Page 78 of My Faire Lady

“Do we have any record of where the consecration took place?” I say. “Maybe that can bring us some answers.”

He shakes his head. “Not that I know of, but I can see if some of the older creatures remember anything.”

“Thank you.”

It’s a stretch, but if my mother is telling me to go back to the beginning, maybe that’s where the answer will be. Maybe, hidden somewhere in this land, are directions of how to restore magic. A failsafe.

We slow to a stop outside my door, and a crooked smile spreads across Boden’s face.

“What is it?” I say, wrapping my hand around the knob.

“She’s thinking about you.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Get some rest tonight.”

I roll my eyes, despite the pounding climbing from my chest cavity into my throat. “Lottie’s contest submission is due tomorrow.”

He walks backwards away from me. “I saw it earlier today. It’s going to look stunning on you.”

My gaze falls to the floor, and Boden laughs to himself as he rounds the corner. Although it was only yesterday, it feels like a lifetime ago when Lottie and I were sitting on the deck of the treehouse, when she told me she’d consider staying here if she didn’t win the contest.

Maybe it’s time I extend the offer. That, if she wanted, we could end this painful charade of keeping each other at arm’s length. We could allow our exchanges to extend past the long bouts of eye contact and brief touches of our hands. I could finally tell her exactly how I feel, without fear of pinning her here against her will.

Because what’s the point of having a choice if the only option is to leave?

I suck in a deep breath and steel my nerves, pushing open the door into my living room. My eyes adjust to the dark, where, in the corner, Lottie sits at my desk with an oil lamp. Her head is bent over her hands, unaware of my arrival, and I step closer, my feet silent on the floor.

My chest tightens.

She flips through my mother’s postcards, and pauses on the Kelpies, her fingers tracing the worn edges.

“Did you have a good day?” I ask, as if it’s the simplest question. It hits me, square in the chest, how easy it would be to ask her every day and never tire of hearing her answer.

She doesn’t startle, but she tears her gaze away from the postcards, as if there’s a great effort behind the movement. As if she’s weighing the options: stay here forever, and only see the world through photos, or leave and live a life of freedom.

“Good, for the most part,” she says. “I have to officially submit my application tomorrow and mail the gown. I’m nervous, you know?”

I’m listening, but my mind is replaying her words from last night. She’s never been prouder of anything in her life than the submission she’s worked tirelessly on. There’s an undeniable light to her when she’s engrossed in the project. A passion.

Who am I to take that away from her? Who am I, to bolt her down?

She can’t stay.

I can’t let her.

“Yeah, I know,” I murmur, backing out of the room. “I forgot something in the library. I’ll be right back.”

Her brows pinch together, but she doesn’t say a word as I step into the hallway and close the door behind me. My breaths come in shallow sips, and I throw myself down the hall, in the opposite direction of the library, and descend the stairs.

I push through the enchanted door. The night air slams into me, but it does nothing to ease the cold sweat along my spine and the pounding of my heart nipping at my heels. I run down the path, through the dark, only slowing as I break into the clearing of the quad.

A scoop of a moon lights the night, casting a silver beacon over Lottie’s shoppe. It feels a lifetime ago that I coaxed that acrylic paint onto the sign, perfecting each line for her.

I climb the steps and trace an unlocking rune onto the handle. The bolt gives, and I push into the space, a breeze following me into the back room.

My stomach curdles.

The gown rests on the shoulders of a mannequin. I step forward and drag my fingers over the silk, the fabric like an icy waterfall. The netting over the top catches the low light the way armor would.

But it’s the cape clasped around the neck that catches my eye. Chainmail stretches across the chest—from one shoulder to the other, the same bits of metal she painstakingly wove together link by link. It sweeps down the back, pooling on the floor like liquid silver. She’s told me over and over again that the piece was inspired by me, but I can’t imagine a world where anything I could do would be this beautiful.