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“You have the complexion of Summer, the professional makings of Winter, and a name of Spring.”

“It’s Lyrik with ak,” he corrected. “Only sounds like I’m named after music. But since when do names have to correspond to Seasons?”

I hoisted my shoulder. “With everything else about you, it’s just a funny coincidence.”

“That’s me. A funny coincidence.”

Aire cast him a sidelong glance. “You have Mista roots, yet that doesn’t round out your lineage.”

Lyrik gnawed on his lower lip. “Where are my manners? I’m the host. We shouldn’t be talking about me.” He leered my way. “What’s your story, woodchuck?”

“Wench. Woodchuck. So original.”

“I didn’t know marionettes came in your size, much less walked and talked.”

“The divine Seasons got creative and had some fun blessing me.”

“No offense about your size, by the way. Hips are a good look on you.” Just then, Lyrik noticed Aire’s ring. He regarded the knight while jerking his head toward me. “Sorry. I’m not ogling your wife, if that’s what the grimace is about.”

“We’re not married,” Aire and I protested at the same time.

Lyrik studied the both of us. “Sure. All right, my mistake.”

I averted my eyes from the knight. “Lots of lads ogle me. Just don’t expect reciprocation. I have higher standards than squatters.”

“No worries. I have higher standards than females.”

Oh. So his tastes didn’t lean toward the opposite sex. With his exotic olive coloring, jaw stubble, and longish, wavy black hair, I pitied the village girls who fawned over the rascal. I spoke their flirty language and wagered the poor things bought his potions more to catch his eye than his business.

Lyrik hadn’t glanced once at Nicu, who snooped the room. Yet when the squatter turned, he knew where to find him, strutting toward him without a hitch.

Nicu had been studying a jar containing a milky substance. Lyrik paused in front of him and lifted the cap. “One of my favorites. Purely for atmosphere, but when the liquid meets the air, smoke rises, changes color—,” he met Nicu’s gaze, “—and lights up the room.”

Vapors danced from the lip and turned pink. Mesmerized, Nicu swiped his finger through it, making the tendrils quiver.

He exclaimed, “It’s blushing!”

“Nifty, huh?” the rogue intoned.

Nicu watched the haze, while Lyrik watched him. My eyes flickered between them until the force of a cyclone distracted me.

My head craned to the side, just as Aire’s gaze swerved from mine and retreated to the scenery. His chest rose and fell, then his eyes crossed the divide once more, while the room flushed.

We’d made it this far. We were here. I had a woodland to scout, and the knight had knightly things to do. But all I could think about was standing beside him. Out on that terrace, on the edge of the world, watching the sky be the sky.

“A valiant knight. A sassy woodchuck. And a runaway songbird,” I heard the rogue say. “Welcome to the Land of Wishful Thinking.”

16

Honesty

I watched her. As I stood guard outside the potioneer’s room, my fingers flexed without knowing what to do, what to touch. Our eyes swallowed the short distance between us, the experience tremulous, its duration somewhat profound.

Though she caught me staring the first time, she turned away the second. This small, ridiculous victory acted as a balm, a penance for my concerns about this quest.

The result was short-lived. I wanted her to look at me again.

This put me at an impasse, restless and anxious. Fraught with some deranged desire, I willed her eyes back to me, to no avail. As such, I found myself at fate’s disposal, caught between the loss of her on one side, the looming forest on the other.