I only try to stop myself from crying.
Because Monty Phillips doesn’t deserve my tears. Or my friendship.
I swipe roughly at my cheeks and the traitorous moisture there. Then I storm in the opposite direction without giving that asshole a second glance.
PART I
FRIENDSHIP AND THE MORTIFYING PROSPECT OF SOCIALIZING
CHAPTER ONE
ONE YEAR LATER
DAPHNE
Alady of gentle breeding must be accomplished in a myriad of skills: dancing, polite dining, witty conversation, music, and fine art. I only ever excelled at the latter skill while failing at all the rest. Maybe that’s because I don’t come from gentle breeding. In fact, my conception was rather violent indeed. My mother is famed across the unseelie forest for having bitten my father’s ear clean off after their mating session. I suppose that’s what he gets for trying to cuddle the surliest pine marten in the Earthen Court and asking her to move into his tree with him. Pine martens are solitary by nature, even the fae ones. I know because I lived alone for much of my three centuries of life.
Until I learned to shift into my seelie form and made the hapless decision to enter human high society as a debutante. That experience ended the same way my parents’ short-lived coupling did.
With a bitten-off ear.
And I was the one doing the biting.
While my mother’s bite earned her respect and notoriety amongst the local fae creatures, mine got me cast out of society, after which I retreated to the safety of my unseelie hometown for the next decade.
Now I’m on my second attempt at integrating into human society, via the working class this time, and things have gone smoothly. I have a job, a functional human body, and even a few friends. Yet I’m constantly waiting for the proverbial severed ear to drop.
As I stare at the canvas perched on the easel before me, I wonder if this is that day. The day it all goes to shit.
I grimace at my sketch. It looked fine this morning when I gave my canvas a proud once-over before hefting it under my arm and escorting it to my workplace. Now that my piece sits beside several other artists’ in-progress illustrations, it’s painfully clear I made a mistake in bringing it to the studio today. Never mind that my final sketch is due for my supervisor’s approval in less than an hour. I’m going to need an extension.
A wicked cackle sounds over my shoulder. “That is so ugly.”
I swat at the fluttering fae creature, who is thankfullynotmy supervisor.
The sprite only laughs harder, zipping over my head to the other side. Her girlish voice climbs to a feverish pitch. “You must be soooo embarrassed.”
“I would be,” I say through my teeth, “if anyone saw it.”
“I’m seeing it.”
“Anyone who counts,” I amend. “Which you don’t.”
I glance once more at the other canvases, illuminated by the morning glow streaming through the studio’s arched windows. Is it just me or is the sunlight refusing to grace my easel? Not that I can blame it. At least none of the other artists have arrived to witness my mortification, though they will be here soon. While I’ve only been commissioned for a single project, four in-house illustrators work at Fletcher-Wilson full-time, all of whom have been in this field far longer than I have.
The sprite tiptoes on air into my field of vision, tilting her head to the side. She’s about the size of my palm and resembles a pixie with her tiny body and buzzing wings. What sets her apart from a regular pixie is that she’s made entirely of paper, from her four slender limbs to her hair, wings, and skin. With a flutter of her cream-colored parchment lashes, she says, “I bet you’re thinking about how much better the other artists are than you.”
I swat at her again. “Why are you here? This is a publishing house and you’re a book sprite. Surely there are more interesting departments to invade. Wouldn’t you rather insult a new manuscript?”
“I prefer to insult the manuscriptsyou’rereading,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because we’re friends.”
“Since when? I don’t even know your name.”
“Well, I only named myself this morning. I’ve decided to be Lady Araminta of the Shining Waters.”
