There’s no point asking or reminding her that a true friend is there to support and uplift you, not gossip about you the moment you’re out of earshot. If I push the issue, she’ll glower at me all evening, and I don’t want my first proper party at Castle Rose to be overshadowed by her black mood.
Back up the stairs I go, and when I return in an ochre gown that makes me look as flat as the tile beneath my slippers, my mother nods in approval, hands me my parasol, and ushers me out the door toward the hired carriage.
The driver, a saintly man named Martin who continues to collect us despite my mother’s penchant for talking down to him, gives me a wink before I climb into the carriage behind her.
With a crack of his whip, the horses lumber forward, and we’re off.
Our cottage sits at the southwestern edge of Rosehill City, where charming sandstone buildings line both sides of the street and flowers spill from every nook and cranny, a waterfall of spring hues on summer’s crest. More dangle from hooks on either side of the iron lampposts.
Seelie fae flood the streets, as bright and colorful as the blooms themselves. Fae come from all around to visit—and for good reason.
The Black Rose Pub has the best drink specials; Madame Ella’s Salon designs the most fashionable dresses; Café LaMonte bakes the most exquisite desserts.
Everywhere you look, people are smiling, excited to greet each day, their happiness rivaling my own. Tyrannical mother aside, it is still a glorious afternoon as the carriage bobbles along the cobbled street curving toward the whimsical Castle Rose.
When I was little, I would peer out my window at the castle’s fanciful spires and roof as blue as the sky itself, dreaming of one day becoming a princess. Now I realize how much better it is to have my favorite cousin wearing Willowhaven’s crown.
I can enjoy the luxuries of the castle with none of the responsibilities. Yes, being cousin to the queen is a pleasure indeed.
Mother clicks her fingers, dragging my gaze toward her perfectly poised form swathed in a stiff navy dress. Classic. Modest. Rigid. Cordelia Quill summed up in three words. “Sit back. You do not want to appear too eager.”
Heaven forbid. Our family’s reputation would never recover from such a terrible scandal as eagerness.
I press my spine into the cushion and bite my tongue, swallowing all the words I’d like to say as she withdraws a smallpot of rouge from her handbag. “Take some of this. Your lips are far too pale. You look like a corpse.”
A harlot corpse. Exactly what a woman wants to hear before a royal garden party attended by Rosehill’s elite.
Nolan won’t let them be pale for long,I muse as I swipe the color over my lips. This is why I usually steer clear of the stuff. Nolan doesn’t look as fetching in rouge as one might think.
I return the pot, but still my mother does not smile.
Would it really be that difficult for her to pretend she’s proud of me, just this once? We’re all alone in here; it’s not as if anyone else would overhear.
The carriage rolls to a stop in front of the castle’s gray stone walls. The turrets seem even taller than when we were here for the coronation. Imagine standing all the way up there, admiring the clouds and picturesque view of the cityscape. Tripping over the balustrade. Falling to your death.
Needless to say, heights and I do not get along.
Yet another reason to be relieved my cousin Kerris lives here and not me.
A cool sweat breaks across my brow, and I force myself to look away, meeting my mother’s disapproving gaze once more. “I suppose you’ll have to do,” she says.
“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Mother.” Forcing a tight smile, I reach for the carriage door and leap out before she can make me feel any worse.
Cordelia hisses that I’ve forgotten my parasol, but I pretend not to hear as I hurry up the red carpet leading through the arched gates and into the castle’s magnificent gardens.
Fae mill between hydrangea bushes laden with thick blooms, delicate champagne flutes clutched in gloved hands. Tall tables have been placed randomly throughout the space, each with golden candelabras resting atop blush-pink tablecloths that match the roses climbing the trellises.
With my mother so far behind, the whole world feels alive and full of promise, a deep inhale after too long beneath waves of disdain.
I weave through a sea of unfamiliar fae, searching for any I might know. The women in attendance have dressed in their finest gowns, with glittering jewels resting on hefty bosoms. Some I recognize, but we’re not close enough—and I’m not desperate enough—to engage in conversation.
A hand appears from between two high boxwoods at the start of the hedge maze, capturing mine.
The man I’ve loved for the last four years sweeps me into the leafy shadows and his embrace, sending the weight of my mother’s displeasure drifting away on the balmy breeze.
Nolan’s dark chocolate curls tickle my neck when he presses a warm kiss to my throat. “I love your dress,” he murmurs against my collarbone. “Is it new?”
I cling to his linen-clad shoulders, the strength in my legs evaporating and my stomach tripping over itself. “Not really.”
