Page 1 of How To Please A Princely Fae (Wild Oak Woods #3)

WILLOW

T he greenhouse has always been my favorite place. Ever since I was a young witch, new to the world, new to magic, new to Wild Oak Woods, the greenhouse has been my refuge.

In here, the world outside fades away behind the thick glass panes.

Whether snow banked on the outside of the walls, melting and refreezing in icy sheets from the warmth within, or garish autumn leaves piled outside, crunchy and crisp, or the last gasps of cold in spring, or the relentless heat of summer in the woods—the greenhouse is the same.

Green. So many shades of green. The grayish-green of the moss tucked into planters of more finicky tropical denizens of the greenhouse, whose deep viridian glossy leaves spread like fans overhead. The emerald and ruby splotched leaves of the coleus, the deep purple green of the rosemallow, the variegated lime of the hostas.

I don’t need to close my eyes to escape here.

The greenhouse is a world unto itself.

Every plant has a name and a purpose, and there is special comfort in knowing each and every last one.

As the local apothecary and resident potion brewer of Wild Oak Woods, I had better.

I run my hands over the tender new leaves of the tray of medicinal seedlings, murmuring their names under my breath.

“Fenugreek, basil, turmeric, mint, coriander, chamomile, calendula, hyssop, echinacea, feverfew, goldenseal…”

It soothes me.

I need soothing after this evening.

My molars grind together, and I immediately pull my hand back from the fresh leaves, not wishing to taint them with the foul mood I can’t seem to get under control.

The foul mood that’s pestered me since a very specific day.

The day Kieran came to my shop.

Kieran.

I’ve become used to the longing that bubbles to the surface when I think of him, the bubble that bursts nearly as soon as it encounters the stark difference in how I would like him to feel about me… and how he very clearly does.

I pluck a sprig of mint before I have a chance to even realize what I’m doing, rubbing it between my fingers and releasing that unmistakably crisp aroma. A sheen of sweat coats my fingers, the warmth of the greenhouse so at odds with the outside chill that the thick fabric of my nicest dress is much, much too hot.

A long exhalation passes through my parted lips and I choke back a sob, feeling stupid, so stupid, for having put on my nicest things tonight for the town’s festival.

A festival that went so poorly—beyond poorly, really—that my own personal grievances should be the least of my concerns.

I should be concerned with the fact that not one, but three—three!—of some sort of Elder Gods appeared at the festival, demanding brides from my own coven of witches… or else.

Or else what, I have no idea.

The mint falls to the floor in a spent clump of green, but its essence clings to my hands and I bring them to my face, inhaling deeply.

And begin to sob. Not the sweet, pretty weeping I’ve seen some other women do, a feat that astonishes me more than any magic; no, this is ugly, wracking crying, and completely, utterly selfish.

Finally, I sink to the large flagstones that line the greenhouse floor, sniffling and spent.

Selfish. That’s what I am.

Three Elder Gods have demanded wives from our village, for what purpose, I have no idea—and yet all I can think of is how I should volunteer.

Not to save another, no, but to get away from Kieran.

Kieran, who has made clear that not only is he not interested in me, but that he doesn’t even like me.

Kieran, who I’ve spent more time pining over than is in any way appropriate.

Kieran, who could care less if I’d done as the duchess did and threw myself at one of the gods and vanished into thin air.

So I said I might as well agree to marry one of them.

And then, like any good, dramatic witch, I fled the scene of the festival and sought refuge and quiet in my greenhouse.

The plants are all leaning in, the way they do when I have strong emotions, trying to comfort me.

It just makes me feel guilty.

Guilty and stupid for taking time on my appearance tonight, in hopes that Kieran might finally see me. See me, and realize I’ve been waiting for him and wanting him since the moment he awkwardly stepped over the threshold of my apothecary several weeks ago.

His pretty purple skin, the iridescent, breath-taking green of his beetle wings, and the small deer’s horns that protrude from his head—all of that was striking as could be, just as his face is the most elegant and refined I’ve ever seen.

He’s ridiculously beautiful.

The bashful fae that offered to assist me, an offer I took up immediately, has been nowhere to be seen since that first day. The first day, during which I immediately and stupidly fell head over heels for him. Kieran had followed me around like a little lost puppy dog, all earnestness and eagerness to please, thoughtful and receptive to my instructions, and that first day, I thought I must have truly been the luckiest witch in all the wild woods to have him walk through my door, the perfect assistant.

But now he is ridiculously cold under all that beauty; none of the warmth and excitement I thought I saw in him exists anymore, if it ever did at all.

“I don’t know what changed,” I wail, curling up into my knees, rubbing my eyes against the fabric of my skirts.

A leaf from the tropical laurel tree, my prize specimen, slowly tickles the back of my neck, a gesture of solidarity and caring.

It stands in the middle of the greenhouse, limbs carefully and painstakingly trimmed to still allow as much sunlight in as possible, though the darkness it casts helps shelter some of my shade-loving plants. The laurel was planted by my father, a green witch who taught me just how to harvest its inner bark for cinnamon, as well as the spell to heal it immediately after.

I place a palm on the trunk, and the leaves above make a gentle, soothing susurrus.

I don’t know what to think about the appearance of the old magic beings at the festival.

I sniff and brush the last of my tears away with the back of my hand, then hold onto the laurel tree as I pull myself upright.

One thing’s for sure—I need to put away my childish attachment and hurt for Kieran or I might as well take up their offer and marry one of them, if only to be rid of my unrequited feelings for him.

I breathe in, the cinnamon scent of the trunk filling my nose, and I lean my forehead against the tree, feeling the life in it, the gentleness of its spirit.

My jaw unclenches, my shoulders loosen, and exhaustion begins to take the place of my silly sorrow.

Tonight, I will sleep.

Tomorrow, I will make a plan: either marry one of the mysterious Elder Gods that appeared and leave the Wild Oak Woods, or stay here and put Kieran fully out of my mind.

A sigh slips out of me and I take a stuttering breath, my lungs apparently spent from crying.

I know which of the two will be easier.

A rare x?chno plant sits on the table nearest the laurel. A single massive violet bud droops from the yellow-tinged leaves.

I frown at it, because no matter what I’ve done to coax the bud into finally blooming, the plant just gets sicker and sicker. No spell has worked, no charmed water or carefully concocted fertilizer has done the trick.

It makes me sadder, and that hollow pit of gloom widens a bit more.

I brush my fingertips across the petal-soft bud, and my eyebrows shoot up as motes of light glisten in their wake.

“I wish I knew how to help you,” I tell the x?chno plant. Impulsively, I add, “I wish I could forget Kieran, too.”

I watch the plant for a moment, so sure I felt a whisper of magic from it, or perhaps from me, after all, but my hopes are dashed as the bud stays tightly closed, the leaves as yellow-green and sad as ever.

“Goodnight, little plant,” I murmur, headed for bed.

I have all the plant and potion magic knowledge I can stuff inside my brain, and still I know there’s no better remedy for a hurt of the heart like a good night’s sleep.