Chapter Fifteen
Loreleivnna
“Well, it was nice to see you again,” Tumula says. She shows no sign of leaning in for a hug, and I don’t expect one, judging by the lack of physical contact we’ve shared.
I don’t blame her. I was an hour late. She’d been a good sport about it, but I can’t imagine anyone would be charmed by such disrespect.
When I’d offered the crown as explanation, she seemed understanding, although her response was disheartening.
I’d hoped to woo her. Instead, I received a lackluster, “Oh, ha, well, no one wears stuff like this in the Isles. It’s pretty, though.
Thank you.” I didn’t even get to see it on her cloudy curls before she tucked it away in her satchel.
“Yes, it was,” I agree, planting a wide smile on my face to mask my injured heart. “See you at the ball?”
“Wouldn’t miss it!”
The silver freckles dusting Tumula’s cheeks like constellations sparkle when she smiles. She waves as she backs away, then turns to leave. I wait until she crosses the orchard’s threshold before letting out the breath I’ve been holding to keep tears at bay.
Pikr stands, preparing to approach. I don’t want to speak to him. I don’t want to speak to anyone.
I turn and sprint down the pathway opposite the zephyr’s exit.
It’s not her disinterest that has my eyes stinging with tears–it’s my foolish heart.
I’ve been given an opportunity that nobles all over Svitaeryl would envy, yet all I see when I picture my future is a gruff centaur who can never truly be mine.
Hoofbeats follow me out of the orchard. I run faster, kicking off the sandals I’d put on while changing at the palace, all to appease the centaur who’d cared about my feet getting hurt. Pluck him.
Once I enter town, I push through the doors to the bathhouse and race through the lobby, ignoring the pleas of staff members who follow me into the main bath. I continue, flying through the hallway of private baths. A worker steps into my path, but I duck under their arm and slide past.
Shouts and stomping hooves ring out behind me as I finally reach the back exit, but I don’t slow down. I run until the town is behind me, and further, until I reach the hill overlooking the Spiritgrove.
Atop the hill, I collapse to my knees, fold over, and let out a sob.
I’m so angry. Angry with Pikr for recognizing me in the tavern.
Angry with myself for trying to kiss him and revealing my feelings.
Angry with Father for placing the burden of finding a mate squarely on my shoulders.
Angry with Dhek and Tumula for not being the easy solution to my problems I’d hoped.
Angriest with myself for clutching a childish crush so tightly, even when the thorns pierced my palms, and letting it blossom until its deadly thorns martyred my heart.
Tears rush down my cheeks until I gather the strength to dash them away. I sit upright in my sea of lacrimae lilies, hug my knees to my chest, and stare down at the field of Aevumoon Irises.
Their warm apricot-colored upright inner petals are only half-open, the long, curly mauve tips swooping toward each other like they’re trying to tangle together in a kiss, ready for lovers to grace their grove tonight.
From my perch so high above the towering beauties, I can see inside their pear-shaped bowl to the intricate lacework of mulberry purple and pale yellow.
Their style crests are a creamy ivory, and drooping below, the rippled edges of their dusty peach falls quiver in the breeze.
Sparse specks of pink pollen shimmer high above the field, sunlight clinging to their sticky surface. Far below, children fashion shields from petals as big as they are tall and use fallen branches as swords.
At night, the pollen glitters like frozen starlight, drifting down into the grove, so thick that it looks like the sky has fallen to kiss the ground goodnight.
Children will be tucked away in bed, for while they’re not affected by the aphrodisiac properties of the pollen, the allergens are hard on their systems, and no parent wants their saplings to witness what happens here come nightfall.
The petals open wide, and lovers express gratitude for the Wise Ones’ gift with hooded eyes and entwined hands.
Apothecary assistants gather pollen by the jar.
Groups of creatures as bare as the day they were born bury seasonal offerings like cinnamon or apples, then sing and dance until the lust drives them into each other’s arms. I’ve sat here, on Voyeur’s Perch, and peered into the grove, hoping for a glimpse between the petals, listening for the sounds of strangers’ pleasure. Sometimes, my hand wanders up my skirt.
I want to experience it for myself, to feel a lover’s touch, to watch over their shoulder as the sky slips from its duties to play love games with the depraved creatures below.
The Spiritgrove usually calms me, but right now, even their sensual beauty doesn’t soothe me.
I only feel small and insignificant, and I can’t help thinking of Pikr’s comment about all the unwed princesses of Eldrunna.
My life revolves around these magnificent flowers.
Maybe one of those many, many princesses has another important plant, one that might magically swap our places so I can travel far from here.
If I can’t find someone to be my first mate, will the council choose for me? How long can my father stave them off?
I sigh, hiccuping on a wayward sob. I’m stressed. Perhaps it’s time to get another tattoo.
Huge gusts of wind send specks of pollen and dirt swirling through the air. I cover my face with one arm, peering into the sun at the commotion.
What I see makes me gasp. A beautiful creature straight out of an artist’s sketchbook.
Ventus’serpentaur bodies are similar to that of a woodland drake.
Larger than centaurs and reminiscent of monarch lions, they’re covered in a thin coat of fur and have manes; but instead of four paws, they have raptorial feet boasting massive talons.
Their tails are like a sea serpent’s, with a long, membranous fin that cuts through the sky like butter, ending in a bundle of smooth feathers.
Their torsos are that of an elf, with two arms that share the shoulder blade of sleek feathered wings.
Two long horns rise like a wave from their head, slicking back in a low swoop.
I know this male. His name is Halor. He is the Isles of Aethereusum envoy.
I’ve seen him from a distance while sneaking out of the palace, but he’s even prettier up close.
Tumula told me he’s the Isles’ latest Oranther, and I’d pretended to know what that was, though I gathered it’s an important role.
I’m staring, but I can’t look away. His green and teal fur rustles in the wind, and he flicks his tail, the pink feather at the end snapping in the air.
“Greetings, little one.” He flicks his head. Hair that blends into a mane of the deepest teal ripples over his shoulder. “The breeze has finally brought us together.”
His voice is like sweetwater, and my lungs expand as I drink it in. I wipe my cheeks and channel my father’s diplomacy, recalling the common expressions of the sky people. “Sing my gratitude to the wind, then.”
“I would,” he says with a honeyed tone, stepping closer. “But even as distant as Isles of Aethereusum, it sings of your beauty, and expects no gratitude in return.”
How sweet this male speaks. A sense of calm fills me, and I consider what he’s implying. There’s a reason I ran to this very perch, at this very time, on this very day.
“If the wind whispers it so,” I reply breathlessly. A shy smile tugs my lips.
Halor's soft teal mouth returns my smile with one so radiant, my heels sprout wings and hover me above the ground.
I’ve heard of love at first sight, but only in fairytales. This feeling coating my skin and my insides, like I’ve been soaked in sugary sap; this must be the spark I’ve been searching for.