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She lounges on the top of the bureau, idly twirling a strand of hair-like flame around her finger. “Oh, don’t mind me. I want to witness the beginning of a love story up close.”
I snort a laugh. “It doesn’t look like this.”
I bring the nib to the paper, noting how the sharp tip sinks into the sheet with a little too much force, as if I’m not writing to the prince but stabbing his heart. I grind my jaw as I scrawl the first line.
Dear Prince Albert…
4
For just over a week, my life seemed to go back to normal. No more incriminating photographs or headlines labeling me a hussy. Instead, my name showed up beside Prince Albert’s in articles discussing the upcoming formal demonstration of peace between Faerwyvae and Bretton. Sure, some of these articles brought up my recent scandal, but it was overshadowed by all the other exciting tidbits—like speculations on what I’ll wear on my wedding day, whether the event will be large or small, whether Prince Albert will prove to be as handsome as secondhand accounts suggest.
But as I stare down at the latest headline scrawled across the front page of today’sHawthorn Hearsay, I feel every inch of normalcy drain from my life at once. The title reads,Desperate Debaucher Drowns Premarital Sorrows. Beneath it is a black-and-white photograph of my betrothed sitting crookedly on a barstool, downing a pitcher of ale. Rivulets run down his chin and onto his waistcoat, giving the impression he’s already well into his cups. Or…pitchers.
Ten other scandal sheets litter my drafting table, illuminated by the rising sun pouring into the windows of the downtown Hawthorn design studio I share with Foxglove. My friend isn’t here yet, nor is anyone else from our design and manufacture teams. Thank the All of All for that, for I can’t bear to see the look on anyone’s faces when they see the other assorted headlines gracing the pages.
Prince Albert’s Three-day Bender.
Bretton’s Most Eligible Prince Becomes Faerwyvae’s Most Miserable Barfly.
The Salty Satyr Pub Gains Wealthiest Patron.
Two Scandals and a Wedding.
They all have one thing in common: a theory that Albert is drinking so heavily because he dreads marrying me. Most bring up my scandal too, hypothesizing that the prince found out he was duped by being promised to spoiled goods.
Clenching my teeth, I gather up the papers. One slips out from the bottom of the stack. I stoop to pick it up and discover it’s a letter I received yesterday. One that filled me with fiery rage upon reading it. After a week of anxiously awaiting Albert’s reply to the engagement tour I proposed, he finally deigned to write back. Considering how quickly my sister received confirmation that King Grigory accepted a change of bride for the marriage alliance, Albert could have sent his own reply far sooner.
I crumple the papers in my fists until it forms a ball. Then I crush it between my palms, imagining it’s Albert’s puny head. While it’s somewhat satisfying, it does little to lessen my anger. Every word of his insulting letter echoes through my head.
Dearest Miss Fairfield,
What a delight your little tour sounds. As lovely an offer as it is, I must regretfully decline, as I’d prefer to wait until our wedding day to cast my eyes upon your beautiful face. Until then, I’ll dream of you, darling. I eagerly await meeting you at the end of the aisle.
Forever yours,
Albert
Rage pours through me, boiling my blood. When I first read the letter, I knew his soft words were nothing but empty flattery. I even suspected he harbored some hesitation about marrying me. But I didn’t expect to find his idiotic face staring back at me from today’s scandal sheets, silently boasting that his refusal wasn’t delivered out of trepidation but a desire to drink himself stupid. It’s…unacceptable. Disrespectful. Worst of all, it’s embarrassing. Our pairing was supposed to save me from scandal, not plunge me deeper into it.
Another wave of anger courses through me, this time tingling from my chest and down my arms, filling my palms with heat. I release my rage in a roar, squeezing my ball of papers once more. But that’s not all I release. The heat in my palms rises from a simmer to a blazing inferno. A flash of light fills my hands, surrounding the paper in bright red flames.
Surprise replaces my fury as the paper burns in my hands. It’s been ages since I accidentally used my magic. My grandfather was a fire fae, which makes fire my primary elemental affinity. But flame isn’t the only expression of the element. Fire also represents life force energy, passion, and creativity. While I’m fully capable of producing literal flame, I suppress the ability. I can still recall the terror in Evie’s eyes when I first produced a flame in my palm. It was during the war, back when she’d yet to determine if I was still being controlled by Prince Cobalt. The way her face paled as she stared at what I’d created sent a shard of glass through my heart. One I still bear. Because I knew then she was afraid of me.
My relationship with my sister has improved since then, and I know she no longer fears me. Still, I prefer to channel my fire element through creativity, not flame.
I cast my eyes about my studio in a panic, desperate to keep my smoldering handful from spreading to the bolts of fabric, spools of thread, and the other flammable items surrounding me. Finally, I rush to the sink and drop the fiery mess into the porcelain basin. As I watch the scandal sheets burn, my rage and panic begin to fade, cooling like the ash now settling in the sink.
“I can handle this,” I whisper to myself. If Albert is avoiding me because of the scandal with Mr. Vance, then this is my mess to fix. And if he’s simply being indolent, then I’ll save my rage for him.
* * *
I did not dressfor the Summer Court. The realization hits me as soon as I leave the train station and step onto the streets of Port Dellaray, a city on the southern Summer Court coast. Despite being evening now, the humid heat surrounds me like a smothering shroud, making my silk hose cling uncomfortably to my legs. While I wore my chartreuse coat like I almost always do, I’m dressed in work attire beneath it. Thank the All of All I dressed in a simple wool skirt and linen blouse today instead of one of my more heavily layered day dresses.
After removing my coat and slinging it over my arm, I fan myself with one hand and head toward the heart of the city. There the streets grow crowded with patrons flooding in and out of restaurants, hotels, and public houses. Being one of two trade ports located in southern Faerwyvae, Port Dellaray is a busy town, bustling with dock workers, sailors, and merchants, both human and fae alike. However, since the ports fall under seelie jurisdiction, most of the fae here are in their seelie forms.
I stalk past storefronts and taverns with single-minded focus, seeking the name of the pub mentioned in the articles about Albert’s drunken displays: The Salty Satyr. I find the pub on the street nearest the docks, which makes it one of the busiest but also least fashionable parts of town. The building itself is somewhat crude, with peeling paint and windows made of fogged glass that appears to be in good need of cleaning. What an odd choice for a prince. According to what Evie has told me, Albert was provided a suite at the finest hotel in Port Dellaray, which is several blocks from here. Additionally, my proposed tour included nightly stays at even finer establishments. If his only concern is drinking himself into a stupor, a luxury bar should be preferable to a second-rate public house.
Curling my fingers into fists, I pull open the door and march inside. The smell of smoke and ale fill my lungs at once, mingling with the stench of unwashed bodies after a hard day at work. The lighting is dim, and every table is full. I mostly find men dressed down to their shirtsleeves—dock workers—some with rounded human ears, others with pointed tips. A few show more obvious signs of fae heritage, including one man with seal flippers instead of hands and feet, and another with curling horns on each side of his head. I step farther into the crowded pub, noting not all patrons are of the working class. The closer I get to the bar, the more I note women in fine summer dresses and men with well-groomed mustaches in silk waistcoats.
