Page 12 of The Filigree Key

Ossian slammed his fist down on the table, making the silverware jump. “Meadow, get ahold of yourself. This is not how a fae king’s mate behaves.”

“And denying his mate the wedding of her dreams after she’s breaking her back to deliver a fae court into your hands is not how a fae king behaves! I want my fairy-tale wedding, and thistle thorns, I’ve earned it!” I stomped my foot for good measure, crossing my arms over my chest. “There shall be flowers and cake and the seeded loaf to bless us with prosperity. And music and entertaining. Is such a small thing beyond your abilities, Ossian? If so, I fear for the campaign to retake the Court of Beasts.”

I half expected him to brush away the barb—a self-assured male was confident in his abilities and not so easily belittled or goaded—but the portal must’ve rattled him more than I’d suspected. His jewel-green eyes blazed at the challenge, his shoulders trembling with anger.

My next words were soft-spoken and supplicating. “I am the key, Ossian, you said so yourself. Am I not worth a proper wedding?”

It was in his best interests to keep me happy . . . if his pride could allow it. I watched from the corner of my eye as his hand drifted down to the pouch that contained the Caer powder. We both must be wondering if it was even worth it to “reset the day” only to have this conversation all over again. And again. And again. Because no matter how many times I’d been dosed, my base personality had never changed: I wanted to matter, to be encouraged to flourish.

“If I say yes,” he began, but he didn’t get another word out.

I squealed with excitement, suppressed my gag reflex, and kissed his cheek. Then I righted my chair and got back to devouring my lukewarm breakfast. Lucky for me waffles tasted amazing no matter the temperature. “Come eat,” I said around a mouthful of food. “The sooner we finish, the sooner I start charging that key, and the sooner I get to plan our wedding!”

He gave me a patronizing smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but I pretended not to notice and returned it with an adoring one of my own. No doubt he was plotting how exactly he would drain me of my magic the moment we crossed into Elfame, just as I was planning how he would never leave this realm.

“What fruit would you like?” I asked. “For the ceremony.”

“Meadow, it doesn’t—” He rolled his eyes with a little sigh at my hurt expression. “Anything but a plum. I hate plums.”

A plum it is.

When Ossian tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow, I wished I hadn’t been so thorough in wiping the apple butter from my fingers. Every visceral part of me desired nothing else than to oppose him, even if it was as petty as making his flawless skin sticky. Since he was wearing a shirt, I would’ve had to satisfy myself with staining his clothes, but alas, no sticky fingers.

I knew I should’ve had those waffles with syrup instead of apple butter.

I supposed I could sneeze on him.

“. . . learned how to tap into a plant’s life essence to help free your magic,” the fae king was droning on as he led us down the colonnade to the courtyard with the rambler roses. “But accessing that essence is not the same as understanding its true nature. It is more akin to feeling the pulse of your tree. Do you remember that feeling, before you joined with it?”

“I do.” It had been a wondrous event, hearing and feeling that wooden pulse for the first time. Then becoming one, becoming whole, as the tree of my magic and I had melded together. It’d been a peace I’d never known and an experience far too fleeting.

Because of him.

My teeth ground together, the muscle in my jaw bulging. Mercifully, that tension did not reach the rest of my body before Ossian extracted himself to open the courtyard door. I remembered something Sawyer had said long ago about auras and released my ire with a breath. If prey could feel the gaze of a predator hidden in the brush, then surely this fae male could feel my wrath burning a hole in the back of his head.

He seemed to sense nothing, however, and gave me a soft smile as he gestured to the little courtyard. “After you, love.”

“You’re not locking me in here again, are you?” I asked, perhaps a little more bluntly than I intended. “I-I mean, Wystan is no longer a threat to me, so—”

“How do you think that hobgoblin captures magical folk, Meadow?” Ossian asked sharply. “He is on equal footing with hobs and pixies, of course, but the average hedge witch? How does he capture them? Obviously he has access to greater magic and resources than we know of, hence our inability to capture him. As powerful as you are, love, you might find yourself surprised.”

Or this is your lie to keep me subdued and fearful and dependent solely on you.

He marked the pursed lips I wasn’t able to hide and smoothed his expression. I held still as his hands cupped my face and he leaned down to plant a soft kiss against my forehead. “Forget Wystan. That creature is not worth our thoughts, not with Alec and the Brothers patrolling the village. You’re safe—”

But I knew what patrol meant now—the magic hunters doing what they did best: hunting down and capturing those with magic to feed their insatiable lord. Maybe even themselves.

I wiggled away from Ossian, suppressing the urge to peel off the layer of skin where he’d kissed me and burn it. “I don’t want your assurances, Ossian. I want to know it for myself.” I squared my shoulders. “You will not always be with me in Elfame, so I must take responsibility for my own wellbeing. Now, the key?”

Displeasure flickered in his eyes, snarled briefly in the twist of his lips, and then the King of Beasts was as calm and composed as his illusions. He gestured to the potted willow tree near the far wall—the only plant I hadn’t drained in my sessions. “We will practice here. As your primary affinity is green magic, this should, in theory, be the easiest primal source for you to master. Put your hand against its trunk, love.”

I obeyed, finding the shallow ridges of the gray-brown bark familiar under my palm. If it grew to see old age, those ridges would be fissures, deep and coarse to protect its heartwood.

Ossian’s bare feet rasped against the gray stone of the courtyard as he angled himself next to the trunk and within my line of sight. His jewel-green eyes never left my face as he withdrew the filigree key from its pouch. It was so delicate-looking, like it was fashioned out of strands of silver tinsel, yet I knew it would not break. The fae king’s fingers pinched the tip so as not to block my view of the four diamonds at its bow end. They caught the morning light and sparkled like beads of crystallized dew.

“There are four primal sources that govern Nature—the strength of Earth, the destruction of Fire, the power of Water, and the force of Air. It is these true natures you must tap and channel into the key.” Ossian twirled the key between thumb and forefinger; rainbows skittered across my face and the willow tree. “Store them like you would a cache of magic in a crystal, and when you have filled the key, the diamond will stay lit.”

When I reached for the key, Ossian strangely pulled it away.