“Please. With women like you around, I can’t see them paying me the least bit of attention.” Where did she get such a beautiful dress? The floral corset makes her waist look so tiny.
I press a hand to my own stomach, soft from too many desserts. Old Bonnie always told me that I could be slimmer if I tried. But I refuse to let my desire for trimmer hips and a smaller waist hinder my happiness. And sweets make me happy.
Any man worth his salt will love me either way.
Nia takes me by the shoulders. “When I turn twenty-five this August, we can celebrate me. Until then, it’s your time to shine.”
The cottage door opens once more, revealing a wafer-thin woman with short-cropped white hair that curls beneath her sharp jaw. “Good heavens!” She tumbles back, barely catching herself on the doorframe.
Nia rolls her eyes. “Calm down, Mother. It’s only Kerris.”
Aunt Cordelia blinks, then shakes her head as the color slowly returns to her cheeks. “Right. Of course it is. I’m sorry, but for a moment, I thought you were my sister.”
My chest starts to tighten all over again.
“You are very welcome, dear,” my aunt goes on. “It’s been far too long.”
Swallowing past the growing lump in my throat, I offer a warm smile. “Thank you so much for having me.” I never would’ve been able to afford rent in the city without her generosity.
“Sure, what else could we do? Leave you to choose one of those mountain heathens? I think not!”
My father may be a “mountain heathen,” but he is a good man.Thatis my only condition for a partner, someone who can love me the way my father loved my mother.
Just don’t ask me how I’m supposed to do that in only six weeks. It’s not a requirement to find a mate by one’s twenty-fifth birthday, but for women, every year after twenty-five seems to make her less desirable, whereas men only become more sought-after.
It’s asinine and makes no sense whatsoever, but I don’t make the rules.
I’m merely governed by them.
My aunt disappears back into the house with a shout for my uncle to bring my trunk inside.
Looping her arm through mine, Nia tugs me toward the cottage. “Tell me all your news.” Under her breath, she adds, “And by news, I mean, your requirements for a mate. Are you interested in men or women? Would you rather they have light or dark hair? How tall should they be? Do you prefer someone who works with their hands or an office sort? Personally, I’d go for the first. There’s something about a man with calloused hands that makes my blood sing.”
Coming from a place where my only options for a mate were older than the hills themselves, I hadn’t considered anything beyond finding one with a good heart. Nia speaks about partners as if creating a shopping list for the market. “I prefer men, but beyond that, I honestly don’t know.”
“Fear not. You can have your pick of any man in this city.” She comes to an abrupt halt on the stoop, the hem of her robin’s-egg blue skirts sweeping against my ruffles. “Anyone except Nolan Graham. He’s mine.” A blush blooms across her freckled cheeks as she peers at me through honey-colored eyes. “If that’s all right with you?”
As if I would ever set my sights on someone who is already spoken for. “This is your home, Nia. It’s only right that you should have first pick.”
“If you find a husband in Rosehill, then it will be your home too.”
My stomach flutters at the thought. Imagine living in this splendid city, with all this activity right on your doorstep. Back home, the most exciting thing that happened was the yearly Festival of Goats.
It’s just as uninteresting as it sounds.
Nia’s gaze darts to something at my back. “Oh, bollocks.”
The unexpected exclamation makes me snort.
A woman with canary tresses coiled in perfect ringlets saunters up the lane, a peony-pink parasol draped over her equally pink shoulder.
“Who is that?” I whisper.
“Quite possibly the worst fae to have ever been born: Ivee Lynch.” Nia spits the woman’s name like a curse.
The young woman drifts past the gate with two others babbling behind her in matching celery-green chiffon.
The trio are almost to the lilacs when Ivee’s head swings toward the house. Her footsteps slow, a frown marring her brow as she comes to a stop by the forsythia. “Nia Quill? Is that you lurking on the stoop?”