Page 65 of My Fae Lady

Sylvan reached out and traced a finger over it. “It’s a feather, but why is there a hinge?”

“It’s a locket,” Giselle explained.

She opened the locket, and I was able to see the delicate details engraved into the feather design.

“That’s a lock of your hair.” Sylvan tapped the gold feather, snapping it shut. He plucked it from Giselle’s hand and fumbled with the pin on the back and attached it to his shirt. “You already had this?”

“Of course. I made it ages ago. Obviously we are meant to be mates.”

Sylvan’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “Then why haven’t you accepted my feather yet?”

“Oh!” Giselle giggled. “I forgot.” She pinched the feather between thumb and forefinger, then froze, unsure what to do next.

I rose from my stool. “I’ll help you braid it into your hair.” I looked over at her husband—her mate. “Sylvan, why don’t you see about getting the ritual athame and ask House to prepare a mating feast? Giselle and I need a few minutes to get ready for the ceremony.”

“Right. I’ll . . . do that.”

I waited until the door closed behind him before I turned back to Giselle. I took the feather from her and selected a thin section of hair near her temple. I began to braid and wasn’t surprised when the house dropped a forest green ribbon into my fingers. Rook Manor would do everything it could to encourage this mating.

“What do you know about Unseelie mating customs, Giselle?”

“I’ve been married to an Unseelie for nearly a year now. I do not require a conversation about mating customs.”

I snorted. “Not that sort of mating. I meant the ceremony.”

“Oh. Well, we exchange feathers, and there is also a blood exchange, just like in Seelie matings.”

I finished tying off the feather and stepped back. “Not like in Seelie matings. The Seelie have always had a penchant for formality and reserve that is most definitely lacking in the more primitive customs of the Unseelie.”

“Yes, but what does that mean in this case? What are you trying to tell me, Caro?”

“There are no mating chalices.” The tiny cups were used by the Seelie to hold the blood that was exchanged in the ceremony. Each partner pricked the tip of their finger and bled into their mate’s chalice. “The Unseelie drink the blood directly.”

“I suppose that isn’t truly a surprise. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get squeamish and embarrass myself. Thank you for the warning, though.”

“That isn’t—” I took a deep breath and tried again. “You have to use the athame on Sylvan, making him bleed on the throat, then drink from him. There’s a particular spot you are supposed to cut, and you can’t hesitate, as that is a bad omen.”

Giselle’s eyes went wide. “Oh. That is a little more unsettling. Where is this spot?”

I showed Giselle, giving her the same lessons Grandmama had given me, though the odds I’d ever mate in the Unseelie style were slim.

When she felt confident, we left the parlor and followed the faelights the house provided. Rook Manor led us outside, to the back of the house where flowers grew alongside mushrooms and moss in a manner that would be deemed too wild to be beautiful by Alidran society.

Alidran society would be wrong.

Sylvan waited at the base of a giant tree, dressed in full evening wear, including an immaculately tied cravat. A giant toadstool grew out of the ground next to him, the altar on which the athame rested.

On his other side, a fae youth waited, wearing patched trousers that barely reached his calves, a thick wool shirt, and a top hat. I recognized Jeremy, who came to Rook Manor regularly and did the chores Giselle assigned him in exchange for meat pies, not realizing that the house could absolutely take care of those tasks itself. Or maybe he just played along because payment he could accept, but the debt of charity he couldn’t.

Giselle’s pace picked up, and she rushed to face Sylvan, flanking the toadstool. I followed behind and took the spot on her other side, mirroring Jeremy.

There were no officiates at Unseelie mating ceremonies. They didn’t even need witnesses, though having a few—or dozens—was not uncommon.

Giselle picked up the athame. “Sylvan, I will gladly wear your feather for the rest of my days.”

“As I will wear yours.”

“Then let us seal our mating with blood.”