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Evelina

Evelina visited Clara every week after that, buying several of the portraits Lawrence had delivered and hanging them in an art room in the palace.

One of Clara’s workers delivered the paintings, a Woodland with a soft smile and hair that brushed his shoulders. It didn’t surprise Evelina that Lawrence arranged for someone else to deliver them, not with how afraid he looked in her presence.

The bell on top of the shop door dinged as Evelina entered.

“He’s in the back,” Clara called out from behind the counter.

Evelina nodded her thanks, walking on the paint-splattered floors all the way to the back storage room. She rifled through the paintings, waiting.

Lawrence walked in with a crate. “You know, you could always commission a painting.”

Evelina looked up, her brow furrowing.

“Instead of digging through the backroom every time,” he said, almost teasing. “You can just ask for what you want, and I’m sure the painter would be open to your suggestions.”

Her heart thrummed. She had, of course, considered it before, but it felt intimate—like she was revealing too much of herself by asking for it .

“There’s a waterfall near the border,” she said without looking up. “A place I used to visit during the war.”

Lawrence hummed. “The painter usually doesn’t go that far, but if you describe it for me, I can pass it along.”

She smiled as she described the waterfall that flowed into a small pond. She remembered every detail she could: how it was nestled behind the old war camp, the rocks that rose high around it, the trees that hung over the edges with the conelike fruits used for cleansing hair.

Lawrence nodded his head and promised to pass the message along to the painter. She had an inkling that the painter was actually him—based on his paint-streaked hands and the way his eyes lit up discussing the art.

But if he signed his paintings as someone else, she wouldn’t press it.

Still, she had come to enjoy spending time with him. He was someone she could be friends with, and that was something she very much missed. Even if he was still a little shy around the fae queen, she could sense him warming up.

That is, until he didn’t show up the next week—or the week after that.

“Said he needed a break,” was all Clara said.

Evelina grew restless when the weeks turned into a month. She even searched the refugee camp nearby on her next visit, worried something had happened to him. When she asked around for Lawrence, people shrugged, saying they hadn’t seen him.

She started to get more and more worried until one morning, her maid, Lila, came into her room holding something wrapped in thick parchment.

“This was left for you,” Lila said brightly. “A note is attached to the back of it.” She smiled and slipped out of the room.

Evelina stood, still in her night robes, and walked over to the rectangular package. She flipped it over, grabbing the note .

Dear Queen Evelina,

I hope it is the way you imagined it to be.

Sincerely,

R.R.

She gasped and dropped the note. Carefully, she ripped the parchment off.

Tears gathered in her eyes. It was just as she had remembered it. The painter had even chosen to depict it at night, with a crescent moon in the sky and little stars dotting the upper portion.

It was the same place she had learned about Daimon’s bloodline and his reason for leaving when they were younger. The place she had finally let her guard down and let him in.

She smiled. It was perfect.

Evelina changed into a simple pale blue gown, glancing at the painting every few seconds. She couldn’t look away.

Even as she floated to the throne room to meet Leda, Annora, and Ellerry, she thought about it. They discussed the upcoming Harvest Moon trial happening in a couple of months, but her mind drifted back to the painting that sat in her room. The trial was the same every year, though Leda seemed intent on making it more perfect than the last.

As they wrapped up the meeting, Annora turned to Evelina. “Isn’t that good news, Eve? Iris had her firstborn this morning. A boy.”

Evelina recovered quickly and smiled. “He came late.”

“Seems he’ll be stubborn,” Leda muttered. “They named him Graylen. Odd name.”

Annora smiled from across the table. “A strong name.”

“He’ll need to be strong with a mother like Iris,” Evelina said with a small laugh.

They closed the meeting, slowly peeling off. Evelina stayed behind a little longer, still deep in her thoughts.

“Queen Evelina,” Lila said breathlessly, bursting into the throne room. “A human was found at the entrance of the palace, passed out. I think he’s the same one who delivered your painting earlier. He’s been taken to the infirmary.”

Evelina shot to her feet. Her heart raced as Lila walked with her to the old infirmary. It was far less busy since the war ended, but still had its uses. She often had weekly tea there with Gloriana.

“I just called for Gloriana,” Lila said as they approached the room.

“No need.” Evelina pushed the door open. “I’ll call on her if I need her assistance.”

Lila bowed her head and Evelina thanked her, closing the door behind her.

Lawrence was lying on a cot, his brows drawn together and tears brimming in his bruised eyes. His bottom lip was swollen and cut, and he was clutching his side.

“What happened?” she gasped.

He flinched, as if the sound of her voice was too loud, even though she was speaking softly. “It’ll heal.” His throat was scratchy and his words came out as more of a groan. “I just need a moment.”

He clearly needed more than a moment to rest.

“This needs to be taken care of,” she said firmly, her voice in full healer mode. “A bandage to stop the bleeding, possibly even a few stitches.”

Evelina didn’t give him time to answer. She made quick work of rummaging around the shelves and grabbing a handful of different vials. They clinked together as she dumped them onto the worktable. She slid over a small granite bowl and measured out a teaspoon of feverfew, half a tablespoon of goldenseal, and a full tablespoon of withania. She ground them together until they were a powder, feeling an ache deep in her bones. She had almost forgotten how much she loved to do this .

“Still with me?” She glanced over her shoulder.

He nodded, silently watching her. “How do you know how to do this?”

“I learned when I was younger,” she answered with a shrug. She turned around to dump the powder into a tub of linndula root—more of a slime than a root—and mixed it into the cleansing salve. “I’ll need you to roll onto your side.” She walked over with her hands full of supplies. “And I’m afraid we’ll need to get you a new shirt.”

He shot her a look, his cheeks reddening.

“I’ll be quick,” she promised. “I just need to make sure the salve sits undisturbed for a few minutes before we cover it.”

Lawrence nodded and carefully peeled off his shirt. He hissed as he stretched his arms over his head, but was able to get it off and roll onto his side.

Evelina was swift—clinical. Her hands moved as if she still did this every day. Just looking at him, she could tell he had a fever, which meant she needed to work quickly.

“This might sting at first, but it should lessen the pain and help break your fever.” She smeared a spoonful onto the gash on his side as an odd sense of nostalgia washed over her. The last time she’d done this…

The memory of Alpha Fleet slammed into her so hard she had to take several deep breaths. Of doing this for Daimon after thinking she had lost him during a battle with the rebels.

Lawrence looked up at her, his eyes vulnerable and open. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For helping me.”

She frowned, wishing more than anything that he didn’t have to live in such fear.

“Did this happen while you were delivering the painting?” she whispered.

He remained silent, which was answer enough. She continued rubbing in the salve and he flinched as she touched the open wound.

“Tell me something,” she said. When his eyes flared with fear, she explained, “To distract you from what we’re doing.” She had used this with countless soldiers and refugees, finding that if they focused on something else, it would help with the pain. She didn’t expect much, but to her surprise, Lawrence sat up. He winced as she stitched up his wound.

“I don’t have anything to share, really. My parents died when I was fifteen.” His gaze fell. “I’ve been alone ever since.”

“Mine died long ago,” Evelina whispered. “The pain of losing someone you love never truly lessens.”

He nodded slowly. “My father’s father and his father before him all lived in the refugee camp. In a small green cottage.”

“It overlooks the glade,” she said, her eyes lighting up in recognition. “With the two rocking chairs on its porch.”

He smiled, nodding. He continued telling her about how Clara had spotted a painting he had sold to someone in the refugee camp. When she learned he was human, she didn’t seem to care.

“And you decided to sell your paintings,” Evelina said, a smile on her face. “I’m glad.”

Lawrence’s eyes widened, startling and sitting up, but she pressed him gently down.

“I know you’re R.R. I promise not to tell.”

His eyes softened, his body relaxing. “I almost told Clara no when she first asked. She lets me use the back of the shop so I don’t have to be seen. We pretend I’m just the courier in case anybody…”

He didn’t have to say it. There were plenty of fae who would shun his work if they knew it was created by a human. Some might even burn it.

“I’m sorry for the way fae have treated you,” she said honestly.

“I’ve never been one to have friends.” He shrugged, trying to look unbothered. But she could see the pain in his eyes. The loneliness.

It was the kind of loneliness no one should have to experience. She hated the way the realm was still divided, the way the curse left a permanent reminder of the land being broken into two.

“Well, now you have a one.” She smiled and so did he.

Slowly, Lawrence came to the palace more and more. He and Evelina spent months together in the gallery room and he would bring a painting or two each time.

The room was empty save for the paintings on the walls and a lounge chaise in the center. She would come and sit in here, staring at the paintings of the realm’s landscapes for hours.

Lawrence stood with his back to her, looking at the section of R.R. paintings she had hung up.

“I painted this one in a meadow by the southern coast,” he said quietly.

“I love your landscapes,” said Evelina. “But have you ever considered portraits?”

He paused, considering. She was almost certain he was going to deny her, but then he said, “For a friend, I’m open to suggestions.”

Evelina beamed. “Then be my official royal portraitist.”

At this, he looked at her, his eyes wide. “Is that even a real position?”

She laughed. “No, but that’s the benefit of being queen.” Her smile faded when she realized he didn’t believe her.

“I…can’t,” he said. “The fae would never accept?—”

“I accept you, Lawrence. The realm will one day do the same,” she said gently. His eyes softened, a hopeful look in them. “So, what do you say?”

He nodded, his gaze determined. “It would be my honor.”