“Then don’t make it mine by stumbling into my workplace.” I reach for the bottle of wine and wrest it from her uncoordinated grip. “Go enjoy your party, Princess.”
I stride back to the table and set down the near-empty bottle of Moondrop with more force than necessary.
“You cold son-of-a-harpy.” Briony charges after me, but her disequilibrium has her veering into the edge of the worktable. This time, I don’t bother coming to her aid, and she’s forced to catch herself on the edge of the counter. I take up my piping bag and try my best to pretend she isn’t there, glaring at the table like it’s at fault for her stumble. “What the glittering hell is in that wine?”
“It’s Moondrop,” I say. Apparently, my determination to ignore her lasts no more than three seconds. I resume piping my loops. “This is what it does. It’s a particular variety of fae wine that tackles your motor functions first, then your emotions.”
“But…but my mind feels clear.”
“Your mind will soon fall beneath its effects as well.”
“But I’m fae. I thought fae weren’t as sensitive to…” She falls into silence. I’m about to thank the All of All she’s finally gotten the good sense to leave me alone when I hear a quiet sniffle. Then another.
Gritting my teeth, I cast her a glance. My irritation wanes as I find her turned away from me, shoulders heaving. Here come the emotional effects of Moondrop. I know the repercussions of the wine very well because her dear fiancé, Monty Phillips, is overly fond of the drink, much to his downfall. I try to simply continue with my task, but my hands begin to shake. Theynevershake when I work.
Setting down the piping bag, I cross my arms and address the back of her head. “What’s wrong?”
Her voice comes out strained. Soft. “I’m drunk, aren’t I? I…I’m making a fool of myself. I thought I could drink as much as I wanted because I’m full fae, but…that was a foolish assumption. Hell, I…I feel like my lungs are going to explode. Like my heart is about to race right out of my chest.” She slowly turns to face me, her moves careful and revealing only the slightest unsteadiness. Her cheeks are coated in a sheen of moisture, the whites around her blue irises tinged red. “Are those effects of Moondrop as well?”
What she’s described sounds more like anxiety, but I keep that to myself. Instead, I release a grumbling sigh and make my way to the pantry. I familiarized myself with the layout of the kitchen and the ingredients I had at my disposal when I first arrived, so it doesn’t take long for me to locate everything I need. A glass. Two teaspoons of Starcane sugar. One tablespoon of crushed bitterglass leaf. Two basil leaves. A sprig of rosemary. Lemon peel. Water.
I mash the dry ingredients together in a mortar and pestle, extract the larger pieces of herbs that remain, and pour the resulting flavored sugar into the water. Briony has stopped crying and watches me with a furrowed brow as I stir the beverage with a spoon. An aroma both sweet and pungent fills the room, overriding the vanilla scent of the cake.
“What…isssthat?” she asks, her words slow and slightly slurred. It’s a sure sign the mental effects of Moondrop are starting to catch up to her.
I remove the spoon from the glass and push it across the counter toward her. “Drink this and it will counter the effects of Moondrop. You’ll feel normal in about ten minutes, though you’ll feel worse before you feel better.”
She frowns down at the glass before picking it up and downing a swallow. Heaving a cough, she sets the cup back down. “Disgusting! What is that?”
“Bitterglass leaf. The faster you drink it, the better it will work. Don’t taste it. Just drink.”
“How do I know you aren’t trying to kill me?” she mutters, yet she doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, she takes up that glass and downs the contents. Once empty, she releases a groan and folds her arms over the table, burying her face in them. “I think I’m going to be sick,” comes her muffled voice.
“I told you. You’ll feel worse before you feel better.”
She stays like that for a few minutes, and I return to piping. If she wasn’t half standing, I’d think perhaps she’d fallen asleep. After a while, she lifts her head. As expected, she looks even more inebriated than she did before. She blinks at me, her motions slow and sloppy. Her words are even more so. “Why are you…being…nice to me?”
I say nothing because I’m not. Letting the effects of Moondrop continue along their natural course would have been a mercy for us both, as would forcing her to forget what will happen by the end of the night, but we don’t deserve mercy. We’re enemies and this is a matter of revenge. Vengeance is merciless on both sides, which makes it fair. Making it easier to execute by allowing Miss Rose to amble haphazardly through it would only cheapen its justice.
She leans on her elbows, posture slumped as she watches me switch back to the purple buttercream with the star tip for the final border. We stay like that for a while. I’m nearly finished with the final arched shell when she speaks again.
“It’s hard to forget you aren’t really my friend sometimes.” Her voice is less slurred, which means the bitterglass drink is starting to reverse the Moondrop’s effects. Yet now we’re back to the territory of emotional rawness. Either she’ll start crying again…or speak too honestly. I think I know which direction she’s already begun to take.
“Why are dreams like that?” she says with a wistful sigh. “Why do they fabricate emotions with the same ease that they conjure images and memories? It’s a bit cruel.”
“It is,” I say.
With her elbows still propped on the countertop, she frames her cheeks in her hands. The result is a squishing of her cheeks that is both amusing and adorable—
No.
I shake the notion from my mind and force my eyes back to the cake. I turn it slowly, seeking any final corrections I need to make to my work.
“I’m going to erase you, Mr. Blackwood,” she says, voice strained by the puckering of her lips, courtesy of her still-squished cheeks. “I’ll never dream of you again after that, and I hate that it makes me sad. Thank you for being my dance partner. Now that I get to dance with real fellows, I wonder if you’ll still be the handsomest man I’ve met.”
My chest tightens at her words. At her unfiltered honesty.
“I won’t,” I say because I too can deliver honesty. “By the end of the night, I daresay you’ll find me rather hideous.”
