Silva wasn’t sure that she had a choice.
She didn’t particularly like this level of care coming from him. It was forced, contrived, rooted in guilt and not because he actually knew her preferences and gladly made adjustments in his own life to make her comfortable. There was no jug of apple cider in the refrigerator, the quilt was not her favoritecolor, and the water glass was from the set they’d been gifted for their wedding, not one chosen specifically for her smaller grip. Nothing was done forher. . . but he was trying.
Silva considered that perhaps it was time she lowered the bar of her expectations. It was unlikely she would ever meet someone who considered her first in everything ever again, and until she broughthimhome at last, she would be forever disappointed.
The very least she could do, she decided, was to throw herself into improving her performance at every level.
Their return to the club was fêted gently, the first step of initiation into that coveted role of Elvish parents, and she pretended that it wasn’t drab and terrible to the best of her ability. For the next several months, she gave an award-worthy performance.
She volunteered for the fundraiser committee, helped organize an afternoon luncheon to raise money for the tennis club, and offered to co-host an afternoon of croquet to benefit the youth society once the pitch reopened for the season. She recommitted herself fully to the role, reminding herself every day that now she had her daughter to think of . . . but Silva knew she needed to keep her eye on the finish line. She might have been miserable here, but this place, this life — they weren’t her endgame.
Her convalescence had given her much time to think, mentally reviewing each and every moment of the past several years with one of her little journals on her lap, things that hadn’t made sense at the time, things she’d brushed aside. Phrases that overlapped, passing comments slotting together like puzzle pieces.
The Court of Flowers loves beautiful things. They will gladly buy off your bride price, as long as you’ve not taken up with one of the Court of Night. The Court of Flowers will pick their teethwith your bones, girl. We do not wish to make enemies of the Night's Court.
Too many connections. Too many to ignore.
The cost of her key was one she would not get back, Silva understood. She could never go back to ignorance. She could never go back to innocence. She could never go back to the elf she’d been before she set down this path, but neither could she stop, and she was determined to put her newfound understanding to work.
When her mother called, tentatively suggesting that she and Silva’s grandmother come visit, Silva saw her opening.
She would go to Bridgeton and find the florist. The woman was a charlatan, a huckster, as phony as her highlights and as false as her veneers, but there were too many little connections, too many things to ignore. She was a contact of the Court of Flowers. The flowers she had provided for the event were clearly not fromtheirside of the veil.She has to be a Wisp. It was the only explanation Silva could think of that made sense, which meant the florist was her next target.
She would return to Cevanorë to visit her family for a few weeks, giving her the time she needed to carry out her plan. Tannar barely put up a fight, only frowning a bit when she suggested that she would spend the full month away, giving her mother and grandmother the time with her they craved. She suspected, after all that happened, that he was a bit relieved she was leaving for a time.
Which was how she found herself at the little sidewalk café, after contacting the number she had obtained from the human man at the hotel.I’m interested in booking your services. She made sure to drop the name of the hotel manager as the one who had passed along the information, fawning over the woman’s talents, professing that she hoped they could get together very soon.
It had not taken long. She was free to meet that very afternoon if it suited Silva, and wasdelightedto hear that she had been impressed by their previous work, giving her the name of a café right there in the city, just a few blocks away from the hotel.
Easier than drinking a goblin under the table.And more than enough time for you to have lunch first. She needed to listen to her body, the human doctors had told her. Eat when she was hungry, and while it was important she ate healthfully, indulging her cravings was to be expected, no matter how strange they were.
She’d indulged her craving once, at her mother-in-law’s house.
There was work being done on their street, barricades put up to prevent through traffic, and Tannar had fretted over the thin possibility of her needing medical care and the ambulance being hamstrung by the roadwork. She’s attempted to quell the fear as the silly overreaction she knew it was, but Silva suspected her husband went to sleep nightly still hearing her father’s voice ringing in anger. They’d spent the night with her in-laws as a result.
Something caught her nose sometime in the evening, cloying and sweet, making her mouth water. Eventually, she realized it was coming from a large bush in the front yard, one that bloomed showy white flowers at night. Silva had tried to put the smell from her mind, her nose twitching every time she caught a trace of the sweet floral aroma from the open window, her hands tightened around the armchair she’d been sitting in as if to keep herself in place. She’d retired early that night, hoping sleep would be enough to forget the smell entirely.
When she came down for breakfast the next morning, her mother-in-law was crying dramatic, noisy tears. Someone had vandalized their property, she’d wailed, attacking her prized Ballerina Datura, leaving the blooms shredded on the lawn.
“Just kids,” her father-in-law grumbled. “They probably went on a spree up the block. Fortunately, nothing of value was damaged.”
The dismissive explanation had only increased the volume of the tears, and Silva understood where Tannar had learned his marital emotional intelligence.
“Well, whoever it was, they’ll know it was a bad idea when they wind up in the hospital,” Tannar consoled his mother, only slightly more sympathetic. “You always used to yell at me about how poisonous that plant is.”
Cold comfort for his mother, she’d thought. It was interesting to her how different the hierarchy between the sexes was here compared to what she was used to. Matriarchs were the pinnacle of the food chain at Cevanorë, and while they were every bit as obnoxious as elves elsewhere, husbands knew their place. It seemed the opposite was true here, the Elvish community adopting more human-like patriarchal tendencies, their females diminished, instead of the directors. Silva might have been more sympathetic to her mother-in-law’s plight if she hadn’t been so keen on upholding the backward standard. She considered herself a girl’s girl, and couldn’t fathom letting the men in the community thinktheywere the ones in charge.
She had packed her little overnight bag with slow hands that morning, still tasting the sap of those flowers on her lips, her little passenger satisfied, no matter the cost.
Her cravings were a liability. She wanted sweet oat cakes with butter made from cat’s milk. That, and whatever that stew had been in the Court of Winter, cravings she had a feeling would be a bit harder to indulge than pickles and ice cream. Failing that, Silva had gotten into the habit of reading her menu choices out loud, her little wing making her preferences known.
“An order of the bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, and the asparagus and mushroom risotto? Will that be all?”
The restaurant she’d chosen reminded her of the trendy gastropub in Cambric Creek, all dark wood and rich colors, pub-like in its interior. It felt fitting for the occasion.
“Can we also have a loaf of the dark beer bread? With brown butter and honey. Maybe with a cup of the onion soup. Oh, and an iced tea.Unsweetened, please.”
The server squinted suspiciously as Silva headed the menu back with a beaming smile, turning away after a moment, shaking her head.
