Briar’s heart punched his chest. “I’ve never been this nervous. I’ve never shown so many people.”
Without their noticing, the space between them vanished step by step. Rowan stood a breath away and raised a hand to hover awkwardly over Briar’s bare shoulder. Briar tipped toward it, like a magnet subtly drawn to steel, but didn’t make contact. Rowan’s hand dropped.
He said of the dress, “You made it?”
“Yeah. I wanted something that was… me.”
Rowan’s eyes roved hotter than any touch. “I’ve always lo—admired that about you.”
“You do?”
“Isn’t anybody who tells you who you are. You just—are.” His voice sounded hoarse as if from disuse. “Passionate, that is. Creative. That’s what I admire, ehm…”
Briar couldn’t speak. If he did, the words might not be the kind he should utter out loud.
“I should get back to work.” Rowan didn’t move.
“You should,” Briar forced himself to say. “Linden will be here soon.”
Rowan did take a step back then, frowning. He asked, “Is he good to you?”
“I think so.”
A significant pause. Rowan brushed his hands on his legs as if they were dirty. “I really should get back, yeah. Good luck today.” A hazy moment of hovering near the tent flap followed, then Rowan left.
Briar swore under his breath. “I thought this would get easier.”
Vatii, perched on one of the tent poles above, watched with her head tilted. “You’ve never had an audience like this.”
“I didn’t mean the stage fright.”
“I know. It would get easier if you didn’t see him so often,” she said gently.
That was no comfort at all. He wished the affection he felt was platonic and not this huge thing that took up too much space in his chest, bleeding out of him whenever Rowan was near.
A portal opened. Linden stepped through, and he was not alone. Behind him, two people, tall and elegant, came into the tent.
Linden wore the stark, iridescent clothes Briar had crafted for him. He’d made his own addition—a spray of white feathers, twinned to Briar’s antler, crested over an ear. Atticus trotted in and immediately climbed a beam to sit a yard away from Vatii, who glared at Linden’s feathered fashion like it had come into her house and murdered her family.
The man and woman with Linden were straight-backed and regal in robes of deep navy that faded to a nebulous storm of cloudy blues. They entered the tent as if it were a dodgy alley with campfires in bins and scurrying rats rather than opulent silk. They were clearly Linden’s parents—they’d gifted their son with their delicate bone structure and exquisite bearing, although not with their smiles, which showed a lot of teeth and a decent portion of gum. A blankness in place of auras revealed they were wearing talismans. Their eyes stuck to Briar’s tithed arm.
Linden hadn’t warned him they were coming, but then, Linden looked annoyed that they were there at all, so he probably hadn’t known either.
“Ah! You must be Mr. Wyngrave,” Linden’s mother said, extending a hand. “Adelaide Fairchild, and this is my husband, Gresham. So pleased to finally meet you.”
Gresham shook Briar’s hand, his grip like an alligator’s jaw. A wardstone bracelet peeked out from under the cuff of one sleeve. “Yes, it’s goodto finally meet the man Linden speaks so fondly of. Apologies for not announcing ourselves, but an introduction seemed long overdue.”
“We would have appreciated an invitation,” Adelaide agreed.
Linden said, “I didn’t want you to embarrass me.”
“We’d never dream of it, darling!” said Adelaide.
“Well, it isn’t the Whitestone Gala.” Gresham eyed the tent. “But you’ve done well with what you have.”
“Never mind the tent, Gresham. Briar, please tell us how you met. I’ve been dying to know, but our son is quite private, keeping you all to himself.”
Linden rolled his eyes.
