Are other fae known to possess these things? If I ever had either, I left them behind when I fled.
With a sigh, Billius closes his notebook and clasps it at his waist. “If you can’t prove your identity, we cannot allow you inside.”
My mind spins to conjure a solution. He can’t send me away. If I were a real princess—
Well, Iama real princess. Not that I was raised like the fancy royals the theaters put on plays about. Being the daughter of a king never seemed significant to me growing up. Not when I was the youngest of many siblings, none of which seemed all that regal either.
But still…
I force myself to stand a little straighter and arrange my features into what I hope looks haughty. The next words that leave my lips are ones I haven’t dared utter aloud since I ran away. “I am Princess Maisie, daughter of King Ronan of the Sea Court. The fact that I just said so shall be proof enough, for fae can’t lie. Brother Dorianisseeking a fae bride is he not?”
He tilts his head to the side, and I can’t tell if he’s looking at me with suspicion or fascination. “You’re a fae princess?”
“I said as much already. Would you make me repeat myself?”
He blushes again, but the smile remains. “Forgive my offenses, dear child of the Almighty, but you say you’re a fae princess, yet you come here alone with a single bag. Where are your lady’s maids?”
I glance around in an exaggerated manner. “How many other princesses are here? Do they have lady’s maids in attendance?”
“You’re the only royal.” He clears his throat and adds, “Your Highness. Regardless, most of the others came with a chaperone at the very least.”
I try not to scoff at the wordchaperone. Lumenas may be a little more lax when it comes to propriety and the rules of gentle society, but I should have known a church would be more likely to support old-fashioned ways. Well, if they insist I have a chaperone…
I lift Podaxis a little higher under my arm. “I have him.”
“Oh, don’t bring me into this,” my friend murmurs as he tries to rotate away from the man. “I was doing just fine being a statue.”
“Him?” Billius places a hand over his heart as if I just swore on his dear Almighty. “A male companion as your chaperone? Please tell me he’s at least your brother.”
“Adopted brother, yes,” I say in a rush. It’s true enough for me to state out loud. Father may not have officially adopted Podaxis when he brought the orphaned creature home, but I consider him as close to a brother as one gets. “If my father—the Seelie King of the Sea, need I remind you—considers Podaxis a fine enough companion, then you should too.”
“I apologize,” he says, offering an awkward bow. Then he flips open his notebook and furiously scrawls something over the paper. “Princess Maisie, daughter of King Ronan, I have you checked in. Please enter and have a seat with the other contestants.”
With another bow, he turns to the side. I try to keep my head held high and brush past him, but before I clear the threshold, a flurry of whispers erupts behind me. A glance over my shoulder shows the crowd on the sidewalk has grown since I’ve been talking with Billius. A dozen pairs of eyes watch me as they smile behind their hands and exchange words amongst themselves. I catch tittering strains ofprincessandmale companionbefore I return to facing forward.
“Shells,” I mutter as I rush through the doorway and into the antechamber. “That was not an impression I cared to make. People are gossiping about me. There goes all hope that I could do this without word getting out that a princess of the Sea Court was here.”
Podaxis shrugs a claw. “Perhaps they’ll forget about you.”
I cross the antechamber and pass through to the next threshold. As soon as I clear it, I’m assaulted by a bright light and a popping sound. I stifle a shout. My first thought is of my mother’s Chariot device, for the glow is nearly as blinding. But as it fades, my view is replaced by a bespectacled human man dressed in a tweed suit and bowler hat. He holds a large boxlike contraption with a lens and bellows in one hand and a metal wand topped in an orb of pale light in the other. The orb reminds me of the lights inside Nimue’s palace. They’re the same kind Father had inside Bircharbor—fae lighting technology. The man must have done something to make the light flare because now it’s nothing more than a soft glow. I’ve seen cameras around the city before, but not one small enough to be carried around in such a way, and certainly never up close. Now that I’ve become personally acquainted with the device, I can safely say I dislike it.
“Contestant Six,” he says with a smile as if he hadn’t just visually assaulted me. “I’m Sam Sputnik. I’ll be the resident photographer for the duration of the contest.”
Another figure comes up beside him, a fae male with pointed ears, white freckles, vibrant orange hair, and a thin curled mustache. He wears a lime-green suit, and where his trousers end, I see dainty deer hooves. “Glint McCreedy,” he says, scrawling in his notebook while he looks at me. I take it he’s a reporter. And apparently has a surname. He nods to the right. “Will you stand just a little to the side?”
I take a few steps forward with the intent to walk away completely, but the light flares again, freezing me in place. I blink the glare from my eyes and find Glint McCreedy still scribbling away over his paper, brow furrowed as his eyes flick from me to the paper and back again.
“Will you stop?” I say through my teeth.
“We need your portrait, miss,” Sam Sputnik says.
“And I need to jot down every detail of that outfit,” Mr. McCreedy adds, though his tone suggests he isn’t overly impressed.
Mr. Sputnik lifts his flash bulb. “I suggest we take another—”
With a huff, I turn away only to come face to face with a boy who looks a few years younger than me, dressed in a simple black robe. “May I take your bag?”
I’m too overwhelmed to do anything but hand it over. “Fine.”
