“And your wings are similar?” I press. He averts his amethyst eyes.
“You hide your wings by shifting in the mortal realm—the antennae too, I assume?” he asks with a deep frown, fully intending on ignoring my question. “Why not use a glamour?”
“Oh, it sucks, but it’s better than having invisible wings bumping into people all the time. Plus, everyone knows; when I’m home, I don’t shift at all anymore.”
Almosteveryone. A pang of guilt shoots through me as I think of my mom.
I wonder what Moth is telling her while everyone sorts this out. I should have said something. It’s not like we never talk; things between mom and I have been healthier than ever, except for the whole me lying about being part faerie thing. Okay, notlyingbut also not telling.
“Are you shifting right now?” I ask, craning my neck to take another look at his back.
“No,” he says, his face falling into a grimace. I fight the urge to trace the space just above his shoulder to see if he has wings hidden there.
I could badger him more; getting him to hate me with awkward conversation could be an interesting strategy. With a sigh, I look out at the clear water, watching the dragonfly faeries fly so low they nearly skim the water, delivering orders to creatures of all shapes and sizes.
Despite our recent argument, Magnus seems more relaxed, lounging upon the lily pad with his fingers trailing through the water. The moonlight shines upon his hair, making the red almost appear purple.
“Can I take your picture?” I ask. “Just stay like you are.”
He brightens, slipping the phone out of his pocket and handing it over. As soon as I train the lens on him, that stiffness returns.
“Just try to be natural, like you were a second ago,” I coach. “Tense and untense your jaw, wiggle your arms a little—okay, now relax, relax—perfect!”
I snap his picture; it’s not quite as at ease as how he appeared gazing into the water before, but it’s definitely an improvement.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asks, still transfixed by the water. “I understand mortal technology is different, but the idea of capturing someone in their natural state is so…”
“Novel?” I offer, borrowing the words Oak used in his pitch to me. “Just wait until you see an instant camera.”
“If you are the one who will show me, I cannot wait.”
I roll my eyes at the shameless flirtation. I suppose the attempt shouldn’t surprise me since we are supposed to be on a date.
The server comes, interrupting our conversation and Magnus’s attention. The phone is still in my hand. I palm it, slipping the device into my bodice, hoping he won’t notice. Considering his eyes have a dreamy far away expression, I think I’ve gotten away with it.
While I bide my time, I turn my attention to the food that arrives—some kind of fish pastry with caviar on top for him, and what looks like pink roasted vegetables wrapped in bright green leaves for me.
“This is perfect,” he says, raising a cup of tea to his lips. For him maybe—but I’m on a date with the wrong person, and the phone pinches my ribs from its hiding spot urging me to find the right moment to escape.
“But temporary, you know that, right?” I say, knowing I should play nice, but unwilling to let his contentment slide.
“That seems to be common sentiment,” he huffs. I’m so sick of this. He knows I don’t want this, and the fact that he doesn’t care makes my skin feel tight—like I’m physically about to burst out of it. But it’s the word “common” that gets me.
“Oh?” I say. “Because if there happens to be someone else who thinks this is a terrible idea, I’d love to meet them.”
He doesn’t bother to give me an answer as he picks at his food. Interesting. I had assumed his meals would consist of goldengoblets of blood, but it’s surprisingly human to see him take a bite of something that looks like it belongs in a seaside bakery.
“If you have questions, there is no need to hold back,” he says, poking at the food on his plate. “Your former lover may not have been a good guide when it comes to this realm. I promise to fill in any gaps he neglected.”
That sounds …weirdly sexual. Magnus must hear it too because his face reddens. He coughs as if to rid himself of any further awkwardness.
“Withinformation, if that was not clear.” His inflection is clumsy and unmeasured.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Regardless, I’m bursting with just about a million questions that are still unanswered.
“Come now—humor me with your curiosity.”
“You can eat real food,” I say, a statement not a question, that’s actively being answered with every bite he takes.
