My pint-sized mate flaps his wings, drawing his cousin’s attention to the stone deer he’s perched on.
“Oh,” she says softly. “You really are an owl. And you’re sotiny.”
Rowan fluffs his feathers, probably offended. But facts are facts.
Anna looks different at home. Instead of the pressed and polished city council secretary I’m used to seeing, she’s just…Anna. Her hair is down instead of in a chignon, and she’s not wearing any makeup. Her feet are bare. She’s in jeans and a lightweight sweater, holding a mug of coffee.
“Can we come inside?” Ryder asks.
“Oh, of course.” She steps away from the door, inviting us into the foyer. “What’s with the pastries?”
“They were for the tea shop. You want one?” He opens the box and waves his hand over the goods like a big-city street dealer trying to make a sale.
She contemplates her options. “You sure?”
“Go for it.”
She takes a croissant from the box.
I turn around to tell Rowan to hurry up, but he’s left his perch.
“He must have already flown inside,” Ryder says.
“You know where to go,” Anna says. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Do you want to take these to the kitchen?” Ryder asks. “Perhaps your staff will enjoy a little treat.”
Staff.
“You said they’re for the tea shop,” she says.
“No reason to carry them all over town. By the time we’re done, I’ll need to box up a new selection anyway. I’d hate for these to go to waste.”
“Oh, all right.” She accepts the pastries. “I’m sure they’ll like them. Thank you.”
“We’re going to snoop around Rowan’s stuff now,” Ryder says.
Anna laughs. “Have fun.”
“How many people do the Neilfellows employ?” I ask as I quietly follow the elf through the house.
“Let’s see. They have a housekeeper, the maid who helps her, a gardener, and a groom. They used to employ a driver as well, but he retired a few years ago. These days, Mrs. Neilfellow just calls Hudson if she wants to go somewhere.”
The more I learn, the less it makes sense that Mrs. Neilfellow accepted me so quickly. Pedigree is obviously important to these people, and I’m just a little tea pixie from the West Coast.
Rowan waits for us on the floor outside a door.
“This is Rowan’s suite,” Ryder says, letting us in.
“I’m sorry, his what?”
“I know—wild, right?” He looks at Rowan, grinning. “Such a sad, meager existence.”
We step into a living space. It would be modest for a house, but it’s generous for a suite. There are a couple of couches, a television, and lots of bookshelves. The furniture looks antique and expensive, and so does the rug.
A massive four-poster bed is visible through an open doorway at the back of the room. A set of glass French doors to the left appears to lead to a study.
Ryder and I follow Rowan into the bedroom. I look around, curiously taking in the space.
