We sample food from every stall I have my eye on, eating until we’re full to bursting. My mind grows delightfully fuzzy from the bottle of pomegranate cordial I imbibed. Araminta is even more inebriated than I am, guzzling apple wine like it’s water.
“Your hometown is the best!” she says with a wide grin as she cradles her bottle against her chest. Her bonnet hangs down her back now, her tinted spectacles perched on her head and tangled in her lilac hair.
“I’m fucking stuffed,” Monty says, rubbing his belly as if it’s bulging and not perfectly chiseled like always. If anything, he’s only developed more defined musculature, thanks to his new profession. As predicted, the Modesty Committee heavily targeted theAsk Gladyscolumn, which had grown especially salacious during Monty’s tenure. Even though the Committee’s bill opened new opportunities for separate publications,Ask Gladyswas such a longtime staple of theGazettethat Monty’s boss feared losing their readership if they moved it to a strictly adult periodical. Monty made the decision easy for theGazette, turning in his resignation with no hard feelings. They did, however, publish his manuscript, thanks to its relatively tame content. That earned him a decent advance to stay afloat while he figured out what to do next.
It also gave him time to rediscover his love for boxing. Which just so happened to coincide with the introduction of a new variation on the sport. A mixed martial arts fighting style made its way across the ocean from Isola, a country Faerwyvae has had little influence from so far, and it immediately won the hearts of boxing fans. Monty was one of the early adopters of the sport, and he’s begun to make a name for himself.
He was right when he said I’d only ever seen him holding back while fighting. Monty is a beast in the ring, and even though Isolan boxing isn’t much bloodier than the standard kind, it’s a thousand times more thrilling to watch.
Or maybe I just like watching Monty, whatever he does. Whether he’s penning inappropriate articles, managing chaotic book tours, or beating his opponents to a pulp.
He arches a brow at me, and I realize I’m staring adoringly at him. “Did you accidentally drink a love potion instead of cordial, dear?” He is, of course, the only one of our trio who isn’t buzzed on booze. He may not need to be quite as careful about outing his father’s secret, for he’s no longer bound to a bargain, but he maintains his sobriety nonetheless. He’s still quite fond of his herbal cigarillos, which he takes a drag from now.
“I don’t need a potion for that, dummy,” I mutter.
“You say the sweetest things.”
We leave the food stalls and enter the rows reserved for games and activities. I’ve yet to seek out any of my old friends, although I do plan on introducing myself to them in this body. First, I want time alone with my two companions. To experience this first with them. My first time visiting Cypress Hollow in seelie form. My first time bringing friends with me to our Lughnasadh festival.
“Wait…is that…” Monty quickens his pace.
When I finally see what has stolen his attention, I utter an excited squeal. “It’s the shooting game!”
We stop outside the stall, studying the mossy green wall covered in bubbles, the tiny bud that will grow into a vine, the wooden air rifles. The game operator is still calling for contestants to join before the next round begins. Monty and I exchange maniacal grins before we race toward the open seats.
“Oh, God,” Ari says with a groan. “Not this again.”
Tinny music plays as the game starts. Monty immediately hits his first three targets while I take a few messy shots before I familiarize myself with the weight of the gun and the deceptively inaccurate sight. Once I get comfortable, I hit my first target, popping one of the larger bubbles. My little green bud grows to a sprout, a good foot shorter than Monty’s vine. That’s all right. I still have time to catch up.
“Hey, Monty,” I say, keeping my concentration sharp as I pop my next three targets, all smaller ones that are worth more vine growth than the larger ones.
“Yes, dearest?”
“Remember the last time we played this game?”
“How could I forget?” He pops two more bubbles, the absolute smallest on the board. His vine climbs higher.
“You mentioned something then.”Pop. Pop. Pop. “About how you’d wondered about my lips. Particularly how they’d feel on your cock.”
“I remember,” he says with a grin, not missing a single target.
“You know how it feels now, don’t you?”
“Yes, love. I have every pattern of that clever tongue memorized like the back of my cock. You truly don’t need fifteen steps to fantastic fellatio.” He takes his eyes off his target and gives me a smug wink, all the while popping his next target without even looking at it.
I grit my teeth. My methods aren’t working to fluster him at all. So I amp up my efforts, rising from my stool and propping my foot on it. Then I lift the hem of my dress—glad I wore one of my comfortable yet plain day dresses for the festival—and bare my stockinged leg. My garters are extra ruffly, and Monty can’t help but glance at them.
“Those are new.”
“Sure are. Ari took me shopping for undergarments.”
“I did,” she says from behind us, clapping her hands as I pop my next five targets. “It was about time you got a corset.”
That steals Monty’s attention for longer. His eyes go wide. “You got a corset?”
“Yes, but I’m never going to wear it. Outside of the bedroom, that is.” I pop three more targets while Monty clears his throat.
“Interesting choice. I like it.” He pops his next several bubbles, his composure restored.
