“I’m of age,” Tansy complains. “Same as him.”
Tansy’s hat appears to be a wooden bear mask, worn as a sideways headband. It’s adorable, though Seren shouldn’t say that.
Seren accepts a wooden goblet but doesn’t drink yet. “Do I want to know what the special mead does?”
“It’s an aphrodisiac,” Sevastia says bluntly. “Young Tansy is welcome to it, and the consequences too.”
Tansy feigns a shudder. “Oh, I don’t like consequences.”
Nevander touches his amulet and passes a hand over Seren’s goblet. The surface ripples. Only when Nevander nods does Seren take a sip. Honeyed sweetness sings across his tongue. Almost too much, except for the heat of alcohol balancing it. With that one sip, Seren relaxes, shedding tension he hadn’t known he was holding.
“This has enough consequences for me,” Seren says, both alarmed and delighted. He should sip this slowly. “Thank you.”
Sevastia bows. “My pleasure. Lord Nevander?”
“Not tonight,” Nevander says, unsurprisingly.
Seren should find an opportunity to help his guardian relax. But not tonight, when he’s so dependent on Nevander’s expertise. The sense of security that frees Seren to handle other matters.
“Let’s go to the dais,” Seren suggests. “Tansy, will you join us?”
Tansy’s suspicion requires no magic to read. “Is this flattery to persuade me back to my human hovel?”
Seren raises his eyebrows. “Is it working?”
“Absolutely not.” Tansy snags a bottle of mead. One with a pink label. “Lead on, Prince Seren Calithel Whatsit.”
Nevander’s eyes narrow, but halfway across the courtyard, Tansy’s bottle changes from pink to green. As Tansy swears about the bartender’s trickery, Seren mounts the marble steps.
The dais is higher than Seren remembers. It’s broad enough for a dozen people, even with the guards flanking either side. A long, padded bench makes a comfortable throne beneath crystal flowers. Seren perches, taking in the revels. Everyone else has a perfect view of him. Time to see who’s bold enough to approach.
Hopefully before the mead goes to Seren’s head.
Unsurprisingly, Lord Gevain is first up the steps. He’s a gleaming vision in gold and copper, from his highlighted hair to burnished silk and leather pseudo-armor. Metal flowers cling to his bare upper arms.
Nevander stiffens with disapproval. His jealousy is as charming as it is unfounded.
Gevain sweeps a bow three steps down.
“You may approach,” Seren says, before Nevander has to nudge him. “Well done with the decorations, Lord Gevain.”
Gevain reaches the top step. “Your approval thrills me, Your Highness.”
“Don’t let it get to your head,” Tansy says, lounging against the far end of the bench. His rudeness is worrying. He should know better, growing up in court.
Or maybe he does know better, because Gevain half-bows. “Your disdain thrills me too, changeling.”
“How are things in Summer’s Edge?” Seren asks.
“We’re grateful for the palace’s support,” Gevain says. “But that’s a matter for council meetings, Highness. Tonight is a celebration.” Gracefully, naturally, he extends a hand. “Would you care to dance?”
Seren doesn’t have to look to feel Nevander’s reaction, a tremor in the air. But Seren can’t make decisions based on his lover’s jealousy—and Nevander wouldn’t want him to.
Maybe Seren should accept. A dance is but a moment, not a commitment. Staying friendly with Gevain would be useful.
That moment would make a statement, though. Particularly Seren’s first dance of the night. And putting aside all the shoulds and should nots, Seren only wants to dance with one fae this threshold festival.
“I appreciate the offer,” Seren says. “But I’ll decline.”
