Lou hands me a small mirror. I glance at my reflection and, annoyingly, Wren is right. The blue flowers bring out my eyes, and the crown somehow doesn’t look ridiculous. It looks good.
Wren’s smile softens as he studies me. “You need tiny flowers in your beard, too.”
I make a face. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
Lou’s already holding out a little handful of tiny blue blossoms. “Push them in gently. They’ll stay.”
Wren takes them from her and steps in close, close enough that the sounds of the festival dim for a second. His concentration goes serious as he carefully tucks the little flowers into my beard one by one, fingertips brushing my jaw.
I hold still for him. When he finishes, he leans back just enough to admire his work, and his expression turns almost dazed.
“Beautiful,” he whispers.
I clear my throat. “Your turn.”
His cheeks flush, and he ducks his head with a small smile that makes him look younger. Softer. “Which color?”
I consider him. Pink would be pretty, but I know he’s still a little sore about not inheriting his mother’s pink hair.
“How do you feel about purple?”
“Purple is perfect.”
Lou shows us three different crowns, but the second I see the one made of lavender and lilac with delicate garlands trailing down the back, I know it’s his. I lift it and settle it on his hair carefully, adjusting it until it sits just right.
Wren looks like he stepped out of a fairytale. My griffin preens so hard I have to fight the urge to touch him again.
Lou makes a soft, satisfied noise. “You two are adorable.”
“We are, aren’t we?” Wren says and loops our arms together.
I pay before he can keep talking and drag him away while Lou laughs.
We wander Main Street with no real destination after that, just taking in the booths and the crowd as the festival swells around us. There are handmade soaps, pottery, honey jars, spell work, fresh flowers, preserves, woven blankets, enchanted jewelry, and more food than I think the town could reasonably consume in one day.
Wren chatters about which performances he wants to catch later. The wood nymph show in the community garden. The lanterns after sunset. The hammock grove someone set up near the edge of town for stargazing. I find myself wanting to give him every bit of it.
I’ve never shared a hammock with anyone. Never laid under the stars with someone pressed against my side just because I wanted to. The thought of doing it with Wren settles into me. Maybe tonight, if things go well. After the festival winds down, I can steal him away from the noise and let him curl up against me while we watch the sky.
He laughs at something a passing vendor says. For a little while, it’s easy to pretend the day belongs only to us.
Then Wren stops walking. The shift is so abrupt I nearly stumble into him. He goes completely still in the middle of Main Street, fingers tightening painfully around mine. All the color drains from his face in one awful rush. His breathing turns shallow. His pupils blow wide.
“Wren?”
His eyes dart across the crowd, frantic and unfocused, like he’s searching for something only he can see.
“He’s here,” he whispers.
My stomach drops.
The festival noise keeps going around us. Laughter, music, the creak of wagons, the murmur of conversation. But for meit all goes muffled and distant beneath the rush of blood in my ears.
I step closer. “I’m here. Lord Yelling can’t get to you. You’re surrounded by half the town.”
Wren jerks away from me so violently our joined hands break apart.
