“Perhaps if one shared what was wrong, my prince?” Nightleaf tipped his sharp beak of a nose higher and sniffed, as if honored to offer his help.
“Very well. Define beauty.”
The slightly balding servant blinked slowly, the obvious whirring of his thoughts making his forehead wrinkle. “Beauty, Yer Highness?”
“Yes. What doesit is beautifulmean? What makes one say that?”
Nightleaf’s thoughtful expression deepened to a serious scowl. “I believe, Yer Highness, beauty is one of those things that is different for everyone. What Yer Highness perceives as beautiful might not be deemed as beautiful by someone else.”
“And how important is it for something you deem as beautiful to be seen that way by others?”
The butler’s look turned pained. “That is something only ye can decide, my prince. How much weight do ye place on another’s opinion? Does what they think truly matter, or is yer view all that ye value?” He wrinkled his nose, shifting his precariously balanced spectacles higher. “Does that help, Yer Highness?”
“No. I am afraid it does not.” Jeros ambled deeper into the garden, silently cursing Mairwen for revealing he truly was the Prince of Perfection, the cutting name given to him by many in the Fae Court. “But I do appreciate yer efforts, Nightleaf. As always.”
“Is there anything else I might do, my prince?”
“No. That will be all.”
The butler offered a somber bow, then faded from view, a habit he would have to change until the mortal, Miss Lexington Elizabeth Vine, orLexi, as Mairwen had called her, adapted to their ways.
Jeros huffed a bitter snort.Ifthe woman adapted to their ways. How likely was it for a mortal of the future to accept a match with a Fae prince from Scotland’s nineteenth century without question? And a different nineteenth century, at that? One that was home to the Seelie’s Seventh Realm? From what he had observed of the world Mairwen’s assistant had shown him, the Scotland in which he lived, where the Fae not only outnumbered the mortals but also did not hide their identities, was nothing at all like the world of Miss Lexi’s future.
He could well and truly be damned to spend this lifetime without binding to his fated mate, a lifetime he would rather not explore. The missing piece of one’s soul was a rare and precious thing not granted to everyone. At least, not so far as he knew. Many went through this life coupled with either a tolerable mate that threatened death by boredom or one that simply wouldn’t do at all, resulting in the need to sever the marriage. But a bond with the other half of one’s soul…many a ballad and poem had been written about such love and passion.
Yet, would Miss Lexi’s scars prevent his soul from recognizing hers? Would he constantly struggle to ignore her disfigurement, to see past it? Was he truly that vile and shallow? He ran his knuckles up and down the hardness of his breastbone, trying to rub away the constant gnawing ache that had become more persistent of late—the ache to find his other half, the yearning to fulfill that damn prophecy. The prophecy that stated the seventh Fae prince of the Seventh Realm was destined to marry an exemplary mortal from the future, a rare mortal not only able to see the Highland Veil but also revered by every beast of every kingdom, past and present. Was Miss Lexi, scars and all, that rare mortal? He breathed a bit easier. He had thought of her asMissLexiand not Miss Vine. That was a good sign in and of itself—wasn’t it?
Surely, Mairwen had to be wrong. When the old one had shown him the moving pictures of Lexi, he had felt nothing but pity and perhaps a bit of revulsion for the woman purported to be his fated mate. If this Lexi was such a rare mortal, his prophesied mate, wouldn’t he have felt a twinge of attraction even through the pictures?
He reached the telling pond at the outer edge of the garden and glared at the fickle waters. It was somewhat of a scrying tool that the Fae royals of the Seventh Realm sometimes used for help with life’s more troublesome questions. While it was more dependable than old Mairwen’s tarot cards and always told the truth, the body of water was temperamental. If it so chose, it could refuse to answer…or only answer in part, teasing with bits and pieces of the wisdom one sought.
The surface shimmered, first dark, then silver, as if greeting him with a coyhello.
“Ye know what I seek,” he said to the waters. “Is she truly the one?”
The pond glowed with color. It took Jeros a moment to realize what he was viewing. A shudder tore through him when he recognized the Highland Veil. Silhouetted against the brightness of the rippling shades of the vibrant hues was a woman, but he couldn’t see her face. “Is she the one?” he repeated louder.
The water went dark, then brightened once more and showed a woman in red boots and those tight blue trews. It was her. While the right side of her face was shadowed by her hair, he could still make out the rippled surface of her scars. He backed up a step as a Fae tiger stepped up beside her and leaned against her leg, looking up at her with adoration in its eyes. She petted it without fear, loving on it as if it were a wee moggy.
“So she is the one of the prophecy?” He honestly didn’t know whether to be satisfied or sorrowful. He had his answer. But could he live with it? He hated that his gaze kept returning to her scars. What the devil was wrong with him? He was staring like a rude, impudent pup—just as Mairwen had called him. The old one was right. He was a pathetic excuse for a prince, a being that was supposed to be a leader, the next king of the Seventh Realm.
“Can I change? Lose my selfish hunger for perfection and learn compassion?” he asked the waters, bracing himself for whatever they might foretell.
The pond went black.
“Answer me, damn ye! Tell me I can change. Tell me I am not my mother.”
“Ye are not your mother,” the pond whispered, its vibrating echo sending an eerie shock through him.
“Ye can speak?”
It went still and silent as a mirror, reflecting the greenery surrounding it.
Jeros slowly circled it, following the smooth flagstones that framed its borders. “I do not wish to be my mother. I wish to be compassionate. I wish to change.”
“Wishes are fleeting. Ye must work. Not wish.” The voice was louder this time, no longer an echoing whisper.
“Why have ye never spoken to me before? Why have ye only used images?”
