“Drink up. You look stressed,” she says.
I shrug and down it, coughing as the liquid burns its way through my body. “Wow. It’s definitely May Day now.”
Everyone laughs, and then Argos goes on about his upcoming demonstration. Gears, magic, inertia—a bunch of phrases I have no hope of understanding. I lean left to look at the crowd around the maypole. Little ones are weaving the ribbons around the pole.
DeFleurtis is in the midst of them, looking incredibly out of place. He is skipping and shouting out questions to Betilda. “When did this specific ritual begin? Do you know if it involved fire originally?”
Betilda shakes her head and heads to the cluster of round tables filled with food.
I don’t see Cyrus anywhere.
“Time for my presentation,” Argos says.
Tully kisses him, and he heads off for the stage that Rustion erected at the edge of the grounds. We trail him slowly, chatting and making jokes.
Argos raises his hands. “I have a new contraption for everyone to be suspicious about!”
The crowd laughs. We are used to him and his crazy experiments now.
He tugs a tarp off something massive. There are brass knobs, iron bracings, and a big cage sort of thing. It’s open at both ends, though.
“This is my Horse Cleaner, Version twelve!”
And there is Cyrus suddenly, leading one of Rustion’s black mares toward the contraption. I take a stuttering breath. He walks into the cage-like structure and passes all the way through with the horse in tow. When he stops, the horse is positioned under the rounded iron bars.
“Watch this!” Argos calls out.
The horse whinnies nervously and Cyrus feeds her something from his palm.
Argos pulls a brass level down and water spills from the bars. They must have holes drilled into them. I can see now that he has hoses running from his invention to Rustion’s well. The horse is drenched. Argos pushes a few buttons, and long, slim brushes swing out from the bars to brush the mare.
Everyone cheers, and Argos takes a bow. He takes an apple from his pocket and feeds it to the mare.
“My mate is such a smartie,” Tully says proudly.
“He truly is,” I say.
Cyrus leaves the horse with Argos and walks toward the dancing that is starting back up again.
“I’m going to get something to eat,” I say to Laini and Tully.
They nod and keep on chatting about Argos’s contraption.
I glance left and right as I make my way toward the towers of turkey legs, rolls, tureens, and platters. I had to hand the dessert job over to Nisa this year. Seems as though she did a great job. She used to run her own bakery, but she happily retired right after mine was up and running. Flaky pastries filled with custard and slathered in chocolate fill a platter beside three plates of expert-level entremets. Each one looks like a fruit—ripe red apples, green apples, oranges, and blue ones that look like enlarged berries. Their glaze is so shiny that it reflects the sunset’s glittering light. I slide one onto a crockery plate. When I cut into the treat, the layers are perfectly defined. A cookie base, a fruity gel, and a heavenly mousse. I take a bite and moan with pleasure.
Then I feel a familiar heat at my back.
I turn, dessert all over my chin. Of course, it’s Cyrus. My pulse doubles in rate and I’m lightheaded. Maybe it’s just the drink Tully gave me. Who am I kidding? It’s Cyrus. He does this to me. I try to wipe my chin on my sleeve.
One eyebrow and the corner of his lips lift. “Pretty good dessert?”
That voice. So deep. His wings shuffle, and the setting sun glows through them. He’s just way too lovely.
“Yes. Very good. You should have two.”
His chuckle warms me and he follows my suggestion, piling two of the apple entremets onto a plate. We eat in quiet satisfaction, watching the maypole dancers finish their pattern. The flutes and harp start up another jaunty tune, and soon almost everyone is dancing. Betilda bosses a few lads about as they set up the two kissing booths beyond the oak, nearer to the forest.
I take a deep breath and set my plate in the basket for used items just below the table.
