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“Juliana,” he said bashfully. “Good to see you. Staying long?”
“As long as my father bids me.”
“You must be hungry,” he said. “Shall I escort you to the kitchens?”
Juliana couldn’t understand why he needed to escort her when she was perfectly capable of finding her own way there, but it was good to be seen by someone, so she took him up on his offer. The kitchen was a bustling hive of activity, clanging bowls and steaming cauldrons, but the sight was as welcoming to her as an old blanket.
“Julie!” screamed a voice, and Juliana found herself swept up into the ample arms of Iona, the head chef, and the woman who’d half-raised her.Everyonein the castle had had some hand in that, with her father away half the time and the general belief in Faerie that childhood was a short, fleeting and slightly inconvenient period of existence that no one dedicated much time to. Juliana had spent hers being watched by everyone and no one and frankly wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Iona steered her away to an alcove, pressed a bowl of stew into her hands, and gave her a careful appraisal. Before long, Juliana’s ears fit to burst with all the tales of the past three years. As the evening wore on, more and more people drifted in to see her.
So,she thought,this is what it’s like to come home.
Her father found her shortly before the feast was set to begin, and she was sent to the barracks to change into a clean tunic. She felt a bit ridiculous in the plain woollen garment, next to the splendour of the night and the swirling gossamer of the guests. She almost wished she could wear her travelling clothes; those were allowed to be plain and messy.
A few months after they’d left for the woods, desperate for something pretty in her rugged life, she’d tried to embroider flowers onto the hems. She’d done an appalling job, and it was only made worse by the finery flocking towards the great hall.
She tugged on her cuffs.
“No one will care what you are wearing if you don’t,” her father whispered as they walked towards the hall.
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
He shook his head. “When I first met your mother, she was scrubbing bloodstains out of a tunic. She saw me gaping and snapped that if I had time to stare, I had time to help her. She was the most ravishing thing I ever saw.”
Juliana almost stumbled, relishing this new little story. Tales about her mother were rare, treasured, Markham so seldom spoke of her. Whenever he did, though, the world seemed to narrow. He spoke of her like the great storytellers spoke of the stars.
“Come,” said Markham, annoyed at her dallying. “The feast is beginning.”
They passed under the boughs of the great hall, an enormous domed chamber composed almost entirely of branches, vines and blooms. Currently, white flowers carpeted every surface, humming with fireflies, a swirling mix of spring days and heady summer nights.
Queen Maytree sat on her throne of thorns wearing a midnight gown stitched with constellations and fringed with raven’s feathers. Her chestnut locks were scraped back from her face, pinned behind a star-like crown, and ran in curled rivulets down her back. Although all accounts of the Cursed Day mentioned something about the queen freezing, Juliana couldn’t imagine it. Queen Maytree didn’t freeze, shefroze.The fiercest warriors cowered before her shadow, and the most powerful of creatures trembled like a leaf in frost.
Juliana bowed.
“Ser Markham,” said the Queen. “Welcome back to our halls. Your daughter, too. It is good to see you both.”
No further words were spoken at this time, for a line had formed behind them. Juliana’s focus fell from the Queen to a smaller throne of similar style where her consort, Aspen, sat.
And next to him…
Hawthorn.
He’d grown some since she’d last seen him, tall and lean rather than small and skinny. His spider-silk shirt was open at the neck, revealing chiselled marble skin. The smile he wore suggested he knew it. His face had lost the boyish roundness, sharpening at the nose and cheeks, his black waves cut just above his shoulders. He grinned at Juliana over the rim of his goblet, as if they were old friends… or Juliana was a delectable piece of meat he was trying to work out how to cut.
She wasn’t sure.
Nothing in Faerie changes,Juliana reminded herself.Don’t let a pretty face fool you. There’s a spider at the centre of that frosted web.
A dozen people came to speak to her, servants, knights, entertainers and old school friends. She was filled with food, drinks pressed into her hands, plied with questions till her ears felt fit to bleed.
She was quite sure she spoke more that night than in a full year in Autumn.
Her goblet dry, she dismissed herself from her present company and headed towards one of the fountains for a refill, before noticing the glazed expressions of some of the mortals dancing around it. She frowned; they were still wearing their wards of rowan berries. They couldn’t be glamoured. Had someone spiked the wine?
Deciding it would be better to open a new bottle, she moved towards the tables instead, picking up one that a card assured her was suitable for mortal consumption.
“I wouldn’t try that wine,” said a voice behind her. “Someone has switched the labels.”
