She moved slowly to the side of her bed, extinguished the faelights with a half-hearted wave, checked that the dream-chime hanging above her bed was humming faintly, and climbed beneath the covers. Pulling them up to her chin, she sought solace in the knowledge that soon sleep would claim her, carrying her to the dreamscape that had always been her sanctuary. The secret space she had crafted for herself where reality’s sharp edges couldn’t reach her.
But a single tear escaped, tracing a hot path down her cheek before soaking into her pillow. She blinked rapidly, refusing to allow more to follow. She had not betrayed her family; she would prove that when the time came. When Dreamland stood restored to its former glory, when the Brightcrests once again possessed an achievement to rival the Rowanwoods’ influence, her family would understand that she had done all of this for them.
She shifted restlessly beneath the covers, trying to recapture the exhilaration she had felt upon realizing she could restore Dreamland. It would be worth it, she assured herself. It would all be worth it in the end.
Chapter Four
The plan was utterlypreposterous and doomed to unravel at the slightest scrutiny, but Evryn had committed himself to this charade for as long as necessary. His reputation—and by extension, his family’s standing—depended upon it. Mariselle Brightcrest held his secret in her delicate, dangerous hands, and until he could reclaim it, he would play whatever part required.
Which meant that he now paced the main floor of the Charmed Leaf Tea House rehearsing an announcement he had never anticipated making before the age of thirty, if at all: that he had found himself a wife.
Well. A pretend wife, at least. And thank the stars above for that. Nineteen-year-old Mariselle Brightcrest was possibly the most unpleasant young woman he’d ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with, with the sole exception of her dreadful mother and sister. Not to mention she appeared to be delusional as well. Did she truly believe herself capable of resurrecting Dreamland? The very notion was absurd. She was little more than achild. A disgustingly pampered one at that. She hadn’t the faintest inkling of the complexities involved in such an undertaking.
And now he must pretend to be besotted with her. Evryn halted mid-stride and physically shuddered at the reminder.
But it would be worth it if he could hold onto the one thing that felt as though it were truly his. His writing, his stories, his careful construction of satirical tales that held up a mirror to elite fae society. It had begun on a whim as simple journaling, an attempt to process his frustrations at being perpetually overshadowed by Jasvian’s far more important magic. But the daily observations had quickly transformed into something more, characters emerging from the people around him, fictional scenarios that sometimes felt more real than his actual life.
He’d spent months during the quiet season working up the courage to submit his first story to the literary section of the The Gilded Gazette, a publication magically distributed weekly across the United Fae Isles. He couldn’t publish under his own name, of course, so he’d settled on the pseudonym E. S. Twist. To his great delight, it had been accepted! Three published stories later, he’d finally found something that was entirely his own achievement.
And now Mariselle Brightcrest had her wretched hands on one of his manuscripts. He still couldn’t fathom how she’d managed it. It was the original draft of his latest published story, written in a moment of midnight inspiration a few weeks before arriving in Bloomhaven for the Season. He’d been enjoying a solitary evening ride with Cobalt, and had tucked the pages safely into the saddlebag when he was done. He’d then crafted a second version, slightly different, after another late night ride. He’d submitted that revised manuscript to the Gazette and promptly forgotten the original was still in Cobalt’s saddlebag.
Had part of it been sticking out? Had Mariselle seen it while Evryn had been distracted by discussing Fin’s modifications to the course obstacles? Either she’d noticed the pages peeking from beneath the flap, or—more likely, given her character—she’d deliberately rifled through his belongings the moment his back was turned. The audacity of it shocked him. Though he supposed it shouldn’t. Not when aBrightcrestwas concerned.
For a moment, he considered whether it might be worth sacrificing his secret pseudonym to avoid this ridiculous charade. But then he remembered the more scathing passages he’d written—the fictional queen who bore a striking resemblance to the High Lady, portrayed as vain and disconnected from her subjects’ concerns, and the manipulative matriarch who seemedsuspiciously similar to his own grandmother, weaving social webs for her own entertainment. No, he simply could not allow anyone to know thathehad penned those words. Even the great Rowanwood family might not survive such a scandal.
Which led him right back to the inescapable fact that he must lie to his family about a fake soulbond with a woman from a family whose very name had been treated like a curse word amongst the Rowanwoods for as long as he could remember.
He’d decided it would be best to announce the news to them all at once, but logistics had complicated matters. Jasvian no longer lived at Rowanwood House since his marriage to Iris; they maintained their own residence in Bloomhaven now, visiting frequently even during the quiet season due to Iris’s ongoing apprenticeship at The Charmed Leaf. And his grandmother habitually departed for the tea house before breakfast during the Bloom Season, her presence required to oversee preparations for each day. So Evryn had asked everyone to meet at the tea house instead, not long before it was due to open for the day.
The Charmed Leaf looked particularly fine in the early morning light, golden beams streaming through the large windows to cast warm dappled patterns across the polished wooden floor. The tables were neatly arranged, each draped with freshly pressed cloths of pale cream and adorned with delicate vases holding sprigs of freshly cut flowers from the tea house garden. From the kitchen came the mouth-watering aroma of Orrit’s legendary scones, along with the clatter of kitchen pixies preparing for the day ahead.
Evryn continued his restless pacing, pausing occasionally to adjust his cravat in one of the tea house’s ornamental mirrors. He looked respectable enough in his dark gray morning coat and neatly pressed trousers, having taken extra care with his appearance. If one was going to announce a scandalous engagement, one might as well look dapper while doing so.
The floor creaked suddenly beneath his feet, and a sound like an impatient sigh issued from the whispering leaves of the foliage that adorned the walls. A nearby vine suddenly shot out with alarming speed and wound itself swiftly around Evryn’s wrist before giving a decisive tug. The unexpected force sent him stumbling sideways until he landed with an undignified thump in the nearest chair.
“I beg your pardon!” Evryn sputtered, attempting to yank his wrist free. “Is manhandling guests now part of the?—”
But before he could finish, the door to the kitchen swung open. The offending vine retreated immediately, slithering back to its place on the wall with the guilty haste of a child caught stealing sweets from the pantry just as Evryn’s grandmother emerged. Despite her simple morning gown, Lady Rivenna looked every inch the formidable matriarch with her no-nonsense stride and her chin held high. She carried a small stack of ledgers tucked beneath one arm and a plate bearing two scones in her other hand.
“I trust this summons involves something more substantial than your usual dramatics,” she said, settling into a nearby chair. “It’s the first week of the Season, and I have no less than fourteen different crises to address before we open.” She gestured toward the plate of scones. “And do excuse me for eating while we speak. I left home in such haste that I haven’t had a bite.”
“I wouldn’t dream of coming between you and Orrit’s scones, Grandmother,” Evryn replied, attempting a light tone that fell somewhat short of convincing, while his fingers tapped a soundless rhythm against his knee.
Lady Rivenna narrowed her eyes. “You’re fidgeting worse than Rosavyn at a formal event. What exactly is this about?”
“I’d prefer to wait until the rest of the family arrives, Grandmother,” Evryn said, glancing toward the door with undisguised hope for immediate rescue. When none came, his gaze darted back to his grandmother, who was now eyeing him with a great deal of suspicion, eyes narrowed even further.
“Interesting,” she murmured, taking a delicate bite of one of her scones without breaking her gaze.
Evryn was saved from having to reply by the cheerful tinkling of the bell above the front door. He stood as his mother swept inside, followed by Evryn’s younger brother and sister, Kazrian and Aurelise.
“… should work much better now,” Kazrian was saying to Aurelise as he held the door open for her.
“But I liked it the way it was,” Aurelise said, her features pulling into a frown.
“Why?” Kazrian’s answering frown almost perfectly matched his twin’s. “It was broken.”
“It wasn’t broken!” Aurelise insisted. “It wassupposedto sound like that.”
