I bend down and lower my voice. “Lydia was very good at listening to our parents. I was the naughty one.”
The boy nods sagely. “Uncle Emmett says Queen Lydia is very, very good.”
I’ve never seen a faerie child before. The boy looks no older than five, with big brown eyes and a mop of curly hair. His sister looks to be about seven, with spindly legs, her hair in two braids, the same fawn color as her brother’s.
Emmett sets the girl down, out of breath and laughing. “Uncle Emmett?” I ask in a whisper.
“No blood relation, obviously. I just spend a lot of time here.”
From behind the bar, a woman waves a towel. “Sit, eat!” she commands; then she pauses and her big brown eyes go wide. “Who’s your friend?”
Emmett glances to me, then back to the woman. “Nan, this is Ivy Benton.”
I turn and the woman gasps. Her eyes fill with tears, and then she rushes from behind the bar and wraps me in a bone-crushing hug.
“But she’s—” she sputters, then leans back and grabs my face with both of her hands. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint?”
“Disappoint?” she gasps. “This is the best news I’ve heard in nearly a century!”
She releases me, then wraps Emmett up in a similarly tight embrace. “My darling boy,” she sniffles. “I’m so happy for you.”
Emmett’s eyes well with tears, too, but he blinks them away rapidly and runs a hand through his dark hair.
The woman gestures to one of the empty tables and brings over a pot of tea and four cups. “I want to hear the whole story. Fennick!” she bellows. “Come quick!”
A startled-looked ginger-haired man appears in the doorway to the kitchen. He wipes his hands on his apron. “What is it now, dear? Oh! Emmett’s here! How lovely to see you.”
“Ivy’s here!” Nan shouts.
The man, Fennick, shakes his head. “No, dear, she’s dead.”
I raise my hand awkwardly. “Alive, actually. Hello.”
“She’s alive!” Nan pops up behind my shoulder and echoes with glee.
Soon the four of us have steaming teacups in front of us and the children (whose names I learn are Orin and Veda) are sent to play in the garden.
Like all faeries, Fennick and Nan don’t look any older than their early twenties, but there’s a parental air about them. Maybe it’s the crinkles by Nan’s warm brown eyes or the gentle way Fennick holds his hands in his lap.
“Tell us the whole story, dear,” Nan says. I take a sip of tea and begin with the night of my wedding to Bram, though I suspect she knows that part already.
“After Bram had Emmett taken away, I went with the other girls to the Tower to confront Queen Mor.”
“Bram told me you were trampled in the chaos,” Emmett says, his voice thin with pain.
I want to reach out to him, but I don’t know if he’d accept my touch. How do I comfort him over my own death? How do I make him feel better about something that was never even true?
“I am well,” I say, but of course I’m not.
I continue my story, telling them about how the court moved down to Bath, how we found Queen Mor in the Roman ruins, how I’m doing my best to keep the country functioning as Bram’s chaos reigns.
“Our Emmett is the same way,” Nan says affectionately.
“I was going to ask how you all got to know each other,” I say.
“Emmett has been such a help to us townsfolk,” Fennick replies. “We wouldn’t have a tavern at all if it wasn’t for him.”
