Well of course, if herfatherthought it best, then that was what they had to do. Iris exhaled slowly, longing for a time when her parents would engage in playful debate, her mother matching her father opinion for opinion instead of merely echoing his wishes.
“I doubt it,” Iris murmured as conversation restarted around them and the strange light that had seemed to spotlight their table dimmed and disappeared. The glances in their direction didn’t cease though. Back home, where the population was nearly equal parts human and fae, marriages between the races raised few eyebrows. Her parents’ union, while not entirelycommonplace, had been accepted with little more than passing interest.
But Bloomhaven was entirely the opposite. Here, the human families all belonged to the working class or lower, and her father had warned her that relations between the two races were still viewed with disdain by proper society. “There won’t be another scandal to eclipse a half-human debutante,” she added. “Not unless the High Lady herself elopes with a garden gnome.”
“Iris.” Her father’s tone held a warning, though Iris could have sworn she caught a slight twitch at the corner of her mother’s mouth.
“You know I don’t want to be here,” Iris quietly reminded her father.
“I am well aware of this,” he answered in a low tone, “just asyouare well aware that the Bloom Season is your only chance for a better future.”
“Father, I am your only heir. If I am to inherit everything you?—”
“We will not speak of this again,” her father hissed. Iris flinched at his sharp tone, so unlike his usual measured demeanor. While her mother had grown quiet years ago, Iris had always enjoyed open discourse with her father, freely sharing her thoughts and feelings. But he’d been tense ever since their arrival in Bloomhaven. Even at dinner with her grandparents last night, her attempts at pleasant conversation had been met with uncomfortable silence and disapproving looks from everyone present.
Iris bit her tongue and refrained from saying what she truly felt: the Bloom Season was most certainlynother only chance for a better future. The whole notion of it had always struck her as ridiculous. That the fae elite would leave their sprawling country estates and travel from across the United Fae Isles just to parade their newly manifested offspring before societyseemed the height of absurdity. They would dance and flatter, whisper behind silk fans, and engage in a ruthless game of matrimonial strategy as the Solstice Ball approached, the date after which betrothals were expected to be announced like battle victories.
Or so her father had always told her. Her father, who had never wished to return to Bloomhaven. Her father, who had suddenly changed his mind when Iris had surprised them all by manifesting. Onlythenhad he explained to her that the Bloom Season was about magic as well. At the very heart of the United Fae Isles, Bloomhaven sat at the convergence of seven major ley lines, creating a wellspring of magical energy unmatched anywhere else in the realm. The concentration of raw power nurtured and strengthened newly manifested abilities—and would continue to do so right up until the Summer Solstice.
And Iris’s unexpected magic could certainly do with some strengthening. With that, she agreed. She’d never had the ability to use any magic at all, unlike full-blooded fae children who could perform basic magic. For them, manifesting was a bonus. It was when, around age seventeen to nineteen, theiradditionalmagical abilities revealed themselves, typically reflecting the magical tradition of their lineage. Earth magic, weather manipulation, illusion-weaving, or any of the other hereditary gifts that distinguished the great fae families. They also earned the right to be addressed as “Lord” and “Lady” upon manifestation, elevated from the simpler “Miss” and “Master” of their youth—a formal recognition of their transition into magical adulthood within fae society.
For Iris, thepossibilityof manifesting had always been there. Half-fae children were rare enough that no one quite knew what to expect regarding manifestation. Some did, some didn’t, and as her nineteenth birthday came and went without a whisper ofpower, Iris had become more and more convinced that it would never happen.
And then there had been the bookstore incident. Iris winced inwardly at the memory.
But the bookstore pixies had all been rescued, the owner of the shop generously compensated, and Iris’s wounds had quickly been healed by magic. After that was all dealt with, Iris’s father had announced his grand plan: the three of them would travel to Bloomhaven so that Iris’s magic could reach its full potential, and, more importantly, so that she could secure an advantageous match with a fae lord.
Oh, and so that she could finally meet her grandparents, though that certainly hadn’t been at the top of her father’s list of reasons to return. The older Starspuns, like several other elite fae families—and, of course, the middle-class fae and human professionals of Bloomhaven—had chosen some years ago to live permanently in Bloomhaven. Iris’s father had never seemed eager to visit them.
“Oh, that’s her,” Iris’s father whispered suddenly, his posture straightening. “Lady Rivenna Rowanwood.”
Iris sat a little straighter, hating herself for wanting to impress the regal, silver-haired woman who now approached their table. Her father had told her all about the Rowanwoods—the most influential family not just in Bloomhaven, but possibly across all the United Fae Isles. Their power lay primarily in earth magic, a gift that had made them wealthy beyond measure when their ancestor first discovered he could sense lumyrite deposits deep within the ground.
Lumyrite crystal was essential to fae society, powering everything from the faelights that illuminated their homes to the enchanted fountains that graced Bloomhaven’s squares. Iris had even read about dresses embedded with lumyrite dust that could change color at will. Without lumyrite, much of theireveryday convenience magic—as well as many of the elegant enchantments that adorned the homes and garments of the elite—would cease to function. And the Rowanwoods controlled nearly all of it. Iris’s father hadn’t precisely used the phrase “obscenely wealthy,” but Iris could read between the lines.
“Lady Rivenna resides in Bloomhaven throughout the year, does she not?” her mother inquired softly, arranging her skirts.
“Indeed,” Iris’s father replied. “Her daughter-in-law and five grandchildren will likely be with her at Rowanwood House for the season. Her eldest grandson now stands as head of the family since her son’s unfortunate passing in the mines several years past.” He lowered his voice further. “Though if Lady Rivenna remains true to her character, I dare say she considers herself the true authority of the Rowanwood line.”
“Hush, my dear,” her mother whispered urgently. “She approaches!”
But before Lady Rivenna Rowanwood could reach their table, a commotion erupted near the kitchen. Something small and glowing shot through the air, trailing sparks and causing several patrons to duck. Lady Rivenna turned swiftly and hurried toward the disturbance, calling out, “That’s quite enough of that, you troublesome little sprite!”
She reached up and snatched the luminous creature mid-somersault as it twirled between the flowers draped across the ceiling. Cupping the tiny being carefully between her palms, she slipped quickly through a doorway at the back of the shop into what appeared to be the kitchen. Iris watched as the other patrons returned to their conversations and tea as if nothing unusual had occurred.
The woman in green returned to their table. “Might I tempt you with some refreshment to accompany your tea?” she inquired politely. “Our kitchen has prepared several delicacies this morning.”
“Oh!” Iris’s mother exclaimed, her gaze lifting. “I see the offerings there.” She gestured toward the far wall where an elegant board hung, surrounded by a frame of carved vines. Upon its surface, names of various baked goods appeared in flowing golden script. Around the edges of the board, delicate illustrations of pastries, scones, and steaming teacups moved subtly—a scone breaking apart, steam rising from a teacup.
“Are there different varieties of tea available?” her mother asked hesitantly. “Perhaps a selection of blends?”
“Oh, the tea house generally decides what tea is best for each patron,” the hostess explained with practiced patience.
“Ah.” Her mother’s brows drew together in polite confusion, and Iris didn’t blame her. Since when didbuildingshave opinions on what drinks to serve? “I see.”
Sensing her mother’s discomfort and noticing her father was still frowning at the board, Iris added, “What would you recommend for first-time visitors? We’re entirely unfamiliar with the house specialties.”
With a thin-lipped smile, the woman said, “We are known for our scones.”
