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The first man I loved died in my arms. I grieved as I watched him take his last breath, my tears mingling with his blood. Time seemed to stand still, even as the battlefield around us continued to roar with explosives, shrapnel, and gunfire. He wasn’t the first casualty of the war that raged over the isle of Faerwyvae twenty-two years ago, nor was he the last. But his death is the one I remember most, for my grief was an endless sea so vast I can still feel its echo. My tears so violent they could have flooded the world. The only thing stronger than my tears and sorrow was the heat of my rage.
Rage that his death hadn’t been dealt by my own hand.
It wasn’t the loss of him I lamented but the loss of my vengeance. He may have been my first love, but I didn’t love him when he died. No, the wicked fae prince who’d twisted my mind with lust, lies, and manipulation had no place in my heart anymore. As I wept over his fallen corpse, I promised never,everto be so foolish as to fall in love again.
I’ve kept that promise. Not once have I strayed from my convictions. Not once have I allowed myself to so much as fancy another man, aside from the occasional emotionless tryst.Loveis a word that no longer exists in my vocabulary, alongsidelustandtrust.
Which is why the black-and-white photograph plastered over the front page of the scandal sheets is the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever had the displeasure to see. I stare down at my own likeness captured in what looks like a heated embrace with a middle-aged gentleman dressed in only his undergarments. The man’s face is mere inches from mine, my mouth forming a softO. What the photograph fails to express is that my lips weren’t puckered in anticipation of a kiss but a shout of alarm. And I hadn’t been melting into the embrace but frozen in shock over receiving such an unwanted advance.
My cheeks burn with the heat of my ire as I lift my eyes to the headline above the photograph, taunting me with its bold capital letters.
AMELIE FAIRFIELD: BRILLIANT FASHION DESIGNER OR HOMEWRECKING HARLOT?
With a groan, I crinkle the paper until it forms a tight ball in my fist. “To hell with theTrundale Tattler,” I say.
Foxglove gives me a pitying look behind his horn-rimmed spectacles. The stout fae male would look quite sharp in his burgundy three-piece suit and gold cravat if it weren’t for how aggressively he wrings his hands. “It’s not…well, there’s a chance no one will believe a word the paper says. TheTrundale Tattleris renowned for its sensational and oftentimes incorrect gossip. You…you might not have a thing to worry about.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “My dear Foxglove, the fact that you had to pause twice to organize your words tells me you hardly believe them yourself.”
He gives me a guilty grin that might as well be a grimace. He knows I’m right. Foxglove is a pureblood fae—as evidenced by his pointed ears—which means he can’t lie. Unlike myself. I’m only a quarter fae, giving me rounded ears and the convenient ability to lie just fine. Not that truths or lies help my situation right now. The damage to my reputation has already been done. Not to mention my career.
“It’s not just theTrundale TattlerI have to worry about,” I say. “This is the fifth scandal sheet I’ve graced this week alone. Every city I’ve been to has this damn photograph plastered to its front page. As of today, I’ve lost three clients, all married human women who would rather not invite a homewrecker into their house when they can get a custom gown from a moreappropriatesource.”
My cheeks burn with indignation. How can I prove I didn’t want Mr. Vance to try and kiss me? How can I express how repulsed I was to be propositioned by a married man? And why…whythe bloody oak and ivy did it have to be the husband of my most elite human client? The Vance family is amongst the upper echelon of human aristocracy. If they shun me, others will follow. Never mind that the patriarch of said highly respected family is a complete and utter lecher. Why am I the one getting blamed for that son-of-a-harpy’s depravity?
I squeeze the crumpled paper tighter in my palm and toss it into the waste bin next to my table. It bounces off the mountain of discarded design sketches already spilling over the brim and lands by my foot. I glare down at it and kick it across the room with the toe of my silk shoe.
“You should really hire a maid, Amelie,” Foxglove says, frowning at the mess my living room has become. It isn’t just the waste bin that’s cluttered. My whole cottage is in a state of disarray, with bolts of fabric lying over every surface, from the divan and tea table to the wingback chair that stands askew beside my stone hearth. Sketchbooks litter my wooden table while dress forms stalk the far wall like silent, judging spectators.
What he doesn’t realize is I like my cottage cluttered. It reminds me of the home I grew up in. My mother was an apothecary, and her shop was attached to our living quarters. While her shop was neat and organized, her work spilled into other areas of the house. The kitchen, in particular. I loved the sight of bundled herbs hanging from the ceiling, every shelf crammed with jars, dried botanicals, and other essential ingredients for Mother’s tisanes, tinctures, and tonics. She wasn’t nearly as messy as I am, but there’s a comfort in my mess that my guests don’t understand. With the afternoon light streaming through my windows, bringing with it a red-orange glow courtesy of the forever-fall leaves the Autumn Court is famous for, it makes my disarray look downright enchanting.
Besides, what use is there hiring a maid when my career might be at an end?
Throwing my head back, I release a tired groan. “Why did this have to happen? I miss the days when one’s portrait could only be captured by hand. At least then one could easily question the validity of the sketches presented in the broadsheets. These cameras and flash bulbs are a nuisance.”
Foxglove snorts a laugh.
I do the same. “I’m showing my true age, aren’t I?”
“Darling, you don’t look a day over twenty.”
“Why, thank you,” I say, giving an exaggerated flip of my copper hair. My enthusiasm over the compliment is feigned. Due to my fae heritage, I stopped aging in my twenties. I’m forty-two now, and sometimes I feel it. Other times, I’m struck with a sudden panic over the realization that aging has lost all meaning to me. Foxglove wouldn’t understand the existential crisis I sometimes feel. He’s a few hundred years old yet looks the same age as me. But he expected eternal youth his entire life, while I grew up thinking I was human.
“This will cheer you up,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat and extracting a folded strip of lace. He hands it to me with a grin.
As soon as the lace touches my palm, I’m entranced. It’s woven from an impossibly delicate material, even finer and stronger than spider silk. The intricate pattern displays the most stunning detail. It puts the cream lace day dress I’m wearing to shame, even with the velvet ribbons and seed pearl embellishments I’ve added to the high collar and leg-of-mutton sleeves. The lace I’m holding now stands on its own as a work of art. I inspect every inch of the fabric, my previous worries forgotten. I know it’s a temporary distraction, but it’s one I’ll take.
“What kind of silk was this made from?” I ask, lifting my eyes from the lace to catch Foxglove’s smug expression.
He waggles his brows, making his spectacles bounce on his nose. “Dragon silk.”
My mouth falls open. “Dragon silk? That exists?”
“It does now. There’s a rare breed of silk dragon that normally lives in the northern forests of the Spring Court. They weave their nests from the silk to keep their hatchlings warm. One of these dragons has decided to enter seelie society with her children and has taken up spinning silk.”
I pull my head back in surprise. It isn’t every day a rare unseelie creature joins society. Faerwyvae may be an isle inhabited by humans and fae in equal measure, but there remains some divide between the two people. Additionally, there exists two kinds of fae that don’t always interact: the seelie and unseelie fae. Before humans came to the isle, all fae were unseelie— creatures, animals, and spirits. It wasn’t until just over a thousand years ago, when the first humans inhabited Faerwyvae, that the fae learned to take on a secondary manifestation—seelie form, modeled after human likeness. But just because the faecanshift forms doesn’t mean all of themdo. In fact, some are firmly against it. The rarest types of fae often remain in their unseelie forms their whole lives, hiding out in the wild mountains and forests, far from society’s influence. This is certainly the first time a silk dragon has come out to society amongst the humans and seelie fae. I’ve never even heard of such a creature before now.
