“Oh, I almost forgot!” Folly calls out. “Hummingbird said not to worry about the buttons!”
That’s concerning. Seren wouldn’t have worried about buttons without that reassurance.
He twists his new topaz ring as he enters his bedroom. The one without magic, that somehow gleams brighter than the others. A threshold gift. A token of change. Seren hasn’t prepared anything for Nevander, and he casts aimlessly forsomething to give. He has so many things now, but so few feel like his.
Inside his closet—and it’s still strange having a closet big enough to stand in, with a mirror and vanity—Seren unwraps the bundle. A pile of deep berry silk and cool brown leather greets him, lustrous in the lantern light. Seren untangles everything carefully. The knee-high boots are easy to identify, brown leather with gold and lavender ornaments. The rest is more mysterious. He sorts it out with trepidation.
Folly was right. The buttons are worrying. They’re pretty enough, pale gold rosettes. There’s just hundreds of the tiny things. Seren will have to call for help. Nevander wouldn’t mind lending a hand.
Except Folly said not to worry.
Seren unfastens the first tiny button. Its neighbor helpfully untwists from its own buttonhole. The rest follow suit, unbuttoning in a rustling flurry.
“Aren’t you clever,” Seren says, delighted, and begins changing.
The buttons turn out to be the simplest part. When he fastens one, the rest fasten in turn. The strappy leather parts aren’t as complicated as expected either.
Everything is just sotight.
The dark berry silk is opaque beneath the matching floral lace, covering Seren from wrists and ankles all the way to his chin. He barely shows any skin, but the suit exposes the precise shape of his body.
At least the undergarments are secure. He doesn’t need to give that much of a show. As it is, Seren considers switchinglast-minute to more familiar finery, festival be damned. But that would insult Hummingbird and the Lords of Elsewhere, and sunset is nearing. Seren doesn’t have time to make new decisions.
He feels more dressed after magically buttoning the knee-high boots and matching elbow-length gloves. He’s never felt leather as thin and supple as these gloves, adorned with gold and lavender flowers. There are even small slits above each finger, so the gems of his rings show through.
The leather chest harness gives the decorative suggestion of armor, with its straps and pauldrons. No genuine protection, unless someone stabbed very lightly at his shoulder specifically.
Seren’s breath catches as he unwraps the last accessory: a pale gold and purple crown of flowers. The blooms are a kind he’s never seen before, like roses with thinner petals, fresh and unwilted despite their bundled journey. Seren can’t help remembering the crown he wove in Primrose’s haven, and the missing Summer Crown.
He hasn’t earned any of these crowns, except for the happenstance of his birth—and the audacity of acceptance.
The crown rustles and adjusts to the size of his skull. Seren rearranges strands of blue hair, staring at himself in the mirror.
At least his own face feels true, gold eyes and pointy ears and all.
“You’re a fae prince,” Seren repeats for courage. “You fucking sparkle.”
He holds onto that courage all the way to the stairs, where Nevander and Folly’s quiet voices are clear.
“—eye out for unexpected magic,” Folly says from the parlor. “Though I’ll be blind by the end of the night.”
“I appreciate your help,” Nevander replies. “And your falsehoods are amusing.”
“It’s a joke. An exaggeration. Oh, there he is. We’ve only been waiting three hours.”
Seren pauses overlooking the parlor. Folly whirls to face him. Nevander is already looking up, and Seren sees nothing else.
Every ray of light—low fire and delicate lanterns and crystal sunbeams—seems to coalesce around Nevander. His ceremonial breastplate is a pale, cool green, accented with swirls of golden feathers and flowers. Gold embroidered wings extend down his sleeves. His boots and gloves are white leather, his hair half-bound in a floral clasp.
He’s sunlight incarnate, and he stares at Seren with wonder.
“Seren,” Nevander breathes, then shakes himself. “Your Highness. I told Hummingbird not to…”
“Make it slutty?” Seren asks, descending into the radiance of Nevander’s attention.
“I didn’t phrase it like that.”
Folly does a poor job hiding his laughter. “We all know what you meant.” He braces his hands on his hips, inspecting Seren. “Fae admire beauty. I mean this in the most respectful way—Hummingbird did you quite the political favor.”
