His eyes turn down at the corners, losing some of their hesitation. Then, with a sheepish grin and a blush that tinges his cheeks a deeper gray, he lifts his hand and pats the top of my head. The gesture is so awkward yet fatherly, I find myself warming to him at once.
I return his grin. “Very well, Papa.”
His beady black eyes go wide, glossed with a sudden sheen. He puts a hand to his heart, his blush deepening further. “Oh, I do like that very much indeed.”
Mother grasps my arm. “Will you call me Mommy, then?”
“Call me Auntie!” shouts one of the female fae at the table, and a couple others echo her sentiment.
“I don’t mind being Unkie,” says a male.
“I’m Cousin Kronald,” says one of the fae who looks like my father.
“Call me Ralph,” chimes a grumpy voice that I think came from a mustachioed fae with shadows for hair.
A series of birdlike clucks has my eyes darting to the middle of the table where a featherless rooster stands, pecking at a bowl of seeds.
Mother leans in and whispers over the voices still adding their preferred titles. “Oh, that’s Uncle Bobbins. He’s a lidérc and has quite a history of scathing dream-seductions. He got a bit murderous for a while, which was not at all good for our reputation, but we’ve reined him in. He’s harmless in this form.”
I haven’t a clue what a lidérc is, but I’ll take her word for it. And keep my distance from Uncle Bobbins.
“Come now,” Mother says to the chattering table, “let us dine before the food gets cold.”
Father offers me his arm with another sheepish smile. I don’t know what it is about him, whether it’s his scary appearance paired with his kind personality or something else, but I’m already feeling quite fond of the man. I place my hand at his elbow and he escorts me to the far end of the table. Once we reach the three vacant chairs, I expect Father to take the seat at the head. Instead, he pulls out the chair and nods for me to accept it.
“Shouldn’t the king sit at the head?” I ask. This may be my first meal in royal company, unless I count my selkie friend from the bridal competition, but I know enough about etiquette to know that.
“No, daughter,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s your birthday. You are tonight’s honored guest.”
“Besides,” Mother says, “this way everyone can better see your lovely face.”
Heat flushes my cheeks, but I accept the chair. Mother and Father claim seats on opposite sides of me, and I take a moment to down yet another glass of wine. As if summoned by the empty bottom of my glass, the cat fae returns to refill it yet again. By now my head is swimming in a most pleasant way, aiding my efforts to keep my composure despite all the eyes staring at me with such adoration. Expectation. Awe.
I lower my gaze to the spread of serving trays boasting everything from fae fruit to steaming meats to fluffy bread. My mouth waters at the sight, and I’m painfully aware of how long it’s been since I’ve eaten.
A female fae sitting beside my mother—and bearing a striking resemblance to her—leans in toward my end of the table and opens her mouth to speak. Before she can utter a sound, Mother holds up a hand. “Cecily, don’t you dare bother her with a single question until she eats.”
Cecily pouts but settles against her chair’s backrest.
“That goes for all of you.” Mother sweeps a glare across the table. My relatives chuckle in response. She shifts her gaze to me and gives me a subtle wink.
I smile back, moved that she must have realized how hungry I am. What a motherly thing to do.
“You heard the queen,” Father says, an indulgent warmth in his tone. He reaches for the hand I have resting on the stem of my wineglass and gives it an affectionate pat. “Let us eat.”
* * *
The food isunlike anything I’ve tasted. There’s a richness to every dish that was absent at the convent. The bread drips with excessive butter, the fruit is stewed in herbed syrups, and the meats are smoked and tender. I hardly manage to sample a quarter of the different dishes before I’m bursting with fullness.
“Don’t forget to leave room for cake,” Mother whispers when she catches me clutching my stomach. It’s taken all my restraint not to slump in my chair, though I did manage to loosen the top clasp of my skirt when no one was looking. Mother’s mention of cake has my spine going rigid, and it isn’t due to my desire for dessert; it’s the reminder of Thorne. I haven’t spared him a thought since I entered the dining room. Why would I with so much excitement around me, so many new faces, new names to learn?
Now that I’m reminded of him, my mind whirls back to its earlier panic. My debate over whether I’m a succubus. Whether my dreams of him were shared between us.
With a shudder, I take a generous swallow of wine. How many glasses have I had now? Three? I’ve yet to feel any ill effects, only pleasant ones, so I make no argument when the feline fae returns to refill my cup. While this is only my second time indulging in wine, it’s a known fact that pureblood fae are less sensitive to spirits, even those made from dangerous fae fruits. To humans, they can be hallucinogenic at best. Deadly at worst. Thank the All of All I’m fae and can enjoy glass after glass to my heart’s content and feel only euphoria.
Mother speaks again. “Once everyone is finished, Mr. Blackwood will bring your cake. Oh, I’ve always wanted to bake you a birthday cake! If only the man had time to bake one large enough to make up for the twenty celebrations I’ve missed.”
“I’m sure it will be more than adequate as is,” I say.
