She found herself surrounded by a circle of former schoolmates a short while later. None of these elves had pledged Ilma, and none of them belonged to the club in Cambric Creek. It seemed that most of the attendees had traveled in, not an uncommon occurrence considering how scattered enclaves tended to be. The groom's family was originally from Starling Heights, she had learned, with much of his extended family still in the area, the only reason the wedding was at Talontail in the first place.
"Everyone, don't forget to drop your coin in the fountain!" the bride's mother trilled, passing their group. "And remember! Think baby thoughts!"
She gestured towards the large papier-mâché wishing well, festooned in fabric and gilding, on a table near the desserts.
Silva knew this tradition well. It was one of their oldest, most ancient Elvish traditions. A new bride would visit a wishing well to drop a golden coin into the depths, making her wish for a child.Considering the state of Elvish birthrates, you think they would've upgraded to two coins at some point.
As a little elf, this was one of her favorite parts of wedding festivities. Her grandmother would give her the large gold coin to hold in her own dainty little purse, and she would throw it into the well gleefully. The best ones actually featured water. A satisfyingsplashas the coin sank, her doing her best to thinkbaby thoughts, before she fully even understood how babieswere made. These days, the water wells were increasingly rare. Too much of an expense for the bridal budget, too much of a headache for the venue, with the risk of leaks ever present. Most of the weddings she had attended in the past half decade all had similar wishing wells to the ones on the table.
She might not have RSVPed, but she had, at least, remembered her coin.You should do it now, while her mom is watching.The coin used in the wishing well tradition was one that had been out of circulation since her grandmother was a girl. It was still minted for this and only this, a nightmare to procure, if one didn't live in an Elvish neighborhood. Slipping the gold coin from her bag, Silva approached the table.
She wondered, as she crossed the room, if she was coming down with something. That would explain the nausea she had, and the way the room suddenly seemed overlong, as if she were viewing it through a fish-angled lens. She staggered a bit, feeling coltish, as if her legs were too new to carry her. She gripped the table beside her as she walked, her stomach heaving at the site of the desert piled high. Before her, the wishing well stood, larger than it had been when she was across the room. Thiswasa water feature, she thought, smelling the wet marshiness of it, sucking wet earth and pine pitch, the room going sideways as she fell, her face rushing to meet the cool, clear water . . .
"Silva? I didn't know you would be here! Oh my stars, it's so good to see you!"
Abruptly, the room came back into focus. Silva was breathing hard. She hadn't realized the noise of the reception had died away, the voices of hundreds of people disappearing, until they all came flooding back. The bride stood before her, beaming.
"Oh, oh yes! Of course! I'm so sorry we weren't able to RSVP, but I wouldn't have missed it. My fiancé and I just flew in from a trip overseas visiting his family, we got here just after dinner. You looksobeautiful. I'm so happy for you!"
She found herself engulfed in a hug. Over the bride's shoulder, she could see the wishing well there on the table, fabric covered papier-mâché, completely ordinary, without a hose or filter plug in sight. The only smell in the air was of the thick, sweet frosting on the cake beside her.Definitely coming down with something. She felt as if she were pantomiming her way through the rest of the conversation, eventually holding up the golden coin.
"I was just on my way to make my wish for you. Thinking baby thoughts!"
"Yes! Please!" the bride laughed. "You know how it is. I need all the help I can get!"
She felt her friend's eyes on her back as she approached the table once more, closing the distance quickly. Silva stopped when she was about a foot away, that little voice inside her rearing up, halting her feet, screaming at her torun. Her skin prickled and she felt sick once more. She didn't want to get any closer.Think baby thoughts. She tossed the coin into the fabric covered mouth, watched as it disappeared into the dark hole. And heard a splash.
Her mouth dropped open and the room swayed, when someone latched onto her, yanking her away.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
She jolted, realizing it was Tate’s low growl, Tate’s long-fingered hand gripping her arm, pulling her away a bit roughly.
"Silva, what thefuckis that? Don't tell me you all still do the bleedin' wishing well?" He had bent, his face close to hers, hissing in a low voice, for her ears only. "Silva . . .” His voice trailed off, his hand coming up to rub at his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Dove, don'teverthrow a coin into a fountain, do you hear me? Ever. That’s an invitation."
"But . . . but it's tradition."
"It's tradition to sacrifice your third-born son as well, but you don't see people still doing that,” he snapped. It was the very firsttime he’d ever seemed genuinely cross with her, the first time he’d ever been ungentle. “If you can't see the bottom of it, don't put a coin in it.Ever."
The rest of the reception passed in a blur. She met the groom, met his parents, was pulled into conversation with an old instructor from university, who'd been invited. She'd lost track of Tate. The volume of the room seemed as if it were consistently increasing, until Silva felt her heartbeat pulsing in her skull.
She was over-warm and slightly dizzy. When the caterers wheeled out the traditional dessert of honeyed oatcake, bile rose in her throat and that marshy, muddy smell invaded her nostrils. She staggered to the restroom, having become an unfortunate expert in the past forty-eight hours in the art of vomiting. When her hand landed on the handle of the restroom door, off a short hallway beyond the main ballroom, she nearly fell through it.
Inside the door, the upholstered powder room was gone.
She had stopped in twice earlier that evening, and she knew that there ought to be a deep blue bench, right here at the entrance. The wallpaper had been a glowing gold, with large oval mirrors in front of the marble row of sinks. Beyond was the doorway that led to the toilets, more sinks, the ever-present chatter of partygoers moving in and out of the space, washing their hands, exclaiming at their reflections. She knew what was meant to be on the other side of the door.
Instead, Silva was back in front of that crystalline little pool. It was an equinoctial pool, she could see now — the sort that developed in the spring and autumn, after rain and snow, with entire ecosystems dwelling beneath their placid surface. This one was ringed in two circles of toadstools, popping up as the water receded. All around her, where there should have been fluorescent lighting, there were trees. Crooked trees with leering, reaching branches like arms, lining a packed earth path. She could smell the marshiness of the water and the wet, suckingmud around it; could smell the black pine trees, the wild forest stretching out all around her. Above, hung that grotesquely oversized moon, a perfect crescent shimmering down.
She had been here before, Silva realized. But then, she had been alone.
Beside the little pond stood a man. He seemed to have been waiting.
Silva felt her whole body scream, every muscle within her revolting, trying to force her feet to move away from him, to get away, as far away and as quickly as she could.
The man was enchanting. Inhumanly lovely, with high, aristocratic cheekbones and a long jaw. His nose was delicate and slightly upturned, his skin luminous, as if he’d been carved from alabaster. He was dressed for riding. She had never been interested in the equestrian lessons offered at the club, but Silva recognized the habit, over which he wore what seemed to be a light armor, fashioned in gold. His hair was bound back in an intricate braid, leaving his slender, pointed ears unencumbered. As he took her in, his head cocked slightly, a familiar gesture she had watched more than a hundred times before, mirrored in another.
"Oh, you arebeautiful. What a fine trick of fate to have placed me already here, dear heart, seeking what we’ve lost. Otherwise, we might not have received your invitation. The glory of gold calls so sweetly, after all. How fortuitous for us to meet on such a beautiful night."
