Talon
Wren and Wick help pack up the wagon we borrowed from the Boots family. It’s one of those oversized wooden things meant to cart around three kids and half a picnic, so it’s roomy enough to hold the absurd amount of pastries we’re hauling to the Summer Festival. I still don’t think it’s enough.
We fill the wagon with produce flats stacked with muffins, cookies, brownies, fruit bars, sweet rolls, and the cherry tarts we baked yesterday.
On top of that, we’ve got two kitchen utility carts loaded with trays of treats that won’t fit in the wagon, plus baskets of pet pastries Wick insisted we needed because “you can’t have a festival booth and ignore the furry citizens of Hex. ”
“Do you think we have enough?” Wren asks.
He stands with one hand wrapped around the wagon handle, nibbling his bottom lip as he surveys the stacks of pastries.
The flowered button down he chose for the festival looks soft on him, pale green with little white blossoms scattered over it, and his hair is only half behaving in the humidity.
He’s beautiful enough to make my chest ache, but there are shadows under his eyes.
He didn’t sleep. Again.
He smiled through breakfast and flirted while we loaded trays and stole a raspberry from the filling bowl when he thought I wasn’t looking, but he’s tired. I can see it in the way he leans a little heavier against the wagon than he means to. In the faint drag of his movements.
“I’m sure we do,” Wick says, though he looks just as nervous as Wren.
I’m not exactly calm either. If we don’t have enough, people might get upset. And if they get upset, they might stop coming to Wick’s. And if they stop coming to Wick’s, then Wick loses business, and I lose a job I love, and I don’t want to think about what that would do to any of us.
Wick claps his hands together hard enough to make us all jump. His tail swishes behind him in one agitated whip before he plasters on a bright smile.
“We can’t worry about it,” he says. “We have plenty. And if we run out, I have a backup plan.” He reaches into the pocket of his apron and produces a plastic pink envelope so stuffed with paper it’s barely sealed. “Coupons.”
Wren blinks. “How many coupons did you print?”
“A lot.”
“Knock knock,” Ethan says as he peeks his head through the back door. “How’s everything going? Anything I can help with?”
Wick brightens immediately and turns into Ethan’s space like he’s magnetic. His tail loops around Ethan’s waist and tugs him closer until they’re chest to chest. Ethan turns pink but doesn’t resist, smiling into Wick’s shoulder.
Wren and I both look away at the same time. Then we look at each other.
There’s something shy in Wren’s expression, which doesn’t happen often. We’re still figuring out us, but all I can think about is how easy it would be to close the distance and pull him against me. He’s close enough. One step and he’d be in my arms. My griffin perks up at the idea.
Before I can decide whether I’m brave enough to actually do it, Wick claps again.
“Okay!” he says. “Move ’em out. We have an excellent booth and an entire town full of people waiting to stuff themselves with sugar.”
Wren huffs a laugh and grabs one of the utility carts. I take the other. Wick and Ethan wrangle the wagon between them, Ethan walking behind it to keep the flats from tipping as we head out the bakery door like our own ridiculous little pastry parade.
The booth is already decorated thanks to Wick and Ethan setting it up earlier, so all we have to do is haul everything down to Main Street and fill it with treats.
Wick glances back at us as we turn onto the sidewalk. “I do not expect either of you to stay at the booth all day. I want you to enjoy yourselves, too.” He winks, not subtle in the slightest. “This is a celebration of summer.”
“I’m not fond of summer, if I’m honest,” Wren says, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “I’m from the Autumn Court and raised in the Winter Court. I was not made for heat and humidity.”
I snort. “You picked a funny place to live, then.”
He hip checks me as we walk, not hard enough to throw me off balance but enough to make me grin. “There happens to be a certain griffin baker here that I’m very fond of.”
Before I can answer, he reaches up, tugs lightly on my beard, and steals a kiss. It’s quick. Soft. Barely there. Still enough to make my pulse rise.
“That reminds me,” Ethan says. He digs into his pocket and pulls out several tiny glass vials full of pale blue liquid.
“Cooling spell. Florence and I perfected it after too many summers of melting. It’ll keep you comfortable until you go to sleep tonight and it’ll wear off by morning. ” He hands one to Wren and one to me.
Wren downs his immediately. A second later, his shoulders loosen and he lets out a blissful sigh. “Oh, that’s amazing. Thank you.”
I tuck my vial into my pocket. “I’ll save mine for later. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Ethan drinks his own and shivers. “I’m putting extras at the booth for anyone who needs them. Just wait until you see Main Street. The council absolutely outdid themselves. It looks like a magical—”
We round the corner and all four of us stop dead. Hex has transformed. Lanterns hang between every building, casting warm golden light over the streets even in the daytime, each one threaded with tiny spells that make them glow brighter when someone laughs beneath them.
Banners ripple overhead in shades of yellow, pink, and orange, trailing sparkling dust every time the wind catches them.
Floating moss roses drift above the street in a broad floral canopy, their pink and buttery yellow blooms linked by vines of living magic that throw cool shadows over the crowds below.
Lavender and jasmine scent the air, layered over fresh bread, kettle corn, grilled meat, and sugar.
Residents hurry between booths carrying armfuls of flowers and signs and crates of festival supplies. Children dart between legs wearing flower crowns and painted faces.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hex look this happy.
“Holy shit,” Wren whispers. His hand finds mine without thought. I lace our fingers together and hold on.
“Let’s do this,” Wick says. “Come on, come on, our pastries deserve to be admired.”
He leads us to the bakery booth, a three table setup with enough room to display everything if we’re smart about it.
Wick immediately falls into command mode, pointing at spots and directing us where to place trays for the best visual spread.
Sweet rolls to the left, brownies and bars in the center, fruit pastries up front, pet treats on the side in a basket with a little hand painted sign.
By the time we finish unloading, the booth looks incredible. All golden crusts and bright fruit glazes and sugared tops catching the light. Even I have to admit it looks like a festival display worth stopping for.
Wick stands back with his hands on his hips, eyes sparkling.
People are already drifting past and eyeing the setup.
By the time the festival officially opens, we’re going to be slammed.
The thought should make me anxious. Instead, I feel…
proud. Proud of the booth, proud of the bakery, proud of Wren for helping with all of this while half asleep and still smiling through it.
Wren squeezes my hand. “Do you mind if we walk around a little before everything starts?”
“Please do,” Wick says before I can answer. “We can man the fort.” He flutters his fingers at us. “Shoo.”
Wren tugs me away, grinning, and I let him pull me across the street toward a booth overflowing with flower crowns, floral hair combs, vine bracelets, and little glass bottles filled with pressed petals.
Lou, the fox shifter who runs the booth, lights up when she sees us. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite bakery boys.”
“I need your expertise,” Wren says with great seriousness. He turns me toward the display and gives me an assessing look. “He needs something blue. To make his eyes pop.”
Lou’s grin turns sly. “Morning glories.”
She plucks a flower crown from a hook and hands it to Wren.
It’s woven with pale blue morning glories, little white blossoms, and soft green trailing vines.
Before I can object, Wren rises onto his toes and settles it onto my head.
His fingers brush through my hair as he adjusts it. Warmth crawls up my neck.
Lou hands me a small mirror. I glance at my reflection and, annoyingly, Wren is right. The blue flowers bring out my eyes, and the crown somehow doesn’t look ridiculous. It looks good.
Wren’s smile softens as he studies me. “You need tiny flowers in your beard, too.”
I make a face. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
Lou’s already holding out a little handful of tiny blue blossoms. “Push them in gently. They’ll stay.”
Wren takes them from her and steps in close, close enough that the sounds of the festival dim for a second. His concentration goes serious as he carefully tucks the little flowers into my beard one by one, fingertips brushing my jaw.
I hold still for him. When he finishes, he leans back just enough to admire his work, and his expression turns almost dazed.
“Beautiful,” he whispers.
I clear my throat. “Your turn.”
His cheeks flush, and he ducks his head with a small smile that makes him look younger. Softer. “Which color?”
I consider him. Pink would be pretty, but I know he’s still a little sore about not inheriting his mother’s pink hair.
“How do you feel about purple?”
“Purple is perfect.”
Lou shows us three different crowns, but the second I see the one made of lavender and lilac with delicate garlands trailing down the back, I know it’s his. I lift it and settle it on his hair carefully, adjusting it until it sits just right.
Wren looks like he stepped out of a fairytale. My griffin preens so hard I have to fight the urge to touch him again.
Lou makes a soft, satisfied noise. “You two are adorable.”
“We are, aren’t we?” Wren says and loops our arms together.
I pay before he can keep talking and drag him away while Lou laughs.