“Tiernan,” Revelin says, breaking into my thoughts, “you’re sure everything will go smoothly?”
“On this trip? Fuck no. Nothing has gone to plan,” I reply with a half-smile meant to reassure both him and myself. “But I have contingencies.”
With a quick glance around to ensure no prying ears are within range, I slip my phone from my pocket. The sleek device feels cold and out of place in the realm of Faerie, yet it’s my lifeline to the outside world. Tag, my tiger employee who’s more shadow than man, would know how to reach Esmerelda Salazar—the only person capable of spinning straw into gold with managing events of this magnitude.
The only female heir to one of the Seven Families will have someone I can bring in to get between my friend, these crooked politicians, his abusive father, and his soon-to-be-dead manager.
My fingers fly over the screen, composing a message with all the urgency I can muster without sounding desperate.
BOSS: Need Esmerelda Salazar’s expertise for the prince’s tour. Issues with Amethyst. Contact me.
Sent.
The word flashes on the screen, and a weight lifts from my chest, even as additional concerns pile on. If anyone can maneuver us through this minefield, it’s Esmerelda. She’s handled her misogynistic father and brothers will immense skill as she battled to be chosen as the official heir. Her calm demeanor during their most spectacular galas turned potential disasters into triumphs with her cunning strategies and silver tongue.
Yes, I think she’ll have the hook-up to someone who can fix this bullshit.
“Something up?” Revelin inquires, eyeing my phone.
“Insurance,” I say, slipping the device back into my pocket. “We’re playing higher stakes than usual. We can’t afford missteps.”
He nods, understanding the subtext. We’ve been through enough close calls to appreciate the value of a well-placed ally.
“Rev,” I murmur as we ascend the stone steps of Amber Hollow’s town hall, “I’ve got contingency plans. If anything goes sideways, follow my lead.”
The Prince offers me a tight nod, his azure eyes reflecting a mingling of surprise and relief. The weight of promises made—to a father who rules with iron resolve, to a new family, and to his fans—rests heavily upon him. I can almost feel the pressure squeezing him as we stride into the marble foyer.
As we pass under the archway, my gaze flickers across the space, instinctively cataloging potential threats or eavesdroppers. It’s not just about being watched; it’s about knowing who might be watching. In Faerie, every mirror has ears, and every shadow could be a spy. The glint of a camera lens catches my attention, but so does the subtle shift of a painting’s eyes—a portrait of a long-deceased dignitary that seems all too interested in our arrival.
These motherfuckers are testing me and I haven’t even met them yet.
“Keep your voice down when we’re inside,” I mutter, less for Revelin’s sake and more as a reminder to myself. Secrecy is our ally today.
We’re ushered through a labyrinthine series of corridors, the opulence of the conference room at odds with the Harvest Court’s usual frugality. A grand chandelier bathes the room in golden light, casting elongated shadows across the walls adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of past glories. The chairs are plush, inviting, but we do not sit—not yet.
Mayor Hawthorne stands as we enter, a man whose persona screams ‘harvest festival’—round-cheeked and ebullient, his ruddy complexion akin to the ripest apple in the orchard. He begins with a flourish, reciting traditions and treaties with the eagerness of a child recounting their favorite fairy tale. But there’s a practiced air to his enthusiasm; this is a performance well-rehearsed.
“Amber Hollow values its customs,” he booms, gesturing broadly, “and we take pride in upholding the treaties that have sustained peace for generations.”
I can’t help but wonder if those same treaties will protect us from the political quagmire threatening to suck us under.
Then she steps forward—Vice Mayor Ember Sagebrush, her name as fitting as the fiery cascade of hair that frames her face. She’s like a walking embodiment of the deep woods—mysterious and undeniably captivating. Her presence alone seems to pull the oxygen from the room, leaving me fighting the urge to bolt—or to bash my head against the solid oak table just to break the spell she casts.
Now it’s all becoming clear.
“Prince Revelin, Tiernan,” she purrs, her voice a melody that promises secrets and seduction. “We should review the week’s agenda.”
Ember Sagebrush leans in, her voice wrapping around each word like a vine as she details the week’s events. “A charity ball to honor the Harvest Court’s generosity,” she begins, and I can practically hear the rustle of silk gowns and clinking of fine crystal in her timbre. “Visits to three of Amber Hollow’s esteemed educational institutions will follow.”
I fix my gaze on the paper where the schedule is printed; the words blurring before me. Three schools. A knot forms in my stomach—there are four schools in Amber Hollow.
They’re excluding one; I bet I know why.
Under the table, I slide my phone from my pocket and type swiftly, a silent plea for intervention. Tag must sense the urgency when he reads, ‘Need Esmerelda Salazar. Tonight. Secure line.’ I slip the device away just as Ember finishes with a flourish, oblivious to the undercurrents she’s stirred.
“Excluding Willowshade Academy is not an oversight we can afford,” I interject, my voice calm but insistent. Revelin’s eyes flick tomine, a mix of gratitude and relief in their depths. “All schools deserve the prince’s attention. It speaks to the inclusivity of his tour.”
“Indeed,” Revelin adds, a firm edge to his tone that wasn’t there moments ago. “Every child in Amber Hollow is important. Our presence should send that message unequivocally.”
