Page 77

Not that those are the reasons they stare.

Here we are, the two enigmas among them, the humans who managed to outmaneuver the rules of their realm to end up in the highest echelons of fairy society.

“Did you notice?” Temper nods at the servers moving in and out of the crowd like ghosts.

I watch the humans, the changelings of this realm. Either they, or their ancestors, were swapped at birth with a fae baby.

“Notice what?” I ask, following her gaze.

“Look at their wrists.” I hear the horror in her voice.

I take another look at one of the nearby waiters. It takes several seconds to see it at just the right angle, but when I do…

I suck in a breath. The raised, mottled skin of their wrist is a raspberry color, and it’s styled in the shape of a leaf. “They’re branded.”

Chapter 22

Branded like livestock. I’m reeling from that realization long after Malaki joins our group, his eye patch silver tonight. He only lingers long enough to invite Temper to dance, and then my friend is gone, dancing about the field like she belongs to these people, her earlier words be damned. I can’t help but wonder if this is Temper’s defiant response to this land and its awful treatment of changelings. That she will not allow herself to feel small or outcast, even as a human.

And here I am, still the same wallflower I was in high school.

I stare down at my wine. This is why I really shouldn’t drink. Pity isn’t flattering, no matter how well you wear it.

My eyes sweep over the gardens, taking in the revelries of Solstice.

This isn’t a party; it’s a bacchanal. Everywhere I look people are dancing, their forms illuminated under the moonlight. They’re laughing and spinning, their loose hair whipping about them.

Those who aren’t dancing are on the outskirts of the dance floor, chatting and drinking. Well, they’re either chatting and drinking or else slipping away. Couples are disappearing into the woods, and I’ve seen at least one fairy leave with one partner and return with another.

Everyone’s eyes are too bright, their smiles too wide, their cheeks too flushed.

Tanked out of their minds.

The revelers all managed to let go of their cares for the evening. The only people who haven’t are me and the human servants, the latter keeping their eyes downcast most of the time.

“Enjoying yourself?”

I jump at the voice, my drink spilling over the cup’s rim and onto my hands.

“Shit,” I curse under my breath.

The Green Man is at my side, and I have no fucking clue just how long he’s been there watching me as I’ve been watching everyone else.

“Sorry,” he says, his eyes trained on my face, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, you’re fine,” I say, shaking off my hand.

“We were never formally introduced,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m the Green Man, king-consort to the Flora Kingdom.”

I take his hand, mine still a little sticky with wine. Rather than shake it, he brings my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it, his amber eyes trained on me.

His eyes, I decide, are too intense, too mischievous, too covetous.

He releases my hand. “So are you enjoying yourself?”

The man is too perceptive. He knows I feel uncomfortable and out of place.

“No,” I say, going with the truth.