Her mouth snaps shut. “Pardon?”
I blink at her. Why the hell did I even say that? I clear my throat. “I…I’m ready to give Monty my answer. About his…dessert query.”
“I see.” A furrow knits her brow, but she doesn’t ask me to elaborate. We resume walking. “I just remembered! Did you know Daphne has a seelie form?”
I heave a breath of relief but turn it into a laugh. Thank the All of All her mind has already darted to another topic. “Most fae do, Weenie.”
“Yes, but hers is stunning.” She lowers her voice when she says this, as if it’s a secret.
“You actually saw her in her seelie form?”
She nods. “Today, while we were getting ready. She’s quite cute, but she doesn’t seem comfortable about that. That reminds me of something else. What kind of fae are you, William? Do you have an unseelie form?”
I hesitate before I answer, and when I do, I draw out the word like a question. “Yes?”
She halts, hands on her hips. “That’s not a full answer. I asked you two questions. What kind of fae are you?”
I mutter a groan and lean against the nearby building to free up space for any fellow pedestrians who might stroll by. There aren’t many others around us, as most of the after-hours nightlife is reserved for Halley Street, which glows from just ahead. “Must I?”
My reluctance only intrigues her. “I’m too curious not to know. All you said about it before is that you’re not a useful kind of fae. So what kind are you? If you tell me your secret, I’ll tell you one of mine.”
Begrudgingly, I remove my gloves and tuck them into my jacket pocket. Then I hold out one hand, palm up.
She frowns, eyes flicking from me to my open palm. “What are you…”
“Just watch.” I focus my attention on my palm, on the tingling that starts at the center. The tingling grows, spreading into a comfortable warmth that fills every inch of my palm. I narrow my focus further, willing my fae magic to respond. Obey. Create.
Finally, a single pink petal sprouts from the center of my hand.
Edwina gasps.
Another petal forms. Then another. Soon my palm is filled with a pink peony, its petals unfurling in the delicate night breeze.
I hand it to Edwina and she cradles it in both hands.
“I’m a flower fae,” I say without enthusiasm.
She studies the flower with wide eyes before lifting her gaze to me. Her mouth parts, but whatever she was about to say turns into a startled squeak. She blinks several times as she takes inmy visage. Or, more specifically, the pink petals that line my eyelids.
“This is my unseelie form,” I say, tone flat.
Her gaze finally leaves my face to scan down to my toes then up the length of me. When her eyes return to mine, she arches a questioning brow.
“That’s all,” I say with a shrug. “My birth mother was a flower sprite, but I didn’t inherit much from her or my father. Not every fae can shift fully into another form, especially those like me, born in later generations, closer to the isle’s unification when the magic began to change. All I’ve ever been able to do is make flowers and conjure pretty lashes.” I blink, and the weight of petals shifts to the fine hairs I’m used to.
“Why do you seem ashamed?” she asks. “Why don’t you like talking about your unseelie form?”
“Like I said, it’s not very useful. Other fae actors have unseelie forms or fae magic that contribute to their roles. My biggest contribution was as Gardener Number Three.”
“That’s why you were cast as Gardener Number Three?”
I release a mirthless chuckle. “It’s probably the only reason I retained a part in the play at all.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Human actors don’t have anything but their own talents to recommend them to a role. And I wouldn’t callthisuseless.” She drops her gaze back to the flower.
My heart thuds heavily in my chest as I watch her admiring my work. My secret. What I don’t want to tell her is that I haven’t made many flowers since Lydia died. Lydia may not have been my birth mother—in truth, I have no memories of the flower sprite I was born to—but she was my truest mother. And she was Cassie’s mother. We were a family despite our lack of blood relation. We should have stayed a family. But Lydia grew ill while I was at university. By the time I returned home, she wasat death’s door. There was nothing I could do. Nothing but make her flowers. Useless, beautiful flowers that put a smile on her face but did nothing to prevent her passing.
Edwina’s head whips back up, eyes narrowed. Her voice takes on an accusing tone. “Is this where the flower petals have been coming from?”
