“For being my friend.”
Lila stills in my arms, falling silent.
Oh,I think.I’ve already messed up.
My arms drop as I pull back. Lila frowns, chewing on her bottom lip.
Something sinks in my chest. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume…We don’t have to be friends, if that’s not what you want.” The words are stones in my heart.
“It’s not that, it’s—Avery.” She plants her hands on my shoulders, looking me square in the eyes. My discomfort urges me to look away, but I don’t as Lila takes a breath and starts again. “No one has ever called me friend first. Usually, I’m the one who cares more.”
The one who cares more.
“Well, I care,” I say. “A lot. In fact, I was hoping we could…” I clear my throat, my pulse pounding. I feel like a child again, asking if I could sit in an open spot on the long bench. “We could spend time together, whenever you’re free?”
Lila grins, nudging the door open. “I’m free now.”
A cacophony of color jumps out as I follow her in. Swatches, fabric scraps, and pieces of parchment are arranged in various shapes and colors in spiraling patterns, forming a collage that resembles a stained-glass rendering of a meadow, and in its center, a grand tree.
“Lucan’s Tree,” I whisper, studying the collection. Every piece has been intentionally and intelligently placed to appear as accidentally beautiful. I face her. “Lila, you’re an artist.”
She flushes. “I’m not sure about that.”
“Where did you find all of this?”
She shrugs. “I collect colors in the trash. Scraps from theseamstress, spices from the kitchen. The High Fae expect perfection, so that leads to an exorbitant amount of waste. But it’s not truly waste—it’s just not perfect.”
“I prefer imperfections,” I say, my eyes trailing to a piece of parchment stuck to the wall. It’s a sketch of different blocks, with labels scribbled inside. In the top right corner are two words:The Pith.
It’s the royal quarters in isolation, a simple square divided into four quadrants, to represent the different apartments. The top two are labeledSun SalonandMoon Salonfor the king and queen, respectively. Reflections of each other, they consist of linking chambers that, starting from the outside in, are the antechamber and reception room, the dining room, the lounge, the private library, the bedroom, the wardrobe, and a large bathing suite that connects the two salons. The two southern apartments are both labeledSalon of Stars,with fewer rooms and labels. My finger traces these apartments.
“For the royal children,” Lila says behind me.
“How did you figure this out?”
“My father was a Reign Scarp—he cleaned and stocked the chimneys, oiled door hinges, wiped windows, cleaned tapestries. There are fireplaces, doors, windows, and tapestries in every room.” Her voice deflates with each word.
“You miss him.”
Reaching for the parchment, she peels it from the stone, caresses the etchings. “He would take me on his rounds. Tell me Unesse legends as I passed him the wrench, the rag, the oil. He painted the most vivid pictures.”
“And you’re continuing his legacy.”
“Perhaps.”
I nod, understanding the wound in her voice. It’s not something to argue or gloss over. Instead, I ask what I always wish faeries would ask about my mother.
“What was his name?” I say.
Lila gives a small smile. “Dorin.”
“May Dorin wander well.”
“May he wander well,” she replies.
Leaning forward, I notice that the intersection of all four apartments has been scratched out, redrawn, and scratched again. “What’s that?”
The next thing I know, Lila is pushing the parchment into my hands and crossing the room. She presses her ear to the door, checks the lock. Checks the lock again. My spine stiffens, cold air wafting off the stones. I say nothing as she reaches her cot and pats the mattress next to her. When I sit, I force my fingers to loosen from the crumpled paper.
