Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
ONE YEAR LATER
DAPHNE
A lady of gentle breeding must be accomplished in a myriad of skills: dancing, polite dining, witty conversation, music, and fine art. I only ever excelled at the latter skill while failing at all the rest. Maybe that’s because I don’t come from gentle breeding. In fact, my conception was rather violent indeed. My mother is famed across the unseelie forest for having bitten my father’s ear clean off after their mating session. I suppose that’s what he gets for trying to cuddle the surliest pine marten in the Earthen Court and asking her to move into his tree with him. Pine martens are solitary by nature, even the fae ones. I know because I lived alone for much of my three centuries of life.
Until I learned to shift into my seelie form and made the hapless decision to enter human high society as a debutante. That experience ended the same way my parents’ short-lived coupling did.
With a bitten-off ear.
And I was the one doing the biting.
While my mother’s bite earned her respect and notoriety amongst the local fae creatures, mine got me cast out of society, after which I retreated to the safety of my unseelie hometown for the next decade.
Now I’m on my second attempt at integrating into human society, via the working class this time, and things have gone smoothly. I have a job, a functional human body, and even a few friends. Yet I’m constantly waiting for the proverbial severed ear to drop.
As I stare at the canvas perched on the easel before me, I wonder if this is that day. The day it all goes to shit.
I grimace at my sketch. It looked fine this morning when I gave my canvas a proud once-over before hefting it under my arm and escorting it to my workplace. Now that my piece sits beside several other artists’ in-progress illustrations, it’s painfully clear I made a mistake in bringing it to the studio today. Never mind that my final sketch is due for my supervisor’s approval in less than an hour. I’m going to need an extension.
A wicked cackle sounds over my shoulder. “That is so ugly.”
I swat at the fluttering fae creature, who is thankfully not my supervisor.
The sprite only laughs harder, zipping over my head to the other side. Her girlish voice climbs to a feverish pitch. “You must be soooo embarrassed.”
“I would be,” I say through my teeth, “if anyone saw it.”
“I’m seeing it.”
“Anyone who counts,” I amend. “Which you don’t.”
I glance once more at the other canvases, illuminated by the morning glow streaming through the studio’s arched windows. Is it just me or is the sunlight refusing to grace my easel? Not that I can blame it. At least none of the other artists have arrived to witness my mortification, though they will be here soon. While I’ve only been commissioned for a single project, four in-house illustrators work at Fletcher-Wilson full-time, all of whom have been in this field far longer than I have.
The sprite tiptoes on air into my field of vision, tilting her head to the side. She’s about the size of my palm and resembles a pixie with her tiny body and buzzing wings. What sets her apart from a regular pixie is that she’s made entirely of paper, from her four slender limbs to her hair, wings, and skin. With a flutter of her cream-colored parchment lashes, she says, “I bet you’re thinking about how much better the other artists are than you.”
I swat at her again. “Why are you here? This is a publishing house and you’re a book sprite. Surely there are more interesting departments to invade. Wouldn’t you rather insult a new manuscript?”
“I prefer to insult the manuscripts you’re reading,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because we’re friends.”
“Since when? I don’t even know your name.”
“Well, I only named myself this morning. I’ve decided to be Lady Araminta of the Shining Waters.”
I scoff. “That’s certainly a name.”
“Isn’t it? What’s yours again? Daffy?”
“Daphne,” I snipe back, but her mispronunciation sends an unexpected spear through my heart. Only one person has ever dared to call me Daffy. If he were here now, I’m sure he’d have something annoying to say about my situation. And yet…it would probably cheer me up too.
You can’t weasel your way out this pickle, Daffy Dear , is what I bet he’d say. He always loved his stupid puns.
To which I’d argue that I’m not a weasel; I’m a pine marten. Furthermore, I’m in seelie form now and?—
Why am I arguing with an imaginary Monty Phillips? That idiot got himself fired almost a year ago and I haven’t seen my former colleague since.
“I waited at your desk since dawn,” the newly christened Araminta says, “ready to read queries over your shoulder, but you never showed at your usual time.”
“Yes, well, I’m not working in editorial today,” I say under my breath as I take up a stick of graphite and rework some of the lines on my canvas. Fridays are the one day of the week I get to work on my commission. A commission I’m growing increasingly convinced I don’t deserve.
“You should have stuck to editorial. You’re really, reeeeeally bad at art.” Araminta tumbles through the air in a renewed fit of cackles. “I’m glad I found you today. This is so much better than reading queries.”
I glower at the tiny creature. Who knew an infestation of harmless bookworms would grow so troublesome? When the bookbinders first spotted the adorable fae worms napping on stacks of paper at Fletcher-Wilson’s printing warehouse, they were charmed. Bookworms are a type of book sprite—the spirit of fiction made physical—and are drawn to spectacular prose. We saw it as a blessing. None of us knew some of the bookworms would find their way to our main office and metamorphose into absolute terrors. For weeks now these evolved winged book sprites have been tormenting us with misdemeanors ranging from dog-earing pages to cracking spines to absolute war crimes like spoiling the endings of manuscripts or—like the sprite who plagues me now—fancying themselves critics.
One would think I’d have more patience for the wicked creatures, considering I’m fae myself, but I don’t. Were I in my pine marten form, I’d have eaten this snack-sized menace without remorse. The fact that I haven’t snatched her from the air and bitten off her tiny cackling head is a miracle.
I eye her through slitted lids as she points and laughs at my canvas with gusto, wondering if perhaps I might be a little hungry. But, alas, murder is not on today’s agenda. Maybe it’s because I prefer cooked food when I’m in seelie form.
Or maybe it’s because the sprite isn’t wrong. My sketch is ugly.
Ignoring Araminta as best I can, I make a few more corrections with my graphite, then step back to assess my work again. My eyes wander over the delicate lines that form the two partially undressed figures I’ve drawn. The female looks gorgeous with her windswept hair and languid posture. Her lips are parted in a sensual O , the bodice of her gown pooling around her waist to reveal a heaving bosom nearly spilling from her corset. The hem of her ballgown is hiked up to reveal gartered stockings encircling thick thighs. She’s everything a cover-worthy heroine should be. I shift my attention to the male figure and my mood sours. “It’s the hands,” I say, pointing to where the hero grips the heroine’s hips.
Araminta taps her chin as she hovers in front of the canvas. She tilts her head this way and that before another burst of mirth escapes her lips. “Those aren’t hands. Those are paws .”
Alarm rushes through me as I inspect my work closer. She’s right. My hero has not human metacarpals and phalanges but thick meaty paws.
“How the hell did that happen?” I set about frantically reworking his digits, desperate to turn them into the strong groping hands I was aiming for. My efforts result in an indecipherable blur of graphite.
“Before you stress solely over his paws, you should probably save some anxiety for the rest of him.”
“The rest of him is—” I swallow my words as I take in further evidence of the monstrosity I created. I blink several times, hoping that the next time I open my eyes I’ll see something else on the canvas. Instead, I only see more and more flaws. Not only does my hero have paws, but his torso is too long. His legs are too short. Overall, he’s rather bendy and fleshy. Almost like…
“A weasel,” Araminta says. “You drew a man shaped like a weasel.”
I stammer before I manage to find coherence. “Not entirely. He…he is almost human-shaped.”
“Almost?” The sprite flutters to the corner of my canvas where she lands. Sprawling on her belly, she kicks her legs in time with the flap of her papery wings. “You’ve clearly never been with a man if that’s what you think they look like naked.”
I give her a withering look. “Like you know any better than I do. You only emerged from your chrysalis, what, two weeks ago?”
She shrugs. “I’ve read a lot of interesting books since then, so I know plenty. What’s the word you use to describe them? Smutty?”
“Yes, well I’ve read even more smutty books than you. And I have been with a man. Plural men.”
Araminta looks impressed for once. “At the same time?”
“No, not at the same time.” I purse my lips, sealing away the fact that none of my sexual exploits involved much time assessing my lovers’ goods. Or pleasure, for that matter. Nothing worth inspiring art.
“How did you even get this job?”
“I’ll have you know I was personally recommended by Edwina Danforth.” I turn my nose up at the sprite before whirling on my heel to rifle through my leather satchel. Once I find my sketchbook, I flip through the pages. “She’s one of my dearest friends and asked me to illustrate the new covers for her most popular book series.”
“Favoritism, then? Not talent?”
“It wasn’t just her. Mr. Fletcher approved of her suggestion.” Mr. Fletcher is both Edwina’s publisher and my boss. I never would have been considered for the commission were it not for Edwina’s pleading on my behalf, but the fact that Mr. Fletcher agreed to hire me must count for something.
“And he had so much faith in you that he’s only allowing you to work in the illustration department one day a week.”
I give her a warning growl and finally locate the page I’m looking for. It’s the rough sketch I drew before I reproduced it as a clean sketch on my current canvas. I glance from the paper to the easel and back again, comparing the two drawings. The blood leaves my face as I realize the flaws were there from the start. How did I look at this sketch and think it was satisfactory enough to be replicated in my final piece? How did my supervisor do the same?
Araminta studies the page in my sketchbook. “Did your friend even look at your artwork before she recommended you?”
“Of course she did,” I say, flipping dozens of pages back to the very piece that convinced Edwina I’m a capable artist. My panic eases as I study it. Two mostly nude figures are entwined in a passionate embrace, every intricate line alive with movement. The emotion practically leaps off the page, the sexual tension palpable in the placement of the figures’ hands, the breath of space that separates their lips.
“This is why she recommended me,” I say, every word brimming with pride. Even under my most critical assessment, the sketch is beautiful.
So how did this piece turn out so perfect, while my current one is a thing of nightmares? This sketch is more than a year old, which means I should have gotten better since then, not worse. Was it the lack of pressure that made this one so easy? I never intended for a soul to see it, for sketching has always been my secret hobby. The one activity I carried with me from my brief time as a debutante. I never imagined Edwina would discover my sketchbook during one of her visits. Yet discover it, she did.
And humiliated I was.
Not only was my sketchbook and all its contents never meant for anyone’s eyes but mine, but the sketch Edwina saw was inspired by her most recent manuscript—which wasn’t meant for anyone’s eyes but Mr. Fletcher’s. She’d just turned it in that week, and I had to confess I’d borrowed it from his office one night, sneaking an early peek.
She didn’t so much as balk at my furtive actions. Furthermore, she refused to hear a word of apology and instead begged me to reproduce the sketch in full color. I wanted to refuse. I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush since my disastrous debut season when I found solace painting landscapes and portraits while the other debutantes engaged in gossip I was firmly excluded from.
But how does one say no to the woman who is not only your dear friend but also your favorite author?
One doesn’t.
“I see the problem,” Araminta says, pulling me back to the present.
“What problem?” I snap, tapping the sketch with my graphite. “This is perfect.”
“It is, which is precisely my point. This piece is perfect because it involves two women .”
I frown, staring down at the sketch once more. I mean, of course it involves two women. The couple from the borrowed manuscript was a water nymph and a banshee. Their chemistry was so titillating, I couldn’t not draw them?—
That’s when understanding dawns.
“You are absolute rubbish at drawing men,” Araminta says, putting words to my realization.
My stomach drops to my feet, as does my sketchbook. I crouch down to pick it up, but it’s now splayed open to reveal a page that only further solidifies my terror. It bears several quick sketches I made months ago while I was practicing male anatomy. They looked decent enough at the time, but now that I’ve become intimately acquainted with my flaws, they’re all I can see. Too-long torsos. Fingers that look more like paws. Beady eyes. Muzzles instead of mouths.
“No, no, no.” I snap the sketchbook shut but remain hunched by the floor. “I can’t draw men.”
Which is a problem. A big fucking problem.
Because I’ve been commissioned to paint four covers in the next three months, and each features a male-female pairing. If I succeed, Mr. Fletcher may promote me to full-time illustrator during my next performance review at the end of July.
But if I fail…
My eyes unfocus. “This can’t be happening.”
The buzz of paper wings reaches my ears, but I don’t bother looking at the sprite. She flies around my head three times before landing on the puffed sleeve of my ivory blouse. “Ugh. It’s no fun when you’re all sad about it. It’s only amusing when we make fun of your art together .”
My lungs tighten, my fingers curling into fists. Everything inside me yearns to shrink down into the comfort of my unseelie form. To return to my tiny stature, so easy to overlook, and a furry face that hides emotion.
But I can’t shrink down and hide. I promised myself I wouldn’t anymore.
When I returned to seelie society for the first time in a decade, still reeling from my awful experiences as a debutante, I hid in the comfort of my unseelie form. Even when I entered the workforce, I did so as a pine marten, only shifting into my humanoid body in secret when I wanted to draw.
Bit by bit, I’ve gained more confidence over the last couple of years. The working class isn’t nearly as judgmental as high society was. I secured a job and gained a few close friends. I was navigating my life with ease in the busy city of Jasper, Earthen Court, which is rather different from the small unseelie village I left behind. I was blending in with the humans and seelie fae around me.
Yet blending isn’t belonging , and the latter was what I lacked.
Then Edwina gave me the nudge I needed.
I picked up my paintbrush for the first time in years and it felt like coming home. A new home. A real home. Not the one I’m honor-bound to return to in three months for my village’s annual Lughnasadh celebration. Thanks to a magically binding ritual I drunkenly participated in during last year’s festivities, I now have to prove I’ve dug strong roots in Jasper, or I’ll be stuck in Cypress Hollow for good.
I might not have minded that before. Half my heart has always been tethered to safety, always yearning to give up on society and go back to the forest where it’s easy and predictable and I never have to be anyone but the furry little mustelid I am.
But that was before I rekindled my love for painting, before I remembered the true joy of opposable thumbs. Discovered a career I’d do anything to make my own—illustration.
I can’t give that up now. I can’t be trapped in Cypress Hollow where not a single art gallery exists and the sultry paintings I love are as unappreciated as indoor plumbing. I can’t relinquish my dreams due to last year’s drunken mistake fueled by too much berry cordial and a dash of heartache.
Araminta pats my sleeve. “There, there.” When I don’t respond, her tone turns impatient. “I said there, there . Come on. Enough feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not the worst artist ever. Only really bad.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting?”
She rolls her eyes. “The solution is right in front of you. Your female figures are good because you can draw what you see.” She points at the woman on my canvas. “You think I don’t recognize that pretty lady? It’s you! You lounged before the mirror and made that sexy little O face, didn’t you?”
My cheeks blaze as my eyes dart to the figure in question. How did Araminta know? The heroine looks nothing like me. Her hair is long, pale, and streaming while mine is short and black, cropped just below my chin. She is supposed to be tall while I’m on the petite side. Her eyes are meant to be blue while mine are dark brown. Her ears are round while mine have angled tips. Her figure—well, her thighs are as full as mine, I can say that much. As for her orgasmic expression…
I avert my gaze from both the canvas and the sprite, feigning nonchalance. “Well, why shouldn’t I use myself as a model?”
“Exactly. You used a model, which is why she turned out well. Don’t you see? What you need is…” Araminta does a little twirl, then flourishes her arms in a wide arc. “A naked man.”
I blink at her.
“You know. To draw.”
She’s…maybe not wrong. I’ve considered using a model for my male figures, yet my options are limited. First, he needs to have the kind of physique Edwina’s heroes possess—tall, muscular, and dripping with sex appeal. Second, I don’t have time to enroll in drawing classes, what with my full-time work schedule and no arts colleges in the city of Jasper. Or anywhere in the Earthen Court. Third, I’m anxious around crowds and strangers.
Yet Araminta is right. Unless I want to give up my dream career before it’s even begun, I need a model. And if drawing classes and strangers are out of the question, I suppose that leaves me one choice. A choice that might solve more than one of my problems.
Bolstering my courage, I rise to my feet and flip my sketchbook open to my most recent drawing. Without letting myself dwell on my monstrous weasel-man, I tear out the page and fold it into my waistcoat pocket. Then, with my head held high despite the nerves swarming in my belly, I march toward the door.
Araminta flies after me. “So you’re going to find a model?”
I swallow hard. “I’m going to get a husband.”