That has some of the students—especially the younger ones—shifting back into smiles. As we crowd around the kitchen table, I force my lips into a wide grin, but it does nothing to lift my heart. Despite almost two decades feeling trapped here, dreaming of the day I’d get to leave with my family, only now do I wish I could stay. Not by taking vows as a sister. Just…here. The closest thing to home I’ve ever known.
Marsh begins slicing the cake, which further helps lighten the mood.
With everyone distracted by the prospect of dessert for breakfast, I take a step away from the crowd. From there, I lift my hands and press my thumbs and forefingers together to create a frame. I center it around the group of students bouncing on the balls of their feet. The stern Marsh, barely able to hide her smile as she divvies up the cake for her eager recipients. Joyful Spruce, clapping her hands and singing to entertain the youngest while they wait their turn. The quaint kitchen illuminated by the morning sun, the rays of sunlight swirling with dust motes. It’s mundane. Simple. Beautiful.
I blink.
And the moment is saved.
This may be my last day at the convent, but at least I can return whenever I want in my dreams.
3
Nothing soothes a somber heart quite like cake. I insist on waiting until all the other students receive their plates before I accept my share from Sister Marsh. Then we crowd around the kitchen table, and I take my first bite. The sugary sweetness of the frosting melts on my tongue while the lemon chiffon paired with blackberry curd has a grin tugging my lips. Spruce’s cakes truly are the best.
You’d think twenty years at a convent dedicated to sugar would make me tired of sweet treats. Instead, I reckon it’s spoiled me. For every scraped knee, every apology, every reward, I’ve been given something sweet, something made with love and the kind of reverence only religion can inspire. Will cake outside the convent ever taste this good?
“You like it?” Sister Spruce asks, tone wary. Despite being the best baker of our three teachers, she’s also the least confident in her talents.
“It’s wonderful,” I say.
A satisfied smile warms her face. “I’m so glad. I know it isn’t Blackwood Bakery—”
I nearly choke on my next bite at her mention of Blackwood Bakery. Why would she bring that up? She can’t possibly know about my secret crush on Thorne Blackwood. I’d never admit it to anyone. How could I? The only version of him that I’ve interacted with is a figment of my imagination. Which means I don’t truly have a crush onhimbut a man I’ve constructed from my own desires. I could never confess to something so humiliating.
I cough a few times, which means I only hear the last part of what Spruce says.
“—but who can compete with Blackwood? Blackwood Bakery is the most popular chain of bakeries on the isle. Though I supposecompeteis the wrong word. It’s not likeIown a bakery. Perhaps if I weren’t a sister of the convent, I would have—”
“It’s perfect, Spruce,” I rush to say. Now that I know she’s simply going on one of her anxious, long-winded musings, I can stop choking on my cake. “I would choose one of your cakes…a thousand times over.” I originally planned on saying I’d choose her cakes over Blackwood’s, but the words were stuck in my throat. Being full fae means I’m unable to lie. An inconvenience at times for sure.
Spruce, it seems, doesn’t notice my need to correct course and smiles brighter. “Oh, I certainly am going to miss you, you little sugar sprite.” She squeezes a fleshy portion of my cheek like she’s done since I was small and gives an affectionate tug.
And now my eyes are watering again. Damn her.
A tiny hand taps my forearm, giving me a much-needed distraction. Tilly, the little fae with bunny ears, stares up at me with her adorable blue eyes, whiskers twitching. Though all students maintain seelie form indoors and save shifting into their unseelie forms for recess, some—like Tilly—maintain many similar features in both forms. While she appears like a regular white rabbit in unseelie form, her seelie body hosts the same long ears, whiskers, and pink nose. Even her hair is more like fur than regular tresses.
“I want to sit in your lap,” Tilly says, her little voice slightly lisped behind her adorable buck teeth.
“Be my guest,” I say and scoop her up. She’s so small, even for a five-year-old, that she’s practically weightless. With a pleased giggle, she snuggles against me and proceeds to take dainty bites of her cake. I nestle my face in her soft hair and plant a kiss on top of her head. I know I shouldn’t play favorites with the students, but I do. Tilly is by far my favorite.
“I suppose you won’t be the worst governess,” Lina says, claiming an open seat beside me on the bench. As promised, I had Sister Marsh cut Lina the largest slice of cake, which she’s almost finished with. She glances at Tilly in my lap, and her dour expression softens. “You do seem to like children, after all.”
“I’ve tolerated you over the last year, haven’t I?” I say, tone coy.
She scoffs. “Are you calling me a child? I’m a woman grown, Miss Rose. I’ll have you know I have every intention of being married by the end of my first social season and making my parents proud.”
“Oh, I bet you do.” Only the slightest hint of wistfulness colors my words, just a fraction compared to the vast yearning in my heart. Not for a husband, of course, but a social season. The love and approval of my family. Everything Lina will soon have.
Another girl squeezes in on my other side and offers a kind grin. Dorothy is my opposite, timid, quiet, and honest to a fault. Her hair is raven-black while mine is honey-blonde. She’s short and as thin as a rail while I’m tall and soft around the edges. Despite our differences, we do share one similarity: we’re both full fae but look mostly human, aside from our pointed ears.
Neither of us have animal characteristics like Tilly, nor do we shift into another form. That may be because neither of us knows of our parentage. Without knowing what kind of fae we’re descended from, it’s hard to tap into the magic that allows us to shift. I thought my dream magic would offer some kind of clue, but when I brought up my budding abilities to my teachers last year—without giving them any details about my dreams of Thorne Blackwood, of course—they only reacted with gentle amusement. None had anything to say regarding what kind of fae I might be, or whether I have the potential to shift forms.
Perhaps I can’t shift at all. Not all fae can. Shifting is strange in that way, an unpredictable and ever-evolving magic. Even its origins are odd. Long ago, the isle of Faerwyvae was inhabited exclusively by the fae. Back then, my kind were animals, spirits, or other beasts. After humans discovered the isle and began sharing their food, clothing, and language, faekind began to change. The most significant change was the ability to shift into a form that better resembled their new bipedal friends. Unfortunately, the first humans didn’t remain friends with the fae for long. Two wars swept across the isle. While the first war divided the two people, the most recent battle united us under fae rule while smoothing out human-fae relations.
Dorothy pins me with a hopeful look. “You’re still set on being a governess?” Her voice is so soft I have to strain my ears to hear her over the chatter around us.
I release an easy chuckle. “I leave tomorrow, Dor. What other choice would I have?”
