I guess I could go back to the library. Shuffling back to the castle, I spot Queen Plume, her fangs worrying her bottom lip—did something happen? In our fewinteractions, she always seems effortlessly put together.
“Hey!” I call, jogging toward her.
The sharp turn of her guards causes me to stop in my tracks. Right, yep, probably should have thought ahead before running up to the queen like an old friend at a coffee shop.
“Sorry—hello, Your Majesty.” I bow, lipping “sorry” to the guards. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m pretty sure one of them smirks.
“Ah, Heather, I trust you have had a relaxingmorning?”
“Oh absolutely. Thank you so much,” I reply with as much formality as I can muster. “Um, but is there anything I can helpyou with?”
“Me?” Her eyes widen. Uh oh—maybe that was too bold of me.
“Sorry. I just mean with the ball coming up.” I fiddle with a loose tendril of hair that’s slipped out of my braid crown, trying to busy my hands. “As nice as the leisure is, I wouldn’t mind aproject.”
“I cannot ask—”
That’s when I notice the soft pastel stationery clasped in her right hand. Before I can think, I cut her off.Again,probably not something I should be doing to royalty or my boyfriend’s mother.
“I took a calligraphy class in high school,” I state, pulling my shoulders back. “And honestly, it would be nice to get to know you better.”
“In that case,” Queen Plume gives me a once over as if she can read my resume with a simple glance, “I will take all the help Ican get.”
8.
There’s nothing like a disaster to add some excitement to a last-minute event, and this one is a doozy. Queen Plume’s invitations to the ball were supposed to go outyesterday, but after a mishap with a new maid with nervous hands and a very full pot of tea… well, here we are. A pile of stationery sits on the left of the table, far away from the silver tea set. An E-vite from my world can’t get wet, but they’re also not even half as pretty as this.
My handwriting is nice, likereallynice. But the queen’s letters have more aesthetic loops than a rollercoaster. I try to copy the style, but who am I kidding? No amount of decorative bullet journal layouts could have prepared me for sweeping cursive calligraphy—and with an actual quill? I’ve only used them as props in photos. What I wouldn’t give for a glitter gel pen. Though I’m not sure that’s the vibe she is going for.
As I copy the names and titles over, I find that most are Moth-, Butterfly-, or Dragonfly-related, which I sense is a theme. But the next page feels like it’s got to be a joke—Queen Plume must be playing the “mess with the human” game.
“As if there’s a Goblin Court!” The shock causes me to drop alldecorum.
“Oh no, not in Eclipsica. Their Court is quite a distance from our borders. I do not expect them to attend.” She hums, reaching for a piece of paper to pen her next letter. “We had a flimsy alliance a few millennia ago. It pleases them to have the opportunity to reject our hospitality, so they remain onmy list.”
“So … goblins.” I swallow hard. I’ve barely adjusted to the idea that faeries are real, and my boyfriend is one of them. “Sorry. I so thought you were trolling me.”
“No, trolls do not take to parties and high society.” Her forehead wrinkles as she speaks. “I suspect our guests will mostly be of the winged courts; however, all kingdoms arewelcome.”
The queen’s attendant shoots me a look as if to say, “Why do you keep bothering our queen with your silly questions?”I bite my tongue. There will be plenty of time for answers later. Right now, I just need to get through this list.
Drawing in a deep breath, I try to mimic Queen Plume’s serene expression as I write, ignoring the strange names and titles and focusing on my penmanship. As far as settings go, this is about as regal as it gets. Instead of a record player, a live musician—fully transformed into a Moth-creature with iridescent blue feathers—plucks a harp in the corner with sharpened claws. They sway to the rhythm of the music they are creating, their glowing eyes closed. When I try not to stare and miserably fail, the creature simply winks at me.
I turn my attention to the large family portrait hanging above the fireplace. I thought Moth took after his mother, butwhoa. The scary looking man standing next to Queen Plume must be Moth’s father. He’s the mirror image of my boyfriend, right down to the pale gold-flecked skin, red eyes, and scowl—only there’s no warmth radiating from him. Even in an intimate family painting surrounded by his wife and children, the former king isdistant.
“Moth is the spitting image of his father, is he not?” The queen raises her eyes to the portrait for just a moment. I imagine anything more than that is just too painful.
“I don’t know…” I begin, tilting my head. “The more I look, the less and less alike they seem.”
With the way Queen Plume still mourns him, I thought Moth’s father would look kinder, but then again, I’m no stranger to a snapshot not reflecting reality. Who knows what their day-to-day life was like? He could have been “#1 Dad” for all I know…
“Sorry, that was probably an insensitive thing to say.” I shake my head. “I’ve been living out in the middle of nowhere for a year, and I think it’s whittled away some of my social skills.” I hope the shred of honesty will break the tension between us.
“No, I did not mind.” She glances up at the portrait again, for longer this time. “I wish I could see what you speak of—it seems unfair to lump the two together.”
I nod politely, focusing on Moth’s portrait. He’s only a few feet tall and his antennae are too big for him; he wears the faintest of smiles: young, boyish and adorable. Holly is a toddler no older than two and is being held lovingly in Queen Plume’s arms.
What a couple of cuties. It’s probably too much to hope that there’s a baby book filled with pictures of tiny Moth around here somewhere. I’m dying to see more of what he looked likeas a kid.
