Chapter 6 Sasha
CHAPTER SIX
SASHA
The greenhouse humidity wrapped around us as I led Dominic inside, my hand still clasped in his.
Touching him sent that same tingling awareness through me, the magical connection I’d felt during our wedding ceremony.
I tried to focus on observation rather than the way his fingers curled around mine with surprising gentleness.
His giggling continued, bubbling up every few seconds despite the frustration written across his features. His free hand clenched and unclenched at his side, and his shoulders remained tight with tension that had nothing to do with amusement.
The body speaks truths the mouth cannot, Savory said from my shoulder. Watch how he fights what afflicts him.
“I agree, and I’m thinking about it,” I told her softly.
Good.
“I’m sorry,” Dominic said between chuckles, his leaf-green eyes meeting mine with true distress. “I can’t seem to—” Another giggle cut him off.
“Don’t apologize.” I squeezed his hand, noting how his jaw tightened with each involuntary laugh. This wasn’t someone finding things funny. This was a person trapped in their own body’s betrayal. “Let’s just walk for a bit. Show me more of the greenhouse.”
I led him down the first row of plants, their wilted leaves drooping despite the carefully maintained temperature and humidity. His giggling remained constant, unchanged by our movement through the space.
“This section used to be all froonwild blossoms,” he said, gesturing to a cluster of particularly sad-looking plants. A laugh interrupted him. “They respond to joy, primarily. During the festival, they’d practically glow with—” Giggle. “—with happiness.”
I studied the plants, then him, cataloging details in the same way that had served me well in strategy work. The giggling didn’t intensify or lessen as we moved. It simply persisted, a steady stream of involuntary mirth that made his ears turn red with embarrassment.
We walked to the back corner where he’d been working this morning, and I noticed his shoulders relax slightly despite the continued laughter.
“You spend a lot of time here,” I said, more a statement than a question.
“Yes.” He knelt beside the blossoms he’d been trying to heal earlier. Even through his giggling, his touch remained gentle as he cupped a wilting bloom. “My mother designed this space. She said every ruler needs somewhere they can be themselves, away from the performance of court.”
The admission suggested there were layers beneath the frivolous facade this man had shown at our wedding. Layers I was only beginning to glimpse.
“The plants never judge,” he said, more laughter escaping. “They don’t care if I’m being the charming king or just myself. They respond to genuine care, not political maneuvering.”
He trusts green things more than his lords or ladies, Savory said. A wise king, if a lonely one.
I knelt beside him, close enough that our shoulders touched. “Tell me about your mother’s vision for this place.”
His face softened. “She’s always enjoyed working with plants.
They don’t judge, she’d say. They see who you truly are.
See how the bellaburst blossoms are planted next to those silvaris ferns over there?
” He pointed. “She believed that if plants from different magical traditions can thrive side by side, so can our people. I think that can apply to witches and fae, too.”
The hope in his voice, even filtered through involuntary laughter, made my pulled a slow ache through my lungs. He genuinely wanted this alliance to work. Not just politically, but personally.
“That’s beautiful,” I said.
He turned to look at me, and for a moment, his giggling quieted to hiccups. “You really think so?”
“I do.” I reached out, steadying myself on his arm as we rose to our feet. The touch sent warmth racing up my hand. “Would you show me the gardens outside? I’d like to see more of your estate.”
Testing distance, Savory said approvingly. The patterns may reveal themselves in unexpected places.
Something was nagging at the back of my mind, a theory forming but not yet solid enough to voice. I needed more data, more observations.
But I was beginning to believe that distance played no part in whatever was happening.
Dominic offered me his hand again and nudged his head to a door in the right wall of the glass building. “The gardens are this way.”
We stepped out into cool morning air that carried the scent of flowers and fresh earth. A stone path wound through carefully tended beds, though here too I noticed signs of the wilting problem. Blooms that should be vibrant hung limp on their stems.
As we walked for a bit of time, putting distance between us and the manor house, something shifted. Dominic’s giggling began to subside, the intervals between laughs growing longer.
“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice clearing. A small chuckle escaped, but it sounded more surprised than involuntary. “It’s getting better.”
I filed that observation away, already working through possibilities.
We followed the path deeper into the gardens, past a fountain where crystal-clear water danced with faint magical sparkles, and around a hedge maze with an entrance covered with flowering vines.
As we rounded a bend in the path, I caught sight of Lord Turren sitting on the grass under a gnarled apple tree, his elaborate purple jacket spread carefully around him like a protective barrier against the grass.
His face twisted with concern, he held a mirror in one hand while the other plucked pieces of lint from his sleeves.
“This is absolutely dreadful,” he muttered, not glancing our way. “The outdoor air is doing terrible things to my complexion, and I’m certain dew is going to leave water spots on my jacket. But the light here is simply divine for adding sunshine lights to my hair.”
He adjusted a strand of his purple hair but frowned into his mirror. “No, no, that won’t do at all. Perhaps if I angle slightly to the left. Though I do hope no insects land on me. That would be catastrophic for tonight’s dinner appearance.”
Dominic and I exchanged amused glances and continued past, leaving the lord to his outdoor grooming crisis.
His giggles became occasional instead of constant.
We paused beside a bed of emotion-responsive blooms that would probably be one of the festival’s centerpieces. Instead of their usual vibrant colors, they were muted browns and grays, the colors of anxiety and confusion.
“This is worse than I thought.” I knelt to examine them more closely. “These flowers are trying to bloom, but they’re only picking up negative emotions. I feel like something is filtering out all the positive feelings they usually feed on.”
Dominic crouched beside me. “Could someone be deliberately dampening the court’s emotional energy?”
“It’s possible. But who would want to sabotage your most important celebration?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
He’d become a new person as the laughter faded. His shoulders straightened. His expression grew thoughtful, serious in a way I hadn’t seen since our brief contract meeting a week ago.
“This is more like it,” he said quietly. “I almost feel like myself again.”
We rose and continued down the path
“Tell me about the Emotional Bloom Festival,” I said, matching my pace to his. Our hands weren’t touching anymore, but we moved close enough that our arms brushed.
“It’s one of our oldest traditions.” His voice held none of the earlier giggling, just quiet passion.
“The flowers that bloom during the festival are unique to fae magic. They feed on emotions—joy, wonder, even the bittersweet ache of nostalgia. When the court gathers and everyone’s feelings run high, the gardens transform into something extraordinary. ”
“The festival lasts all evening,” he said.
“Those who wish to remain come morning can participate in other evens. On the first day, we have the Awakening Ceremony at dawn, where children from the village bring their first emotions to the flowers. We’ll see wonder, excitement, and pure joy, something so sweetly unique in the young.
The blooms respond by painting the entire garden in colors that don’t exist anywhere else in nature. ”
He gestured toward the flowerbeds that should be bursting with life.
“Then there’s the Emotion Walk, where couples and families stroll through different garden sections designed to evoke specific feelings.
The memory grove for nostalgia, the laughter meadow for happiness, and the quiet corner for peaceful reflection. ”
“It sounds incredible.”
“It is.” He paused beside a bed of bellaburst, their petals currently curled tight.
“Or it usually is. With the plants in this condition, I’m terrified the festival will be a disaster.
My people look forward to it all year. It’s not just a celebration, it’s affirmation of who we are as fae.
Our connection to emotion, beauty, and to the earth itself renews us. ”
“What else is included in the festival?”
“The second day features the Great Bloom.”
I tried to picture how magnificent it might be. “Tell me.”
“Every person in the court, from nobles to servants, gardeners, cooks, everyone, gathers in the ballroom as the ceiling opens to the sky. We share stories, sing ancient songs, and dance until our combined emotions create a magical crescendo that makes every flower in the kingdom bloom at the same time. Picture waves of color rolling across the landscape like a living rainbow.”
His voice grew wistful. “The final day is the Gratitude Feast, where we honor the earth’s gifts and the bonds between our people. Merchants come from neighboring realms, distant families reunite, and even the shyest court members find themselves swept up in the celebration.”
No wonder he was worried about this. Such an amazing, important event. I understood the pressure of responsibility, of people depending on you to make things right.