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Puck? When she absently touches her painted brow, I understand. Fear of further punishment by Goodfellow is why she waited.
“And here I thought you were worried about me,” I tease.
Her lips curve in a way I think she’s amused, not mocking. But she says nothing. I follow her gaze and finally allow myself to soak up the atmosphere.
The corridor we’re in surrounds the main arena. Through the archway, glimpses of stone and wooden architecture continue. Murals depicting romantic, majestical celebrations and adventures seamlessly blend between pillars. Our ceiling is low, but the brighter arena makes me think it’s open air. Or perhaps there are more windows. I can’t see much beyond the exhibitors forming units.
“You’re too tardy to fall in line with the Nothings,” she muses, gesturing at the arena. “So you’ll need to look like a Never.”
A decision weighs in Peablossom’s eyes, then she grits her teeth and removes her tailored leather gloves. She cups my face, and little ants scurry over my skin.
I jerk back. “What are you doing?”
Surprise splashes over her delicate features. “You sensed that?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were mortal?” A flicker of fear enters her eyes. “Or are you one of Oberon’s folk, artfully weaving your tapestry of deception while our guards are down?”
Oberon? Is he their enemy? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Notably, with that face, you simply cannot belong to the Radiant Titania—even in the shadows.”
She did this to me!I want to shout.Your benevolent queen made me look like this.
“Trust me,” I counter dryly. “If I had magic, I wouldn’t look like this.”
She gives me a once-over as if assessing my truth by appearance. “I suppose that sounds logical enough. After all, who would willingly traverse beneath the stars with such an unfortunate visage?”
“People here are so nice.” My smile doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Precisely.” She misses my sarcasm. “So accept this gift from me and joyously celebrate as one of Titania’s flock. We’ll both win.”
I touch my face and feel the ugliness. My dried, sore wounds are also still there. “I don’t feel different.”
“It’s a temporary glamour. Only the Radiants may offer something permanent.”
“Won’t they know after the glamour reverts?”
“What fools mortals are,” she mumbles, slipping her gloves back on. “I simply require the Pageant of Prowess to pass without a hitch.”
I tense. “Is the queen here?”
“No. The first snowflake has fallen. She sleeps so that her dream magic freezes the watergates, and the Gentle Interlude is blessed upon us. But that does not mean you can be tardy. Goodfellow resides in her stead. She will return for the final trial before Imbolc. Remember your manners, oh curious one, and all is well.” At my confusion, she widens her gorgeous lips into a smile and points at her cheeks, singing merrily, “We are smiling. We are joyful.”
The whites of her eyes show, and she nods eagerly for me to mimic her expression. I force my lips to stretch. She rolls her eyes at my attempt, then sashays away with a hasty gesture for me to get in line.
I scurry into the arena and slip into the last line of Never troops. I’m so distracted by Peablossom’s words, it takes me a moment to look up. When I do, my soul swells with awe. The fort is magnificent. Multiple stories of botanical balconies and alcoves are filled with faeries of different kinds, all impeccably presented in their finest attire. Hats and horns entwine. Gossamer wings sparkle with added shine. Petite and tall, earthly and heavenly. Here is the diversity the city lacked. There, it was all humanoid fae or mortals with perfect, flawless appearances. I wonder if these wild faeries are disallowed in the city, or rather, they’re shy and prefer not to be seen.
Rustling leaves draw my attention higher to where the boughs of abnormally tall Hawthorn trees are shaped into decorative columns rising into an open, overcast sky. Snow has stopped but will likely return. I still smell it in the air. The branches sway gently, reminding me of fingers flexing, eagerlywanting to close and shelter us from the elements. Perhaps that’s what happens if the weather gets bad.
Multiple arched buttresses support the wall around the arena. Dragons occupy four, each on its own. The stony dragon watches troops like a hawk. A long-spined dragon with shimmering turquoise scales has wrapped its tail around its flying buttress. The third dragon is made of dark, smoldering scales that gleam with pulsing lava in the cracks. The fourth is a luminous, shimmering, ethereal creature with fragile gossamer wings that seem too delicate to fly. Then again, I find it hard to believe the stone dragon can fly, so those gossamer wings work just fine.
Above each buttress in the first tier of stands, a decorative private box contains a lavishly fashioned aristocrat—must be the radiant gentry they speak of. Their skin is luminous with the beauty of eternal youth, yet they emit an ancient otherworldliness. Judgment oozes from their watchful gazes. Carved signs below each loge announce the noble family within: Court of Dreams, House of Stone, House of Tides, House of Embers, House of Moonlight, and—my breath catches—House of Shadow.
Their private box is empty.
“I heard sometimes they don’t even show,” mumbles the entrant to my left.
