Page 81 of Atop the Faerie Throne
But the second I go in for another kiss, he pulls back.
“I’m grateful for the gifts,” he says stiffly, his eyes fixing on a point behind me.
It’s Drystan. I can feel him lingering. So maybe that’s why I say. “Survive Beltaine, and I’ll get you another.”
Perhaps stupidly, I already have. It’s hidden in the drawer beside my bed, but I can’t look at it without my eyes burning and my throat thickening, because he might never get to wear it.
When I turn around, Drystan is grinding his teeth together, the vein in his temple pulsing furiously.
“We’re working on it,” Caed reassures me. “He loves me, really. Deep, deep down.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Drystan mutters. “I came to tell you that apparently your cousin’s mating ceremony is tomorrow, and she requires our Nicnevin’s help to select a gown.”
Twenty-Seven
Rhoswyn
“These can’t be all the options,” Prae snarls at the pile of dresses in front of her. “Where are the metallic fabrics? Pastels are not my thing.”
“I thought you looked pretty in the purple,” I offer again, but I’m ignored.
“Everyone knows that’s the Nicnevin’s colour. Besides, silver goes much better with my eye.”
Prae’s room in the palace has become an explosion of textiles. Most of them were brought from Illidwen and Calimnel by Lore. However, my redcap has been gone for a while, leaving me to deal with an increasingly irate Fomorian princess, and precious little time to get her dressed. She’s already thrown all the maids out, and I might be next.
“Light blue is close?—”
“No, it isn’t. Blue washes me out.”
I let loose a huge sigh and stand up from my corner of the bed to pace. Prae’s giving me second-hand jitters.
“It has to be perfect,” Prae murmurs to herself. “And fuck this. Why are fae so obsessed with covering their tits? I did not suffer those awful growing pains just so I could spend the rest of my life hiding what little I was given!”
I really want to point out that when I came to Faerie, I thought even the most conservative fae garments were scandalous. But to Prae—who wears strips of fabric barely wide enough to cover her essentials most of the time—the sheer dress she’s holding up is practically a nun’s habit.
To spare myself another lecture, I wander over to her workbench—the only place that hasn’t been taken over in the quest for the perfect garment—and pore over the careful diagrams strewn across it.
I don’t understand anything, even though it’s mostly pictures. It’s some kind of… orb? I pick up a metal shell the size of a conker and hold it up to the light as I examine the etchings on the outside.
“Get away from there before you blow yourself up,” Prae scolds. “Besides, I think?—”
“I’m baaacck,” Lore singsongs. “And I brought an expert!”
Mistress Poesy looks around the room, scratching the fur on her nose thoughtfully before she spots me and bobs a swift bow.
“Nicnevin, it’s always an honour,” she says through pointed teeth. “Though your Guard didn’t explain much about what my services were required for.”
Of course he didn’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lore just plucked the poor brownie off the street. He’s currently playing with things on Prae’s workbench, though I notice she doesn’t warnhimabout the risk of explosions.
Is that because Lore is immortal, or because she trusts him to know what he’s looking at?
“I’m glad you made it out of the city,” I reply. “We need a dress for Princess Praedra’s mating ceremony.”
The Fomorian smacks my arm with a hushed snarl, and I smirk back at her. If she hates being called a princess, how will she react to Caed’s attempts to have her named queen?
The brownie watches us critically, her eyes wide like she expects a brawl to take place because Prae struck me. I suppose it must be odd to see me in the company of Fomorians, and her reticence makes sense.
“Never made a dress for a Fomorian before?” Prae quips, not-so-subtly trying to break the ice.
