“Hello, Winnie.” A startlingly beautiful man with a waterfall of black hair steps up to our table. Mina Wilde’s hand is threaded through his arm, and her guide dog stoically waits as they peruse my table. Two small human children pause behind them, transfixed I presume by Mina’s dog. “These pots are beautiful. CanMina pick them up?”
“Hi, Quoth, Mina. Of course you can touch them. They’re for using, not just for show. Alaric made them,” Winnie calls over her shoulder as she turns to serve another customer.
“You made these?” The little girl’s eyes bug out of her head. “All of them? Wow! You must just spend all of eternity making pots.”
“That’s true.”
“I want to make a pot. Could you teach me?” her little brother asks.
“Your hands are too small,” I say. “You could perhaps make a cup for a mouse.”
“I want to make a cup for a mouse!” he says, his face screwing up in determination.
Winnie beams at me. I dare to wonder if perhaps I’m doing okay at talking to humans.
“These are beautiful.” Mina runs her fingers over a textured pot. “I love the way they feel in my hands. We’ll take four. Quoth, help me choose mugs for Morrie and Heathcliff.”
“This one is perfect for Morrie,” Quoth says as he picks up a tall pot with an icy blue glaze. “And that red one in your hand for Heathcliff. You know, Lord Valerian?—”
“Call him Alaric,” Winnie says, turning away before I can correct her.
“—Alaric.” Quoth’s silken hair falls over his eyes. “I’m an artist too, although I mainly work with paint. I’ve been experimenting with sculpture, since it’s the medium Mina can still experience, but I have a long way to go before I’m as competent as you.”
“A couple of centuries, at least,” Mina says with a laugh.
“Anyway,” Quoth continues. “I have a small gallery opposite Nevermore Bookshop. We display local artists and don’t charge a rip-off commission. If you have more of these mugs, I’d love to have them in the gallery.”
“I don’t think that would be?—”
“That would be amazing, Quoth!” Winnie cuts in. “I’ll have Reginald drop you off acarload tomorrow.”
As Quoth and Mina and the two kids wander away with their mugs of chocolate, that strange sensation settles in my chest once more.My work displayed in a gallery alongside human artists? That should be abhorrent to me, so why do I feel so warm?
Because I like the way it brightens Winnie’s smile when I make an effort to be in the world.
Because if I want her to love me, I have to make her friends at least tolerate me.
Because … maybe Iwanther friends to tolerate me.
From across the green, my mother glares at me. According to her, we don’t fraternise with our food.
I find myself smiling and waving at her, eliciting a deeper scowl. Tonight, not even the Lady of Agony can frighten me. I like talking to the villagers. They ask questions about the cups and how I made them. They praise Reginald’s iced hot chocolate recipe with increasingly poetic epithets, and I believe his face might be in danger of breaking from smiling so hard.
Reginald has dedicated his long life to looking after my every need. It pleases me to see him put himself first for once.
And Winnie … she is radiant beneath the flickering glow of the torches and fairy lights that illuminate the green. She’s wearing a floral blouse with a silk handkerchief tied around her neck, hiding the two pinpricks of my fang marks that haven’t yet completely healed. Every time I see that scarf I taste her on my tongue again, and my shaft stiffens. She has not said anything about my rash words begging her to stay, but she has not declined, either.
She waves to her friends in the Nevermore Coven, who are busy with their own stalls or, in the case of Komal Ahuja, rushing about yelling instructions into a megaphone and shooting a devilish glare at a man in the corner. Winnie promises to introduce me properly to everyone later. I cannot decide if I’m honoured to meet her friends or terrified.
I’m still not certain we should be involving these humans in a ball hosted by the Lady of Agony, no matter how muchexperience with supernatural sleuthing they claim to have. But Winnie is convinced they are essential to her plan.
And the more time she spends with them, the more she smiles and that faraway look in her eyes dims.
Beside me, Winnie stiffens. I glance up, alert for danger.
Is the killer in our midst?
Worse. Patrick and Claire are here. They’re eating cotton candy and laughing as they stride arm in arm up to our stall.
