The nymphs are screaming, in delight or panic, I can’t tell. Their hands are everywhere, pulling at my leather clothes, weaving flowers into my hair. My skin is a second skin now, too tight, making it hard to breathe. The satyrs are all pounding the table, hooves drumming like a war chant, and Zomas is still holding my hand. His smile is as sharp as a knife.
I try to shrink away from him, but the nymphs won’t let me. I want to vanish into my own ribcage, crawl down my own throat and hide under the floorboards of my own body. Instead, I have to keep smiling, or at least keep my mouth closed, because when I open it the only sound that wants to come out is a scream.
Why would a satyr even want to marry me?It makes no sense. I’m not even a fae. I’m a human, and not even a good one.I’ve got scars all over my back, my skin is dry and rough, and my last bath was at the hands of a merman who wanted to enslave me. How do I get out of this without insulting him? How do I even say no?
Because I'm going to say no. It's just about how I do it.
I try, for a second, to catch Ashton’s eye. Maybe he’ll have a plan. Maybe he can talk us out of it, or talk them into something else. But he’s on the other side of the table, two nymphs hanging off his arms, and he looks as lost as I feel.
Zomas leans in, his horns glinting in the lantern-light. “Are you happy, Chosen One?” His breath is hot and smells like fermenting fruit. “Does this please you?”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I try to shake my head, and my head sort of wobbles in a circle. He beams.
“Good!” he shouts. “Tonight, the maze has a queen!” He raises his goblet, wine sloshing down his fur. “Let us prepare the wedding!”
The cheer that follows is so loud my ears ring. Nymphs pour more wine, satyrs jump up onto the benches, and a fox-headed woman starts shrieking in a language I don’t understand. The table is cleared faster than I'd think possible. Someone rips the tablecloth off and ties it around my shoulders like a cape. I grab my pack and slip it on under the tablecloth, not wanting to lose my only possessions. A nymph with dragonfly wings kisses me on the mouth, and it feels like she's left her lip-print in gold dust.
Through the chaos, Ashton stands, putting his own pack on. He looks weirdly dignified, even with nymphs clinging to him. He glances at me, and there's something sharp and desperate in his eyes, then he puts on a show smile, wide as the horizon.
He climbs onto the table, raising his arms, and the entire room hushes as if a spell’s been cast. He bows to Zomas. “Lord of the Feast,” he says, voice clear as bells, “it is an honor. Truly. But?—”
Zomas holds up a hand. “No buts!” His eyes blaze. “Tonight is a celebration! You will walk my bride to the altar, as is tradition.”
A few guests shriek in approval. I want to vomit.
Ashton laughs, but there’s a catch in it. “Of course, my lord. But—” and here he gives a little theatrical sigh, “I must protest. It would be terribly bad luck, in both fae and human tradition, to marry a lady who is already engaged.”
The silence is instant. Absolute.
Every nymph freezes, eyes wide. Every satyr’s jaw drops open. Zomas blinks, like he’s been smacked with a fish.
The nymph with dragonfly wings lets go of my hand. “Engaged?” she whispers, scandalized.
Zomas looks at me, then Ashton, then back at me. “To whom?” he says, and the room echoes it, “To whom? To whom?”
Ashton bows, hand on his heart, but his eyes are burning. “To me, of course,” he says, and then, with a little grin, “We are madly in love.”
The nymphs shriek again, but this time it’s a discordant, angry sound. A satyr in the back throws a chunk of bread at Ashton, and it bounces off his shoulder. The fox-headed woman screams something that makes Zomas’s nostrils flare.
I want to melt through the floor, but instead I have to play along. Ashton’s counting on me. I look at him, then at Zomas, then at the table. I try to find the words, but all I can think is, what if they just kill us?
Zomas’s eyes narrow. He sets his goblet down, slowly and deliberately, and stands to his full height. He’s taller than any man I’ve ever met, and when he stands, the clearing shrinks. The air gets thicker, building into something dangerous.
He walks the length of the table, never breaking eye contact with Ashton, and I follow slowly behind, trying to close the distance between Ashton and I. The satyrs part for him, someshuffling backwards, others staring in awe. He stops just short of Ashton and leans in. For a second I think he’ll bite.
Instead, he laughs. It’s a deep, ugly sound. “A joke!” he roars. “A good one! But the gods do not like liars, wind prince.”
Ashton doesn’t back down. “It’s no lie,” he says, and he reaches for my hand, drawing me up onto the table beside him.
My heart is thundering so hard I think everyone must hear it.
He turns to me, eyes pleading. “Tell them, darling.”
I mumble, “It’s true. We’re engaged.”
The fox-headed woman faints on the spot. Two nymphs fan her with the remains of a pie crust.
For a second, the only sound is Zomas’s breath.
