Idalia hops down from her handstand in a clatter. “Primrose usually sleeps in the gardens at this hour, Your Highness. I can find out more precisely.”
“That isn’t necessary,” Seren says. The search will give him time to settle his thoughts. “Thank you.”
He continues down the hall, footsteps echoing too loudly. His ears are oversensitive. A consequence, perhaps, of locking his shields so tightly. He can hardly stand his own worn-down emotions, much less anyone else’s. The palace feels more distant, too. Seren just catches a faint sense that the palace wants him to eat. The suggestion is thoughtful. Seren disregards it.
Idalia remains in the royal quarters, but Mustardseed follows ten paces behind Seren. They’re treating Seren as if nothing disastrous happened last night. Of course. Nevander wouldn’t expose Seren’s distress. He’s too considerate. Protective.
Possessive.
Seren doesn’t want to see Nevander this morning. Really. Yet he’s still disappointed not to find Nevander outside his chambers.
A flower-carved door opens at Seren’s approach. He crosses into a garden fragrant with gardenia and swaying foxgloves. Where he first found Harmony. Around every tree and statue waits an absence.
Hypocrisy twists Seren’s gut. He needs space. He needs comfort. He needs to comfort Nevander in turn, because breaking the vow brokehim, and that’s not what Seren intended.
Seren stops beneath an archway of blue hyacinths. “Mustardseed.”
Startled, Mustardseed approaches. “Is there something you need, by word or by deed?”
“Why do you serve this role?” Seren asks. “Do you enjoy it?”
Mustardseed frowns like it’s obvious. “It’s a good job, Your Highness, with just enough thrills. It beats selling riddles atop the high hills.”
Seren doesn’t know if the latter’s an actual job, or forced by the rhyming curse. But the gist is clear. “Thank you. Carry on.”
Mustardseed bows, then follows Seren into the next stretch of garden. A miniature orchard, fruitless trees just a few feet taller than Seren. No sight of Primrose yet, and Seren should just relent and tell Mustardseed to find her. Or summon a tidingbird.
The morning is beautifully warm, the gardens lush with greenery and shade. This walk is failing to steady Seren as he’d hoped.
Seren may know his way around the palace now, but he’s still so lost. And if he’s lost, he needs information. Primrose showed him how to order his magic. Perhaps she can help Seren order his thoughts as well. She’s the only one Seren trusts not to repeat his questions to Nevander.
He just needs to know his options. Whether it’s even possible to reinstate the changeling spell, exchange himself for Tansy. That way they could remain in the realms they grew up in.
The thought of returning to Wymond hurts like claws closing around his heart, preparing to rip it free. Seren doesn’t belong there. But it was easier, sometimes, when he knew he didn’t belong. When he couldn’t pretend.
Seren expected that. He didn’t expect that the thought of leaving Elladar would hurt so much, too. There are so manybooks he hasn’t read. So many pixies he hasn’t danced with. So many friends he’s just starting to make.
Maybe it won’t be possible. Maybe Primrose will have another haven quest for Seren instead. He misses the satisfaction of puzzles with clear answers. That could be why selling riddles atop the high hills is a valid career. He should ask Mustardseed about that sometime.
If Seren stays long enough.
Wards feather Seren’s face as he crosses into more public gardens. The pavilions and swings should be quiet, with most fae sleeping off the threshold festival.
But a familiar voice jumps from the nearest gazebo. “Your Highness!”
Seren turns, tension settling into resignation.
Gevain hurries closer, silent Daffodil at his heels. Seren has never seen Gevain dressed so plainly—relatively speaking. Gevain’s practical travel robes still glitter with ruby accents. Strategic cutouts reveal glimpses of his toned arms.
Daffodil keeps her gaze lowered, like a shadow in plain blue linen.
“Lord Gevain,” Seren says, hoping to get this over with quickly. He doesn’t have the patience for courtly banter this morning.
He’s not on a throne, so Gevain doesn’t need permission to approach. “I’m glad to find you, not only because your presence brightens the morning,” Gevain says, the flattery flowing easily. “Tansy wants to speak with you.”
Experience sharpens Seren’s worry. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t believe so, but…” Gevain hesitates. “He seemed upset.”