“Iris,” her father warned again. “We’ve discussed this. Your grandparents are merely … traditional in their views.”
“Traditional enough to barely acknowledge Mother’s existence? Traditional enough to address me as if I were a particularly slow child rather than a woman grown?”
“It’s understandable that they need time to adjust,” her mother said, though she was staring determinedly out of the window as she spoke. “They haven’t seen your father in nearly two decades, and they had no idea what to expect of you or I.”
“They’ve had days to adjust,” Iris protested. “And I’m not asking them to embrace Mother as their dearest friend, merely to display basic courtesy.”
“Let us set aside family tensions for tonight,” her father interjected, his tone allowing no further argument. “This evening is about your presentation to society. Your opportunity to demonstrate your magic before the High Lady herself.” He hesitated, then added, “And perhaps to make some … favorable impressions.”
Iris bit her tongue to keep from reminding him yet again that she had no intention of securing a match. The carriage began to slow, and her heart quickened. They had arrived.
Solstice Hall was a symphony of summer even at twilight’s edge. Its walls were built of a pale, sun-warmed stone, but what caught the eye were the lavish golden accents: balustrades crafted from what looked like solidified honey, window frames edged in shimmering gold leaf, and great doors inlaid with panels of polished gold that reflected the fading light with a gentle glow. Vines laden with golden-hued blossoms climbed thewalls and entwined the rails alongside the grand staircase, their fragrance—a blend of warm honey and summer herbs—drifting on the still air.
Ahead of them, a steady stream of elegant carriages deposited finely dressed fae before the steps, their attire ranging from classic formal wear to the more flamboyant styles favored by certain families.
Iris’s mother reached across to pat her hand. “You look beautiful tonight,” she said softly. “Whatever happens, hold your head high. You belong here as much as anyone.”
Iris nodded, though they all knew it wasn’t true.
She accepted the footman’s hand and stepped down from the carriage, her eyes drawn upward to the towering façade of Solstice Hall. In any other circumstance, she might have paused to admire the intricate carvings that were only visible up close, or the magnificent floating lanterns that illuminated the grounds with soft, golden light. But nerves had tightened her chest to the point where she could scarcely draw breath, let alone appreciate architectural and magical wonders.
Her knees felt like water beneath her voluminous skirts, and she was grateful for the steadying presence of her father as he offered his arm. Her mother walked on her other side, her chin held high. They joined the procession of fae ascending the grand staircase, and all too soon they were swept inside Solstice Hall itself, though Iris was too nervous to register much of the grandeur surrounding them. She caught fleeting impressions of soaring ceilings, paintings of stern-faced ancestors, and elaborate lumyrite sculptures that served as both decoration and subtle amplifiers of magic. But her focus remained inward, a constant litany of instructions running through her mind.Do not trip. Do not stammer. Do not embarrass yourself or your family more than your existence already does.
A steward directed them to an antechamber where other young fae—both lords and ladies—awaited their turn to be presented. The room buzzed with nervous energy, young men straightening their cravats for the hundredth time while ladies fussed with their skirts or practiced specific gestures related to their magical abilities. Unlike Iris, they had all grown up with the expectation of this moment. They had been trained from childhood for this presentation. They belonged.
“We must leave you here,” Iris’s father said, his voice low. “Parents are not permitted in the antechamber during presentations. We will be waiting in the ballroom.”
“Good luck, darling,” her mother whispered, pressing a swift kiss to Iris’s cheek.
It seemed they were about to turn away when Iris’s father suddenly gripped her hand and leaned closer. “Remember who you are,” he murmured. “Lady Iris. Not ‘half-breed.’ Not ‘paper folder.’ You are Lady Iris Starspun, daughter of one of the oldest and most respected families in the United Fae Isles.”
Iris nodded and squeezed her father’s hand as emotion tightened her chest. Things had certainly been strained between them lately, with him expecting far more from her now than she had ever planned for herself. But even with the weight of those expectations and their differing hopes, he was her father, and the fierce, protective love conveyed in his grip was undeniable. “Thank you,” she whispered.
And then her parents were ushered away, leaving her alone among strangers who refused to meet her gaze. The room smelled of nervous perfume and anxious magic—little sparks of power that crackled in the air like static before a storm. One girl was actually producing tiny snowflakes from her fingertips, while a young man appeared to be making the potted plants grow at an alarming rate. Iris watched them with a mixtureof envy and resignation until someone with a stern expression appeared to inform her it was nearly her turn.
She pressed her trembling hands against her skirts, trying to focus on her breathing.
“Lady Iris Starspun!”
The sound of her name, called out in the herald’s magically amplified voice, sent a jolt through her body. For one wild moment, she considered fleeing—running back the way she’d come, out of Solstice Hall, away from Bloomhaven, perhaps all the way to the coast where she might beg passage on a ship bound for anywhere else. But before her traitorous feet could act on this impulse, she stepped forward.
She passed beneath the towering archway into the ballroom and was immediately assaulted by the weight of hundreds of stares. The crowd had parted, creating a clear path to the dais where the High Lady sat in regal splendor.
Drawing a steadying breath, Iris began the long walk across the marble floor. She kept her gaze fixed on the dais ahead, afraid that if she looked at the faces in the crowd, her courage might fail entirely. Finally, after what felt like an age, she reached the foot of the dais. The High Lady gazed down at her with eyes the color of a winter’s night—not unkind, exactly, but utterly devoid of warmth. Her pale blue hair cascaded over shoulders draped in a shimmering silk that shifted through hues of emerald, sapphire, and gold, like the iridescent eye of a peacock feather, and atop her head sat a delicate circlet of glittering rose-hued gemstones.
“Lady Iris Starspun,” the herald announced again, “daughter of Lord Errisen Starspun and—” there was the slightest pause, where the herald had no doubt caught himself, swallowing the customary ‘Lady’ before speaking her mother’s name “—Matilda Starspun; granddaughter of Lord Caldersyn Starspun and Lady Ellesmere Starspun.”
The High Lady inclined her head slightly. “Welcome, Lady Iris. We look forward to witnessing your manifestation.”
Seated beside the High Lady was her son, Prince … Well, Iris discovered that his name had utterly escaped her. His expression of bored indifference suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. Iris afforded him the briefest glance, noting only that he possessed the same ink-blue eyes as his mother before returning her attention to the task at hand.
This was her moment. With hands that trembled only slightly, Iris reached into the hidden pocket of her gown and withdrew several sheets of pristine paper. Her magic held them suspended in the air before her as she focused on willing her power to flow outward. After another few shaky exhales, she felt that familiar sense of possibility awakening within her.
Relaxing her mind as she’d practiced countless times, she became aware of all the potential configurations, all the many ways the paper wanted to crease and bend. The possibilities unfolded in her mind like the branches of a tree, each choice leading to a different form. She had decided days ago to keep her demonstration simple—elegant but uncomplicated—to minimize the risk of embarrassment in case something went wrong.
The first sheet began to fold itself with crisp precision. Creases appeared and multiplied as if drawn by invisible hands, the paper quickly transforming through a series of increasingly complex folds until it took the shape of a butterfly with delicately patterned wings. Iris gave it the gentlest push with her magic, and it fluttered upward, its paper wings somehow moving with the grace of a living creature. A second butterfly followed, then a third, each one more intricate than the last, until a small swarm of paper butterflies danced above the assembled crowd and rose toward the ceiling.
A murmur of appreciation rippled through the ballroom. Encouraged, Iris turned her attention to the next sheets. These folded differently, petals emerging from flat surfaces, stems lengthening with impossible intricacy as she crafted paper flowers that bloomed before the eyes of the crowd. A rose unfurled its layers, a lily extended delicate stamens, a chrysanthemum revealed countless petals arranged in perfect spirals.
