“Cousin!” Mariselle called, reaching Petunia and her mother. “How lovely to see you both.”
“Mariselle, dear,” Lady Dawndale greeted her, her gaze immediately drifting past to scan the room for more important social connections. “You look well,” she added, though her eyes never once settled on Mariselle’s face.
“Thank you, Aunt. Might I borrow Petunia for a moment? I was hoping to show her a particularly fascinating piece in the west gallery.”
Before Lady Dawndale could object, Petunia had already stepped forward, linking her arm through Mariselle’s. “Do excuse us, Mother. I’m simply dying to see this extraordinary marvel.”
They escaped toward the adjoining gallery, Petunia leaning a little on Mariselle’s arm. “I must apologize for abandoning you last night,” she said once they were safely out of earshot. “Mother insisted I help her select coordinating shawls for her summer wardrobe. A riveting three hours of my life watching her vacillate between ‘blush pink’ and ‘dawn blush’ as though the fate of the United Fae Isles hinged upon the distinction.”
She sighed dramatically as they approached a bare-chested, larger-than-life fae male figure sculpted from silver-veined marble. The figure was posed mid-lunge, brandishing a glittering lumyrite sword as though frozen at the climax of some glorious myth.
“Then, to make matters worse,” Petunia continued, “those darned gossip birds living outside my window kept me awake until all hours of the night, beside themselves with excitement over ‘The Great Floral Exodus.’ Something about mountains of flowers being carted out of Brightcrest Manor yesterday morning. I don’t suppose you know anything about that particular horticultural phenomenon?”
Mariselle groaned. “My insufferable suitor. His wretched flowers multiplied overnight! I woke nearly suffocated beneath them. It took over an hour to clear them all away.”
“How tragic for you, to be buried beneath tokens of devotion from your beloved.”
“It wasn’t devotion; it was sabotage,” Mariselle insisted, though she couldn’t help smiling at her cousin’s teasing.
Her gaze traveled past Petunia and over the male sculpture. His arms bulged with improbably corded muscle as he held the sword aloft, and his torso was carved with such precision that each abdominal ridge caught the light. A cunning arrangement of sculpted leaves twined artistically over the lower part of his torso, doing its best to preserve his modesty—and failing by several strategic inches.
“Goodness,” Mariselle said. “That’s … quite something.”
Petunia, who had been examining the sculpture as well, let out a dry hum of agreement. “Nothing says ‘timeless artistic merit’ like an impractically large weapon and a gratuitous display of torso.” She folded her arms over her chest, her head tilting back as her gaze rose higher. “Ah, there it is. The noble anguish of a man who’s just remembered he left his shirt in another realm.”
A sound escaped Mariselle—something between a cough and a snort. She smacked a hand over her mouth.
“Or perhaps it’s the eternal sorrow of realizing his sword is compensating for something,” Petunia mused.
A strangled laugh burst from behind Mariselle’s hand, which she tried in vain to smother, her shoulders shaking.
“In either case,” Petunia added, “if one must swing about a lumyrite blade the size of a festival banner pole, one ought to at least wear breeches.”
“Stop!” Mariselle hissed, eyes watering with mirth. “This is apublicexhibition.”
Petunia arched an eyebrow. “So is he.”
Without warning, the sculpture shifted, stone muscles flexing as the sword swung in a wide, slow arc overhead. Both girls shrieked in alarm, stumbling backward and clutching each other before dissolving into full-bodied giggles. Mariselle grabbed Petunia’s arm and pulled her behind a nearby sculpture of a benign-looking tree, its marble branches swaying gentlyas if stirred by an enchanted breeze. They peeked out from behind its trunk to observe the fae warrior from a safer distance.
The warrior had assumed a new pose of breathtaking arrogance, chin tilted at an angle that displayed his chiseled jawline to maximum effect, sword held casually at his side as though it weighed nothing at all. His gaze was fixed on some invisible horizon, his expression a perfect blend of noble suffering and smoldering intensity that suggested he alone carried the burden of understanding the universe’s deepest mysteries.
“Is it just me,” Mariselle said, “or does he look like he composes sonnets to his own reflection?”
Petunia snickered. “I daresay he’s rehearsing a ballad to his upper arms.”
“The upper arms are a bit much. Does one really need that many muscles to hoist a lumyrite blade?”
“Don’t be absurd. Those are clearly conversational muscles.”
Mariselle choked on another snort-laugh. “And what, pray tell, are conversational muscles?”
“Well, dear cousin,” Petunia said, “they are, of course, muscles so unnecessarily prominent that they demand to be discussed in hushed tones behind a fan, ideally while someone’s mother is scandalized and someone’s aunt is intrigued but pretending not to be.” She shifted her weight and winced slightly, reaching down to touch her ankle.
“What’s wrong?” Mariselle asked immediately, her amusement fading to concern.
“It’s nothing,” Petunia said, straightening. “I tripped coming out of the house earlier and twisted my ankle. Simply my usual gracelessness on display.”
“Did you not apply a healing charm in the carriage? Surely there was time before you arrived.”
