That wasn’t all she took from me. “She also stole my first love.”
Her brow furrows. “I thought Nolan was your first love.”
“No. He’s my second. Jonathan was the headmaster’s son. I used to sneak out and meet him by the pond.” He had the prettiest green eyes, and he could recite poetry at the drop of a hat. I’d never met anyone as intelligent or as whimsical as Jonathan. He made all those awkward years of transitioning into womanhood almost bearable. Certainly more exciting.
Lilac waves spill over sun-kissed shoulders as Kerris’s head tilts. “You never mentioned someone named Jonathan.”
Because it’s mortifying to admit that I wasn’t enough to hold his affection. The moment Ivee swanned in with her luscious curves and beautiful hair, I didn’t stand a bloody chance. “A week before graduation, I went to the pond and caught Ivee necking with him instead.”
Kerris’s lips press into a thin line.
“What’s that face about?”
“Don’t get mad.”
Always a sure sign I’m about to do just that.
She brushes back her hair with a flick of her fingers. “It’s just . . . It sounds like the person you should have been mad at was Jonathan. If he cared for you the way you cared for him, he wouldn’t have been tempted to go off with anyone else. Evenif Ivee showed up in your stead, he shouldn’t have been kissing her.”
How dare she try to find reason in this situation.
Can’t she see I’m still angry?
The drama with Jonathan aside: “She still stole my pie.”
“Nia?” Kerris gives my arms a tender squeeze. “I think it’s time to let it go.”
I’ll let it go when Ivee Lynch gives me back my bloody blue ribbon.
3
Maddox
“The hideous briar boar is the shortest and stoutest of boars that can be found amongst the low shrubbery in the northern territories.”
— Surviving the Unseelie Lands, Author Unknown
Ihave never been as thankful for a breeze as I am since relocating my wagon to Rosehill. An apt name for this place because there are many roses and many hills.
I grabbed a rose once, and it stabbed me. How something so beautiful could be so painful is truly a mystery.
A fat bee buzzes from one rose to the next, seeming unconcerned by the thorns.
Bees. Yet another stabby thing in this land of flowers and sunshine. They make a strange buzzing sound when they fly. Although I cannot hear them at present with the constantshhh shhh shhhof my friend Ever dragging his blade across a whetstone.
“Why do you think bees have stripes?” I ask.
Ever does not glance up from his work when he responds. “I do not know.”
Bees create something called honey. Very sweet—almost too sweet. Not the same as honeysuckle, though. That is a plant. There are many plants in the royal garden I now call home. My wagon fits nicely here, although it was difficult to find a place to park it without crushing a few flowers. Not that it mattered in the end. With Biscuits around, no bloom is safe.
I glance over my shoulder toward the barrel top I have called home for the last twenty-five winters. The faded wood is a bit drab against all the color. “Do you know where the Seelie fae sell paint?”
“I do not.” Ever sets the blade and stone aside with a huff, snagging the fire poker from where it rests on my knee.
I had forgotten all about it.
Damn distracting bees.
