Chapter 4
Pippa
I shouldered my satchel like it might save my life. First full day as Solstice Keeper—no pressure, Pippa. Just organize a festival, collect the emotional outpourings of an entire magical community, and keep the dragonfire Hearth burning without accidentally setting myself ablaze.
Piece of cake. Literally—there's probably cake involved.
The first basket sat near the entrance like it had been waiting for me, its woven sides already bulging with folded papers. I crouched beside it, my fingers hovering over the wishes. The magic in them hummed against my skin, each one carrying its own little spark of hope or desperation.
The first made my heart squeeze: Please let my sister's fever break. She's only seven, and she keeps asking when the pain will stop. Simple. Pure. The kind of wish that made the whole festival feel sacred instead of just festive.
The second nearly made me snort out loud: I wish that troll from the Midnight Market would finally use that whipped cream charm I sold him. On himself. Preferably while I'm watching. For educational purposes.
Now that's the spirit of Solstice, I thought, grinning as I tucked it away.
The third was unexpectedly beautiful: I want to find home in someone's laugh—the kind that makes you forget you were ever lost. The handwriting was careful, deliberate, like whoever wrote it had been thinking about those words for a long time.
My chest tightened. What would my wish be?
The thought hit me like a rogue sparkler to the face. I paused, papers halfway to my satchel, and tried to imagine what I'd write if I were brave enough to be honest.
Nothing came.
Not because I didn't want anything—gods, I wanted so much it sometimes felt like drowning.
But the things I wanted were messy, contradictory, impossible to untangle.
Companionship that didn't come with chains.
Desire that didn't demand I lose myself in someone else's story. A kind of love I'd never seen modeled.
Right. Because wanting things has worked out so well for everyone in my family.
I shoved the thought away but it stuck like cobwebs. The ache settled behind my ribs, familiar as an old song I couldn't quite remember the words to.
These weren't just wishes—they were pieces of people's souls, folded up and offered to the universe with trembling hands. And somehow, I was supposed to weave them all together into something magical enough to feed the Hearth.
A breeze carried the scent of sugar and spice, cutting through my brooding like a gentle slap. Focus, Pippa. Wishes first, existential crisis later.
I tucked the papers into my satchel and headed toward the next basket, but a commotion near the Fae Confection stall made me pause. Raised voices, laughter, and what sounded suspiciously like someone trying to negotiate the terms of a magical pastry transaction.
This should be good.
I wove through the growing crowd, slipping between bodies. What I found was better than good—it was magnificent.
Draven stood in the center of the chaos, all six-foot-five of controlled intensity trying to mediate what appeared to be a standoff between a flirtatious goblin teenager and a wide-eyed but clearly amused Tess.
Anya hovered nearby, sipping something that looked like liquid shadow from a steaming mug, watching the proceedings with the kind of detached interest that suggested she knew exactly how this would end.
The goblin—barely up to Draven's chest but making up for it with sheer audacity—kept batting their oversized eyes at Tess. "But is she claimed?" they pressed, gesturing dramatically.
Draven's jaw twitched. "She's not property to be claimed."
"Oh, I know that," the goblin said with a dismissive wave. "I'm asking about emotional claims. Bonds." They made a vague gesture that somehow managed to encompass both Draven and Mason. "Very confusing signals you've got brewing."
This goblin is my new favorite person.
Mason stood nearby, and I had to bite my lip to keep from cackling. He was covered—absolutely covered—in fine edible glitter that caught the light like he'd been dipped in starlight. His beard sparkled. His shoulders shimmered. Even his scowl was somehow more magnificent than usual.
At his feet, a cream puff the size of a small cat was systematically attempting to devour his pants, tiny pastry teeth working at the fabric with determined little nom nom sounds.
"How," I said, appearing at Anya's elbow, "did this happen?"
She didn't even startle, just took another sip. "Frosting charm went haywire. Tess thought it was hilarious. Mason tried to help. The cream puffs developed a taste for gargoyle."
"And the glitter?"
"Victory sparkles. Apparently, defeating a rogue éclair triggers some sort of celebratory magic in fae pastries.
" Anya produced a licorice-black rose from somewhere in her robes, the flower humming faintly with necromantic energy.
"I told her not to eat the siren apple truffle, but free will is a chaotic force. "
"The siren apple—" I started.
"Enhances emotional honesty and lowers inhibitions," Anya confirmed. "Should be interesting."
I watched Mason gently but firmly extract the cream puff from his pants leg, holding it at arm's length like it might explode. Which, knowing fae confections, it absolutely might.
"This one's got heat," Tess announced, licking cinnamon glaze off her thumb in a way that made both Draven and Mason go very, very still. She held up what looked like a perfectly innocent pastry, but her grin was pure mischief. "Like a slow burn with too much growl."
Her eyes flicked to Draven as she said it, and I swear the temperature around us jumped about ten degrees.
Mason cleared his throat, a sound like gravel shifting. "Maybe you should stop eating the experimental ones."
"Where's the fun in that?" Tess bit into another pastry—this one dusted with what looked like crushed pearls—and made a soft sound of appreciation that had Draven's hands clenching at his sides.
Oh, this is delicious. And not just the pastries. The siren apple was working exactly as advertised.
I glanced around and realized we weren't the only ones enjoying the show. Half the festival seemed to have slowed down to watch the three of them navigate whatever this was—friendship, courtship, or some beautiful combination of both.
Should be was putting it mildly. Tess was already offering Mason a bite of something cream-filled, her movements loose and playful in a way that made the goblin teenager whistle appreciatively before wandering off to terrorize some other poor soul.
Mason hesitated—actually hesitated—before accepting. When Tess's fingers brushed his as she fed him the pastry, the glitter in his beard seemed to pulse brighter.
"Good?" she asked, licking cream from her own finger with a grin that was all heat and invitation.
Mason's ears went red beneath the sparkles. "Yeah. Good."
Draven watched the entire exchange like he was trying not to watch, his expression carefully neutral except for his eyes, which were burning with something that made my chest tight with vicarious longing.
"If tension were edible," Anya observed, "they'd be the feast of the Solstice."
I snorted, then reached for the basket nearby, fingers closing around the flutter of new wish-papers.
One made me snort despite myself: I wish they'd just drag her into the cider closet already.
You and me both, anonymous romantic, I thought, tucking it carefully into my satchel with the others.
I watched them for another moment—these friends who were maybe something more, dancing around feelings too big and complicated for words. There was something sacred about it, something that made my chest warm in ways that had nothing to do with the Hearth.
Maybe this is what the tradition means, I thought, shouldering my satchel as I prepared to move on. Maybe the Hearth doesn't just burn on dragonfire—maybe it burns on all the love we're brave enough to feel.
I glanced back at the Hearth as I walked away, and sure enough, the flames seemed stronger, brighter, fed by the hope and longing drifting through the festival like invisible sparks.