30
Flattery
Serenpausesbeneaththemarble archway. The Court of Hours has transformed from an open lounge space to living art. Choreographed chaos. Musicians play their lutes and panpipes from floating glass platforms. A grove of golden trees with emerald leaves chimes with the breeze of dancing fae.
Capes and dresses in gold, blue, and green dominate the crowd. Braids of white flowers. Sheer lace like watercolors over glittering skin. Summer hues, in defiance of the threshold. Laughter, music, color, and light dance beneath a wealth of crystal decorations. Everything refracts in splendor.
Seren’s heart steadies. Once he might have been overwhelmed by this, but he’s learned to center himself, and his guardian waits at his side.
Nevander surveys the crowd with suspicion. “You only have to stay until midnight.”
“As long as you help me unwind after,” Seren says. “But what’s at midnight?”
“Your speech,” Nevander says absently.
Seren’s steadiness fractures. “My speech?”
“You didn’t…” Nevander’s eyes widen. “I thought the seneschal would have told you.”
“Gods and spirits,” Seren says, aghast.
“It’s just sharing a few words,” Nevander says reassuringly. Fae can’t lie, but they can understate.
Before Seren can protest, the laughter hushes. The music falters, then soars brighter without accompaniment. Every glittering face turns.
Seren hadn’t wanted a grand entrance. He chose this side archway out of arrogant curiosity. A test, and the result is a thrill of attention. Seren needs no herald for every fae in the room to notice him.
Gevain and Morana stand nearby, pointedly separate. Lysandra cradles a crystal goblet, amused. Primrose’s shaggy bulk is easy to spot in a dancing circle. Idalia, Mustardseed, Jasper. More familiar faces than Seren expected, but the vast majority are strangers.
“They recognize me,” Seren says under his breath.
“They’d stare regardless,” Nevander replies, his whisper warm. “You are stunning.”
That praise lifts Seren even higher. And everyone surely must notice Seren’s crown of flowers, and the matching bloom in Nevander’s hair.
The attention isn’t painful. Seren can choose how to wield it. Tonight, he wants to make friends.
“Happy threshold,” Seren says, raising his voice. “Where’s the mead?”
Surprised laughter ripples through the crowd. Tansy calls out, bright and irreverent, “Over here, your sparkly highness!”
“Lead on,” Seren says, smiling.
Nevander escorts him across the courtyard. Conversation resumes as it’s clear Seren isn’t giving a speech—yet—but nobody makes a secret of gawking. So similar yet so different from the last time Nevander led him through a crowd. The Elsewhere revels, before Seren knew how to shield.
This crowd’s attention is sharper, but Seren is stronger. He can keep all the stray emotions out.
Fountains of red wine and clear water arc overhead. Though Seren shouldn’t assume it’s water, with how sweet it smells. An acrobat dances from a hanging skein of fabric, creating shape after shape with her body and the shimmering material. From this distance, patches of her skin appear scaled.
Tansy awaits at a bar, clad in voluminous, skirt-like trousers, and nothing but golden paint above the waist. A strange hat leaves his hair disheveled.
The bar wouldn’t appear too out of place in Wymond. The bottles on the shelf are too fine, especially the ones with pink or green labels, and the bartender’s pointed ears would cause a stir, though. She’s the oldest fae Seren’s seen, at least by appearance. Fine wrinkles decorate her eyes, and her leather-bound hair is so white it’s nearly translucent.
“Hello, Sevastia,” Tansy says, hopping onto the bar top. “Seren, do you want the regular mead, or the special mead?”
Sevastia shoves him off without missing a beat. Then she grabs a bottle with a green label. “I’d recommend the regular mead, Your Highness.”
“For you as well,” Nevander warns Tansy, who sticks out his tongue.
