Tate’s eyes fixed onto her as her face heated, her mind in a panic over her grandmother’s words. An event, an all-day fundraiser being put on by the club, one she had not participated in the planning of. An important one, from the sounds of it, which she’d completely forgotten about, too eager and itchy by the end of the workweek to return to the little hamlet and his arms. An important event, that afternoon, all the way in Bridgeton. She heard herself agree, hanging up the phone in a dull panic. It was more than an hour drive to Bridgeton from Greenbridge Glen, not including the time in which she would need to fret over what exactly to wear, to fix her hair and make it to the hotel where the luncheon was being held. She jumped when hands landed on her shoulders, shaking her lightly from her panicked stupor.
"Silva." The musical cadence of his voice grounded her, pulling her back to the room. "Whatever it is, it’ll be okay, dove."
"I-I have to go . . . I’m not going to make it on time! I don’t know what to wear! I-I don’t have—"
"Dove," she jerked at his voice, feeling it ripple through her, grounding her, a resonance she felt in her bones.Fated mates."What kind of party is it?"
"It-it’s a luncheon and a dinner, with drinks in between, being put on by two different clubs . . . but I have to look extra nice. Elegant, she said I have to look elegant . . . I don’t know what that means! I don’t know how to look elegant!"
"Silva," his golden eyes raised in an exaggerated eye roll, "you always look elegant. The dress you came in will do, you just need to faff about with the accessories a bit. Go start your face, then we’ll fix your hair."
She sometimes forgot, she realized, as she drifted to the sparkling white bathroom to scrub the sleep from her eyes, that he was from her world, knew the game as well as she did.
Silva wondered, as she smoothed on mattifying moisturizer, if her mother and grandmother would coo and squeal over her handsome entrepreneur boyfriend, if only his skin weren’t green.
He appeared behind her as she finished her makeup, brandishing a curling wand, and her mouth dropped open. "What? It came with a blow dryer!"
Silva sat in awe as he brushed her chestnut hair until it shone, winding tendrils around the heated wand until a cascade of long, loose curls spilled down her back. She watched in silence when he crossed to one of his antique bureaus, the one which housed a glass-shaded lamp and the wireless charger for his phone, retrieving an intricate jewelry box from the back of a drawer. Picking through the contents, he returned with a set of hair combs.
Delicate dragonflies, rendered in tourmaline and carnelian, sapphires and emeralds, stretched across a gossamer silver net above tortoiseshell combs. Tate gathered her hair carefully, twisting half of it at her crown, pinning it in place with one of the lovely combs.
"Just the one, I think," he murmured, running the tips of his fingers over her loose curls. "No need for overkill."
Dainty lace gloves and a matching shawl were retrieved from a trunk at the back of his wide closet, smelling of the dried lavender which they were folded around. Silva eyed herself in the full-length mirror, feeling as though she’d stepped through time. She knew Tate had an odd proclivity for antiques, that he spent money on lamps and table linens the way other men spent money on sporting events and electronics, but something told her these were not baubles he’d acquired at an estate sale. Family heirlooms, she was certain. Silva swallowed hard at the implication, wondering what relative to whom they’d belonged.
She’d never felt lovelier.
"There we are. Perfectly elegant, dove."
"I’ll come back tonight." She spun to face him, gripping his arm tightly. Nearly forty minutes had passed since they’d left his bed. He should have been at the restaurant over an hour ago, she thought guiltily. "Tate, I-I’ll come back after the luncheon. We can—"
"Don’t be daft. You’ve just said it’s an all-day affair, and you’d have to turn around and leave again tomorrow afternoon, that’s too much back and forth. The Pixie’s not going anywhere."
"Next week then. I have to bring back this pretty comb." His eyes were liquid honey as he looked her over slowly, his hand a whisper against her hair.
"I think," he murmured softly, smoothing the wrap on her shoulder, "that you should keep it. It suits you." His lips were a feather-light pressure against her forehead, and she forced herself to breathe. She wouldn’t give him up, and no one could make her.
"Go. Fly away, little dove. I’ll see you soon."
♥ ♥ ♥
The woman was a huckster. Silva had no experience with such things, had never even had a glimpse of anything unsavory before she'd met Tate, but the excursions she'd taken with him to pubs that were not his own, to pool halls and an empty strip of road where they did illegal drag racing, to the tightly packed urban churn of Starling Heights, had opened her eyes. She would sit on his lap with her back to his chest as he leaned over her, whispering in her ear, pointing out tells and tics that she wouldn't have noted otherwise, behavior and a certain tone of voice that marked a liar. The fae woman had set everyone on edge, and although her grandmother fretfully clutched at her wrist as she coolly conversed with the golden-eyed stranger, Silva remained unaffected. She had done the flowers for the event, a favor to the other club hosting it, and although the roomwaslovely and the floral display sweet smelling and beautiful, Silva could tell immediately that the woman's sly smile was not one that could be trusted. She had learned quite a bit at his side. Unseemly lessons, possibly, but she thought it was a worthwhile education.
"You are just the loveliest little thing. Come sit by me, precious one."
Once more she felt her grandmother's hand fishtailing around her wrist. Silva gave the woman a tightlipped smile, threading her fingers with her grandmothers to quell her soft panic before taking a seat across the table from the uninvited guest.
The flowers were clearly enchanted. They filled the space — ivory and green, petals and leaves on every surface. Lisianthus and ranunculus, roses and hydrangea, bells of ireland and trembling eucalyptus. She had smiled as she followed her grandmother to the dining room, thinking it was exactly the sort of softly-colored, over-the-top display Tate would have loved. The roses had a shimmering sheen, and the colors of everything seemed just a hair too vivid, either the work of enchantment, or something more insidious perhaps, but Silva had no doubt in her mind that this woman alone was responsible for none of it, other than perhaps the procurements, and setting up the room.
The other elves of the club were not seeing it that way, clearly. They saw the breathtaking flowers and were impressed, looking closer and seeing the odd way they sparkled, taking in the wide-smiling florist with her unusual-colored eyes and tinkling bell of a laugh, adding in the odd, deliberate way she spoke, and they were afraid. It was all an affectation, Silva could tell, rolling her eyes slightly as she took her seat.
For the next hour, they were treated to the woman's stories, her shimmering laughter, and her wide smile. She was a bit of a braggart, Silva thought, telling them of weddings for kings and the giant floral arches she'd been commissioned to create for a parade of nymphs, celebrating their centennial.
"And what makes your flower so special, exactly?" Silva asked demurely, sipping her tea. Her grandmother clutched at her skirt.
"Oh well, it wouldn't be good of me to go revealing trade secrets now," the woman laughed, like a glimmering golden bell. Silva smiled again, still unimpressed. She supposed to the elves at her club, the woman's strange, musical laughter was indicative of her to-be-feared status, but Silva heard a shimmering laugh every week, knowing Tate's laughter was genuine, and not the put upon act. "But, as you can see, lovely girl, they arequitespecial."
They had made it through the scones, through the finger sandwiches and petit fours, all the way to the delicate rose-flavoured crème brûlée, when her grandmother and mother left the table, going to greet some friends from their own club before the charity auction began. They rose, her grandmother nervously asking Silva if she wanted to accompany them, glancing meaningfully at the center of the tablecloth, an indication that she should not want to be left alone with the florist interloper, and Silva smiled sunnily, insisting that she wanted to finish her dessert. The moment they had left the table, the woman leaned in with a conspiratorial smile.Here it comes, she's probably going to try and sell me magical oils to clear your sinuses.
