Chapter 3 #2
The dawn crept over the horizon as Alora set out, the hills stretched wide before her in waves of gold and green. She followed the dirt trail eastward, weaving through orchards and meadows blooming with dusk-thistle and humming fern.
By early afternoon, she reached the outskirts of town.
The shift was immediate.
The air grew warmer, sweeter. The roads turned from dirt to cobblestone lined with moss.
Lanterns made of oak and blossom hung from curved branches above.
Shops carved into tree trunks sold glowing elixirs and glowing scrolls.
Music floated on the breeze with soft harp strings, chimes, the murmur of fae melodies that wove magic into the air.
Faeries of all kinds drifted by in a slow, elegant bustle. A wrinkly gnome with spindly white hair and gold eyes hobbled by, humming about bleeding skies.
Alora considered stopping by the book shop but quickly changed her mind when fae stared at her openly, pausing on the street. She kept her gaze low, her steps steady as she hurried away.
Perhaps she could have hailed a carriage, but the walk helped to clear her head.
If she was cast out, where would she go?
Well, her father had alliances with other kingdoms. The United Crown was a few days away by ship.
The sun was high in the sky by the time the path curved and rose through a thicket of thorned roses, black-petaled and humming with enchantment. Beyond it stood an estate grown from the bones of nature itself.
Briar Manor.
Vines laced its arched windows and twisted ironwork. The walls shimmered with a faint, silvery sheen as if wrapped in moonlight, even under the sun. Thorns curled around every edge, but the garden beds were pristine, full of pink and white foxglove.
Beautiful.
Lethal.
Like everything in the Midlands.
Climbing the stone steps to the grand doors, Alora paused at the threshold, her hands clenched around the strap of her knapsack. Then, summoning what dignity she had left, she raised a hand and knocked.
But no answer came.
Alora knocked again. She stood there a few more minutes, before hesitantly trying the knob. The door creaked open to the foyer. The floors were polished to a shine, the walls gilded in metal ivy. But otherwise, empty.
She frowned, not sure if she should wait or knock again. Shrugging, Alora walked inside.
The interior was a seamless blend of nature and wealth.
Arched halls were formed of twisted silverwood, the ceiling open to the sky in places where vines draped like chandeliers.
Floating lights flickered in bubbles of glass.
Paintings moved on the walls, whispering secrets to each other when they thought no one was listening.
The scent of petrichor and crushed jasmine clung to the air.
But then she heard faint moans.
The doors to the library were wide open and to her horror, Lady Zinnia was riding a lover, her back arched, eyes closed in ecstasy.
Gasping, Alora rapidly stumbled backward from the door.
The creaking of the bed and moans stopped abruptly, and a male voice laughed. “I believe your guest has arrived early, my lady.”
Alora rushed away for the foyer, covering her mouth. Her face was on fire.
Lady Zinnia swept out in a huff, clad in a silky, transparent robe that scarcely concealed her long-limbed form. Her pale, luminous ivory skin, flushed and dewy with exertion, caught the light like warm milk.
Her hair, a waterfall of soft rose and coral pink, spilled over her shoulders in loose coils like the petals of her namesake, disheveled yet undeniably beautiful. The tips of her pointed ears were still flushed, and her pale pink eyes fixed on Alora with a cool, appraising glower.
“The letter instructed we were to meet at noon,” she said sharply.
Alora cringed. “I am so sorry, please forgive my intrusion. I left at first light and didn’t stop in town as I usually do. I failed to realize how early it was.”
Her godmother’s pale pink eyes narrowed.
The fae rarely accepted mortal excuses, even practical ones.
“She can join us if she wishes,” the male called.
Alora’s eyes widened and Lady Zinnia’s mouth twitched at her expression with a flicker of amusement before she cleared her throat. “Wait for me in the garden, princess.”
Alora swallowed, quickly nodding and scurried away.
Gods.
The fae were so uninhibited about sex. It wasn’t the first time she had stumbled upon a tryst or two in the woods. Normally, she wasn’t so taken back. She had read enough salacious tales to know how it worked.
But she had never thought her stern and prim godmother also…partook.
Alora quickly passed through the corridor toward the conservatory. The rose glass windows were coated in blooming nightshade, sunlight shining over the velvet settees. She made for the glass doors with doorknobs shaped like golden apples and stepped out into the garden.
Alora didn’t breathe until she sat on the stone table setting hidden away beneath a massive willow tree. It was quiet, peaceful even.
Shortly after, Lady Zinnia joined her. She had changed into a gown of layered silk leaves and blossoms, the fabric fluttering faintly as if breathing. Her hair was now woven in a delicate knot, adored with jewels, not a single strand out of place.
Alora waited nervously as small gnomes set out a tea ware and a three-tiered stand with sweet cakes, scones, cream, and jam. They served the tea then promptly left.
The Thornbearer’s lips pursed at sight of the mud stains on Alora’s skirts. “The Seven lift me,” she tsked. “You’re filthy. Why did I bestow you with the gift of grace if you would not make use of it?”
Alora resisted the urge to sigh. “Forgive me, godmother.”
The fairy cleared her throat.
Alora straightened, correcting herself. “Lady Zinnia.”
The porcelain tea set gleamed between them, each cup shaped like a lily, rimmed in gold. Lady Zinnia reached for her cup and took a dainty sip, every movement poised and elegant. Then she looked at her expectantly. Alora shifted in her seat as she carefully did the same.
“Hold to grace, child, for it will open doors that force cannot.”
Yet no matter how much Alora perfected her elegance, it made her no more accepted here.
“So,” the Thornbearer began. “No sickness? No madness? No strange happenings?”
Alora frowned, tired of the same questions. “No, my lady.”
“Good.” Her pink gaze flicked over Alora’s face like one assessing a rare herb that had taken root where it shouldn’t. “Unfortunate complexion. But resilient.”
Alora’s thumb drifted over the small scar on her fingertip, a nervous habit she could never quite break. Sometimes it stung when she was anxious, as though it still bled underneath.
Lady Zinnia’s gaze flicked briefly to the motion, the faintest crease tightening at the corner of her eyes before smoothing again.
Alora folded her hands on her lap and drew a steadying breath. “I take it there’s a reason you’ve summoned me,” she said hesitantly. “One that extends beyond… tea.”
Lady Zinnia’s mouth curled, though whether it was amusement or distaste was difficult to tell. “Oh yes,” she murmured, setting down her cup with a soft click. “It is time for you to leave the Midlands.”
Alora sucked in a shallow breath.
Of course, she knew that was the verdict. She clenched her shaking fingers on her lap, her mind spinning now that it was confirmed.
“Stay the night and I will have a carriage ready to take you home on the morrow.”
“Home…” Alora repeated, the word catching in her throat, and she met the Thornbearer’s apathetic gaze. “Lady Zinnia, you and I both know I have no home.” She inhaled a sharp breath to hide how much her voice wavered. “Please, I want to stay.”
“That is not for me to offer, princess, for reasons your father will discuss with you.” Evasiveness coated the Thornbearer’s words like honey over too little bread.
“My father?” Alora shook her head. “He left me here in your care because he does not want me anymore, not since—” Her throat tightened. “I have done everything you asked.”
Lady Zinnia blinked at her, pink translucent wings twitching at her back as tears threatened to well in Alora’s eyes.
She sighed, setting down her teacup. “Ah, how easily I forget that mortals feel so much about so little.”
The Thornbearer rose and placed a small box, carved from pale wood, on the table beside Alora. She hesitated before her fingers brushed over Alora’s hair.
She froze, caught off guard by the soft touch.
“I do not send you away by choice,” Lady Zinnia said, deftly braiding her hair into a circlet of braids, her movements deft and light. “King Laurent sent his daughter here for safe keeping, but now he calls for her to be returned to the realm of men. Against my counsel.”
She reached into the box and withdrew a delicate hairpiece. A silver lark with an emerald eye, wings poised in flight.
“This belonged to your mother,” the Thornbearer said, fingers fondly touching the hairpin.
“I give it to you now in honor of Salvia’s memory.
Wear it always, so you may keep a piece of the Midlands with you.
” Then Zinnia pinned it into Alora’s hair, fluffing the golden curls on her shoulders.
“You have grown into a fine woman, Alora. Beautiful by the standards of your kind.”
Alora wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, but she had at last called her by name.
Her godmother then placed a letter on the table, bearing the royal seal of Argyle.
Alora’s heart pounded as she stared at it, clenching her skirts so tightly her fingers went numb. “Why now?” she asked, her voice quiet but strained. “After all this time?”
“The king shared little with me,” Lady Zinnia said, tugging at a webbed ear, an unusual sign of her discomfort. “He declares that the kingdom needs you now.”
Frustration pressed tight in Alora’s chest, sharp and restless, with nowhere to go. She had lived among the fae long enough to recognize when they spoke around their inability to lie.
“That is not an answer,” Alora snapped.
A sudden gust of wind tore through the garden, scattering petals across the tea table. The porcelain cups rattled, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
The Thornbearer stilled, her hand tightening around a saucer as she stared at Alora, something sharp flashing in her eyes.
Alora winced and lowered her gaze. She had not meant to anger her. “Forgive me,” she said quietly. “I only need to know why.”
The garden settled, petals drifting to stillness as the wind fell away.
Then Lady Zinnia’s next words landed like frost, ending fifteen years of exile.
“The Crown Prince is dead.”