Chapter Text
⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺
The night is a flux of devouring kisses, ardent caresses, and pine liquor I hadn't planned on drinking. There is dancing around the fire and a chase through the hedge maze. I fall on my hands in the dirt, laughing. Locke helps me back up, a sly grin on his face, just to shove me into the nearest shrub and press scolding hot pecks down my neck. A high, airy whine escapes my throat, giving away my delight; I could get used to playing games with the gentry.
My hands tug at Locke’s russet hair until his mouth is leveled with mine and—he chuckles like an imp before running away.
I’m breathing heavily, gripping the boxwood behind me hard enough to rip out some thick leaves. The strong scent of crushed peppermint fills my nose, sticky sap burning my fingers. I wipe it off on my borrowed ball gown, hoping the plant isn’t too toxic.
Did I seem desperate? I’ve always been driven by the desire to secure my place in Faerie, not even realizing how much I hungered for touch until Locke decided I was worth touching. Now that I've started throwing timber into this fire, I don’t know how to stop myself from being consumed by it.
I bury my face in my hands—they feel alarmingly cold. Actually, they are great at soothing my overheated cheeks. I’m pathetic. I just ruined my chances with the kindest boy I know, like I ruined his mother’s dress: its embroidered fabric smeared with grass stains as well as the strange, fragrant sap.
Not that I’d be the first to green gown her.
The unbidden image of his scorched black eyes smolders in my mind, familiar ire heating my ears. Maybe I should squeeze out more foliage.
Prince Cardan has watched me all night, a shark restlessly circling, waiting for the right moment to bite. And if I have laughed louder for the sake of angering him, if I have smiled wider, and kissed Locke longer, that is a kind of deceit that even the Folk cannot condemn.
Laughter echoes from around the corner, snapping me out of my pity party. Locke did the right thing by breaking. We are meant to flee from the Banshee, not to make out in the shrubbery.
I race through branching paths, taking turns toward the wild pipering and mix of voices. So long as I’m not the last one to reach the safe haven near the center of the maze, there is still a chance of winning.
However, the mirthful sounds grow muffled and the layout seems to be more complicated than I remember. Of course. Any semblance of simplicity in a land of magic and monsters is bound to be deceit.
Long, lithe fingers seize my shoulders and spin me around, making me squeal like a rodent caught in a mousetrap. I have failed every single one of the Ghost’s lessons. I have failed Prince Dain. A spy who doesn’t keep track of her surroundings is nothing but dead weight.
“Shriek, you’re it!” the statuesque faerie in front of me warbles, bending down to kiss the hand he grabbed hold of.
I can’t help but find it charming, although he must want to humiliate me, the gesture merely mocking Elfhame’s baroque customs.
Allowing an enchantment-free mortal into their midst makes Locke seem like the ultimate killjoy, yet all partygoers have been polite to me: for the Folk, there is little crime more despicable than offending the host. (Obviously, Cardan and Nicasia have been their usual, awful selves. As royalty, they couldn’t care less whom they offend.)
It does not matter if the fey still resent me in silence, because I finally feel like I belong among them. Locke’s benevolence has granted me this courtesy, whereas Prince Dain has breathed purpose into my life. These are the best gifts I have ever received, and I will repay them generously—starting with being nice to the boy towering over me.
He is almost as tall as the hedges, an extraordinary height for a member of the gentry. I wonder if he’s related to the treefolk, since kin of the ogres don’t possess such a dainty physique. It’s probably better to be tagged by him than by the white-haired girl who hunted us at the beginning of the game; she actually looked part sluagh.
The boy’s hair is the fresh green of young spruce tips, cascading down to his hip in thick, glossy waves. He is magnificent, an ethereal entity who’ll gleefully lure humans into their demise. I need to stop staring at him.
His mouth, neck and part of his chest are flaked with nevermore, reminding me of Cardan’s gold stained lips. The youngest prince was lying on a blanket, his head tipped back and his loose white shirt unbuttoned. Although it was still early in the night, he appeared to be very drunk. A horned girl I didn’t know was kissing his throat, and another, this one with daffodil hair, pressed her mouth against the calf of his leg, just above the top of his boot.
I frown, furious at my own memory.
“You’re unfamiliar with the rules, are you not?” The pine-haired faerie cuckles, nudging my nose with his pinky.
I swat his nimble hand away as if it were an irritating fly. You’re supposed to scream, preferably wail in a really theatrical way, if you’ve been caught during Banshee Chase. But that would be kind of awkward now that I’m grown, besides I already screeched. My scowl deepens: I have not heard any other player bawl.
“We are not playing by the rules—”
The boy presses a firm peck onto my pout, clutching the back of my head, and I can’t cry anyway. I kick his leg and shove him away. Despite being tall and spindly, he barely stumbles, instead dropping into a graceful obeisance.
Reaching into the pocket of the sullied dress, I touch my knife, still stained with Valerian’s blood. I drop it back into my pocket. No matter how much Locke likes me, he wouldn’t like kissing the person who goes around stabbing all his friends. Surely, I could make an exception for Cardan. Locke likes for things to happen, and a prince of Faerie squirming at the hands of a lowly mortal would make for an amusing story.
Watching the faerie rise from his bow, I dig my nails into my palms to resist the urge to strike him to the ground. Madoc would be ashamed to see me turn away from a fight; he might also believe I deserve defeat for missing his lessons.
“You’ve stolen a kiss. Now, give me the gift of knowing your name,” I say, trying to sound casual. He won’t tell me his true name anyway, but all names hold some sort of power over the Folk.
“You may call me Bennox, my lady,” he retorts with mischief in his voice, a typically fey inflection that never bodes any good. “I am convinced your name is entirely unique.”
He’s either teasing me or he simply thinks all human names sound peculiar. In any case, Bennox hasn’t asked a question, therefore etiquette doesn’t require an answer. I have to throw my head back to look up into his face, the boy is annoyingly gorgeous as well as annoying in general.
With a wink and a short, sparkling laugh, he turns around and starts sprinting.
I am left to rush after him. Perhaps my kisses put pretty fey to flight. At least that’s a useful talent.
I hate being the Banshee. I never got hold of a faerie when I was little. They would slip into the trunk of a willow or vanish behind the evening fog, so Taryn and I always ended up chasing each other. I wish Taryn were here, even though she would hate this silly game. If her secret paramour is in attendance, drunk and merry, he might reveal himself, mistaking me for her. I wonder if he’ll run away too.
Bennox, with his striking height and luminous locks, should be easy enough to spot in the torch-lit maze, yet he has disappeared without leaving behind a single footprint in the soft grass. Maybe he has turned into a boxwood. I trip over Liriope’s opulent gown, falling on my hands, again.
I collapse into hysterical laughter, pulling at the stiff bodice, unable to catch my breath. Oh, how quickly I have gone from kissing Locke, feeling cherished and euphoric, to rolling alone in the dirt. It’s a classic tale of Faerie: the kind where the princess is tricked by a toad and must spend the remainder of her days as an ant in the swamp, ending up devoured by hungry amphibians.
But that’s a story to Cardan’s taste, he’s puffed-up like a toad anyway. Locke would not trick me. He’s not cruel like the prince, he's nothing like him or the rest of his terrible companions.
Why am I being dramatic? It’s all just a game. I am no ant. And I have braved worse things than wearing an impractical dress and staining it with sod. I stand up, gather the heavy, embroidered skirts, and keep running as fast as I can; the game is not over until I have won.
⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺