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I sighed and pulled away—though I would have been happy to keep sucking him—while he got the third rose. When he saw it, he let out a low whistle and twisted it in his hands.
“Did it work?” I asked eagerly. “I was trying to use a mixture of your pleasure and my own.”
“Oh? Did it feel that good to suck me, then?” He raised his eyebrows at me.
“Well, of course it felt good to suck you, but I was actually talking about…about when you called me your ‘good girl,’” I admitted, blushing. “That was the pleasure I used.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up.
“You really like that, don’t you?”
“Well…I’ve never been called a ‘good girl’ before,” I told him. “I’ve never been ‘good’ enough for anyone—not at the Seelie Court, anyway. You know how my nurse treated me and my father has always blamed me for killing my mother when I was born. And of course my cousins are horrible. None of my tutors ever praised me either, because I could never do magic.”
“Well, you can now. Just look at this.”
Liath showed me the rose—or should I say roses. For this one had budded too—but it had done so multiple times. It almost looked like he was holding a bouquet in his hand, except that many of the new roses were still just buds.
“I bet with a little more practice you could make them bloom,” Liath rumbled speculatively.
“Do you want me to suck you again?” I asked, giving him a naughty smile.
“Gods, you’re an eager little virgin.” He stroked my hair. “No, I want to see you touch yourself again. Pet your sweet pussy for me, little bird. And let’s see if we can’t make those roses bloom…”
17
That was the beginning of my magic lessons but certainly not the end. We practiced for hours nightly and sometimes during the day too. I found that my appetite for my new husband only grew and since Liath always seemed to want me as well, both of us were always eager to work on my magic skills.
I was getting better and better at controlling and manipulating my power. I still saw it as sparks, like swarms of fireflies, and I was learning to see it even when the situation wasn’t sexual. I spent an entire morning watching the little dryad who was my maid standing out in the courtyard on a rare, sunny day, soaking in the sun’s rays and enjoying herself.
The sparks of pleasure and joy that came from her branchy arms and mossy hair were beautiful to behold. I knew that she must love the warmth of the sun so much because she was tied to one of the trees in the forest—she was in fact, its spirit. Because of this she couldn’t get too far from her tree, though luckily the Winter Palace was within her range.
I thought about the other trees in the forest on the Unseelie Lands and how long it had been since they had been allowed to bud and bloom and grow leaves. The Great Divide which separated the Seelie from the Unseelie Court and kept it always Summer on the Seelie side and always Winter on the Unseelie side had been in effect for centuries.
It seemed so unfair that the people in my new home almost never got to see the sun or feel its warmth on their faces. Something ought to be done about it, but it was impossible. My own ancestor, King Oberon, had raised the magical division after his daughter had been brave enough—and foolish enough—to love one of the Unseelie Fae. The magical wall had been born of hatred and malice and prejudice—what was strong enough to tear down that barrier and reunite the Realms once more?
Stableforth the Centaur seemed to think that I was the answer to the problem, but though I continued to progress with my magic, I couldn’t say that I believed that to be true. I was getting very good at bringing dead roses back to life and I had also been able to channel my magic to heal as well, but there’s a big difference between healing and tearing down a magical barrier that’s been in place for hundreds of years.
I practiced the healing with Liath often. He would cut himself with his dagger and then let me send my “sparks” as I called them, to his wound. I envisioned his flesh knitting together, becoming whole again and it worked.
The only thing he wouldn’t let me try to heal was the scar on his face.
“No, little bird,” he said, when I suggested it, his expression growing grim. “This scar is a remembrance of something I deeply regret. I do not deserve to be rid of it.”
I wanted to ask him what this secret pain was—the old memory that went with the scar, but I didn’t quite dare. We hadn’t known each other long enough, I told myself. When our marriage was a little older and I was more sure of my Unseelie husband, I would ask. Until then, I simply continued practicing healing other, fresher wounds with my sparks.
