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“Love lost is freedom found.”
— The Bitterness of Hope
In the Seelie kingdom of Willowhaven, fae are not permitted to marry before the age of twenty-five. Some say it has to do with maturity, but that’s a load of bollocks.
The elders simply forgot what it was like to be young, desperately in love, and anxious for your life to begin. In forgetting, they plucked an arbitrary age out of thin air for the hell of it.
Whoever gave them the authority to delay our happiness deserves a good slap in the face.
My only solace is that I know my future is secure.
I’m one of the lucky fae who chose a mate years ago, so there’s no need to join the others as they scurry around searching for someone suitable to marry. There’s freedom in knowing. A confidence those still scrambling in the twilight of their twenty-fourth year won’t experience until they find a love of their own.
In three weeks, I’ll propose to the love of my life: Nolan Graham.
When we wed, I can finally move the hell out of my parents’ house.
Why am I so anxious to leave the quaint stone cottage on Briar Lane, with its fresh thatch roof and lovely climbing vines?
“Nia Josephine Quill!” The shrill voice breaks over me like shards of glass, ripping the smile from my face.
The answer to that question is one Cordelia Hanson Quill.
My mother.
I love the woman; really, I do. The trouble is that sometimes it feels as if she doesn’t love me.
On days like today, I wonder if her love is born more from duty than genuine affection. If she’s even capable of the latter.
“Coming, Mother!” It’s better to acknowledge her now than to have Cordelia stomp up the stairs and discover that the entirety of my closet has been emptied onto my bed. A “pigsty”—that’s what she calls my room.
I do clean it. Sometimes. The problem is that there are too many other enjoyable things I’d rather be doing.
Life is for living, after all.
Cleaning can wait.
Quickly, I finish lacing the black ribbons on my corset, loving the way they contrast with the white silk almost as much as I love the tight boning that lifts my meager chest, making me look like I have more than just nipples on skin and bone.
Nolan is going to love this dress on me almost as much as he’ll enjoy removing it after the party.
I catch the layers of fluted skirts to keep from tripping down the stairs that wind into our foyer. Mother waits with two parasols in hand and her sunhat tied smartly beneath her chin, covering her stark white hair. When she sees me, her lips flatten into her favorite expression.
Where will she find fault today?
Her nose wrinkles like it did the time we went for a stroll by a river and came upon a rotting fish, its eyes missing and rib bones protruding through its scaly flesh. “That corset makes you look like a harlot,” she says.
Oh, a harlot. That’s a new one.
“Thank you.” She has only confirmed that Nolan is bound to love it. Now to add the black kid gloves I left on the hall table, and my “harlot” ensemble will be complete.
Her hand snaps out like a viper, coiling around my wrist. “That was not meant as a compliment, and you know it. You will not leave this house without proper attire. I’ll not have you embarrassing me in front of the King and Queen of Willowhaven.”
My cousin wouldn’t have a problem with what I’m wearing, and her new husband only has eyes for her, so he probably won’t notice me at all.
Cordelia’s true concern is whether her circle of “friends” will deem me suitable. Does she ever tire of trying to one-up Mrs. Marple? Does she ever grow bored of attempting to outshine Mrs. Hinkle?
