by Sofia Daniel
An amused snort later, he replaced the lid, spun on his heel and stormed through the academy’s double doors.
My heart sank, and I lowered my gaze back to the courtyard, where the driver of the wagon climbed back into the front seat.
“Do you think he’ll destroy the dress?” I asked.
“Knowing August, he will hand it to Aster,” said Prince Caulden.
Prince Rory grinned, his dazzling smile complimenting how the sun shining through his russet hair turned its ends gold. “Maybe he should.”
“What?” I asked.
“You saw what the Emporium did to you?” He waggled his perfect brows. “Aster might not look like it, but she’s a bigger prude than the other Fated. The Emporium might have a completely unexpected effect.”
“Here’s hoping,” I muttered, still stinging from Prince August’s chamberpot comment and from my encounter with three of the Fated when they had tried to glamor me into joining forces with them against Lady Gala.
Prince Caulden blew out a breath. “Allow me to escort you back to class. We still have a day before the next trial. Between my brother and me, we will work out a solution that doesn’t anger Her Majesty.”
Both princes walked me around the castle’s exterior, and alongside an archway of roses that filled my nostrils with their sweet, intoxicating scent. After that steamy encounter in the wagon, I should have been basking in their presence, but my afterglow dimmed in light of Prince August taking my dress.
“Don’t fret,” said Prince Caulden. “By this time tomorrow, we’ll be consummating our bond.”
“Even if Queen Titania is blocking our every move?” I asked.
“Leave it to us,” said Prince Rory. “We’ll deal with her.”
Outside the remedial building, they took turns lavishing me with kisses that made my wings flutter faster than a hummingbird’s. Prince Caulden was slow and sensual, while Prince Rory was fast and fiery. In the darkest corner of my mind, I wondered how Prince August would kiss, but I shoved it back into the shadows.
When they opened the door and guided me into the safety of the remedial building, I stood against the cool stone wall, breathing hard.
“Bloody hell.” I raised my hands and stared at my trembling fingers. “This is getting so real.”
They not only wanted me to become their mate, but they were willing to share. It didn’t matter what Queen Titania thought of my beauty or otherwise. My handsome, fae princes would declare their intentions at the end of the next trial, putting an end to this farce.
“Unity?” said a voice from a doorway further into the building.
I turned around to find Mr. Whittaker, his brows drawn together in a concerned frown. “Florensis told me that Prince Caulden took you to the Mound for a garment.” His gaze dropped to my empty hands. “Where is it?”
“Confiscated,” I said.
He tilted his head to the side. “I beg your pardon?”
“Queen Titania sent Prince August to meet us at the academy doors.” A frustrated breath blew out from my lungs. “He took it away.”
“I see.” The older half-blood chewed his bottom lip.
My shoulders rose into a shrug. “Apparently, the queen didn’t approve of me getting help from the princes.”
“In that case…” Mr. Whittaker stared down at the stone floor.
I stepped forward. “What’s on your mind, sir?”
“There is someone who might be able to help.” He gulped. “I wasn’t going to mention this option unless you hadn’t fashioned an outfit by the evening.”
My breaths quickened. If there was a third party with the funds to buy me another dress, I had to know. “Who is it?”
“A young faerie by the name of Pokeweed.”
“I know him!” The words tumbled out from my mouth. “He’s helped me already.”
Mr. Whittaker’s face lightened. “That’s wonderful news. Pokeweed is in full control of his powers, but I’d hate for people to get wind of this fact and take advantage of his good nature.”
“Right.” I wasn’t sure what he meant, but it would be great to see Pokeweed again.
“He usually works out in the gardens around this time of day.” Mr. Whittaker turned around and headed for the back door. “Come with me.”
I followed the remedial teacher through the hallway, passing the wooden door that led to the classroom. Our footsteps echoed against the stone, filling the silence. As we passed the gymnasium and reached the back exit, I asked, “Where is everyone?”
“They just left for lunch and won’t return for an hour.” He held the door open, letting in the scent of juniper and roses.
“Thanks.” I stepped out onto the white patio. Beyond the outdoor barbecue space and at the end of the meadow, a flock of unicorns stood at the edge of the woods, seeming to watch us leave.
I snatched my gaze away from the creatures and hurried after Mr. Whittaker, who walked along the remedial building’s exterior in the opposite direction to the stables. About a dozen horses of colors ranging from brilliant white to midnight black grazed in the surrounding meadow.
“Sir?” I asked. “Would you mind answering a question about your memories?”
His shoulders stiffened, but he turned his head to the side and gave me a sharp nod. “I’ll share whatever I know.”
“Master Gladiolus told me that you came to the academy with memories of a human family that existed centuries ago.”
We walked on a path of flat, round stepping stones that stretched across a meadow of knee-high wildflowers that engulfed us in their sweet scent. A warm breeze made the flowers sway in the wind and release multicolored streams of pollen that swirled in the air.
Mr. Whittaker rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “In some respects, I feel like Rip Van Winkle. Have you read the story?”
“No, but I’ve heard of the legend.” I licked my dry lips, hoping I didn’t say something hurtful or offensive. “Do you still think your memories are real?”
A harsh chuckle huffed out from his lips. “Sometimes, they’re more real than having a common miller’s apprentice teach magic in the Royal Fae Academy. Does that answer all your questions?”
“I was wondering what happened the day before you found yourself with wings.”
The remedial teacher stared down at me, compassion shining in his eyes. “Master Gladiolus told me about your memories of people from modern times. I expect you’re wondering if the sibling you lost is still alive somewhere.”
A lump formed in my throat. “Yes,” I whispered. “If those dark faeries she met in Hope Woods came from Dubnos—”
“Unity, don’t.” Mr. Whittaker stopped walking and placed both hands on my shoulders. “Dwelling on those memories is what stops us from moving on and creating productive lives as half-bloods.”
In the tranquility of this meadow and in Mr. Whittaker’s calm presence, all the pressures of the death trials, poor Helen, the Fated, and the fae princes fell away, leaving me with a gut-wrenching worry for Sicily’s fate. A rush of emotion surged from my heart, making my throat ache.
I blinked rapidly, trying to stave off the oncoming tears. “But I have to find my sister.”
Pain flashed across the older male’s features. “Maybe it was foolish of me, but I went to Hope Woods to investigate your claim.”
“You did?” I asked.
“I had to know.” He swallowed hard. “No cast-off has ever arrived here with memories of humans who currently exist.”
My pulse quickened, and my throat went dry. If he had proven that my human life had been real, surely he would have told me this by now?
I sucked in a deep breath, bracing myself for bad news. “What did you find?”
“We found the circle of mushrooms and looked for signs of dark magic. All we found of interest were peacemakers’ bootprints, a broken mushroom, and strands of blonde hair. All evidence points that you were the faerie in the ring trying to make bargains with humans.”
“But I—”
“It’s alright.” He gave my shoulder a tight squeeze. “Some of the lords who cast off their half-bloods have a sick sense of irony. It’s obvious to everyone that whoever left you there wanted you found and brought to the king’s guard.”
I lowered my gaze to the stepping stones, my heart plummeting along with my hope of gaining an ally to help me locate Sicily. Since arriving at the Royal Fae Academy, I had been plunged into a battle against murderous faeries that I couldn’t escape. Events moved so quickly, and it was hard to keep track of my original goal to save Sicily.
“Pokeweed accompanied me to the woods,” said Mr. Whittaker.
My head snapped up. “Really?”
He released my arms and continued walking toward a grove of trees. “All manner of predators and creatures lurk in forested areas. He came to provide protection, but he noticed traces of unusual magic.”
“What kind?”
“You’d better ask him. I have no sense of these things.”
We strolled over the stepping stones until we reached an orchard of apple trees containing fruit as large as melons. Some of the apples were silver, some gold, and others as transparent as glass with only their stalks and seeds on display. A figure stepped out from a tree with an unusually wide trunk, pushing a wheelbarrow.
Mr. Whittaker stopped walking. “I’ll leave you to approach him in private. Make sure he walks you back to the remedial building. It won’t be safe to wander alone until the end of the trials.”
“Thanks, sir.”
As the teacher walked back through the meadow, I turned to where Pokeweed stood in front of a six-foot-tall tree that had wilted to one side. Large, white flower buds hung limply on branches covered in browning leaves.
Pokeweed rubbed his hands together and closed his eyes. I continued walking toward him, wondering what he intended to do next. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath and placed both palms on the trunk. Then with a large exhale, his hands glowed with white magic that seeped into the tree.
I paused, transfixed by the sight of Pokeweed breathing life into the plant. Its trunk straightened, and a burst of color filled its leaves. The buds opened into blossoms with yellow stamens, and then the petals withered and fell away, leaving just the dried stamens.
Edging forward, I squinted at the tiny fruit emerging from behind the stamens, watching them swell into apples the sizes of berries, then regular-sized apples, and then to the huge melon-sized fruit as in the rest of the orchard.
Pokeweed released the trunk with a loud gasp. He staggered back a few steps and bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees.
My breath caught in the back of my throat. Until now, I had only seen magic used to attack others or as a display of power. I had no idea it could result in such beauty.
“Pokeweed?” I whispered.
He straightened and stared at me with eyes so black, there were no traces of white. “Unity? You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“Mr. Whittaker brought me,” I said.
Still breathing hard, the faerie continued staring as though waiting for me to get to some kind of point.
I cleared my throat. “I didn’t thank you for saving me from drowning.”
Pokeweed smiled. “You did. And quite nicely, I recall.”
Heat bloomed across my cheeks as I remembered the kiss. It had only been a peck on the cheek, but there was something in Pokeweed’s voice that indicated the gesture might have felt like more than a heartfelt thanks.
“Right,” I said with a cough. “I’m in a spot of bother. Tomorrow’s the beauty contest, and—”
“And you need a gown?” he asked.
“Can you help me?” the words tumbled from my mouth. “Queen Titania doesn’t want the princes buying me one, and with no money, it’s going to be hard to produce something in such a short space of time.”
“I can make you something to wear,” he said.
“Really?” Relief whooshed out of my lungs.
Pokeweed pulled his shoulders back and closed the distance between us, not stopping until we stood a mere three feet apart. I stared into his black eyes, and in their reflection, my anxious face stared back.
“I can help you,” he said. “But I need something in return.”
Chapter 9
I stared into Pokeweed’s black eyes, breathing hard to stave off a bout of anger. From my interactions with the faerie, I had thought he was one of the good ones who wouldn’t take advantage of a girl’s desperation. The sun hid behind a cloud, robbing us of its heat and casting down muted light.
Mr. Whittaker shouldn’t have worried about people taking advantage of Pokeweed. It seemed that the faerie could take care of himself.
Keeping my voice even, I asked, “What would you like in return for the dress?”
Pokeweed’s broad shoulders slumped. “The Duchess of Nevermore.”
I flinched at the unexpected subject. That hadn’t been what I had expected. Smoothing out my expression, I asked, “What about her?”
“Was she in a lot of pain at the end?” he murmured.
My skin tightened at the memory of the faerie’s blood-curdling screams. Pain wasn’t the word, but I couldn’t find a simple way to encompass the agony of being kept alive while being burned from the inside-out.
Pokeweed jerked his head away. “I see,” he said in a tight voice. “Your expression says enough.”
“King Oberon cut off her head to end her suffering,” I added, hoping it would soften the blow.
“I’ll make your dress.” He walked toward the thick tree trunk with his shoulders slumped, and his moth-wings closed.
Guilt weighed heavily in my heart at having made the wrong conclusion.
“Wait.” I grabbed Pokeweed’s bicep, making him turn around.
He stared at my hand until I snatched it away. Maybe he had a thing about people touching his fur.
“Sorry. I just—”
“You want to know why a lowly creature such as me would care for the plight of a duchess?”
I blinked three times in quick succession. “No.”
Actually, I was curious, but I wouldn’t describe it that way. Lady Gala had been one of the ringleaders who brought girls with glowing wings to Pokeweed, only to laugh at their expressions of horror when she and her friends tricked her into believing that Pokeweed was her mate.
I bit down on my bottom lip, trying to work through my thoughts. It seemed peculiar that Pokeweed would care so deeply for the mother of his bully.
Pokeweed held me in his unblinking stare, making me gulp. “I did wonder if there was a connection.”
“The Duchess of Nevermore was my mother,” he said in a voice laced with bitterness. “And the duke’s staff wouldn’t permit me into the grounds to visit her glass coffin.”
“Wait,” I said. “Does that mean Lady Gala is your sister?”
“Half,” he said.
“Oh.” My insides twitched with curiosity, but I didn’t dare to ask about the identity of his father. Helen had implied that Pokeweed’s parentage was complicated, and Prince Caulden had described it as scandalous, but it was hard to fathom why unless the duchess had mated with a satyr.
“I expect you’re wondering how one of the most beautiful faeries on the island gave birth to me,” he asked in a broken voice.
The sun emerged from the cloud, bathing us in its warmth and light, which turned the orange flecks of fur on his face and wings a golden-amber. The furry protrusion over his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“You don’t have to tell me anything.” I placed my palm on his bicep. The fur covering his arm felt like a mix of velvet and the thick pile of a honeybee. Pokeweed closed his eyes and sighed, as though my touch was some kind of comfort. “But if you want to talk about it, I’ll listen and keep whatever you say to myself.”
“I would like that,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion.
A weight over my heart lifted. Partially for my rest
ored faith in Pokeweed’s goodness. Partially because I could do something to help a faerie who had saved me from two sticky situations—from the angry mob in the dining room when I had become the fifth fated mate and from the knucker-infested lake.
I looped my arm through Pokeweed’s and walked alongside him under the low canopy of an apple tree so weighted with fruit, the tips of its branches reached the ground. He stiffened, but a few heartbeats later as we walked through the orchard in the sun, the muscles of his arms relaxed.
“Did you live with the duchess as a child?” I asked.
He shook his head. “She handed me to a wet-nurse who had recently lost her child.”
“Oh,” I murmured. “Was that because she was married to the duke?”
Pokeweed gave me a soft nod. “According to the faerie who took care of me, the duke and duchess had been together for five years. Did Mr. Whittaker tell you that females go into heat every four years?”
“No,” I muttered. “But it makes a whole lot of sense.”
We passed under a row of apple trees growing like fences, their branches intertwined with their neighbors’ trunks. The tops of the trees curved overhead, looking a few years away from forming a complete archway.
Sunlight shone through the transparent fruit, filtering the light into thousands of tiny streams. Pokeweed remained silent for several moments. I wasn’t sure if that was because he was trying to phrase something delicate or because he had changed his mind about revealing such personal information.
I ran my fingers up and down his forearm the way someone would stroke a cat, hoping to communicate some measure of reassurance.
“Don’t.” He pulled his arm out of my grip and hurried out to the tree with the largest trunk.
My spirits drooped, and I trudged after him. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Nobody touches me,” he said. “And I can’t tolerate the false hope.”
My mouth opened and closed, trying to form the right words. I wanted to tell him that my touch hadn’t meant anything, but to someone who hadn’t experienced much closeness, anything I said to that effect might be a knife in the heart.