like this, he said he couldn’t. He was getting engaged to someone else. But the day after that he could, if she still wanted to, and if it hadn’t snowed yet.

“Feyre,” Lucien murmured above her. “What’s wrong?”

She blinked suddenly and let out a shaky breath. “Nothing. I’m just… just nervous.”

His hand moved from her bare thigh to the bed, ready to push himself away if she asked him to. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this—”

She shook her head and tightened her hold on him. “No. I want this. I want you. It’s just been a while, that’s all.”

He stared hard at her, then let out a heavy sigh as his head fell forward, dropping strands of auburn hair over his masked face. With her hand still at his neck, he turned his head and brushed a kiss against the inside of her wrist.

“No,” he murmured, then pulled away to sit on the mattress beside her. Running a hand over the lower half of his face, he said, “You’re still the High Lord’s consort. I can’t do this.”

Her chest tightened, and she quickly rolled onto her side and lifted herself up on one elbow as she reached for his arm. With the lace strap of her nightgown slipping off her shoulder and the distance between their warm bodies growing, it was like Fire Night all over again. “No, Lucien, please. I’m not his consort.”

Lucien cocked his head at her. “Does Tam know that?”

She swallowed and let her grip on him loosen. “Not yet.”

He huffed a laugh and shook his head, then pulled away to rise from the other side of the bed. She slumped against the mattress as she watched him circle the bed, covering his face with his hands and curling his fingers against the mask’s immovable edge. “Damn it.”

With a sinking heart, she dropped her gaze to the rumpled sheets and tried to brush them smooth. “I was going to tell him tonight… but I couldn’t.”

Lucien dropped his hands and turned to lean against the carved bedpost at the foot of the bed. “Why couldn’t you?”

As if on cue, thunder rattled the windows, then they both let out nervous chuckles.

Feyre wet her lips, then asked, “Can I stay here tonight?”

He grimaced and slumped against the bedpost. “Feyre…”

“I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

A rueful smile touched his lips. “Liar.”

Though it made her smile, tears blurred her vision, and she turned her face against the mattress, trying not to cry.

A moment later, a warm hand touched her waist before the mattress dipped and he sat next to her. “Hey,” he said gently, but she only buried her face further into the sheets that smelled of autumn spices and heartbreak. “It’s not that I don’t want you to…” he trailed off, and his hand moved to gently brush aside a lock of loose hair from her neck.

When she continued to hide her face from him, his warmth came closer as he leaned in and pressed his lips against her bare shoulder. “But not tonight.”

She lifted her head at that and looked up at him over her shoulder. “Tomorrow night?”

He smiled sadly, then reached out and brushed away a stray tear from her flushed cheek with his thumb. “We’ll see.”

She leaned into his warm palm and sighed, her body heavy with disappointment. “All right.”

They didn’t speak again until she had stepped into the dim corridor, her robe once again wrapped tightly and knotted closed over her silk-and-lace nightgown. Folding her arms across her middle, she turned to face him one last time.

Firelight limned his bare torso as he rested a hand on the doorframe near her head, as if reaching out to touch her, but he stopped himself.

She let out a tight sigh and rubbed her arms, wishing he would touch her anyway. “Walk me back to my room?” she asked hopefully, nodding in that direction, but she could already guess his answer.

“Not tonight,” he said, shaking his head, then he smiled a wincing smile. “I can hardly walk upright as it is.”

She chuckled, her face warming as she dared a quick glance downward. “I would apologize,” she teased, “but I’m not that sorry.”

“I am,” he muttered, tapping his fist against the doorframe.

Her smile faded. “Are you sorry you kissed me?” she asked, though she dreaded his reply.

His throat bobbed. “No. It’s… hard to explain.”

She hugged herself tighter and shrugged. “Could you try?”

After a painfully long pause, he bent his head and pressed his mouth to hers in answer. As her eyes closed, she found that she had already forgotten the question. His teeth found her lower lip and lingered there as he gently sucked on it, drawing from her a soft, pleasured moan. Before she could think to wrap her arms around him and turn that kiss into a dozen more just like it, he released her lip with a reluctant sigh and rested his masked forehead against hers.

“I’m sorry that we couldn’t meet under better circumstances,” he said softly, his breath warm against her mouth.

Cheeks flushed and heart quivering, she could do little more than sigh as he pulled away. A High Fae and a human. A pairing like that was difficult enough without the blight, but they never would have met if she hadn’t shot his friend. How he had ever forgiven her for that was a mystery. It didn’t help matters that she was being courted by another one of his friends, one he had sworn to serve as emissary to the entire Spring Court.

As hard as it was to leave this doorway, she had to. If there was ever going to be another chance to wake up beside him, there couldn’t be anything left between them. There was nothing she could do about Andras, but there was something she could do about Tamlin. And she would, first thing in the morning.

Opening her eyes, she gave Lucien a soft, sad smile. “I’m sorry, too.”

He nodded, apparently relieved she understood. “Do you want a candle for the way back?” he offered.

She shook her head. “I know the way,” she said, managing to step back from the inviting warmth of his bedroom into the cool corridor. “Good night, Lucien.”

With his hand still resting on the doorframe, he waved his fingers and smiled tightly. “Good night, Feyre. Until tomorrow.”

***

Though the days were growing longer as Summer Solstice approached, that night felt like the longest night of the year. Lucien didn’t remember sleeping, because whether dreaming or awake, his thoughts were filled with Feyre. With the taste of her in his mouth and the scent of her in his bed, it was difficult to think of anything else. The drumming of the rain against the windows was worse than Fire Night, because unlike the Rite, there was no relief to be found except what he could do with his own hands. Yet even afterwards, he could not stop imagining her hands around him, or her legs, or the rise and fall of her breasts under a thin layer of silk…

It was a very, very long night.

The storm must have cleared up in the early hours of the morning, for when he finally lifted his head from the pillow, the sun was rising in a clear sky. After taking a cold bath and dressing for another round of border patrol, he found himself in a surprisingly good mood. He was… hopeful. Though Feyre had wanted to spend the night with him instead of Tamlin, she was learning more about the curse every day. Perhaps she’d even figure out a way to break it without needing to fall in love with Tamlin.

As he buckled his sword around his waist, he smiled to himself and shook his head. It was a fool’s dream, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a pleasant one.

Those good feelings dissipated the moment he walked into the dining room. He had expected broken windows, but he hadn’t expected to see so many people.

The dining room table was whole again, restored to its full length. The vines shielding the broken windows from the rain had been parted to allow sunshine to stream through, and the breeze blowing in was cool and crisp. Platters of food covered one half of the table, with Tamlin and several of his men gathered at the far end, bent over something and speaking in low voices. They hadn’t met like this since drawing lots for who would be sent across the Wall, and that unlucky soul had been Andras.

As Lucien chose a large red apple from a crystal bowl full of fresh fruit, he caught the words: ‘villagers’, ‘army’, and ‘Amarantha’. Swallowing hard, he turned the apple over in one hand and approached the nearest sentry.

“Hey, Hart,” he said, catching the dark-haired sentry’s attention. From this angle, Lucien could see a large map of the Spring Lands spread out across the table. Nodding at it, he asked, “What’s going on?”

With cool blue eyes behind a pewter wolf mask, Hart looked him over, then said stiffly, “New assignments.”

Relieved that it wasn’t something more serious, Lucien lifted the apple for a bite and asked, “Do you know if I’m patrolling the Wall again?”

To his surprise, Hart snorted and glanced away. “Not unless you plan on jumping over it.”

Pausing mid-chew, Lucien frowned. “Excuse me?”

Hart didn’t reply, but before Lucien could press him for a better answer, he noticed that the conversation around the table had ceased. All eyes were on him, and in that moment, he truly felt like a fox surrounded by wolves.

He winced as he swallowed. “Did something happen?” he asked no one in particular.

“You tell me,” Tamlin said from the head of the table.

With his hands braced against the table, the High Lord looked up from the map and stared hard at his emissary. His hair was tied back, and he wore a simple green tunic with his baldric. It didn’t have knives in it this time, but a hint of claws glinted at his fingertips.

Lucien wet his lips. “I don’t know… I just got here.”

Tamlin breathed out loudly through his nose, his mouth pinched and his jaw tight, then he pushed himself away from the table and straightened. Addressing the other sentries, he said, “You have your assignments. You’re dismissed.”

Since Lucien didn’t know what his assignment was, he stayed put. As the others filed past him, he distinctly heard the words: ‘fucking bastard’ and ‘prick’ tossed his way. His teeth clenched and his chest tightened. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called those things, but it was usually after he beat them at a round of cards. Since when had the Spring Court turned so cold?

 It wasn’t until he and Tamlin were alone in the large dining room that he spoke up. “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?”

“Certainly,” Tamlin said coolly. “Right after you pull your knife out of my back.”

Lucien’s head jerked back in surprise. “What?”

Tamlin snarled and knocked a jar of ink and quill to the floor, and Lucien flinched as it shattered. “Damn it, Lucien. This isn’t the Autumn Court!”

“I know that—” Lucien tried to say, but Tamlin raged on.

“I would expect this behavior from your brothers, but not from you.”

“What are you—”  

“You slept with Feyre last night.”

Lucien’s eyes widened as his stomach clenched. “No, I didn’t—”

“Then tell me why a servant saw you, standing in the corridor, wearing nothing but pants, kissing Feyre in her nightgown, after she left your room last night.”

Lucien’s mind raced as he tried to recall anything else he might have seen or heard before he sent Feyre away, but it was difficult to remember. He was nearly dizzy from shock. “Which servant?”

Tamlin sneered. “Now that there are witnesses, you don’t deny it?”

Lucien swallowed hard and tossed the bitten apple onto the table. As it rolled away, he ran both hands over his hair. “I don’t deny what they saw… but I did not sleep with her.”

Tamlin scoffed at him. “Does that mean you fucked her on the floor or against the wall?”

Lucien let out a beastly snarl of his own. “That is enough.” Stomping closer, he snapped, “I am not my brothers. I could have had Feyre any way I wanted, but I didn’t. She came to me last night, not you, because of what happened yesterday.”

Tamlin’s eyes narrowed, but before he could ask, Lucien decided to spell it out for him, so that there would be no question in his mind.

“She heard us talking after Rhysand left. She knows you don’t want her. You just want your curse broken.”

Tamlin growled. “They are the same thing—”

“They are not the same thing!” Lucien declared, jabbing his finger at Tamlin’s broad chest. “And you know it.”

If he had done that to any of the other six High Lords, Lucien would have lost that finger, and his position, and no one would have batted an eye. But Tamlin only stared at him, breathing hard.

 “Even if Amarantha hadn’t turned your heart to stone, she’s still your mate,” Lucien said firmly. “Feyre stood behind me while you threatened to rip Rhysand’s fucking head off.” He stepped back and spread his arms wide as he gestured to the room. “It’s no wonder that you broke everything you could get your hands on. You can’t stand Amarantha, but you can’t stand Rhysand having her, either.”

Tamlin averted his gaze with a growl, then his shoulders slumped as he looked around the dining room, but he said nothing.

Lucien let his hands drop to his sides. “It’s not really the curse you want to be freed from…” he realized aloud. “It’s the mating bond.”

Tamlin looked at him then with a pained look in his eyes. “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

They stared at each other for several moments without speaking. Having never had a mate, Lucien didn’t know what it felt like, but he knew that’s how Tamlin felt.

Lucien sighed. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “Feyre was wearing a robe over her nightgown. I did kiss her. I wanted her so badly I couldn’t sleep…” He shook his head and looked away. “But she’s still your consort, so I sent her back to her room.”

“She’s not just my consort,” Tamlin said in a low voice. “She’s the only one who can break this curse… And, knowing all of that, you still kissed her.”

“Yes. I did,” Lucien murmured, then forced himself to face his High Lord. “You’re not going to forgive me so easily this time, are you Tam.”

“No.” Tamlin turned away and prowled back to the map still spread across the table. “I can’t.”

“Let me try to make it right,” Lucien offered. When Tamlin did not immediately disagree, he stepped closer to the table. Gesturing to the map, he said, “We can gather volunteers from the Spring villages. Fight back—”

Tamlin growled, teeth bared. “What do you think I’m doing?”

Lucien straightened. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have gone out with the others. Tam… I’m your emissary—”

“And raise everyone else’s suspicions?” Tamlin asked, looking pointedly at Lucien’s red hair. He smoothed out the map and muttered, “You’re not exactly from the Spring Court, you know.”

Lucien stared at him. “That never mattered before.”

“I can’t afford to take chances now,” Tamlin replied, tracing the dark line marking the Wall. “Not again.”

Lucien’s gaze wandered across the map, then he gripped his sword and squared his shoulders. “Send me to Autumn.”

That got Tamlin’s attention, and he lifted his head. “What?”

“Send me to Winter, too. Hell, send me to the Day Court. I have contacts in every court right now except Night. We can’t beat Amarantha with just a handful of volunteers from the Spring villages. We just can’t.”

“And whose fault is that.”

Lucien frowned at his dismissiveness. “Amarantha’s. Or have you forgotten that we’re supposed to be friends?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Tamlin said coolly, “but I think you have.”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” Lucien snapped, losing his patience. “If we weren’t friends, I would have taken Feyre for myself a long time ago.”

Tamlin growled. “I knew it.”

Lucien growled back. “You knew it because I admitted it.”

“You only admitted it after I saw you two together. Don’t pretend you’re being noble, giving yourself blue balls for my sake.”

Lucien was getting tired of arguing. “Do you think I like wearing this damned mask?” he snarled, pointing at his face. “Do you think I enjoy being stared at? By the Cauldron, Tam…” He shook his head. “For the first time in forty-nine years, someone actually wants to be with me in spite of my scar, not because of it. It kills me to keep pushing her away because I know you need her to break this damned curse.”

Tamlin looked tired, too. “What do you want me to say? ‘Thank you for keeping it in your pants’?”

Lucien scowled and looked away. He didn’t know what he wanted to hear, but it wasn’t that.

Tamlin sighed. “I don’t want to fight about this anymore. You’re dismissed.”

Lucien watched as Tamlin began folding up the map. “What about the other Courts?”

“I’ll think about it,” Tamlin said wearily. “Until then, you’re restricted to the grounds.”

Lucien balked. “You really expect me to sit around here and do nothing?”

“That is exactly what I expect you to do. Nothing,” Tamlin said with a trace of the beast in his voice. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised Feyre that the dining room would be fixed today. She is still my consort, after all.”

Lucien bit his tongue as he remembered something Feyre had said in bed last night: I’m not his consort. Not anymore.

Not wanting to be responsible for more broken furniture, Lucien managed a stiff but still respectful bow. He left Tamlin slowly circling the table, turning one pile of kindling back into the chair it had once been, then another. Using so much magic in one morning was going to drain the High Lord’s reserves, and that was going to put him a worse mood than he was already in.

There was nothing that Lucien could do about it, though, so he walked through the dining room doors without another word.  

***

Feyre met Lucien at the bottom of the stairs as she was coming down from breakfast. She was surprised to see him so early, since he had lately chosen to spend his mornings on patrol.

“Hey,” she said with a shy smile, pausing on the last step and letting her hand linger on the scrolled wood at the end of the railing.

He seemed preoccupied, but he gave her a soft smile in return, meeting her gaze as she stood at his eye level. “Hey.”

Sleep had not come easily, but when it had, she had dreamed about him. She wondered if he had dreamed about her, too, or if he noticed that she was wearing the ruby belt and dagger today. She had even chosen a ruby tunic to match instead of the emerald one that Alis had selected.

“So…” she began slowly, trying to think of something suitable for polite conversation. “No border patrol today?”

“No,” he said quietly, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.

She looked him over. He wore a simple, brownish-gold tunic that flattered his autumn complexion. His auburn hair was swept away from his cheeks and forehead, but it was otherwise unbound at his shoulders. Her cheeks warmed as she remembered running her fingers through it the night before, then she remembered the sensation of his mouth against hers, and she swallowed hard. It was tempting to ask him for another kiss now, alone as they were, but there was something she needed to do first.

“Where’s Tamlin?”

Lucien half-turned to look over his shoulder. “I don’t think now is a good time…”

She shrugged and teased gently, “I thought faeries had nothing but time.”

Lucien snorted softly as he turned back. His mouth was open to reply something witty, no doubt, then his gaze fell on the boots she held in her other hand. “Ah. So that’s how you’ve been sneaking up on us lately.”

She held them up with a smirk. “What can I say? You faeries have sharp hearing. I need every advantage I can get.”

Lucien’s smile stiffened. “Don’t try sneaking up on Tamlin today. He’s not in a good mood.”

Her good humor faltered as she lowered the boots to her side. “I won’t,” she promised, “but I still need to talk to him.”

Lucien winced. “Can it wait?”  

“I’d rather get it over with,” she said honestly.

His throat bobbed. “What are you going to tell him?”

She shifted on the bottom step, the boots growing heavy in her hand. “I think you know.”

“Shit.” Lucien ran his hand over his mouth as he looked away. “I’d offer to go with you, but I think I’d only make things worse.”

“I think you’re right,” she said softly, though she wished he would anyway. As she made to step down onto the checkered marble, he held up his hand.

“Wait. Wouldn’t you rather paint or something? At least give Tam a little time to cool off…”

She gave him a pointed look. “You’re my next project. I think it would be easier to paint you after I talk to Tamlin.”

Lucien blinked. “Me? You’re painting me?”

Her shy smile returned. “Don’t you remember? You’re the one who wouldn’t stop teasing me about it.”

He huffed a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck as a soft flush colored his cheeks. “I guess I forgot.”

She bit her lip and hesitated when he said nothing further. “Meet me in my painting room in half an hour?”

Lucien exhaled slowly and lowered his hand. “You really think you’ll be through with Tam that quickly?”

She shrugged. “What else is there to say? I can’t be his consort anymore.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” Lucien asked pointedly.

“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” she said.

Lucien didn’t disagree, but when she tried to step down the last stair again, he stopped her once more. “Wait,” he said in a low voice. “If you’re going to do this, at least wear your boots. There’s a lot of broken glass in there.”

“So, he’s in the dining room?” she asked, and Lucien nodded. She took a deep breath, imagining the shattered glass on the floor after Rhysand’s visit. “All right,” she agreed, then set her boots down on the step as she sat beside them to slip them on.

Despite his reluctance to accompany her into the dining room, Lucien stood beside her and waited until her boots were snugly tugged into place. He even offered his hand to help her stand, which she gladly accepted.

When she had straightened, he released his hold on her slowly; his thumb brushed over her knuckles before he dropped her hand.

She looked up at him, standing closer than two people who weren’t yet courting should be standing, but she didn’t move away. Not yet. “Thank you,” she murmured, meeting his brown-and-gold gaze.

“You’re welcome,” he breathed. He didn’t move away either.

She wet her lips. “Half an hour, then.”

“Half an hour,” he repeated softly. As she began to step away, he leaned in as though he wanted to follow. “Feyre.”

Her heart fluttered up to her throat as she paused. “Yes?”

He wet his lips as well. “Whatever you say to Tam… Make sure you mean it with—with your whole heart.”

That wasn’t what she had expected him to say, but she nodded. “I will.”

“One more thing. He may have a heart of stone, but he’s not heartless. Remember that.”

After overhearing Tamlin declare that he didn’t feel anything for her, she was inclined to disagree, but she nodded again. “All right,” she promised.

She could feel Lucien’s eyes on her back as she left him standing by the stairs. She wished that she could feel his hand in hers so that she wouldn’t feel so nervous confronting Tamlin alone. But she knew that Tamlin might think that Lucien was influencing her. This was her decision to make, and she had to make it without him. She stopped outside the dining room doors and squared her shoulders, then took a deep breath. She could do this.

She lifted her hand and knocked quickly so that her hand wouldn’t shake. “Tamlin?” she called out, then pushed open one of the doors.  

Sunlight glittered on bits of broken glass scattered around the floor, but most of the glass had been swept into piles, one beneath each shattered window. A cool breeze stirred her hair as she walked into the room, made fresh by the long rain during the night. The table had been returned to its original length, and the chairs returned to their usual places. Tamlin had been sitting in his chair at the other end of the table and slowly rubbing his neck when she walked in, but he quickly rose to his feet.

“Feyre,” he said, clearly surprised to see her.

She managed a slight smile. “Good morning.”

He looked more like the warrior she had seen during her first few days at the Spring Court instead of the High Lord she had come to know… Or at least she thought she knew. With his hair tied back and his baldric slung across a simple dark green tunic, he looked ready to go hunting for another Bogge or more naga.

“I didn’t expect to see you until dinner,” he said, then rubbed his neck with one hand as he gestured to the broken windows with the other. “The dining room isn’t ready yet.”

She shook her head. “I understand. I just…” She forced herself to walk closer, trying not to quiver. “I need to talk to you.”

Tamlin frowned. “Is this about Lucien?”

She paused in front of him, and her cheeks flushed as she wondered if he knew about their near tryst the night before. “W-what about Lucien?”

Tamlin sat on the edge of the dining table and crossed his arms. “Never mind. What is it you came to say?”

Suddenly it didn’t seem so simple to say: I don’t want to pretend to be your consort anymore. She dropped her gaze to her hands and played with her fingers. “I… I overheard what you said about me yesterday,” she said softly.

“I said a lot of things yesterday,” he replied, “but that doesn’t mean that everything I said is true. I was angry… and when I’m angry, I say things I don’t mean.”

She folded her hands in front of her and lifted her head. “Did you mean it when you said you don’t feel anything for me?”

“Feyre—”

She pressed on. “Is it true your heart is made of stone?”

He grimaced as he rubbed at his chest. “Yes.”

“Why did you really ask to court me, then?” she asked, frowning. “And don’t say it’s because you wanted to see the world through my eyes. Fascination isn’t enough for me anymore.”

His mouth grew pinched as he glanced away, and he touched his throat with his fingertips.

Angry tears stung her eyes at his silence. “Are you just using me to get back at Amarantha?”

He frowned at her. “It’s not that simple.”

“You are, though, aren’t you,” she declared.

He was quiet a long moment. “You don’t know what it’s like… being mated to someone like that.”

She swallowed hard. “No, I don’t. I’m just a human… but that doesn’t make me your pawn.”

He slowly shook his head. “Feyre…”

Her lips began to quiver against her will. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

He stared at her. “What are you saying?”

She sniffed back the tears that threatened to fall. “I don’t want to be your consort anymore. Not even to pretend.”

He quickly pushed himself away from the table. “Feyre, wait—”

“You can have the paints back,” she continued, blinking rapidly, “but please let my family keep what you gave them. They can’t lose everything again.” She swiped a tear from her cheek as she remembered their last goodbye, then looked down at her feet. “They don’t have me to look out for them anymore.”

 Tamlin’s boots nearly touched hers as he came to stand before her. “I would never do that to them, or to you,” he said earnestly, then lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “I care about you, Feyre.”

He may have a heart of stone, but he’s not heartless, Lucien had said.

Feyre’s eyelashes felt wet, but she no longer felt like crying. “Thank you,” she said quietly, then let out a tight sigh. “For not punishing them, I mean.”

A soft smile touched his lips. “Of course,” he said gently. “Anything for you.”

Despite everything she had learned the day before, her heart still twinged to hear such tender words. When she said nothing, his lips parted as if to speak, but instead he bent his head and leaned in. She quickly turned her face so that his lips grazed her cheek instead.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, keeping her face averted, “but I meant it when I said I couldn’t be your consort.”

He straightened, then exhaled loudly through his nose and dropped his hand from her chin. “Why not?” he asked quietly.

She closed her eyes and gathered her courage. “Because I can’t love someone who can’t love me back,” she said, then lifted her head to see his eyes widen.

“Do you love me?”

She sighed, then admitted, “I was starting to, then I found out you don’t feel the same way. You can’t.”

“I could…” he said quickly, then he cleared his throat. “One day. My heart wasn’t always made of stone, you know.”

She shook her head. “Who knows when that will change? A week? A year? A century? I can’t wait that long. I’m still human, after all.”

His shoulders sagged as he sighed. “You can’t wait one more month? Or even two?” he asked sadly. “You can’t give me one more chance to earn your love?”

Her heart thumped. Whatever you say to Tam, Lucien had said, make sure you mean it with your whole heart.

“No,” she admitted. “I can’t.”

Tamlin winced and fell back a step as though she’d physically pushed him away.  

“I’m sorry,” she said fervently, trying to smooth things over. “But even if you could love me back, it wouldn’t change the fact that you still have a mate.”  

His lips became a thin line. “Is that the only reason?”

Her face warmed at his accusatory tone, and she wondered if he had guessed the other reason. “It’s the only reason that matters,” she insisted.

His eyes were hard as he considered her answer, then he turned away with a low growl.

She rubbed her arms as she observed the tightness in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled into his palms. She didn’t see claws, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there, pricking his skin. After all, he had waited until she and Lucien had left the room before he started breaking furniture, and that was because of Rhysand. She hoped that she wouldn’t be the cause of another stormy outburst…

“Do you love him?”

Her lips parted in surprise. “What?”

“Do you love him?” Tamlin repeated emphatically, half-turning his head.

There was no use in pretending she didn’t know who he meant. She didn’t even know the names of any other males in the Spring Court. She wet her lips and admitted, “I don’t know yet. He hasn’t let me get close enough to try.”

“What about last night?”

Her face flushed. There was no use in denying that, either. “We kissed… but that was it.” Though she wished it had gone further than that, she was suddenly grateful it hadn’t.

“That was it?” Tamlin didn’t sound convinced.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Yes. He’s the one who insisted we stop. I didn’t want to,” she admitted. “I’ve wanted to be with him ever since Fire Night. When you asked to court me, I… I should have said no.”

Tamlin still faced the other way. “Were you trying to make him jealous?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know… Maybe.”

Tamlin finally turned around, but it was with a strangely stiff smile. “So, you used me.”

A wry smile touched one corner of her mouth. “It doesn’t feel very good, does it?”

His head jerked back, then he snorted softly. “No. It doesn’t.”

 They stared at each other a long moment before she shrugged and asked him, “So, what happens now?”

“We’re not courting anymore. You tell me.”

She let out a deep sigh. “I’d like to go paint, but I don’t want to leave you like this…”

He gestured to the room. “Do you think I’m going to break everything in sight—everything that I just fixed—once you leave here?”

She dropped her hands and said, “You tell me.”

He exhaled loudly, then closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his masked nose. “Go paint, Feyre,” he said quietly.

Though she was grateful that he was letting her go, she couldn’t help but ask, “What about you?”

He dropped his hand and gave her a grim smile. “I’m going to have my hands full for a while. It seems I need to find another way to… to piss off my mate, shall we say.”

Feyre tried to stifle a smile. “So, you don’t hate me?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t hate you,” he said quietly.

Feyre gently bit her lip. It was tempting to kiss his cheek, but she knew that would only confuse him and make him feel worse. Instead, she said, “I hope your curse gets broken one day.”

He sighed and turned away. “So do I.”

Before Feyre walked out of the dining room, she looked back to see that Tamlin had returned to his place at the head of the table, unfolding what appeared to be a map. He did not look up to watch her go.

***

Meet me in my painting room in half an hour.

Lucien’s thumb tapped against his arm as he stood before the window with his arms crossed, waiting in Feyre’s painting room as she had asked. He stared at the peaceful scenery while he listened intently for the sound of shattering glass or smashed furniture, but it remained quiet. Minutes passed, but there was no sign of Feyre.

He let out an impatient sigh. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Perhaps Tamlin had convinced her to give him another chance. It wasn’t Solstice yet. If there was any doubt in Feyre’s heart, she should stay with the High Lord instead of him. Besides. Just because she said she didn’t want to be the High Lord’s consort didn’t mean that she wanted to be an emissary’s lover, either.

Lucien shook his head. He shouldn’t have kissed her back. Not on Fire Night, and not last night. He shouldn’t have kissed her in the doorway, either. That’s what had gotten him into this mess. Someone had seen them together in the corridor, but he didn’t know who, because the only thing he had heard was the sweet little moan Feyre had made against his mouth…

He stifled a groan and turned from the window. He should leave. He shouldn’t have come… His gaze fell upon her latest painting, resting on the easel, and he stepped closer to examine it.

Though it wasn’t quite finished, he knew what it was: a mortal forest filled with leafy green trees turning red in the sunlight. His shoulders relaxed, and a smile touched his lips. It reminded him of home.

“You weren’t supposed to peek.”

He glanced up to see Feyre standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and pretending to frown. He smirked. “You did say to wait in your painting room, so here I am.”

“Here you are,” she said, and her pretend frown turned into a shy smile as she uncrossed her arms and walked in.

As she came closer, his heart thumped nervously. “How did it go? With Tam, I mean,” he asked, trying not to sound too anxious. “Did you talk to him?”

“We talked,” she said, then reached out and traced the edge of the standing easel. “And then he let me go.”

Lucien’s eyebrows raised behind his mask. “He let you go? What does that mean?”

Feyre bit her full lower lip. When she looked up again, her blue-gray eyes were shining, and her freckled cheeks were slightly flushed. “It means I’m not his consort anymore.”

Lucien looked her over and swallowed. Red was a very good color on her. “How… how did he take the news?”

“Better than I expected. He said he doesn’t hate me.”

Lucien’s shoulders sagged with relief, but even so, the thought saddened him. He wished he could say the same.

“Lucien?”

“Hmm?”

She wet her lips. “Now that I’m—now that he’s not courting me anymore…”

His heart began to beat faster. “Yes?”

“Will you… I mean, can I stay with you tonight?”

He blinked in surprise. “Oh… Is that all?”

Her cheeks reddened further. “Is what all?”

He let out a nervous chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought you were going to ask me to court you.”

It was her turn to look surprised. “Do you want to court me?”

“Actually, I’d like to kiss you,” he admitted, feeling like a shy young Fae in his early twenties instead of the experienced High Fae he truly was. “And I want to do it… you know, the right way.”

To his relief, she began to grin. “I didn’t know there a wrong way,” she teased.

“The wrong way is hoping we don’t get caught,” he said in a more serious tone. “As for the right way…” He gathered her slender hands in his and brushed his thumbs across her knuckles. “We don’t care if we get caught.”

She let out a soft, quivering sigh, then licked her lips. “What… what kind of way was it last night? Because I want that one.”

He grinned. “The difference is very subtle,” he teased, gently pulling on her hands to bring her even closer. Even through their tunics, he could feel her pressing her breasts against him as she lifted her chin to look into his eyes.

She smiled radiantly, and her gaze fell to his lips. “Show me.”

As he lowered his head and slid his fingers between hers, he knew there was no turning back now, even if he wanted to. As his lips parted hers, he knew nothing would ever be the same again. He had many regrets in his long life, but as their kiss deepened, he vowed that loving Feyre would not be one of them.

Chapter Text

Parchment crinkled beneath Feyre’s thighs, bringing her back to reality. She and Lucien had somehow found their way from her easel to the long table, one kiss following the next as he seated her on the table and pressed himself against her. Between shared breaths and quickening kisses, her fingers had just found the second button on his collar when she heard the crinkle and opened her eyes. Flushed and breathless, she pulled away from his warm mouth to find that she was sitting on her drawings. She chuckled. “Whoops.”

Lucien’s hands paused from sliding up her thighs beneath her tunic to come to rest on her knees. He brushed a kiss against her hair and chuckled, too. “Is that Starvation Point you’re sitting on?”

She grinned, then released her hold on his collar to shift her weight and pull the crumpled drawing from beneath her. “It used to be,” she quipped, turning it over. The parchment was more wrinkled than smudged, but she didn’t mind that much. Nothing would ever erase the memories of that day. As she set it aside, she remarked, “Now it’s Witchberry Waterfall.”

When she met his gaze, his head was tilted, though he still smiled. “What happened to Rainbow Falls?”

She shrugged at her drawing. “Well, there’s not much of a rainbow anymore…” she teased, then reached up and traced his open collar. “You remembered.”

He chuckled, then reached out and brushed a stray hair from her cheek. “That’s one day I’ll never forget.”

Though his skin was warm, his touch still made her shiver. She let out a soft breath, and her fingers paused at his unbuttoned collar and touched the fine linen shirt beneath. “Is that when you knew?”

“Knew what?”

She slipped her hands inside his collar to stroke his neck. “That you wanted me, too?”

He didn’t answer at first. His gaze swept over her face and her hair, then he gently reached for the braid over her shoulder. The fine hairs at her neck tickled as he pulled the braid over her shoulder and slowly ran his fingers down its length. “I think I let myself wonder what it would be like,” he mused, “to be with you after Starlight Pond.”

Her eyebrows rose at the memory. “That long ago?”

He nodded. “I didn’t think I had a chance, of course,” he said with a shrug, “not after you saw Tam shirtless, but…” He smiled at her smirk, then rubbed the curl at the end of her braid as he said softly, “That’s when I first let myself look. Really look.”

Her smirk softened to a smile. “And what did you see?”

His gaze grew distant for a moment. “Burnished gold.”

Her back straightened. “Isn’t that what you said to me the first night I came here?”

“I’m very observant,” he said in a serious tone, then used the end of the braid to tickle her nose. She shrieked a laugh and jerked back, but he kept his other hand on her knee and kept her close. “Besides,” he said, grinning, “you didn’t have freckles then. You do now, and they’re gold, too.”

As she brushed a stray tendril of hair away from her cheek, she said, “So, you don’t mind my freckles?”

He pecked a kiss on her nose. “I love your freckles.”

Warmth spread through her chest and her cheeks, and she couldn’t help the pleased smile that spread across her face. “It was your hands, for me.”

“My hands?”

“Mm-hmm.” She rescued her braid from his fingers and captured his hand. Brushing her thumbs across his knuckles, she said, “You were taking leaves out of my hair after the Attor—No… even before that. It was when you came for me after the naga. You put your hands on my neck, and I noticed how warm you were.”

Lucien sighed, though he smiled. “I nearly got you killed,” he said, shaking his head. “If anything, you should hate me for getting you into so many scrapes.”

 “But I don’t.” She brought his hand to her mouth and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Because you got me out of them.”

“It was the least I could do,” he said with a soft smirk. “And you got a priceless family heirloom out of it, besides.”

She glanced down at the dagger at her hip. “This is a family heirloom?” When he nodded, she let out an amazed chuckle. “Lucien…” She released his hand to reach out and cup his neck. Stroking his jaw with her thumbs, she said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He smiled and covered her hands with his own. “I wanted to.”

Her vision blurred for a moment. Blinking rapidly, she asked, “Won’t you miss it?”

He turned his face to brush a kiss against her thumb. “How can I miss it when it’s right here?”

She gently pulled on his neck and brought her mouth to his in answer. As their hands began to roam and their kisses began to lead to more than just kissing, parchment crinkled again, and they broke apart with rueful chuckles.

He pressed his forehead to hers with a sigh. “Later,” he said, then brushed his lips against hers before pulling away.

Her lips tingled, and she absent-mindedly traced her lower lip as she watched him re-button his tunic.

“All right,” he said, straightening his belt. “I’ll leave you to your painting.”

As he turned to go, she called him back. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked, tilting her head with a bemused smile. “You’re my painting, remember? I still need to draw you.”

He turned around and chuckled. “Right. Of course,” he said, running a hand over his hair. “I forgot. I missed breakfast, so…”

She hopped off the table. “You mean you haven’t eaten yet?” When he shook his head, she smiled and reached for his hand. “I have an idea.”

***

Lucien felt like a fox robbing a henhouse. Though the bird-masked servants did their best, pretending to ignore him as they bustled around the kitchen, he could sense their wariness and disdain. Leaning against the doorway with a folded blanket under his arm, he met Alis’s glare as the maid helped Feyre fill a knapsack with enough food for a picnic for two.

“Where exactly did you say you were going?” Alis asked Feyre in a careful tone.

“I don’t know yet,” Feyre said simply, taking a couple apples from a large woven basket. “I just thought it would be nice to draw outside for a while after all the rain yesterday.”

“I see.” Alis’s mouth grew pinched as she added a small loaf of bread to the knapsack. “Well. If the master comes looking for you, I want to be able to tell him exactly where you are,” she said, looking at Lucien.

He narrowed his eyes at her but chose to say nothing. Alis wanted the curse broken as much as he did, but he was not to blame for Feyre’s change of heart. There was no magic in Prythian that could have done that, or the curse would have been broken long ago.

Feyre remarked, “I don’t see why he would want to know. We’re not courting anymore.”

The kitchen grew still as the servants turned to face her with large, incredulous eyes. Feyre glanced around in surprise, then Alis loudly cleared her throat. “As you were,” the maid said firmly.

The kitchen staff turned back to their work, but at a much slower—and quieter—pace. Lucien stifled a snort. Busybodies.

As the chopping and the stirring and the kneading continued, Alis gave Feyre a polite smile. “Not courting?” she remarked, carefully closing the flap of the knapsack. “When did this happen?”

“This morning,” Feyre said, reaching for the knapsack to sling it over her shoulder. “I told him I couldn’t be his consort anymore.”

Alis’s gaze flicked to Lucien, then back to Feyre. “Any particular reason?”

“He doesn’t love me,” Feyre said matter-of-factly, pulling her braid free from the strap. “I heard him say so.”

The faerie’s already large eyes grew larger. “But—but you—surely you’re not giving up on him so easily—”

“It’s not a matter of giving up,” Feyre insisted. “It’s a matter of letting go before one of us gets hurt. I know his heart is made of stone, so my heart would break before his does.”

Alis’s mouth became a thin line as she reached up and rubbed her throat. Lucien reached up and touched his own throat as it tightened. As much as he wanted Feyre for himself, if he could have told her directly about the curse on Tamlin’s stone heart, he would have.

“Besides,” Feyre added with a shrug. “I don’t think Tamlin is over his mate, yet. It’s better that I don’t come between them.”

Alis cleared her throat and folded her hands in front of her. “The mating bond is certainly a powerful instinct,” she said quietly, though Lucien was sure her admission was a reluctant one.

Feyre turned for the doorway. “I won’t be needing a lunch tray,” she said over her shoulder. “We’ll be back in time for dinner, though.”

“Indeed,” Alis said flatly, then glanced at him. “I don’t suppose Lucien could possibly leave you alone.”

Lucien frowned and pushed away from the doorframe, and the kitchen grew still. He could see the staff watching him out of the corners of their eyes, their hands hovering over their work as they listened intently for whatever he was going to say. At the end of the day, Lucien was not just an emissary; he was a son of the Autumn Court, and Tamlin’s second-in-command. Alis, though older than him, was still just a maid from the Summer Court.

Feyre came to stand beside him as he stared Alis down. Keeping his tone civil but firm, he said, “If you have something to say to me, Alis, then say it.”

All eyes turned to the birch-skinned faerie from the Summer Court. Alis broke eye contact with him to glance around the kitchen; her mouth grew pinched, and she remained silent.

“Very well,” he said coolly. Addressing the rest of them, he squared his shoulders and said, “I know that one of you saw me with Feyre last night—” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Feyre duck her head as she blushed. “—and I know you told Tam about it. I have no interest in finding out which one of you did it, because you were only doing what he ordered you to do. But know this: What you saw is all that happened, and what happens from now on is not the High Lord’s concern. Understood?”

Though the staff exchanged wide-eyed glances, they murmured their assent, even Alis.

Beside him, Feyre whispered, “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“I’m as much to blame as you,” he whispered back, then reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Come on,” he said gently, then announced in a louder tone, “We’re done here.”

As he led her from the kitchen, he could feel everyone’s eyes on their linked hands. There was no longer any doubt that he and Feyre had chosen to be together. Once they were out of sight, the kitchen erupted in a frenzy of gossip.

Let them talk, he thought, lifting his chin as they walked hand-in-hand toward the servants’ entrance. I’ve heard worse.

As the noise faded behind them, he heard Feyre draw a deep breath beside him, and he patiently waited for her to speak.

“I’m sorry I got you in trouble with Tamlin,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have gone to your room last night. I should have waited.”

Lucien sighed. “I wanted you to stay,” he admitted. “If I had let you, we might have gotten away with it.” He met her gaze and gave her a rueful smile. “Believe it or not, it’s better this way.”

She tilted her head at him. “How so?”

“Remember what I said about not caring if we get caught?”

A smile twitched on her full lips. “I remember.”

He smiled in answer and released her hand to reach for the door latch. Before he could pull the door open, though, Feyre touched his arm and made him pause.

Curling her fingers into his sleeve, she asked, “Is Tamlin going to punish you for being with me?”

“He already has,” Lucien admitted. “I’m restricted to the grounds until further notice.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “So, that’s why you didn’t go on border patrol today.”

“It’s just as well,” Lucien said, shrugging as he opened the door. “I’m sure Shadow could use a day off.”

He blinked against the bright sunshine as he helped Feyre down the low stone steps. Straw had been scattered across the soft, moist earth outside the servants’ entrance, and fat brown chickens were happily hunting for worms and other insects squirming in the mud. As he and Feyre carefully made their way through the muddy yard, Feyre remarked, “I’m glad it wasn’t worse, but I was hoping we could go for a ride later.”

“We still can, as long as we stay on the grounds,” he offered. “I could even show you how to ride bareback.”

Her giggle startled the chickens and scattered them, earning them glares from the young faeries tending the nearby vegetable garden.

Lucien led her toward firmer ground as she stifled more giggles with her other hand. “Have you been drinking faerie wine again?” he whispered loudly.

She shook her head, still keeping her mouth covered. With mirth dancing in her eyes, she replied in a muffled voice, “I thought you were teasing.” When he tilted his head, confused, she continued, “You know, bareback.”

He snorted as he realized what she meant. “When I said that we wouldn’t care if we got caught, that’s not what I meant,” he said lightly. “I meant learning how to ride Moonlight without a saddle.”

“Oh,” Feyre drawled, dropping her hand from her mouth. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“Because I didn’t know the lady had such a dirty mind,” he teased.

“I wasn’t raised to be a lady,” she declared. “That was Nesta and Elain.”

“And yet you were given horseback lessons and painting lessons,” he pointed out as they walked toward the blossoming apple orchards to the north of the manor. “What were they hoping to make you, if not a lady?”

“Less of a nuisance,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “As long as my father could afford lessons, I was kept out of the way.”

“Did that bother you?” he asked gently.

“Sometimes,” she said, “but after seeing what Nesta went through, I was grateful that I wouldn’t be responsible for upholding the family legacy.”

Lucien nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds familiar,” he murmured.

Her eyes grew wide as she met his gaze. “You, too?”

He gave her a wry smile. “I had six brothers,” he explained. “I saw what they went through at my father’s hand, and I didn’t want the same thing to happen to me. I managed to stay out of the way until…” He trailed off as he tried to dismiss those unpleasant memories.

Feyre wrapped her free hand around his elbow and brought him back to the present. “Tamlin told me a little bit about your past,” she said gently, “and about what happened before you came here. You don’t have to tell me.”

Lucien sighed. “In a way, I’m grateful you already know, but I would have preferred to tell you myself.”

“Would you, though?” When he cocked his head in silent inquiry, she continued, “You’ve been rather mysterious every time I asked you about your eye, or even about how old you are.”

He gave her a guilty smile. “I thought you should be more interested in learning about Tam. He’s the one who—” Lucien wheezed as Amarantha’s spell suddenly squeezed his throat.

Feyre gripped his elbow. “Are you all right?”

He winced and swallowed hard as he tried to come up with another explanation to get around the curse. “I’m fine,” he rasped. Before she could question him further, he cleared his throat, then continued, “What I meant is: Who wouldn’t want to be a High Lord’s bride?”

“Not me,” she said firmly. Though he knew she didn’t want to be Tamlin’s consort, her declaration still surprised him.

“I thought that was every girl’s dream, human or faerie.”

“Then you don’t know me very well,” she said with a wry smirk.

He smirked back. “That’s why we’re here.” He nodded to the sprawling apple orchard before them. Pink and white blossoms fell like snow upon the wild grasses beneath the gnarled trunks. “These apples won’t be ready to harvest for a few months yet, so we have the place to ourselves.”

“Oh,” she breathed, her hand loose in his as she marveled at the sight of the falling blossoms. He smiled as he watched her slowly drink everything in. The orchard was rather pretty. He was surprised Tamlin hadn’t shown it to her yet.

“Come on,” he said, gently pulling on her hand. “There’s more shade further in.”

The sounds of the manor grew muted behind them as they approached the heart of the orchard. As if she didn’t want to break the peaceful spell surrounding them, her voice was soft as she asked, “If these apples aren’t ripe yet, then where did the ones in the kitchen come from?”

“The Autumn Court,” he explained. “The Seasonal Courts trade crops, though not as much as we used to.”

“Because of the blight?”

Not wanting to risk triggering the spell again, he said simply, “That’s one reason.”

“What’s another reason?”

Considering his answer carefully, he said, “The Courts don’t like sharing very much. If you met my father, you’d understand.”

“Do you think I ever will?”

He grimaced at the thought. “I hope not.”

Feyre was quiet for a long moment. “You haven’t forgotten your promise, have you?”

“My promise?”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “About spiced cider and pumpkin bread?”

He smiled down at her. “I haven’t forgotten.” Nodding to one of the straighter apple trees, he said, “In the meantime, let’s have that picnic.”

***

Feyre tossed her apple core toward the edge of the purple velvet blanket, and it rolled onto the flattened wild grass next to Lucien’s apple core and what was left of the cheese rind and the breadcrumbs.

“Nice shot,” Lucien remarked, sitting across from her with his back against the gnarled tree trunk. He caught her eye and smirked.

She quirked her mouth to one side and wagged a stick of charcoal at him. “Hey. You’re not supposed to—”

“—to move. I know, I know,” he drawled, then let out a resigned sigh as he resumed his position with his face angled away from her.

When she was satisfied that his pose matched her drawing, she bent her head and added more strokes to the long hair around the rough block of his shoulders.

“Whose turn was it?” he asked evenly.

She glanced up to see that he hadn’t moved. “Yours, I think,” she said absently, smudging in a shadow around his jawline.

“Hmm…” His lips formed a slight pout. “All right,” he declared. “Favorite color.”

She lifted her head to stare at him. “That’s your deeply personal question for me?”

He eyed her sidelong. “You already asked how old I am. How is that deeply personal?” When she cocked her head at him, he faced her head-on and declared, “As long as we don’t talk about the blight, we can ask any questions we want. Those are the rules.”

Without a word, she pursed her lips and twirled her finger. He rolled his eyes and groaned, but he obediently turned his face back to where it was.

“Is that too personal a question?” he asked dramatically. “As an artist, is it so impossible to pick a favorite?”

“Smartass,” she said, smiling, then thoughtfully turned the charcoal over in her fingers. “If I had to choose,” she began slowly, “I think it would be… blue.” The words tumbled out as she remembered, “My mother used to wear sapphires. I thought they were the most beautiful color in the world…” She smiled sadly at the bittersweet memory, then shook herself and turned her attention to the drawing in her lap. “But I like most colors equally.”

“Do you miss her?” Lucien asked gently.

Feyre lifted her head, surprised at his question.

He remained still, but he watched her carefully. “Is that too personal?”

She quickly shook her head. “No, but… I was only eight when she died,” she said softly, then shrugged. “I miss my sisters more.”

“I hope you get the chance to see them again one day,” he said quietly. “I don’t get to see my mother that often, but at least I know that I can.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

He glanced away. “It’s been years. My father sends her away every time I visit, because he knows how much I want to see her.” Lucien growled. “The bastard.”

Feyre winced. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked—”

He waved dismissively. “It’s all part of the game,” he said, then caught her eye and smiled wryly. “You know… Us. Getting to know each other better.”

She managed a smile in return.

He nodded at her and said, “It’s red, by the way.”

She glanced down at her ruby-red tunic. “What… This?”

He pointed to his hair. “My favorite color,” he said, then smirked.

She huffed a laugh and shook her head. “Why am I not surprised?”

He chuckled and laced his hands behind his head as he settled back against the tree.

“You’re not supposed to move,” she reminded him, and he swore under his breath before resuming his position.

“Your turn,” he said patiently.

She was distracted by a stray pink blossom that fluttered onto her drawing. As she brushed it away, she smeared the outline of his half-finished portrait, then stifled a groan. The lines of his hair and jawline looked all right, but the mask itself was a mess of smudged lines. She grimaced and scraped at the fresh smear with her fingernail. It was hard enough to draw someone’s face, but harder still when half of that face was covered.

Lucien remarked, “You know, when Tam told me to sit around and do nothing, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Oh, hush,” Feyre scolded gently, readjusting her grip on the drawing board. “You’re the one who wanted a portrait so badly.”

Lucien sighed from his rigid position against the tree trunk. “I didn’t think that meant staring at the same blooming tree for half an hour.”

She quirked her mouth to one side as she redrew the shape of the mask’s right eyehole, or at least she tried to. “Well, this is a lot harder than I thought it would be. Your mask is giving me fits.”

He snorted. “Now you have some idea how I feel.”

She ducked her face behind her drawing as her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. You’re just so cute when you’re embarrassed.”

She glared at him over the top of her drawing board as he tilted his head ever so slightly and smirked at her. “Having fun now, are you?”

“I definitely prefer the view.”

She stifled a giggle as she ducked her head again. As her gaze flicked from his face to the drawing, she said, “I’m starting over.”

Lucien’s head fell back against the tree trunk as he groaned. “Again?”

As she crumpled up the smudged drawing in her smudged fingers, she declared, “Third time’s the charm.”

“Hang on,” he said, pushing himself away from the tree to crawl closer. “Let me see this one.”

She hid the fistful of paper behind her back. “Oh, no you don’t. No peeking, remember?”

He moved the drawing board from her lap and set it aside. “It’s my drawing, remember?”

She leaned away, keeping her fist firmly behind her. “Your drawing?” she squawked.

“Yes, mine,” he said as he knelt between her bent legs and rested his hands on her thighs. “It is my portrait.”

Too late she realized that she had no way to defend herself against his advances, for they had both removed their weapons to sit more comfortably as they ate. It didn’t help matters that his naturally spicy scent grew stronger as he came closer, tempting her to lean in instead of away.  

As his face neared hers, she stammered, “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a portrait yet—” She shrieked as one hand slipped around her to give her a cheeky pinch. After unsuccessfully trying to swat him away, they collapsed into a heap, laughing uncontrollably. If she hadn’t chosen their lunch herself, she might have thought they had eaten witchberries again.

He was still laughing when he bent his head to plant a kiss on her throat. Her body, already weak with laughter, became limp, especially when he unfastened the button at her collar to press another kiss lower down. The crumpled drawing rolled from her fingertips.

“All right, you win,” she murmured, closing her eyes.

“I win.” His breath was warm against her already flushed skin as his mouth hovered above the next button. Any lower, and he would find the laces of the loose linen shirt she wore beneath her tunic. Before she could properly entertain that thought, he brushed a kiss against her collarbone and pulled away.

As he straightened up, drawing in hand, she let out a soft sigh of disappointment but tried not to show it as she sat up alongside him. “Remember, I haven’t had much portrait practice yet,” she said, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear.

He smoothed back the curled edges of the paper with his thumbs as his eyes scanned the drawing. His mouth grew pinched, but he said nothing.

Her ears began to burn, and she rubbed the back of her neck. “I told you it wasn’t very good,” she said, then reached for her drawing so that she could rip it into tiny pieces.

He moved it out of reach. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, shifting onto her knees to reach over him. “The look on your face said it for you.”

He held the drawing out at arm’s length and pressed his free hand against her shoulder. “The look on my face?” he said incredulously. She imagined that if she could see his raised eyebrows, they’d be near his hairline.

Her face grew hotter. “You know what I mean,” she muttered, halfheartedly reaching for the drawing.

He let the crumpled paper fall from his fingers as he turned to grasp her arms with both hands. Pinning her arms to her sides, he said firmly, “Feyre, listen. I don’t hate it.”

She swallowed hard and sat back on her heels. “But you don’t like it, either,” she mumbled.

“It’s not the drawing I don’t like,” he said in a gentler tone. When she tilted her head, confused, he sighed and relaxed his hold on her. “I just don’t like mirrors very much.”

She stared at him a long moment as his meaning became clear. “Oh,” was all she could manage in response. When he seemed convinced that she wouldn’t lunge for the drawing, he released her arms. As he sat back and rested an elbow on his bent knee, she asked him, “Is it because of the scar?”

Glancing away, he said, “The scar. The mask. The eye. All of it.”

She eyed the fallen drawing just out of reach as she twisted her fingers in her lap. “Then why did you ask me to paint your portrait?”

He let out a mirthless chuckle and ran a hand over his hair without looking at her. “Vanity, I guess.”

She knew there was something he wasn’t telling her, but she decided not to push it. She shifted closer and offered, “I don’t have to paint your mask, you know.”

He turned to her with a wry smile. “Is that so? Do you really think you can guess what I look like?”

She shrugged. “I’m sure I can figure it out.”

His smile turned to a smirk. “I’d like to see you try.”

Her eyebrows rose at the challenge, and without a word, she reached for her drawing board. She said nothing until she had a fresh sheet of paper and charcoal in her fingers. As she bent her head and began to sketch in a rough outline of his features, she mused, “I think you have… arched eyebrows.”

His hand came to rest behind her as he leaned in to watch. “Good guess.”

For once, she didn’t mind him looking over her shoulder. She stifled a smile as she leaned into him and continued, “And… a long nose, like this.”

“Like a fox,” he quipped.

She bit back a chuckle. “And… sharp cheekbones, I think,” she said, adding them to her drawing.

“Sharp enough to cut glass.”

She let herself laugh, then turned her head to look him over. “And a high forehead.”

Still smirking, he tilted his head. “Too easy.”

Her gaze fell to his thin but shapely lips. “And a nice mouth.”

His smirk softened. “Likewise,” he murmured.

Her cheeks warmed as she dropped her gaze to the drawing and sketched in the soft line of his lips.

As she did so, Lucien reached up and slowly brushed his thumb across her cheek. It reminded her of that day in the garden when she had accidentally smeared charcoal on her face. When she turned her head to ask if that was the case now, he pressed his mouth to hers.

After a long, slow kiss, he pulled away, and her lips tingled. She sighed. “What was that for?”

His thumb traced her lower lip. “Just because,” he murmured.

A slow smile spread across her face, then she nodded at the drawing in her lap. “Does that mean you approve?”

His hand came to rest behind her once more as he looked over her shoulder. “It looks a lot like me,” he said, which, for such a simple drawing, was high praise indeed.

“Would you change anything?”

He let out a heavy sigh, then pressed his lips to her shoulder. “Only the last fifty years,” he murmured.

She half-turned and set the drawing board aside. “I don’t have to draw your scar,” she said, meeting his mismatched gaze. “I don’t mind the way you look, but if you do…”

“No, I…” He shook his head and grimaced. “No drawing or painting or glamour would ever change the fact that it’s part of me now… I just need to learn to accept it.”

Her heart twinged at his despondent tone. “Does it hurt?” she asked gently.

“No. Not anymore.”

“Good.”

Before he could reply, she rose onto her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck. Rocking back against her sudden embrace, his arms slowly came to rest around her waist. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she.

Being careful not to curl her smudged fingers into his hair, she turned her head and pressed her lips against the exposed scar peeking out at the top of his mask. Her next kiss brushed over his scarred eyelid, and his arms around her tightened. Slowly, gently, she kissed her way down the scar on his cheek.

When she reached his jawline, he turned his head to meet her mouth, then pulled her into his lap. As one kiss slid into the next, his hand came to rest behind her neck, and he guided her down to the blanket.

Just as his fingers found the third button on her tunic, parchment crinkled beneath them.

“Damn.”

Feyre chuckled and let her head fall back to the blanket. “At least it isn’t paint.”

Lucien propped his head up on his hand and circled that button with a long, lazy finger. “Now, that could be interesting.”

She grinned. “I doubt the servants would appreciate paint stains in the bathtub, though. It’s hardly large enough for two as it is.”

He closed his eyes with a groan and let his head fall to her shoulder. “I think we’d better change the subject.”

“Because of the servants?”

“Bathtubs.”

She chuckled again as his lips grazed her neck. “Well, I don’t need a bath, but I could use a basin.” When he lifted his head, she waggled her smudged fingers at him.

He let out a resigned sigh, though he smiled. “I suppose it’s just as well. We wouldn’t want to turn Moonlight into another dappled gray, would we?”

Her mouth fell open in mock outrage, and she poked his face with a particularly smudgy finger, leaving a distinct dark smear on his golden skin.

His eyes widened. “Keep that up and we’ll both need a bath.”

She playfully flicked his nose. “Wouldn’t that be a shame.”

***

“There, now. All clean.”

Lucien smiled as Feyre rubbed his smooth cheek with her cool, wet fingers. “It’s no bath, but it will do,” he teased, and she grinned.

“For now,” she said, drying her hands by smoothing the shining braid over her shoulder. After their little skirmish in the orchard, it was a wonder it had stayed braided at all.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, which made her laugh.

After leaving the flowering trees behind, he had brought her to the watering fountain near the stables where they could clean up without drawing too much attention to themselves. With every button—regrettably—re-buttoned, charcoal marks washed off, and tousled hair smoothed back, they looked as presentable as any other couple who might choose to go for a ride.

 It was still early in the afternoon, and many of the horses were grazing in the nearby paddock. A quick glance showed that Moonlight was not among them, so chances were good that the mare had already been fed and would soon be ready to ride.

As Feyre lifted the strap of the knapsack over her head, she remarked, “All right. What’s next?”

Lucien reluctantly dismissed the memory of her lying beneath him with her smudged hands pinned above her head, then took a deep breath. “Well, I thought that while the servants got Moonlight ready, we could go inside and have a glass of wine.”

“I could use a little something,” she agreed, rolling down a sleeve. “That’s one thing I forgot to pack for our picnic.”

“I didn’t remember, either,” he said, then stopped her before she could roll down the other sleeve. “Looks like you missed a spot.”

She glanced down at the charcoal thumbprint near her wrist. “Oh, so I did,” she said absently.

He smiled and reached into the cool fountain trickle to wet his fingers. “Let me.”

As he gently rubbed her skin clean, she remarked, “You know, we never did finish our game.”

He smirked, remembering their little charcoal war. “As I recall, that ended in a truce.”

She chuckled, and her face flushed. “No. I meant the one where it was my turn to ask you a question.”

He wiped his damp hand on the folded blanket under his arm and said, “I’m listening.”

She bit her lip and slowly smoothed down her sleeve, which made Lucien wonder if this question wasn’t the playful kind after all. “If… if it’s not too personal, I wondered…” She took a deep breath. “What can you really see with your golden eye?”

He blinked and straightened up, considering his answer. Tamlin was one of the few who really knew, and Nuan, who had made the eye, was another. If Lucien told Feyre, a human, would she understand? She had accepted his scar, but his mechanical eye was another matter entirely.

He gave her a tight smile. “I see you,” he said honestly.

She grimaced and poked him in the chest. “Lucien. This isn’t about the blight,” she said, then looked at him askance. “Is it?”

It was so tempting to lie, but they were getting to know each other so well…

He slowly rubbed his chest and said, “Look. You already know that I’m a hundred and twenty-seven years older than you, and it took you a good while to get over it.”

She scoffed. “Can you blame me? You’re more than twice as old as my father, but you look half his age.”

“Oh, come on. My father is more than three hundred years older than my mother—”

She touched his arm and stopped him. “Please?” 

He stared hard at her for a long moment, then glanced away and sighed. “You really want to know?” he murmured.

 “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” she said gently.

As he opened his mouth to answer, he was distracted by a young stableboy running up to them. As did many of the servants tending the stables, the boy wore a copper horse mask. After all these years, the copper had begun to tarnish, turning as green as the faerie’s skin and hair. Like Alis’s nephews, he couldn’t have been more than ten when the curse took effect, and it would be a few more years before he was fully grown.

Lucien grimaced. How much longer would they be forced to wear these masks? Feyre had chosen him over the High Lord, but it didn’t mean that he was free from the curse, though he doubted the other servants saw it that way.

Solstice was less than two months away. If Feyre didn’t figure out some other way to break the curse, there was no guarantee that Amarantha would ever remove their masks. She might enjoy parading them around Under the Mountain as proof of her victory. It was not a pleasant thought.

“Sir Lucien,” the stableboy began, breathless. Sir had never been Lucien’s title, but he wasn’t about to quibble over it. He was just grateful that there was at least one servant who didn’t eye him with disdain. “The High Lord wants to see you in his study right away.”

Lucien’s spine stiffened. “When did he send word?”

“Half an hour ago, Sir.”

“Shit.” He and Feyre couldn’t have been gone more than two hours, and he couldn’t imagine what was so urgent that Tamlin needed to send a stableboy. Handing the folded blanket to the servant, he said, “Take this back to the house. Send word that we’ll be along shortly.”

“Yes, Sir.”

As the stableboy scampered away, clutching the large blanket in his arms, Lucien let out a resigned sigh. So much for their afternoon plans.

“What does Tamlin want, do you think?” Feyre asked beside him.

He managed a wan smile. “I guess we’ll find out.”

A slight wrinkle touched her brow as she slipped her hand in his. Too late, he realized that he had forgotten to ask the stableboy if Tamlin wanted to see them both. Giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, Lucien decided to keep her with him, just in case. If nothing else, it was nice to have the company.

They walked in silence until they were back inside the manor. The servants they passed quickly averted their eyes. He didn’t doubt that the news of his secret kiss with Feyre was no longer secret. The few courtiers they met in the halls stared more openly, but even they said nothing. What could they say, even if Amarantha’s curse had let them? This was between him and Tamlin, and Feyre was caught in the middle.

“Lucien,” Feyre said softly, startling him from his thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“Why don’t you want to tell me about your eye?”

He waited until they had passed a gaggle of butterfly-masked faeries who stared at them over the tops of their painted fans. Ignoring the loud whispers that followed them down the corridor, Lucien said quietly, “It’s not just you… I haven’t told many people about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He sighed. “Because of what it can do.”

She nudged him and coaxed, “Which is…?”

He grimaced, then finally admitted, “I can see glamours.”

She gently pulled on his arm to stop him, then turned to face him. “Really?”

He turned his head so that she couldn’t stare at that eye, the way the others had before her. “It came in handy with the Bogge, but it’s not very popular with the High Fae, who are rather fond of glamouring their appearance.”

“But you don’t glamour your appearance,” she began, but he waved dismissively.

“I never had to before… you know, this—” He gestured to the scarred side of his face. “Tam offered to glamour me after I healed, but it would have taken too much magic. Besides, everybody knew what happened, and the mask hides the worst of it, so…” He shrugged.

Feyre’s thumb gently rubbed the back of his hand as she considered his words. “I can understand that, but… I don’t see why you needed to keep it a secret.”

His eyes widened as he turned to face her. “You mean it doesn’t bother you?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Why should it?”

Thrown off guard, he tried to think of a suitable example. “How often do fashions change in the mortal lands?”

“I don’t know… maybe every five years or so?”

That was faster than he expected, but he had a point to make. “Faerie fashions change on a whim. Some High Fae have nothing better to do than to glamour the shape of their nose, or the color of their eyes. Some High Fae actually have something to hide. Even if I can’t see through the glamour, I can see that they have one in place.”

“That doesn’t sound so terrible.”

“Would you want someone knowing your secrets just by looking at you?”

“Oh…” Her face fell. “I guess not.”

He expected her to drop his hand, to tell him that it was too strange, but she didn’t.

Instead, she said, “Does that mean you’re a spy?”

He couldn’t help but snort. “Not on purpose. Nuan—uh, the one who made my eye—she wanted to make my sight stronger. Neither of us knew until later what it was really capable of.”

Feyre nodded thoughtfully. “Does Tamlin know?”

“He knows, but he doesn’t force me to use it. He asked me to seek out the puca, but he’s never sent me to other Courts to spy for him.”

She smiled. “That’s a relief.”

“Why?”

“Because I can only imagine the sort of trouble you’d get into… And I’d miss you.”

Her answer relaxed him and made him smile. “But you wouldn’t miss the trouble,” he teased gently.

She shrugged. “Not necessarily,” she said, then grinned.

He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m a terrible influence.”

She slipped her hand through his arm and said, “Just terrible.”

He covered her fingers with his free hand and gave her a fond squeeze. As they resumed their slow and steady pace down the corridor, he asked her, “You really don’t mind?”

“I’m not a faerie,” she said. “If you had known my secrets just by looking at me, you wouldn’t have had to ask.”

“To be fair,” he pointed out, “I can’t read minds. I can only see glamours, and that’s only with one eye. Sometimes I don’t look so that I can avoid a headache.”

“What about my glamour?” she asked. “I mean, the one Tamlin put on me… Could you see it? Did it change what I looked like?”

“You’ve always looked like you,” he said. “Sometimes there was a bit of—of mist around your eyes, but that was only when you looked at Alis, or anyone else Tam chose.”

“But not when I looked at you?” she said, lifting her head to meet his gaze.

He smiled at her beautifully clear, blue-gray eyes. “No.”

“Hmm,” was all she said before wrapping her free hand around his elbow. “Why was that?”

It was a good question, and one he’d never really considered before. “I guess it was because I wanted to test you,” he mused. “I didn’t want Tam wasting more of his magic, and I wanted to see if this scrawny little thing could actually stand up for herself.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Scrawny?”

He smirked. “Well, you were.”

She nudged him. “And I thought you were an ass from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

He gave her a fond smile. “I still am.”

Her eyes shone as she slowly shook her head. “Why did there have to be so many secrets between us?” she asked softly.

His smile faded as he paused with her at the end of the corridor. The High Lord’s study was just around the corner, so whatever he was going to say needed to be said now.

He couldn’t tell her that Amarantha was to blame, because he could have told Feyre about his enchanted sight the first time she asked. There were so many things he could have told her about himself, but his loyalty to Tamlin had silenced him.

No, it was more than loyalty. He hadn’t shared so much with a partner since Jesminda died, and Feyre’s natural lifespan was much shorter than that of a lesser Fae. He hadn’t thought it mattered, telling Feyre the truth, because he didn’t think she’d be around long enough for it to matter. But it mattered now. She mattered.

“I could blame the blight, but…”

“But?”

“No matter what I told you, I…” He took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to risk scaring you off.”

She reached up and gently pulled him down to meet her mouth. He breathed in the scent of lilac soap and tasted her, just her. When at last she pulled away, she stroked his jaw and murmured, “I’m not going anywhere.”  

He smiled and pressed his forehead to hers. “Neither am I.”

He could only hope that was true as they came to stand in front of the High Lord’s study door. As he gave Feyre’s hand a reassuring squeeze, he hoped—no, prayed—that Tamlin wouldn’t banish him now. Not after all this time.

Lucien’s chest tightened, so he took a deep breath, trying to dismiss the idea. He and Tamlin had been friends for years. It had to be something else… but at the moment he couldn’t think of an alternative. There was only one way to know for certain. He squared his shoulders, then lifted his hand and knocked.

Chapter Text

“Come in.”

Feyre swallowed hard as the door swung open. She didn’t know what to expect, so she clung to Lucien as they entered Tamlin’s study together.

The early afternoon sunlight silhouetted the High Lord’s golden hair as he sat at his large mahogany desk with his back to the window. His head was bent over a sheet of creamy parchment as the sharp white quill in his hand traveled across its surface. The thick rug beneath their feet muffled the sounds of their approach, so the whisper of the quill filled the silence between them. Scrawl, dip, scrawl.

Without looking up, Tamlin said, “Where have you been.” He didn’t say it like a question, and Feyre wondered if he already knew the answer.

Lucien cleared his throat. “In the apple orchard. We were having a picnic.”

Tamlin glanced up at that, but the thin line of his mouth revealed nothing. Returning his attention to his writing, he said evenly, “Feyre, would you leave us, please.”

She could feel Lucien stiffen beside her, and her grip on his arm tightened. “I’d rather not.”

The quill scratched the parchment, and Tamlin raised his head to scowl at her properly.

Lucien whispered, “Feyre…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she reminded him, then looked at Tamlin and declared, “If you insist on dismissing me, I’ll just take off my boots and listen outside the door again. My hearing isn’t as sharp as yours, so rather than make me guess, you might as well talk while I’m standing right here.”

Tamlin exhaled loudly through his nose, then frowned as he rubbed at his throat, considering her words.

Lucien gave her hand a gentle squeeze as he turned his head to murmur, “Maybe it’s best to let Tam and I talk alone…”

“I’m tired of secrets,” she said. “Please.”

The quill clinked against the cut-crystal jar of dark ink. “Very well,” Tamlin said coolly, adding another line to his letter. As the quill swirled across the bottom of the page—his signature, she guessed—he said, “Lucien, I want you to take this letter and deliver it to Beron personally.”

Though the name sounded familiar, Feyre turned to Lucien with her brows furrowed, hoping he would explain.

His golden eye, which had been quiet until now, began to click and whir. “You… you want me to go to the Autumn Court?”

Feyre’s eyes widened. The Autumn Court… High Lord Beron… His father.

“As I recall, you did offer,” Tamlin said, setting aside the quill to fold the letter. When he looked up again, his green eyes flashed. “Or were you just trying to cover your own ass?”

Feyre frowned at him. She knew Tamlin had every right to be irritated, but she deserved his ire more than Lucien did.

Lucien’s voice was clipped as he replied, “No. I’ll go. First thing tomorrow—”

“No. Now,” Tamlin said, holding a stick of crimson wax over a small candle flame. “Unless you think you have more important things to do.”

As the High Lord dripped the melting wax over the folded letter, Feyre caught Lucien’s eye. Though the mask hid most of his expression, he seemed torn. He drew a deep breath, then looked down and sighed. “I’ll have the servants ready my horse. I can be ready to leave within the hour.”

“One more thing,” Tamlin said, pressing a heavy gold seal into the puddle of wax. Feyre was too far away to see what it was, but if she had to guess, the seal was the same rose surrounded by thorns that graced the green bottles of faerie wine. “Time is of the essence, so you’ll be winnowing.”

“Winnowing?” Lucien sounded incredulous. “Tam, you know I can’t winnow anymore.”

“What’s winnowing?” she asked before Tamlin could argue.

“Instantaneous travel,” Lucien explained quietly. “Ever since the, uh, blight, I have to travel by horse or on foot.”

She considered his answer. “Didn’t we winnow on Fire Night?”

What was visible of Lucien’s face flushed as Tamlin frowned at them. “The air was full of magic, then,” he muttered. “It still took a lot out of me.”

“Listen,” Tamlin said firmly, “I wouldn’t ask this of you if our circumstances weren’t so dire—” Feyre couldn’t help but wonder if he would ask the same of Lucien if she had chosen Tamlin instead. “—but the blight is only going to get worse. I need to know if—no, I need to know how it’s affecting the other Courts, and who would be willing to aid the Spring Court when the time comes.”

Feyre interjected, “When what time comes?”

Tamlin pursed his lips, unwilling—or unable—to answer.

Lucien ignored her question to ask Tamlin, “That still doesn’t solve the winnowing problem.”

The High Lord’s hard expression softened. “I can spare a little bit of magic,” he said quietly, then pushed himself away from his desk.

Lucien’s skin turned pale as he slowly shook his head. “I can’t let you do that…”

“This is my decision,” Tamlin said firmly as he came to stand before them. “As I said, time is of the essence. I can’t wait around for weeks for you to travel to and from each Court on horseback. Hold out your hand.”

Lucien looked like he wanted to argue, but instead he sighed and bowed his head. Feyre reluctantly released her hold on him so that he could offer his empty palm to the High Lord.

 Tamlin held out his own empty hand, which suddenly began to glow. Feyre marveled as that glow puddled into the center of his palm, as though it was made of liquid sunlight. That liquid hardened into a shining seed no larger than a lentil. There was no better way to describe it… It was a seed of shining sunlight.

“This gift of magic is freely given,” the High Lord said. Though quiet, his voice seemed to reverberate and fill the room. “May it serve you well.”

Lucien drew in a deep breath. “I accept your generous offering, my lord,” he said reverently, then placed his palm over Tamlin’s, extinguishing the glow. Feyre blinked against the sudden dim, then stared as Lucien’s hand seemed to glow from within. It lasted only a moment, then the two males shook hands once, and firmly.

“Thanks, Tam,” he said quietly.

Tamlin, his eyes half-lidded and suddenly weary, nodded before dropping his hand.

As Lucien flexed his fingers and turned his hand over, Feyre turned to Tamlin.

“What was that?”

He sat back on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms. “A little bit of pure magic,” he said tiredly, “plumbed from the depths of the Cauldron itself, and given to each of the seven High Lords of Prythian.”

She shook her head in amazement. “And you can just… give it away?”

“On rare occasions, as I see fit,” he said. “Every High Lord is capable of sharing his magic, though few choose to.”

“Oh…” Feyre looked to Lucien. “How do you feel?”

He curled his fingers into a fist and rubbed his wrist. “It’s difficult to describe… I feel stronger, yes, but it’s as though I… I can breathe again.”

Tamlin remarked, “It should be enough to let you winnow, but the farther you go, the longer it will take you to recover.”

“I understand,” Lucien said, straightening up. “Do you think there’s enough magic to let me practice first?”

“As long as you don’t go far.”

Lucien squared his shoulders and closed his eyes, then vanished.

Feyre blinked and sucked in a sharp breath, tasting copper and woodsmoke. Though she had seen him winnow on Fire Night, she wasn’t entirely prepared to see him disappear so suddenly. She rubbed her arms, trying to comfort herself in his absence.

“He winnowed to his room,” Tamlin said gruffly. “Probably arming himself for the trip.”

She turned her head to see that Tamlin hadn’t moved except to look at her. “How do you know that?”

“It’s my home. If someone winnows onto my territory, I know.”

“Oh.” She bit the inside of her cheek, considering. “Is that how you knew Rhys had arrived yesterday? He just walked in, and he wasn’t even wet.”

Tamlin’s eyes darkened. “Yes.”

She decided to change the subject. “Can you winnow?”

“I could, once. Now I’m bound to this land.”  He glanced away. “Besides, I have more important things to worry about.”

Feyre’s gaze fell to the sealed letter on his desk. “Do you have to send Lucien?”

Tamlin frowned at her. “He is my emissary. And contrary to what you might think, I am not punishing him.”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to.”

Before they could argue, the hairs on Feyre’s neck rose, and she fell back a step as Lucien reappeared, wearing a thick, moss-green cloak.

His breathing was rapid, but he was grinning. “It worked!” he declared, then turned once, and his cloak swirled around him. “By the Cauldron, it really worked!”

“Congratulations,” Tamlin said evenly.

Feyre looked Lucien over. In addition to the cloak, he wore elegant, fur-lined gloves—bear fur, if she had to guess—as well as a bronze leaf cloak pin. Unless that bronze pin was really a tiny dagger, he didn’t look armed. He looked ready to go for an afternoon ride through the autumn woods. He looked… happy. “You’re really going?”

He faced her, and his smile faded. “I have to,” he said regretfully.

She shrugged a shoulder. “Can I come with you?”

Lucien winced and shook his head. “Feyre…”

“Feyre,” Tamlin interrupted. “This isn’t the time. Besides, the magic is only strong enough for one—”

“Well, couldn’t you just—” Her face flushed, and she stopped herself from selfishly asking for Tamlin to share his magic with her. “I mean, can’t the magic work on humans, too?”

“If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, the answer is no,” Tamlin said firmly. “Giving magic to someone who knows how to use it is very different from giving it to someone who’s never had it. I don’t know what it would do to you, and, even if I wanted to, I can’t spare any more magic right now to find out.”

Feyre’s shoulders slumped. She met Lucien’s gaze and said softly, “Isn’t there some way that I could come along?”

“I’m sorry.” His throat bobbed. “It’s not that I don’t want you to, but…”

“You promised you would take me to the Autumn Court one day,” she reminded him.

He reached out and cupped her cheek. “I also promised that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he said gently. “You heard Tam. This isn’t a friendly visit; this is about the blight.”

Though she could feel the heat of him seeping through the fine leather, she wished she could feel the touch of his skin, instead. “But I was safe with you when we came across the Bogge—”

“There won’t be any Bogge in the Autumn Court,” he said with a wry half-smile. “If there were, the Autumn Court would be less monstrous than it is now.”

A slight smile touched her lips, but it quickly faded as she realized that there was no changing his mind—or Tamlin’s. “I hate this,” she whispered.

“I know,” Lucien murmured as his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “But the sooner I go, the sooner I can come back.”

Her throat tightened, and she managed a nod. She hated goodbyes.

With a quick glance at Tamlin, Lucien leaned in and brushed his lips against her forehead. “I’ll bring something back for you,” he said with a soft smile.

She blinked back bitter tears. “I just want you,” she whispered.

He sighed, then nodded and pulled away. Feyre began to reach for him but stopped herself. “You will be careful?” she asked, gripping the strap of her knapsack.

Before he could answer, Tamlin declared, “As emissary, Lucien is still under my protection. There is too much at stake for Beron to risk harming him now.”

The thought wasn’t as comforting as it should have been.

Tamlin reached for the sealed letter on his desk—disturbing a pile of four more just like it—and went on, “Remind Beron that this isn’t about Spring Court politics, or the Autumn Court, for that matter. This is about the future of Prythian.”

“I’ll tell him,” Lucien said, accepting the proffered letter. As he tucked it inside his tunic, he turned to Feyre with a sad smile. “Well, I guess this is it…”

Feyre’s heart twinged, and she pulled her knapsack over her head and let it fall to the floor. “Wait.” She darted forward and threw her arms around him. “Not yet.”

Lucien’s arms slowly came around her, then he buried his face in her neck. His breath stirred her hair as he whispered, “I have to go.” He gently rubbed her back and said, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she said, muffled against his shoulder. When he turned his face toward her, she slipped her hands around his neck and brought her mouth to his. With his silky hair between her fingers and the scent of woodsmoke and spices in her nose, she gave him a kiss he wouldn’t soon forget, and neither would she. As her hands slid down his chest, she pulled back and said, “I still need to paint you, all right? Come back in one piece, or I’ll have to start all over again.”

His gold eye whirred as his dazed gaze came into focus, then he blinked, and he smiled. “I will.”

When Lucien was gone, truly gone, she let out a sad sigh. As she turned to retrieve her fallen knapsack, she noticed that her papers had scattered across the rug. Stifling a groan, she knelt to gather them up, and Tamlin bent to help her.