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He rolls his eyes. “I’ll remember to get you a gift next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” I challenge. “Because you asked Quill for three bloodshade blossoms.”

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose as if I’m positively vexing.

It fills me with glee.

“Who else were you going to have me summon?” I press.

“No one.”

“Then why⁠—”

His eyes snap open as he mumbles, “I thought you might need a practice round.”

“What?”

“If I didn’t juggle for a year, let alone centuries, I’d want at least one practice round to get back into the swing of it.”

“Do you even know how to juggle?”

“No,” he says, gritting his teeth. “That’s not⁠—”

“My powers aren’t a hobby, Riven. Summoning the dead is nothing like juggling.” I shake my head. “Where are the other blossoms?”

“What do you want them for?” he retorts.

I narrow my eyes at him.

He stiffens, matching my glare.

He’s clearly not going to tell me, for whatever reason. And it doesn’t really matter—they’re useless without me.

I look away first, fixing my attention on his desk and the pile of scrolls. I gesture to them. “What’s all that?”

“A truly stunning change of subject,” he deadpans. When I say nothing, he sighs. “You heard Rosemarie, little witch. Find an otherworld bride, break the curse, and reverse the blight.”

My hands find my hips. “Stop saying ‘otherworld.’ It’s demeaning, and⁠—”

“All right, all right.” His mouth curves like he’s amused by my annoyance. “No more ‘otherworld’ talk. All that matters is that my bride isn’t fae.” His eyes catch mine. “Marry me.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded.

“Marry me, Gwyn.”

I laugh. “I heard you the first time.”

“Then, will you?”

My arms slacken at my sides. “You cannot be serious.”

“You’ll have more riches than you could ever ask for as my wife,” he argues, rubbing the stubble dusting his jaw. “And if it’s not riches that will sway you, maybe knowing you’ll have an entire army at your disposal to use against your coven will?”

It’s a promising offer, but⁠—