Their anticipation is electric and bright. It is the cheery yellow of a sunflower, and I think I might be able to feel it even without my magic, for the island’s first Dreaming’s Eve in centuries is only a few days away. I was so young the last time the island came together to celebrate the morphellia bloom, the memory is little more than a few hazy fragments. Two nights of reverie, tinged with the glare of drink and the brilliance of the vines; delicious food from every corner of the mainland and beyond; dancing beneath the light of the second star high above the videntis.
I dip my paintbrush into a shade of yellow that matches the elation in the air, and begin working small flickers of light into the mural of the forest. Even as a Strayed, my favorite part of Dreaming’s Eve had been the murals. Every surface of the city meticulously painted, each depicting a different story or history, all a celebration of what makes our island so special. While everyone else had been drunk on spirits and debauchery, I’d been high on the art.
I wandered the streets for hours, taking in the details of each one. It was a relief from being barraged with the feelings of others without warning. In front of a painting, I could absorb the emotions at my own pace. I could sort through them and decide which were mine and which didn’t fit inside me, a luxury I rarely had.
“Oh Sam,” Adira exclaims from where she’s come up behind me. She drops the pile of silk in her arms, reaching to brush her fingers along a particularly detailed flower. “It’s gorgeous.”
A hot flush rises to my cheeks. “’S’alright,” I mutter, fumbling with the paintbrush like I’ve never held one before. Goldenrod yellow splatters the ground, the mural, and my boots. I blink at the mess for a few long moments, before finally daring to lift my eyes to Adira.
The princess hardly seems to notice the mess of paint, or the mess of man beside it, her attention now focused on the will-o-wisps I painted between the boughs of the trees.
Her hair sways in time with the movements of her fingers, and unbidden, I imagine how it would sway if we somehow forgot everything between us tomorrow night and I spun her around the dance floor. I’ve never attended a Dreaming’s Eve with Adira, as the celebrations had ended with the Aeternalis’ systematic oppression of the pixies and the subsequent death of the vines.
I was fifteen during the last bloom, and had never even dreamed that someone as ethereal and powerful as Adira would look twice at a lowly Strayed.
The moments she did, the small span of time I’d been bathed in the light of her attention, feels like a fever dream now.
If I wasn’t still so debilitated by it, I’d almost believe I imagined the entire thing.
“…don’t you think?”
I blink at Adira’s expectant stare, more heat flooding my cheeks as I realize I lost myself in memory once more while she remains firmly rooted in the present.
She tilts her head in expectation of a response. “Yes,” I answer, because with her, the answer isalwaysyes.
The corner of her lip pulls up in a grin. “You weren’t even listening, Samuel Smeeger.”
I shrug, caught in my lie and not particularly upset about it. “If it was your idea, it was worth agreeing to.”
Adira laughs, and I feel the sound in my blood. Warm, and colored a bright orange, exactly like a sunset.
“What if my idea was forcing everyone in attendance to wear bright pink?”
“Not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“I look spectacular in pink,” Tiernan quips, coming up beside us and dumping a box of napkins unceremoniously to the ground. “Really brings out the natural color in my cheeks.”
“When have you ever worn pink?” I ask, as Tiernan settles beside me and grabs one of the napkins to fold.
“You and Niko don’t have the sole claim on dressing like flamboyant circus performers.”
Adira laughs again, her amusement blooming around her in shades of tangerine. It is effervescent against my skin, and I allow it to sink beneath to bubble beneath my ribs. The slowdeath of the wild mired her in morose shades of brown and gray for so long, I can’t help but to immerse myself in her rare colors.
Tiernan mangles the napkin in haphazard folds before showcasing it in his palm. “Does this look like a swan to you?”
“No,” I reply to his disappointment.
“Chrys explicitly said ‘swan’,” he huffs, balling the napkin up in his fist and tossing it back in the box. “And I’m almost positive she knows how much I hate swans, damn feral beasts.” He shudders, gazing hopelessly at the box. “Do you think she’ll accept some other creature? Maybe a dog?”
“I’m sure your dog will be just as hopeless as your swan.”
Tiernan grabs hold of another napkin, a hot remark at the ready, when the space between us sparks. Willa appears from thin air, sopping wet and terrifyingly furious. Her hair is plastered down her back, water dripping from the sodden tresses and pooling at her feet. Her dress hangs heavy and limp from her shoulders, her lashes beaded together as she blinks at us all.
But far more concerning than her bedraggled appearance is the shadow behind her. To anyone else, it would appear innocuous. A trick of the light. But there is no sun in the Hollows, nor any spotlight that would cast it.
By all accounts, the shadow should not be there.
For a moment, no one speaks, like one wrong word will send Willa spiraling out of control. Tiernan’s forgotten about the napkin, the white cloth dangling between his fingers like a white flag as he gapes at her in surprise.
