As the water plunks onto my shoulders and drenches my hips, I buckle over, folding myself on the ground. I wedge a fist into my mouth and sob. And when I’m done, rivulets wash away the evidence. Until I ended up in Faerie, I never knew how many emotions a person could feel in one day, and the thought is poignant and agonizing.
One of the bubbles distorts my features, my gray eyes swallowing my face. I slump, cross my legs, and sit for a while. The upside-down fountain drenches me with heat, steam unfurling into petals. The soothing trickle reminds me of Cove’s lisping voice, massaging the ache until it vanishes.
Afterward, I feel better, stronger. Maybe that’s what hope is—a good cry before getting up again. So that’s what I do. I rise, throw back my head, and savor the rest of the downpour.
By the time I pluck one of the linen towels from a peg, I’m back to my old sassy self. Also, I get another stunner because the fibers dry my hair instantly. “Get the hell out of here,” I hoot.
Rejuvenated, I debate over a plan…any plan that gets me through this. If I’ve got to stay here, I’d best make use of it. Maybe Cerulean’s got a map or compass stashed in this tower, or some other advantage I can leave with.
Music flits through the bathing chamber’s window. It’s a wispy strand of noise, the notes spry and light. I’ve heard the tune only two other times in my life.
The flute’s melody skips into the room from outside. But I can’t see anything from the window, so I drop the towel, grab my clothes, and rush into the sleeping quarter. I pause, frowning at the sight of a nightgown strewn across the mattress, the floor-length garment tailored in folds of dove-white cotton. It’s expertly stitched, with thin shoulder straps and a scooped neckline.
It hadn’t been here when I woke up. After shimmying into my knickers, I wiggle into the nightgown with a sigh. The textile feels as though it’s been spun from the clouds.
It’s a balmy night, so I make do without my boots. Retracing my steps through the tower, I chase the music. At ground level, the main threshold opens to the park, though I spot another archway at the opposite end, which leads to the overhanging promontory.
The tune drifts in from that precipice. I trail after the notes, sucking in a draft of eventide.
That’s where I find them. Cerulean sits at the edge of the world. His naked back flexes, muscles contorting from his shoulders to the low waistband of his onyx silk trousers. The skinniest quiver I’ve ever seen hangs diagonally from his back, attached to a thong that wraps around his torso. It’s too meager to fit a weapon, though.
When his profile shifts, I spot the flute. Perched between his lips, the silver instrument sprinkles notes into the air. The composition gives the wind texture, so that if I reach out and touch the breeze, I might feel it.
That’s what the quiver must be for, to hold the flute.
In Reverie Hollow, we’ve got our bonfires, feasts, and jubilees. We’ve got our lutes and fiddles. But the only wind instruments I’ve ever heard are wooden ones—pipes and pan flutes—not a silver one. I reckon humans only experience that kind of splendor in royal ballrooms.
But in Faerie, the instrument serenades the wild. The music grows butterfly wings, flapping and dashing about. It’s a jaunty but private song, which seems to fit the life of a Solitary.
His long fingers flit over the slender object, agile and quick. It’s been a long time since I heard music. I want to shut my eyes and let it scoop me up.
Cerulean’s shag of hair sweeps across his nape. The lithe rail of his spine ripples up his bare back, smooth and toned. The fauna surround him, gathering on the fringes and making themselves at home while he plays. Some I recognize from when I got here, others not.
The antelope from earlier has shifted into miniature form, its bovine features pruned down to the size of a piglet as it curls on the lawn with the canary whose wing is bent at a misshapen angle. The emerald hummingbirds cluster atop a rock, the hawks observe from their nests, and the cardinal coasts above Cerulean’s head, keeping time with the music and dribbling gold dust from its tail. A cougar—a fucking cougar!—and the mountain goat with stumped horns chase one another playfully across the grass, enlivened by the performance. The pika squats on the lawn, nibbling on weeds.
My chest softens. I miss my sanctuary friends back home. I miss them so much that I’m halfway across the green before realizing it. I’m spellbound, eager to be part of this clan, even if it’s not my own.
The animals tense. Ears perk and wings lock.
Cerulean flinches. The music halts.
Shit. He’d warned me that coming too close would spook them. The cougar alone should have restrained me, the creature’s stunning feline hunch, peridot irises, and intense stare causing my unshod feet to freeze in place. Well, now I know what made that roar I’d heard from my room.
Adrenaline races through my veins, my palms beading with moisture. I scan the fauna’s alert eyes and inch backward.
“Stop,” Cerulean says without turning around.
His voice doesn’t sound arrogant. Maybe irked, but that’s all. If I were in my family’s sanctuary, I’d want a visitor to mind what I say, seeing as I know the dwellers better.
When I stay put, he continues. “Come back but slow your pace.”
How does he know how fast or slow I’d been going? I heed his instructions, moving forward with the lagging gait of a sloth.
Still facing away from me, the Fae murmurs, “Circle them, sideways so they can see you.” And when I comply, an evil grin fills his tone. “Kneel.”
I scowl but do as he says, lowering myself before the animals.
“Whistle,” he commands. “Be dainty about it.”
