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Nova’s sigh dislodged a lock of damp hair stuck to her forehead, ruining his view. He traced it with a fingertip and slid it from her face. Then he traced down her soft jawline. Every inch of her skin was like velvet.
She rolled into his touch, mumbling, “Never works, ma.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Checking forehead for fever. Stupid old wive’s tale.”
“Is it?” He pressed the back of his hand to her brow. It burned hot beneath his touch.
Perhaps Nova’s mother had been right about something because that certainly didn’t feel good.
Fever.
He scratched his scruff-covered jaw. Most humans he’d spent time with in Elphyne were Well-blessed and immune to illness or disease, much like all fae. This immunity was a gift from the Well in return for being good custodians. The only other instance he saw of a human falling indisposed was after a mana drain.
The owl-shifter healer hadn’t known much about this affliction but left a tea and went to consult the ancient wisdom stored in their sacred tree. Over the past few years, like most healers in Elphyne, she’d reverted to old-world herbal lore to heal the body without magic. Usually, it revolved around wounds, not illnesses. She had no idea about gahr-lick.
Fluids and restwas her official prescription.
Leaf briefly considered sending a message to Forrest’s mate, Melody. She’d recently relocated human friends from Crystal City to Elphyne. Come to think of it, any Well-blessed woman might know what to do about this fever disease. The Seelie High Queen, Ada, had trained as a fae healer, but she would surely know about old-world ailments.
At any rate, seeking their opinion was impossible from here. He doubted an owl shifter would volunteer to fly across the continent for him.
And Aleksandra was indisposed. He’d asked around. There was, indeed, a living wake in progress. If he interrupted, he risked offending the entire shifter population. Remote communities like this were tight knit and stalwart in their ways. He needed Nova in her best condition to fool the Prime with their ruse.
Deciding the rest prescription was good enough, he called for the steward and ordered more food, spiced wine, and dry clothes for himself. His Guardian uniform smelled, but he’d have to wash it himself. Sending it out for laundering was forbidden. Anyone could steal it and use it to impersonate a Guardian. The glowing teardrop mark was impossible to fake, but some imbeciles didn’t look that hard.
A sliding wooden door separated a small bathroom from the bed chamber. He washed in the bathtub, shaved, and dressed. Then, he frowned at how snugly the woolen breeches fit his thighs. These owl shifters were lithe creatures. The open tunic provided extra warmth and covered the obscenely fitted shirt.
After washing his uniform in the tub, he hung it to dry near the fire and settled on the upholstered chair to read another entry in Jackson Crimson’s journal. Taking a sip of spiced wine, he flipped the pages to find his bookmarked spot. Inadvertently, he flipped too far to the page he and Nova conversed on at the Unseelie war camp.
Already, it seemed like a distant memory.
He read Nova’s feminine scrawl:Let’s just do it. Call it an itch scratched. Then we can leave.
She’d been willing to fuck him in that tent… in front of lecherous ears and prying soldiers. Instead of asking her if she was okay, he’d been too occupied with—Crimson. He didn’t even check to see if the soldiers had abused her. His stomach churned at his obvious neglect. Frustrated at himself, he flipped to an entry datedEve of Samhain, Year Fourteen-Twelve ANF.
This time of year is always the hardest. While we no longer call it Halloween, and pumpkins don’t exist anymore, I see reminders of Estrella everywhere—from the orange wreaths on doors to the bountiful meals shared at family hearths. When we were younger, she would drag me around the neighborhood to go trick-or-treating. She always dressed as a witch. Every damn time. Her brother liked to be the scariest serial killer around. I wasn’t supposed to go. “It lowered the tone,” my parents used to say. But I snuck out, and she had something for me to wear, even if it was a simple painted skull on my face.
Leaf glanced up. Frost left crystalline lace on the window glass. Sunset wasn’t due for a few more turns of the hourglass, and it snowed outside.
Usually, he skipped reading the parts of Crimson’s journal about this woman he’d lost, but something drew Leaf’s gaze back to the words. He sipped his wine and continued to read.
Aleksandra already forgets these little details. Maebh is too invested in old Celtic folklore from her found books. This is why we have to call it Samhain now. We humored her desire to rename this world, but I worry it’s now an obsession. Everything needs new, ancient names. And I get it. Pain—great pain—comes from great losses. They hurt deeply for who they lost. Whoever said it gets easier over time lied. I also lost. I also hurt. Just because mine is….
The point is that erasing history isn’t the answer. We should remember our mistakes. We should honor those we lost by building a better world.
Sometimes at night, when I stare at the unchanged stars, I think of her and fantasize about what she would say if she learned I continued her crusade… even though I wasn’t strong enough to fight for her back then.
She’d been right.
I should have listened to her. We should have all listened to her.
* * *
Leaf wokewith a stiff back from dozing on the armchair by the fire.Too much wine.
The fire sprites snoozed too.
