I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Then I pinch myself. Ouch. Yes, it is all real. I’m being ridiculous.
My gaze tracks over my fancy robes. I can’t quite figure out how these are fancier than what Tristan usually dresses me in, they just are. Something about the cut and the quality of the silk. It is all very swishy. And the verdant green really does match my eyes. Tristan does it better, but man, I can really rock this look. It suits me.
My hair is looking good too. It has grown a bit and is nearing my shoulders. It looks golden against the green of my robes. And it has gone all glossy. Fey shampoo really must be something.
I inspect my reflection once more. Everything looks good. More than good. So why on earth am I so nervous? It is just a bunch of fey, and Tristan is going to be there, by my side. Hells, he is probably going to be holding my leash.
A wave of doubt washes over me. Perhaps I shouldn’t give in to being paraded around? So what if I agreed to be his pet and vessel, and hanging around his rooms all the time is incredibly boring? I have principles. I think.
I sigh heavily. Who am I kidding? I’ve never had principles. Going to this stupid ball makes sense, I’m just nervous and being a baby about it.
The door opens and Tristan prowls in and walks up behind me. Our eyes meet in the mirror. His long flame red hair is in two long plaits and damn, does it look good. It is giving viking vibes.
“You look good, little Nisny,” he rumbles.
I have no idea what to say to that, so I say nothing. However, I am stupidly, ridiculously pleased, and it is so infuriating.
“I know you wear it loose, because that is the human style, and it means nothing. But it irks me,” he says.
What is he on about now?
His warm fingers brush through my hair and begin weaving a plait into it. Ah, okay, that’s what he is rambling on about. I have noticed that fey like their fancy plaits. If he wants to give me one, that is fine by me.
He gives me two. One twisting back from each temple and pulling my hair away from my face. There is still plenty of hair falling free to my shoulders, but I can no longer hide in it. It no longer obscures my strange, too angularfeatures.
In the mirror, Tristan is grinning proudly, so I guess I can live with my new hairdo. Lord knows I’ve suffered worse.
“Ready?” asks Tristan, offering his hand.
I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing.
Idon’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Logically, I know I am still in some part of Buckingham Palace, but it doesn’t feel like it at all. It doesn’t look like it either.
There is thick moss along the walls. Gnarly trees too. High up amongst the chandeliers, sparkly things hang in the air like stars stolen from the sky.
Along one edge of the enormous room, a stream is burbling. It appears out of nowhere and disappears into a wall. Its banks are covered with lush grass, toadstools and actual toads.
Fireflies are flittering everywhere. Discordantly moving in time to the strange, eerie music that is all harp sounds and wistful flute notes. I cannot see where it is coming from. And then, if all of that wasn’t bad enough, there are all the fey themselves. People that are definitely not human. Some have wings, some have horns, some are strange colours. Others look half tree or half animal. It is a lot.
It is making me very glad that Tristan is right next to me. My silver leash is looped casually over his wrist, and bizarrely, it is a huge comfort. It feels like we are connected,touching each other. As sappy as it is, if it is giving me the strength to get through this, then so be it.
“I don’t know who he thinks he is fooling,” comments Tristan.
I follow his gaze and find Mabon twirling around the dancefloor with a fey woman who I don’t recognise.
“Mabon used to wear his hair so scandalously that all of court would talk about it. Now he wears it like a devout wife. And he never takes anyone to his bed anymore. How he thinks people don’t know he is in love with his pet, is beyond me.”
I look over at Blake, who is half naked as usual. The mountain of a man is watching Mabon intently, but he doesn’t seem to be seething with jealousy. Unlike a certain someone.
“Jealous?” I ask Tristan. This bitterness is not like him.
He huffs and downs his strangely coloured drink. “Mabon was blessed with all the beauty.”
My eyebrows rise. Mabon is beautiful. Strikingly so. But Tristan is handsome, and that is hotter, if you ask me.
“You’re pretty too,” I say.
His ruby red eyes light up. “You think so?”
