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“The magic of Eryth is delicate,” Severine said. “Rituals matter. Timing matters.” They passed through an arched hallway, and faeries of the court bowed low.

“It’s not easy for me to deny your requests—or his,” Severine continued. “A son’s pain is a mother’s pain, and my Serrin, he longs for you. He dreams of you just as you’ve dreamed of him.”

“Then why keep us apart?”

They turned down another hall. This one was softer, decorated not with portraits but with woven tapestries.

“It won’t be forever,” Severine said. “Only until the Mating Ceremony.”

The Mating Ceremony? Willow squeezed her eyes shut and tried to shake off her slowness, her sense of being always one step behind. Here she was... in Eryth . It was real. All of it was real. But a Mating Ceremony?

Severine glanced at her. “It’s not mere pageantry, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s the culmination of years of preparation, of sacred alignment. When Serrin sees you, Willow— truly sees you...”

She clucked her tongue impatiently. “It has to happen on the day of the ceremony. That’s simply the way of it. Please don’t push me on this, Willow. You’re nineteen and capable of managing your emotions, yes?”

“Y-yes?” Willow said.

“Good, because I don’t have the energy to deal with the pouts of yet another sullen teen.”

Willow frowned. What other “sullen teen” was Severine referring to? Surely not Serrin. Princes didn’t pout.

“At any rate, you deserve to be seen in your fullness,” Severine said. She gestured at Willow. “Not like this, half-tired and dazed from travel.”

Willow nodded. She saw the logic in Severine’s words, even if she didn’t like it. “Tomorrow, once I’m rested and clean...” She glanced at Severine. “I understand about... the ceremony. But tomorrow, can I at least say hello to him?”

“No, you cannot,” Severine said sharply.

She must have seen the way Willow blanched, because she softened the lines of her mouth.

“You’ve waited a long time to get here. We’ve waited a long time for you to arrive.

To wait a little longer, with so much at stake—trust me when I say that everything is unfolding exactly as it must.”

Willow frowned.

“He will be king one day, my Serrin. And you—” Severine broke off. She looked both directions down the hall, although no one was present other than Aesra, a respectful distance away. “The Mating Ceremony will make it official. Until then, it’s best not to tempt fate.”

She walked to a window and beckoned Willow to join her. “Our court is beautiful, is it not?”

Willow placed her fingers on the stone sill of the open window and took in the hustle and bustle below.

“One day soon, this realm will be ruled by Serrin. Serrin and his queen.” Severine grew solemn. “It is an enormous responsibility.”

Beyond the castle window, tiny figures moved along bridges and terraces—tending to lanterns, carrying bundles, vanishing through doorways carved into the mountainside.

“He wants to be the finest king Eryth has ever seen,” Severine said.

Willow’s heart swelled. “He will. I know he will.”

“And you, Willow, will help him. But you must be patient. These things—they matter, they can’t be hurried.”

Severine led Willow down a final corridor, narrower than the rest, its stone walls marked not with gold or stained glass but with simple carvings of vines and crescent moons.

At the end stood a heavy wooden door, half-open, warm light spilling through the seam.

Laughter drifted out—young, high-pitched, and careless.

“I will leave you now,” Severine said. “Aesra?”

Aesra, in her white guard uniform, appeared at Willow’s side. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll take it from here.” She bowed low. “Good night, my Queen.”

~

The servants’ quarters—for that was where the laughter had originated—were nothing like the rest of the palace.

The floors were stone but worn smooth by hundreds of bare feet.

The walls bore no decorations. The lighting came from fat wax candles and old iron lanterns, not enchanted orbs or flickering fae lights.

Along the far wall of the room ran a series of bunk beds, not narrow twins but broad queen-sized platforms stacked two high, each made up with thick quilts and dented pillows. Girls lounged across them in clumps, braiding hair, sewing, reading, whispering. There must have been thirty, maybe more.

In the far corner of the room, away from the opulent bunk beds, sat a narrow cot that sagged in the middle. The pillow was flat and gray, and no quilt lay upon the mattress. Just a threadbare sheet.

Before Willow could ask any questions, Aesra put two fingers to her lips and whistled.

Everyone in the large room fell silent as two girls snapped to attention from opposite sides of the room and trotted over.

One wore a waterfall of lavender and plum sashes, her braid wrapped crown-like around her head. Her pointed ears were cuffed in gold. The other had cropped red curls, freckles, and a crooked grin. A silver spoon glinted behind her ear.

“Poppy. Jace. Our guest has at long last arrived,” Aesra said. “Treat her as assigned.”

“Yes, ma’am!” chirped the girl in lavender, bobbing a curtsy.

The girl with the spoon nodded, her expression neutral.

Aesra’s gaze lingered on the second. “Understood?”

“Loud and clear,” the girl replied smoothly.

Aesra turned to Willow. “Poppy and Jace will handle your needs from here,” she said, and with no ceremony or even a “good night,” she spun on her heel and strode away.

The moment Aesra was out of sight, the room broke back into high-spirited chatter and laughter.

The girl in lavender took Willow’s hand and shook it vigorously.

“I’m Poppy,” she said. “Personal chambermaid. Anything you need—stockings, stories, a scarf that sings you to sleep—I’m your girl.”

“I’m Jace,” said the redhead. She tilted her chin at Poppy. “She’s decent with lace and lotions, but I’m better with food.”

Poppy sniffed. “Because you flirt with the cook.”

“No, because I know how to get things done , ” Jace countered. She looked Willow up and down. “You like moonfruit tart? I can find you one before the hour’s out. Need a spare box of darwinkles? I know where they’re hidden.”

Willow blinked at them, still trying to absorb the strangeness of the day.

There’d been the Box, then the forest and the sly little duskwyrm.

The court, the palace, the throne room. After Severine’s ethereal grandeur and the whispered reverence of the court, these two felt real and oddly comforting, even if she had no clue what a darwinkle was or how to know if she needed one.

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” she said.

“Oh, we’re lovely, all right,” Poppy said with a grin. “ You , on the other hand...”

“Need a bit of a dust-off,” said Jace.

They each took an arm and swept her down the hall. There were more pictures of Serrin, but the walls here were also hung with scenes of feasts and dances and horned creatures leaping between trees.

Other attendants bustled past—one balancing a pyramid of goblets, another carrying bolts of velvet. All of them paused to glance at Willow.

“Yep, she’s here!” Poppy called out, tossing her hair. “The new girl from the Queen’s Box. And she’s ours .”

“The new girl?” Willow said. “Have there been others?”

They rounded a corner and nearly collided with a juggler spinning flaming pears.

“Oops, sorry!” Poppy called.

Then they climbed a staircase that coiled upward like a snail shell—smooth, warm, and slightly squishy.

“Nearly there,” Poppy said. “Hope you like rosewater.”

“If you prefer cucumber, just let me know,” said Jace. “I know a guy.”

They stopped before two tall doors, which Poppy flung wide. “Ta-da.”

Willow stepped inside and stared.

The windows were draped in curtains the color of apricots and pearls. A great bed lounged in the center of the room, its coverlet quilted with tiny glowing fireflies.

“Knew you’d like it,” Poppy said, steering her deeper into the room. “Wait till you see the bath. Do you know what that is? A bath?”

Willow opened her mouth to respond, but the bathing chamber took her breath away. A sunken tub sat in the middle, filled with water that not only smelled like roses but held the hue of roses.

Jace rubbed her hands together. “Right, then. Let’s un-human you.”

Willow’s boots were removed, her peasant blouse lifted, and her jeans peeled off. Jace carried them out of the room at arm’s length as if they were so smelly their stench might burn her skin off. Which, to be fair, it might.

Poppy helped Willow into the bath, where the temperature of the water hung at the magical balance just between wonderfully warm and almost too hot.

Poppy kneaded an ointment into her scalp with clever fingers, humming a lullaby Willow didn’t know.

After her hair was tended to, Poppy addressed the rest of her, scrubbing especially hard at her elbows and knees and behind her ears.

“How can mortals stand it, living in such filth?” Poppy asked.

Then she bugged her eyes and clamped her hand over her mouth.

“Never mind!” she said, separating her fingers to let the words out.

“Rude, rude, terribly rude. It’s not your fault, now, is it?

Can’t know what you can’t know, now, can you? ”

Willow considered rebutting Poppy’s claim but decided to let it go. The bath was so very lovely, after all.

Twenty minutes later, Willow swayed as Poppy dressed her in a nightgown the color of a kitten’s blue eyes.

“There, now. Isn’t that lovelier than thrice-spun foglace?” Poppy asked. “Nothing like the bog-washed linens you arrived in, no offense.”

Jace returned bearing a silver tray on which sat a porcelain teapot and a single mug painted all over with strawberries. She filled the mug and handed it to Willow.

Willow took a sip and nearly moaned. This wasn’t Swiss Miss with its grainy marshmallows shaped like teeth. Jace’s hot chocolate was thick enough to slow time.

Jace looked pleased—and a little more receptive to Willow than she’d been before. She and Poppy fluffed pillows and folded back the firefly coverlet.

Willow barely noticed. The drink softened everything. Soon, the mug disappeared from her hands, and she was eased into bed. Sheets rose around her. Someone—Poppy?—planted a chaste kiss on her cheek.

The kiss startled something loose in her. Cole—where was he? Had he made it safely home?

As her eyes fluttered shut, she recalled the warmth of Cole’s palm. Its roughness, too. Filthy mortals, how did they stand it?

Serrin’s hand would be smooth, so smooth. Smooth as her pillow. Smooth as sleep.