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“I’m a summer child, too.” She couldn’t decide why she felt compelled to share that.

“Before or after the solstice?”

“On the solstice,” she replied.

Her turn to wince. Solstice children were known to be impulsive, unreliable, indecisive. Legend said they always came in pairs, but Rissa had no twin. When she was younger, she used to imagine she had one—a boy—and that her mother had chosen to keep him with her in the Wilderness. Now she knew that nightmares rarely ever bore more than one child, and almost always found a way to get rid of it, giving it away, trading it, or leaving it in the care of humans as a changeling, if they were inclined.

“On the solstice.” Rydekar shook his head, slightly. “I take my leave, Serissa. Until we meet again.”

Would they meet again?

She waved, feeling a sense of loss she couldn’t quite place as his steps led him farther and farther away.

“When?”

Rissa didn’t decide to open her mouth, but the word was out and carried by the wind.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Rydekar smiled. “Not soon enough.”

Out of Control

Damn Rydekar to hell and back; he was right. The seelie noblesdidcome to her, and though she could tell it cost them, all of them were playing nice. Sharp teeth hidden and deadly claws sheathed, they bowed, kissed her hand, lavished her with sweet words almost devoid of insults. Rissa was too smart to trust their sincerity, but it was a nice change all the same.

“Lady Serissa. You may not recall, but we met at your father’s court.” Forcan Gaulder was a slender gentry of great stature. His auburn hair, brushed out of his face, and his deep green eyes were the only hint of color in his person. His habit, his shoes, and his long face were cold and ranged from shades of limestone to gray. He was the very picture of a flawless seelie king.

“Met” was a gross exaggeration. She’d been present when he’d visited, once, and he thoroughly ignored her then.

She only smiled.

“We did not expect to find you here. I understood you were on a personal retreat, like your father.”

The probing accusation rolled off her back like water off her smooth feathers. “Hm.” She tilted her head. “I seem to remember you had a wonderful bird of prey with you on our last meeting. Was it a hawk?”

The lower king’s jaw ticked. He wasn’t accustomed to being ignored, by the look of it. After a lengthy pause, he deigned to reply. “A gyrfalcon. They tend to live in the winter court. It migrated for the winter.”

“Shame. I would have quite liked to see it.” Her eyes slid to a fae standing close behind the king. “I don’t often forget a face. Have I seen yours?”

He evoked a vague sense of familiarity, though she’d only mentioned it to dismiss Gaulder.

Unless she was mistaken, the fae was young—younger than her. Physically, there was little to differentiate him from the Autumn King, though he seemed to have a little more color—redder hair, brighter clothes that weren’t quite as boring. These two had to be related. But unlike Gaulder’s, his eyes didn’t feel lifeless and calculating.

The boy inclined his head. “I had the pleasure of being trained by Meda, Your Grace. Where she went, I followed for twenty years. We’ve crossed paths, briefly.”

And they’d mutually ignored each other, no doubt. She credited him for his honesty.

Rissa was well placed to know that training with Meda was an intensive course that allowed for no distractions. She’d been placed under the warrior’s wing for one painful year. She could barely imagine twenty years of drills, runs, day-long watches and strategy classes.

“You survived that dragon for two decades?”

He grinned, and his entire face morphed, confirming her theory: he was young—and considerably more pleasant than any of the other seelie folk gathered here.

On impulse, she reached for his elbow, hooking her arm underneath it. “Walk with me. You must have the most fascinating tales.”

And he did. Assassin hunts, tangles with pirates, and of course, days where he considered sliding a poisonous snake inside Meda’s chamber. Thankfully, he hadn’t—the pixie would have had the snake’s head on a spike, right along with his.

A deep baritone interrupted their friendly chatter. “What do they call you?” A snarl more than words.

Ignoring Rydekar, who’d somehow ended up entering their space without her noticing his approach—she must have been too engrossed—Rissa turned to the autumn boy. “Right. I quite forgot to ask.”