Reshina slapped my arm playfully and rolled out of my grasp, wrapping one of the sheets around her body.
“It is good to see you up again, Mistress,” Piffle said with undying love for her in his voice. “Here, I’ve brought you some soup.”
“She doesn’t want soup, Piff!” I called, rising from the bed and slipping into my clothes. “The Mistress wants chocolate!”
“Ignore him,” she said, taking the bowl of soup to the chair by the fire. “Thank you, Piffle. This smells divine.”
“It’s been simmering since dawn! I couldn’t sleep, you see, with all the worries about you right here.” He pointed to hischest, the little rake, and Reshina smiled so warmly, I wondered what I could say to get her to look at me like that.
“You are such a good friend. I’m sure I’ll recover quickly with this meal.”
Piff went about with a grin on his face, picking up things here and there, mumbling about all he’d seen and heard at the market. “They’ve decorated the town for the Sprouting Festival. The color this year is a beautiful lilac hue which wouldn’t look very good on the Mistress, I’m afraid, so I didn’t take the liberty of purchasing the annual fabric, though I did find a lovely shade of midnight blue. I was thinking it would make a daring two piece if I just add a few layers of that shimmery black fabric, you know the one I used for the bodice the Master ripped last week, and?—”
“The festival is soon?” I paused washing my face, water dripping down my chin.
Piffle stilled, realization blooming in his eyes. He cleared his throat, pouring tea for Reshina. “It is, Master. I will acquire the necessary flowers at the next market visit. NOTEBOOK!” He shifted into his golden notebook where he kept all his lists, committing them to memory before he left for market. There he scratched his notes before popping back into a fae.
“What is the Sprouting Festival?” Reshina asked.
Piff glanced at me in the mirror before answering. “It is a celebration of spring in Heartstone, Mistress. The kingdom gathers in one color to celebrate the renewal of life. Gardeners sell their flowers at the market and people dance in the streets.”
“It’s also the anniversary of my mother’s death,” I added, wiping my face. “And of the curse coming upon me.”
“I see.”
“Well then,”—Piff cleared his throat—“I’ll just be off to put out those chairs you asked for in the corridors, Mistress. I found that chocolate you liked, too. Shall I bring you some?”
She shook her head, watching me carefully. “No, Piffle, thank you. I’d love some later.”
The little man bowed at the waist with another sharp glance in my direction before he left.
“Are you alright?” she asked softly.
“Fine.”
She tried another approach. “Let me rephrase. This anniversary means something to you. Will you tell me about it?”
“It’s nothing,” I said, dismissing the conversation, placing a kiss on her forehead.
“It is quite obviously something. Please tell me.”
I sank into the chair opposite of her. She had tucked the corner of the silky red sheet just beneath her underarm and it was in danger of slipping. I rubbed my mouth and looked away. “Every year, I bring flowers to my mother’s grave on the anniversary of her death. I stand at her headstone for one hour, just as I stood at her bedside for that time watching her life leave her, waiting for the curse to take me as soon as it did. It is the one time of the year the Beast allows me the most control, though I am Beast all the same.” I chuckled lightly, setting my elbows on my knees and leaning towards her for the spoonful of soup she offered. “The Beast agrees not to tear Piffle’s head off when he joins me.” I swallowed the soup, impressed at its flavors. “I’ll have him look at the exact dates, but my guess is it will be in two weeks.”
“I’m coming, too, this year.”
My gaze shot to hers. “You certainly are not.”
She sipped another spoonful, twisting the spoon in her mouth and pulling it across her lips. “I am.”
“Reshina,” I sighed. “I cannot guarantee the Beast wouldn’t harm you. Again. It’s too dangerous.”
“You said we are family. Family supports each other through grief. I am coming.”
She took another spoonful. Then another. Her dining habitswere so careful. Poised in a crimson bedsheet, the exhaustion of fever and sweat pressing wisps of her hair to her forehead, she still ate with a graceful touch. With each dip into the broth, she lightly pulled the spoon across the bowl so it couldn’t drip on her lap. She brought it to her mouth where she savored it—truly enjoyed each mouthful.
“I love watching you eat,” I admitted.
“Oh? And why is that?”
