I close the distance between us. Smiling demurely, I pat the top of her head—because I know she hates it and this just might be my last chance to torment the little spitfire. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”
She scoffs, pulling her head from under my hand and smoothing her hairline. “You’ll make a terrible governess if you can’t set a good example for your charges. My governess never would have been caught wandering our estate barefoot. Where are your shoes?”
I don’t bother reminding her that her governess was let go due to Lina’s bad behavior, but I do address my missing shoes. Lifting my hand, I show off my leather slippers dangling from my fingertips.
“You’re barbaric.”
I give her a sideways grin. “I’d be a little nicer if I were you. Otherwise, I won’t share my cake.”
“You aren’t supposed to know about the cake,” she says in a furious whisper.
“It’s my birthday. Of course there’s cake. There’s always cake.”
Her jaw shifts side to side. Some of her sternness fades from her expression and her voice takes on a note of pleading. “Youaregoing to let me have some of your cake, right? It…it might be my last one. I leave next week, and Spruce made the cake this time. You know hers are the best.”
She’s right. Sister Spruce’s cakes may be the ugliest but she certainly knows not to skimp on the sugar like Marsh or combine too many odd flavors like Agatha.
I pretend to ponder her request as I toss my slippers on the ground and slide my grass-stained feet inside. “Hmm. I suppose I can. Just pretend you found me in the washroom and I’ll let you have the largest piece.”
A wide grin splits her face, but she quickly smothers it behind a more modest smile. “I suppose I can do that.”
We walk along the path through the plots of Starcane, the towering golden stalks emitting fine golden specks that float upon the morning breeze—a sign that the stalks have soaked up maximum starlight and are ready for harvest. Lina soon releases her austere façade and chatters away about the ballgowns her mother has purchased in anticipation of her return home. A pinch of envy strikes my heart. I once dreamed I’d find myself in Lina’s position. That my parents would send for me. Or that I’d at least find some clue as to who they were or why they left me. Whenever I asked Sisters Agatha, Spruce, and Marsh, I got only silence and pitying glances. Well, I received the pitying looks from Agatha and Spruce. From Marsh, I got only the pursing of her thin lips. I assume this means my parents are dead. Or that they abandoned me with no intent to return.
As jealous as I am of Lina, I can’t begrudge her a privileged future. She’s the daughter of a human aristocrat, which means she’ll get to experience everything I’ve craved: society balls, evenings at the opera, dazzling suitors. Maybe she can live life to its fullest for both of us.
The Starcane fields give way to a manicured lawn and the convent behind it. Though the Celesta Convent is run by fae who dedicate their lives to worshiping starlight and growing Starcane, the building itself lacks the lavishness often associated with fae architecture. There are no glittering marble statues, no impossibly high turrets, no walls of crystal. Instead, it’s a rectangular building comprised of modest gray stone, its only adornment the rooftop balcony surrounded by a large yet practical balustrade.
We slow our steps as we approach one of the back doors to the convent, glancing side to side to ensure no one is around. Thankfully, we manage to avoid being spotted, as most of the sisters are either inside or praying at the sugar mill on the other side of the property. Not that we would suffer much if we were caught outdoors without permission. The worst forms of punishment students receive are either extra prayer sessions or taste-testing new sugar batches. The latter may not sound like much of a punishment, but after several dozen teaspoons of Starcane sugar in one’s belly, a daylong sugar rush is inevitable. It’s great if you don’t like sleep. Which I do. Very much so.
We enter a quiet hallway and make our way toward the kitchen. Aromas of caramelized sugar, porridge, and potato leek soup reach me long before I catch a glimpse of the kitchen door. Once I do, I spot a small fae girl with fluffy white hair, bunny ears, and wide blue eyes peeking out into the hallway. As her gaze locks on mine, she scuttles back inside. Audible whispers follow.
I exchange a knowing glance with Lina, who mutters, “Act surprised.”
We pause outside the door to give everyone time to get in their places. Then we cross the threshold to two dozen shouts of “Happy Birthday!”
I pull up short and let my mouth fall open in feigned shock. The sight around me isn’t at all unexpected, as I’ve seen it hundreds of times by now, both as a party recipient and participant. Paper decorations hang from the rafters along with the bundles of drying herbs left by the cook. Half-melted candles are propped on the rough-hewn kitchen table where we students take most of our informal meals. Spruce’s famously ugly cake sits at the center of it all, three lopsided tiers dressed in blindingly bright blue frosting. And then, of course, there are the students. Since the convent is run by fae, most of my peers are fae as well, but there are some human girls like Lina too. The students range in ages from five to nineteen, with age five being the youngest a student can leave the nursery to join class, and eighteen the oldest before graduation. Those over eighteen take on a student teacher role, like I’ve held the last two years. Now I’m the oldest student in the room, and I’m suddenly struck by how small everyone looks. How final this party is.
I’ve had twenty birthday parties of my own and participated in countless more for all the other students. But this one will be the last that is exactly like this. With these students. Within these walls. With our crooked kitchen table and Sister Spruce’s even more crooked cake.
My lower lip trembles, compromising my well-crafted expression. Tears prick my eyes. “Thank you, everyone,” I manage to say over the lump in my throat. My sudden change of mood is reflected in the eyes around me, as we all realize the same thing. This isn’t just another birthday party. This is goodbye.
“Miss Rose,” says a wobbly, high-pitched voice. I turn to find an aquamarine pixie fluttering beside me. It’s Sister Spruce. In a flash of blue, a humanoid female takes the winged creature’s place.
Most fae have two physical manifestations—seelie form and unseelie form—and our three teachers are no exception. While they appear as dainty winged pixies in their unseelie form, they take on a more humanoid appearance in seelie form. Spruce’s seelie form hosts a petite body with pale blue hair done up in a messy bun, enormous aqua eyes, and slender limbs made for giving surprisingly strong hugs. She uses the latter to her full advantage now, wrapping her arms around me so tight it’s hard to breathe. With a sniffle, she strokes the back of my hair the way she’s done since I was small.
Damn it all, she’s done it now. A sob builds in my throat.
“I’ll miss you dearly,” Spruce whispers.
“I’ll miss you too,” I say, my words dissolving into tears.
Several arms join Spruce’s, pressing in around me and my teacher in a group hug. Even Lina joins in, her cheeks wet as she lays her head on my shoulder. “You’re so annoying,” comes her muffled voice. “I didn’t plan on crying today.”
A throat clears, cutting through the sobs and sentimental goodbyes. The girls pull away one by one to reveal an austere-looking fae with moss-green hair and emerald skin. It’s Sister Marsh, standing by the table with her hands on her hips. Like Spruce, she’s in her seelie form. The two are dressed in the same long-sleeved, high-necked gowns the older girls like me wear, but with gray wimples covering the backs of their heads—a sign that they’ve taken lifelong vows to serve the convent.
“The day isn’t over yet,” Marsh says, tone chastising. “Miss Rose will be here until morning. There’s no use getting all worked up ahead of time.”
“She’s right,” Spruce says, wiping her cheeks as she frees me from her crushing embrace. “Besides, if we get too sad, we’ll lose our appetite for cake.”
