“I don’t know.” Seren struggles to sift through the crowd’s emotions, except now the curiosity and attraction and joy all feel sinister. His empathy shies away, afraid of being hurt again. “They only slipped for an instant. It may be nothing. It’s not a crime to hate me, and they may not intend harm.”
“Don’t discount your instincts,” Nevander says quietly. “Even if there’s no threat, we can leave at once.”
Seren doesn’t understand. “There’s no need.”
This is too important. Seren needs to build alliances, to consolidate power, to find one brother and avenge another.
Nevander’s hand falls next to his. Almost a caress in this public place. “You don’t have to suffer.”
Seren’s breath hitches. The idea of hiding from this is laughable, but he can’t draw up any mirth. “I’ve endured far worse for far longer,” Seren says, and regrets it for the sudden pain in Nevander’s eyes. He covers Nevander’s gauntlet in his gloved hand. “Check the wards, then return to my side, Lord Guardian.”
The instruction rebalances them both. Nevander rises to his feet. “I’ll leave you with Idalia and…” He glances down the steps, and new tension reveals itself in his sudden polite relaxation. “Lady Lysandra.”
Lysandra carries herself with such self-assurance, she seems to be doing Seren a favor by bowing. Approaching with permission is another favor. Her garb is simple, like a Wymond farmer’s work clothes, if any farmer hemmed their trousers in gold thread.
“Excellent,” Lysandra says of her son’s retreating back. “I’d hoped to catch you alone.”
Seren rubs his fingers, though no crumbs have stuck to his gloves. “Why is that?”
Lysandra shrugs. “Proof of concept. Rumor has it you’re rarely seen without him.”
Seren can’t tell if she’s insulting him or not. “As rumors go, that’s quite tame.”
The idea of rumors crawls uncomfortably through his mind. All this attention doesn’t go away when Seren leaves the room. Fae throughout the palace, the realm, think about Seren, and those thoughts are colored with emotion.
In another realm, Edith and Alard still hate him.
“And Nevander is disappointingly calm about farewells,” Lysandra continues. “I leave tomorrow for my workshop, to begin forging the crown.”
“Thank you,” Seren says, seeking out Tansy on the dance floor.
He needs to send Tansy back soon, unless this thing with Gevain goes anywhere. But if Tansy binds himself to Summer, what will Seren do about Edith and Alard?
“Quite the entertaining festival,” Lysandra says pointedly.
Seren barely keeps himself from apologizing. The sting of malice has left him shaken. “I don’t mean to be rude.”
He braces his shields against what surely must be annoyance. Offense. But Lysandra’s features soften, and she gestures to the padded bench. “May I sit, Your Highness?”
“You may,” Seren allows, wary of her kindness.
Lysandra sits, shedding her imperious posture. “I knew your mother,” she begins, a line Seren’s heard too many times. “As Summer King, you will match her in greatness.”
“How can you know that?” Seren asks.
Lysandra smiles. “The task is not so immense as it seems. You don’t need to be a supreme ruler. Simply a steward. A companion to this realm.”
“That sounds too simple to be true,” Seren says, even as the idea settles comfortably. A companion. He could do that. “I’ll still need that crown, though.”
“That you will.” Lysandra plucks a pastry from the floating tray. “I am surprised nobody summoned me, given the urgency of the matter.”
“What do you mean?” Seren asks.
Lysandra’s emotions remain guarded, but annoyance shows on her face. “Someone should have sent for me as soon as the crown broke. I had to take the initiative when I got fed up with waiting.”
That doesn’t make sense. Nevander had said he would send for her, and he can’t lie. But all this time later, Seren can’t recall Nevander’s precise words. Whether he’d left any loopholes.
“I thought someone had,” Seren says, shaken.
