Chapter 8
8
Western Woods puff pancakes .
The dream is real. The chef has surpassed even my wildest imaginings, and where fluffy cakes are concerned, my imaginings can get pretty wild. Flat like pancakes on their wondrously golden tops, they rise up whole inches from my plate.
I carry the delicacy the same way I cradled my copy of The Ashen Court at the midnight launch event, continuing from the servery into the dining hall with great care. I’m not costumed this morning, given I’ve got nothing to work with. This denizen of Elytheum just happens to wear a Proud Volunteer of the Oklahoma Public Library shirt.
Entering the high-ceilinged room, I notice details I didn’t last night. On the wall across from the entrance hangs Val’s sword, I know instantly from the ornamented hilt. Okay, I also know from the small crowd assembled under the mounted weapon. A similar group has gathered in front of what I realize is a painting depicting the series’ climactic fight with the Darkness.
I promise myself I’ll join them later. For now, I’m forced to obey the sweet scent wafting up from my food.
I head for the tables, where I discover my plate of pancakes is, surprisingly, not the most exciting element of the morning. With the fantastical fare comes something even more enticing—schedules at every place setting.
I put my plate down and snatch up the cardstock, finding the paper perfectly stained, folded, and softened to resemble courtly scroll-stock. Is this hand-lettered? First pancakes, now parchment. Another compliment I owe Amelia.
While the great hall fills with Experience guests chatting in the sunlight from the high windows, I lose myself in the descriptions of the immersive programming. Potion making—or cocktail mixing, the summary explains—horseback riding, even lessons in the Demoniaca card game.
While I peruse, I reach for the syrup carafe. Fogberry , reads the label. It’s a nice flourish. When I try some on my pancakes, I find the chef has combined cherry and blueberry into the emulation of the fictional purple fruit said to bramble everywhere in Kethryn’s court gardens.
I keep reading, savoring my pancakes. Archery, paint-and-sip, jewelry making. Some of the classes, I notice, require you attend with a “paramour,” the Experience’s way of making sure guests mingle with one another.
Of course, I have no paramour. I have one immensely irritating colleague, who is an ass. And I have one friend, who is ineligible to participate in the activities directly.
Fortified by my pancakes, I conclude there is only one solution. If I’m going to participate in the full extent of the Elytheum Experience, I’m going to have to start making friends.
Not just for the events, either. I remind myself it’s good to socialize. Get out there. It’ll distract me from Scott and help me feel more like myself.
I look up from my dish, attempting to make eye contact with the other guests wandering in from the servery. Without staring weirdly, I work at mustering a winningly eager sit-next-to-me vibe.
No one does. My confidence ebbs. I hate the familiar feeling. Why is making friends as an adult so hard?
Okay, it’s not like it was easier when I was younger. Still. I’ve gotten jobs, gotten promotions, gotten my driver’s license, moved cities. Why is this hard? Even with fellow fans surrounding me, I feel frustratingly alone.
I feel the pull of returning upstairs to read. The first event requires no “paramour” and doesn’t start until nine thirty. I hardly even started the first chapter of my full reread last night.
Kethryn wore black the day of her coronation…
I straighten up. No—no, I will not retreat. My favorite stories are stories of courage. Of confidence summoned amid adversity. Their heroines never let fear shake their determination. Maybe immersing myself in fantasy doesn’t just mean lighting candles and eating fancy pancakes.
Maybe it means finding my own heroism.
I can’t fight mythical monsters or wage courtly war. I can, however, find enough courage to make friends. If I want the kind of life Jordan thinks only exists in books, I have to start acting like a main character.
Mustering my nerve, I stand, fixing my eyes at random on two women probably in their twenties. They’re costumed to the nines, one in impeccably crafted, not-fucking-around leather armor, the other red-gowned like she’s going to whatever Elytheum’s equivalent of New York Fashion Week is. In my civilian garb, I immediately vow to get more costumes later from the student center, where the map indicated I could find them. For now, however, I stride right to where the women are seated near the doors.
“Hey,” I say. “Mind if I join?”
“Please,” the armored one replies. Her voice is soft, and she speaks with quick precision. “I’m Laurel, and this is Brit.”
“Jennifer,” I introduce myself. I notice Brit reaching for the syrup. “Oh, you have to try the fogberry,” I say.
“It’s honestly delicious,” Laurel concurs. “I’m going to make some at home when I want to pretend I’m up early for combat exercises instead of, like, work.”
I laugh, knowing exactly what early-morning combat scene she’s referring to. An hour of hand-to-hand exercises with Val in the court gardens ended with some hand-to-somewhere-else exercises right on the grass, getting the stains of the purple fruit everywhere.
“I’m literally going to dream of puff pancakes tonight,” I offer.
“ Yes ,” Laurel responds.
I feel relieved, regretting my misgivings earlier. I guess befriending fellow fans isn’t so hard. It makes me suddenly sad—in six days, I’ll return home to regular, non-fan friend making.
I push the idea from my mind. “I’ve read The Exile Court like fifteen times,” I inform them, referring to the installment where our memorable morning meal is introduced. “It’s probably my favorite.”
“Me. Too,” Brit replies emphatically.
“What are you planning on doing today?” I venture. “I kind of want to check out…everything.”
“We were going to do the needlework class. I want to make a Western Court crest for my masquerade gown,” Brit says. She raises her sculpted eyebrows in invitation. “Want to joint us?”
I grin. “I’d love to.”
—
Two hours later, I have pricked my finger more times than I can count. But I am not abandoning my Northern Court crest.
Every Elytheum reader knows the regional courts surrounding Kethryn’s Court of Elytheum—Northern, Eastern, and Western, since the Darkness destroyed the Southern—represent the personality characteristics of their famous rulers. The North, responsible for watching over Elytheum from their snowy vantage, stands for stoic self-reliance, embodied in the sword emblem I’m stitching.
Self-reliance . Yeah, it’s the court of single people.
Right now my sword looks more like a slug. Nonetheless, I determinedly continue stitching the pattern with the auburn string I chose.
We’re outside, the class held in one of the small quads. In the daylight, the grass gleams emerald, the stone of the campus shining white. I can imagine I’m a courtly noblewoman, enmeshed in Elytheum intrigues. Okay, a noblewoman who wears an Oklahoma library T-shirt—close enough. Perhaps I’m in possession of a dangerous secret, one I need to communicate covertly to queen Kethryn. Perhaps I’m plotting an assassination no one will suspect of a mere lady-in-waiting. Perhaps—
Ow. Fuck . Forget perhaps. I’ve definitely pricked my finger again.
I’m enjoying hanging out with Laurel and Brit. It’s refreshingly easy to connect with people who share my same passions. People who, notably, won’t make pointed comments about book boyfriends .
I’m the new member of their group, and other than loving Elytheum, I’m only just getting to know them. Of course we start with the important stuff—favorite scenes, favorite characters, favorite spinoff theories.
When I notice Amelia visiting our class, I realize how immersed I was. The real world—my regular life, my breakup, Scott—had fled my memory.
Amelia heads straight for me. “Okay, I have eight minutes until I have to officiate the archery contest.” She surveys the clearing, looking jittery with nervous excitement. Nervousness is uncommon on the no-nonsense Amelia—it shows me how invested she is, personally and professionally, in the Experience. “Incredible, right?” she asks me. “Did you see Val?”
I hear the reassurance she wants under the disguise of enthusiasm. “Amelia, Val is perfect,” I say. “Everything is perfect.”
She smiles, satisfied. The very mention of the fae bodyguard puts a blush in her cheeks. I recognize the reaction from my dinner companions and, okay, from myself. Everyone—except Scott—has a crush on the perfectly cast actor. Everyone will be working hard to win the date.
“Good.” She permits my reassurance. “Do you love your suite?”
“It’s amazing,” I gush earnestly. “You’ve brought Elytheum to life. Only one thing…” I can’t help adding. “You could have warned me Scott was here, and on my floor.”
Amelia waves off my complaint. “Oh, he’s not so bad,” she replies, still flushed with pride from my praise of the Experience. “I figured you knew! He didn’t mention it at work?”
“He did not. And not so bad? ” I exaggerate my incredulity. “How can you say that? He’s the worst. He…” I falter, remembering the Experience’s rules about immersion and the outside world, which I especially don’t want to violate with Amelia herself. “He is possessed of very evil magic. He would sell out his friends to the Inquisitorium for nothing. He makes Nightfell Ravens look like…fluffy ducklings.”
Amelia laughs, evidently not appreciating the dark import of the Scott situation. She overlapped with him for a few months when we were all Parthenon colleagues, and of course I filled her in on the Charlene’s Hallway Incident. Amelia was as affronted as I by Scott’s unfriendliness as well as his attitudes in the office. But clearly her months away have made her forget how much he sucks.
“It’s cool he’s getting into Elytheum, though, isn’t it?” she says encouragingly.
“I don’t believe his motives are innocent,” I reply.
“Who’s Scott?” Brit interjects, no doubt intrigued by my ominous sincerity
“He’s my—” I improvise, the Elytheum pretense coming easily. “He’s my sworn enemy.”
Reasonably, my meaning does not reach Laurel and Brit. Laurel leans in, looking intrigued. “Sounds sexy.”
Horrified, I shake my head vehemently. “No. Not in a sexy way,” I protest. “We are…”
Hm. What’s the fantastical equivalent of coworkers? Warriors from the same guild sort of overstates matters when the only war we wage is during marketing meetings.
“We serve the same lord in our home court,” I settle for weakly. “Laurel, Brit, this is Amelia,” I introduce her, realizing I haven’t. The perfect subject change from Scott. “She works for Heather Winters. She’s the mastermind behind the Experience.”
“Oh my god,” Laurel says.
“No way,” Brit says.
While they enthuse over every aspect of the Experience and their rooms, I watch Amelia’s cheeks go pink with pride. It’s wonderful, and I recognize the upside of the difficulty of finding friends who really understand you. When you do find them, they mean everything to you.
“Thank you,” Amelia replies earnestly. “I just want the fans to love it. I mean”—she gazes out over the quad, fond and reverent—“it has been my entire life for the past year.”
“Who needs a life when you have this?” I reply.
Amelia’s eyes move from the quad to me. I recognize the concern in them. Whenever I mentioned offhand that I couldn’t remember when I’d last spoken to my parents or was oversleeping longer and longer on the weekend, or whatever, Amelia’s Ameli-ometer would go off, and she would offer me some gentle-yet-firm advice, on which she would inevitably follow up.
I focus on my shitty needlework, hoping Amelia gets distracted in the midst of the Experience.
She doesn’t. “I’m proud of my work here, really,” she says levelly. “But I’m excited to have more time to myself, too. I can’t remember the last date I went on.”
“You’re not missing much,” I grumble.
“Seconded,” Laurel concurs. Something sharp hides in her voice, and I notice sympathy flicker on Brit’s features. I start quietly filling in context—Laurel is another romance reader like me who’s not in love with real-world romance.
“Well, I hope we meet Scott,” Brit ventures. “Is he a rugged fae warrior?”
I snort. “No. Definitely not.”
Like Brit has uttered a magic summons in the words rugged fae warrior , one walks right into the quad—or, the closest thing to one in our decidedly non-Elytheum world. Lord Valance is newly costumed for the day, the collar of his night-colored shirt hanging open. He saunters into our midst, swaggering and smirking up a storm. The man’s smirk-per-minute ratio is unreal, honestly. He must spend some serious minutes practicing.
He approaches the needlework circle, where he crouches down next to us. Amelia, specifically. He perches on his heels close to where she’s sitting. From his position, he peers at Brit’s needlework.
“Western Court, I see,” he observes. “You’re going to be trouble, then.”
Brit blushes fiercely. Laurel and I light up. The reference is impressive—Val in the series has enmity with the Western Court, the final court to join Kethryn’s climactic alliance due to Kethryn having spurned the lord of the court romantically in favor of Val.
Val eyes my work next. Squints, more like. My sword is not looking so hot.
“Northern Court, I…suspect?” he pronounces. “Perhaps fewer…squiggles would aid you.”
I grin, remembering one of Winters’s key Val lines, now emblazoned onto hundreds of pieces of sharp-eyed fan art. He makes mockery sound like sweetest praise. The performer is fantastic, and he’s clearly studied the source material.
The fun I’m having makes inspiration come easy. “I’m afraid I have other talents, Lord Valance,” I reply.
He meets my eyes with an intrigued eyebrow raised. “Do you, now? Like what?” He leans in closer, drawing glances of interest and glares of jealousy from nearby guests. He smells just like the candle in my room.
I play it nonchalant. “Perhaps you’ll find out when we dine after I’ve caught the court’s spy,” I say.
He licks his lips. “Perhaps I will.”
He holds my gaze until I’m the one—me!—who ends our eye contact, returning to the shambles of my Northern Court emblem.
“My lady,” Val continues on, addressing Amelia now. “I believe we are to judge some archery from the newest recruits among the court’s defenders. Shall I walk you?”
Amelia, who has watched our interaction with nothing short of rapture, pauses. Her regard shifts from me to Val, like his offer has startled her. “No, go on ahead of me, Lord Valance,” she replies. “I’ll…join you in five minutes.”
It’s unmistakable. With her reply, Val’s smirk falters. He looks…disappointed.
Then, with the poise the fae lord is known for, he shrugs away the momentary reaction, the same way he would easily fend off shots of dark magic from enemy warriors. He stands to his full height, passing one final assessing gaze over the group, and strides off.
“Oh my god,” Laurel exhales, enjoying the view of his departure. “He’s so good.”
Then their eyes find me.
“ Other talents? ” Brit cheers. “Girl, who are you?”
I grin, hiding how their praise delights me. I honestly surprised myself chatting with Val. IRL, I’m not exactly known for my silver-tongued flirting.
I guess Elytheum just suits me.
One of the women next to us speaks up, likewise having for the moment abandoned her needlework in favor of watching the retreating Val. “I heard someone found a clue at breakfast,” she says enviously. “Has anyone else discovered anything?”
My head whips up. My pride in my fantasy flirting vanishes.
Someone else has found the first clue? Or… a first clue? Either they unraveled the LAST clue already…or, likelier, the Experience organizers have left numerous clues in various locations on campus. Even if I find one, I won’t have the only lead. And if I don’t figure out what LAST is alluding to, I’ll fall behind people who’ve already found their first clues.
Stress starts to steal into me, which definitely isn’t what I envisioned for my week in Elytheum. I’m supposed to have fun, I remind myself. Still…I really don’t want to lose out on the prize date.
Not when the two sentences I just exchanged with Val made me entirely, finally, forget about Scott.
Everyone else has started eagerly speculating, which makes me feel guilty for not wanting to join in and share the anagram I noticed. A couple of my needlework classmates have begun peering around, like they suspect clues hide among the needles—which, I don’t know, maybe they do.
I catch Amelia watching it all. “I’m guessing you can’t participate?” I ask.
“Considering I hid ninety percent of the clues, it would be a little unfair,” Amelia concedes.
The wink in her voice doesn’t quite hide the wistfulness. Her Elytheum costume is perfect, her dress embroidered to resemble Kethryn’s on the Shattered Court UK cover art. She’s like each of us—the ultimate superfan—and she’s immersed herself in creating the Experience’s marvelous world, yet she can’t fully partake of it. The week, the realization of her efforts, must be bittersweet.
“Anyway,” she continues, just a little like she’s reminding herself, “it’s not like the person who hired the performers could win the date.”
Her eyes have drifted back to Val, who was receding from our group. It occurs to me I’ve never seen the look she’s wearing. Not when Sam Heughan was on-screen during our marathon of the first Outlander season, not even when I commissioned her some very detailed Elytheum fan art in celebration of her new job. Her gaze holds something more yearning than the rest of ours.
The Experience, I realize, maybe isn’t the only thing she’s wishful and wistful for.
Whenever I’m lovelorn or frustrated or down, Amelia works to lift my spirits. Even when it’s in the midst of her professional victory lap. I owe her the same.
“Hey, I mean, at least you get to hang out with him while judging archery, right?” I point out encouragingly.
Amelia smiles. “Yeah, no, I’m great,” she replies with conviction. I guess she’s as good at picking herself up as she is at consoling me. Still, her eyes don’t leave the departing Val.
I follow her gaze while I line up my next stitches. Val’s purposeful stride looks diligently practiced. Amelia probably designed his costume, which matches hers for detail. His cape features the complete crest of the Elytheum Courts, the new iconography forged at the very end of the series, which is interesting, as it positions the chronology of the Experience itself—
I stab my needle right into my finger.
The pain doesn’t even hit me immediately. Because I’ve figured it out. The first clue. Or, the next part of it.
Val’s costume features the complete crest of the Elytheum Courts . Commemorating the union of Northern, Eastern, and finally Western in order to defeat the resurgent Darkness, the new Elytheum crest incorporated the emblems of every court, including the thorned rose Brit is presently stitching.
Western Court. You’re going to be trouble .
When the Western Court finally joined Kethryn’s alliance, Lord Valance could not help giving them a sneering nickname, which caught on among Kethryn’s courtiers.
Western Court? he chided in the heated negotiation scene. More like Last Court.
When my finger stings, I pop it into my mouth to keep from bleeding on my needlework. West, Last. Last, West. While I contemplate, I control my expression, not wanting my eager compatriots to know I’m on to something.
Amelia notices only my new injury. “You okay?” she asks.
“Mm-hmm,” I reply hastily. “I…think I just need a Band-Aid. I’ll catch up with you all later,” I assure my group.
I abscond from the needlework class, retreating into the nearest corridor. Heart pounding with hope, I pull out the campus map I grabbed on my way out of my room. Either my deduction is right or I’m zero steps closer to my first clue.
West, Last. Last, West.
When I unfold the map, I find it instantly, far from the main quad.
West College.